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A SET OF ROGUES, by Frank Barrett (Part 2)

CHAPTER XXI.

Of the strange things told us by the wise woman.

“Tell me I am wicked; tell me I’m a fool,” says Moll, clinging to my arm.

But I had no feeling now but pity and forgiveness, and so could only try to comfort her, saying we would make amends to Dario when we saw him next.

“I will go to him,” says she. “For nought in the world would I have him yield to such a heartless fool as I am. I know where he lodges.”

“Well, when we have eaten—”

“Nay; we must go this moment. I cannot be at peace till I have asked him to forgive. Come with me, or I must go alone.”

Yielding to her desire without further ado, I fetched my hat and cloak, and, she doing likewise, we sallied out forthwith. Taking the side path by which Dario came and went habitually, we reached a little wicket gate, opening from the path upon the highway; and here, seeing a man mending the road, we asked him where we should find Anne Fitch, as she was called, with whom the painter lodged. Pointing to a neat cottage that stood by the wayside, within a stone’s throw, he told us the “wise woman” lived there. We crossed over and knocked at the door, and a voice within bidding us come in, we did so.

There was a very sweet, pleasant smell in the room from the herbs that hung in little parcels from the beams, for this Anne Fitch was greatly skilled in the use of simples, and had no equal for curing fevers and the like in all the country round. (But, besides this, it was said she could look into the future and forecast events truer than any Egyptian.) There was a chair by the table, on which was an empty bowl and some broken bread; but the wise woman sat in the chimney corner, bending over the hearth, though the fire had burnt out, and not an ember glowed. And a strange little elf she looked, being very wizen and small, with one shoulder higher than the other, and a face full of pain.

When I told her our business—for Moll was too greatly moved to speak—the old woman pointed to the adjoining room.

“He is gone!” cries Moll, going to the open door, and peering within.

“Yes,” answers Anne Fitch. “Alas!”

“When did he go?” asks Moll.

“An hour since,” answers the other.

“Whither is he gone?”

“I am no witch.”

“At least, you know which way he went.”

“I have not stirred from here since I gave him his last meal.”

Moll sank into the empty chair, and bowed her head in silence.

Anne Fitch, whose keen eyes had never strayed from Moll since she first entered the room, seeming as if they would penetrate to the most secret recesses of her heart, with that shrewd perception which is common to many whose bodily infirmity compels an extraordinary employment of their other faculties, rises from her settle in the chimney, and coming to the table, beside Moll, says:

“I am no witch, I say; yet I could tell you things would make you think I am.”

“I want to know nothing further,” answers she, dolefully, “save where he is.”

“Would you not know whether you shall ever see him again, or not?”

“Oh! If you can tell me that!” cries Moll, quickly.

“I may.” Then, turning to me, the wise woman asks to look at my hand, and on my demurring, she says she must know whether I am a friend or an enemy, ere she speaks before me. So, on that, I give my hand, and she examines it.

“You call yourself James Hopkins,” says she.

“Why, every one within a mile knows that,” says I.

“Aye,” answers she, fixing her piercing eye on my face; “but every one knows not that some call you Kit.”

This fairly staggered me for a moment.

“How do you answer that?” she asks, observing my confusion. “Why,” says I, recovering my presence of mind, “’tis most extraordinary, to be sure, that you should read this, for save one or two familiars, none know that my second name is Christopher.”

“A fairly honest hand,” says she, looking at my hand again. “Weak in some things, but a faithful friend. You may be trusted.”

And so she drops my hand and takes up Moll’s.

“’Tis strange,” says she. “You call yourself Judith, yet here I see your name writ Moll.”

Poor Moll, sick with a night of sorrow and terrified by the wise woman’s divining powers, could make no answer; but soon Fitch, taking less heed of her tremble than of mine, regards her hand again.

“How were you called in Barbary?” asks she.

This question betraying a flaw in the wise woman’s perception, gave Moll courage, and she answered readily enough that she was called “Lala Mollah”—which was true, “Lala” being the Moorish for lady, and “Mollah” the name her friends in Elche had called her as being more agreeable to their ear than the shorter English name.

“Mollah—Moll!” says Anne Fitch, as if communing with herself. “That may well be.” Then, following a line in Moll’s hand, she adds, “You will love but once, child.”

“What is my sweetheart’s name?” whispers Moll, the colour springing in her face.

“You have not heard it yet,” replies the other, upon which Moll pulls her hand away impatiently. “But you have seen him,” continues the wise woman, “and his is the third hand in which I have read another name.”

“Tell me now if I shall see him again,” cries Moll, eagerly—offering her hand again, and as quickly as she had before withdrawn it.

“That depends upon yourself,” returns the other. “The line is a deep one. Would you give him all you have?”

Moll bends her head low in silence, to conceal her hot face.

“’Tis nothing to be ashamed of,” says the old woman, in a strangely gentle tone. “’Tis better to love once than often; better to give your whole heart than part. Were I young and handsome and rich, I would give body and soul for such a man. For he is good and generous and exceeding kind. Look you, he hath lived here but a few weeks, and I feel for him, grieve for him, like a mother. Oh, I am no witch,” adds she, wiping a tear from her cheek, “only a crooked old woman with the gift of seeing what is open to all who will read, and a heart that quickens still at a kind word or a gentle thought.” (Moll’s hand had closed upon hers at that first sight of her grief.) “For your names,” continues she, recovering her composure, “I learnt from one of your maids who came hither for news of her sweetheart, that the sea captain who was with you did sometimes let them slip. I was paid to learn this.”

“Not by him,” says Moll.

“No; by your steward Simon.”

“He paid for that!” says I, incredulous, knowing Simon’s reluctance to spend money.

“Aye, and a good price, too. It seems you call heavily upon him for money, and do threaten to cut up your estate and sell the land he prizes as his life.”

“That is quite true,” says I.

“Moreover, he greatly fears that he will be cast from his office, when your title to it is made good. For that reason he would move heaven and earth to stay your succession by casting doubts upon your claim. And to this end he has by all the means at his command tried to provoke your cousin to contest your right.”

“My cousin!” cries Moll.

“Richard Godwin.”

“My cousin Richard—why, where is he?”

“Gone,” says the old woman, pointing to the broken bread upon the table.

CHAPTER XXII.

How Moll and Mr. Godwin come together and declare their hearts’ passion, and how I carry these tidings to Dawson.

“What!” cries Moll, starting to her feet. “He whom I have treated thus is—” and here she checked herself, as if recoiling (and for the first time) from false pretence in a matter so near her heart.

“He is your cousin, Richard Godwin,” says the wise woman. “Simon knew this from the first; for there were letters showing it in the pocket-book he found after the struggle in the park; but for his own ends he kept that knowledge secret, until it fitted his ends to speak. Why your cousin did not reveal himself to you may be more readily conceived by you than ’twas by me.”

“Why, ’tis clear enough,” says Moll. “Pressed by his necessities, he came hither to claim assistance of his kinsman; but finding he was dead and none here but me, his pride did shrink from begging of a mere maid that which he might with justice have demanded from a man. And then, for shame at being handled like a rogue—”

Surely there is something in the blood of a gentleman that tempers his spirit to a degree scarcely to be comprehended by men of meaner birth, thinks I.

“When did Simon urge him to dispute my rights?” asks Moll.

“On Sunday—in the wood out there. I knew by his look he had some treacherous business in hand, and, matching my stealth with his, I found means to overhear him, creeping from thicket to thicket, as noiseless as a snake, to where they stood; for, be assured, I should not otherwise have learnt one word of this.”

“How did he receive these hints at my ill doing?” asks Moll.

“Patiently, till the tale was told; then, taking your steward by the throat with sudden passion, he cries: ‘Why should I not strangle you, rascal? ’Twould be a service to humanity. What have I done to deserve your love, or this lady your hate? Nothing. You would pit us one against the other merely to keep your hold upon these lands, and gratify your insensate love of possession. Go, get you gone, beast!’ cries he, flinging him off; ‘’tis punishment enough for you to live and know you’ve failed. For, had you proved your case to my conviction, I’d not stir a hand against this lady, be she who she may. Nay,’ adds he, with greater fury, ‘I will not stay where my loyalty and better judgment may be affected by the contagion of a vile suspicion. Away while you may; my fingers itch to be revenged on you for sundering me from one who should have been my closest, dearest friend.’”

Moll claps her hands together with a cry of joy and pain mingled, even as the smile played upon her lips whilst tears filled her eyes.

“Sunday!” cries she, turning to me and dashing the tears that blinded her from her eyes; “Sunday, and it ’twas o’ Monday he refused to stay. O, the brave heart!” Then, in impetuous haste, “He shall be found—we must overtake him.”

“That may be done if you take horse,” says Anne Fitch, “for he travels afoot.”

“But which way shall we turn?”

“The way that any man would take, seeking to dispel a useless sorrow,” answers the wise woman; “the way to London.”

“God bless you!” cries Moll, clasping the withered old woman to her heaving breast and kissing her. Then the next moment she would be gone, bidding me get horses for our pursuit.

So, as quickly as I might, I procured a couple of nags, and we set out, leaving a message for Don Sanchez, who was not yet astir. And we should have gone empty, but that while the horses were a-preparing (and Moll, despite her mighty haste at this business too), I took the precaution to put some store of victuals in a saddle bag.

Reckoning that Mr. Godwin (as I must henceforth call him) had been set out two hours or thereabouts, I considered that we might overtake him in about three at an easy amble. But Moll was in no mood for ambling, and no sooner were we started than she put her nag to a gallop and kept up this reckless pace up hill and down dale—I trailing behind and expecting every minute to be cast and get my neck broke—until her horse was spent and would answer no more to the whip. Then I begged her for mercy’s sake to take the hill we were coming to at a walk, and break her fast. “For,” says I, “another such half-hour as the last on an empty stomach will do my business, and you will have another dead man to bring back to life, which will advance your journey nothing, and so more haste, less speed.” Therewith I opened my saddle bag, and sharing its contents, we ate a rare good meal and very merry, and indeed it was a pleasure now to look at her as great as the pain had been to see her so unhappy a few hours before. For the exercise had brought a flood of rich colour into her face, and a lively hope sparkled in her eyes, and the sound of her voice was like any peal of marriage bells for gaiety. Yet now and then her tongue would falter, and she would strain a wistful glance along the road before us as fearing she did hope too much. However, coming to an inn, we made enquiry, and learnt that a man such as we described had surely passed the house barely an hour gone, and one adding that he carried a basket on his stick, we felt this must be our painter for certain.

Thence on again at another tear (as if we were flying from our reckoning) until, turning a bend of the road at the foot of a hill, she suddenly drew rein with a shrill cry. And coming up, I perceived close by our side Mr. Godwin, seated upon the bridge that crossed a stream, with his wallet beside him.

He sprang to his feet and caught in an instant the rein that had fallen from Moll’s hand, for the commotion in her heart at seeing him so suddenly had stopped the current of her veins, and she was deadly pale.

“Take me, take me!” cries she, stretching forth her arms, with a faint voice. “Take me, or I must fall,” and slipping from her saddle she sank into his open, ready arms.

“Help!” says Mr. Godwin, quickly, and in terror.

“Nay,” says she; “I am better—’tis nothing. But,” adds she, smiling at him, “you may hold me yet a little longer.”

The fervid look in his eyes, as he gazed down at her sweet pale face, seemed to say: “Would I could hold you here for ever, sweetheart.”

“Rest her here,” says I, pointing to the little wall of the bridge, and he, complying (not too willingly), withdrew his arm from her waist, with a sigh.

And now the colour coming back to her cheek, Moll turns to him, and says:

“I thought you would have come again. And since one of us must ask to be forgiven, lo! here am I come to ask your pardon.”

“Why, what is there to pardon, Madam?” says he.

“Only a girl’s folly, which unforgiven must seem something worse.”

“Your utmost folly,” says he, “is to have been over-kind to a poor painter. And if that be an offence, ’tis my misfortune to be no more offended.”

“Have I been over-kind?” says Moll, abashed, as having unwittingly passed the bounds of maiden modesty.

“As nature will be over-bounteous in one season, strewing so many flowers in our path that we do underprize them till they are lost, and all the world seems stricken with wintry desolation.”

“Yet, if I have said or done anything unbecoming to my sex—”

“Nothing womanly is unbecoming to a woman,” returns he. “And, praised be God, some still live who have not learned to conceal their nature under a mask of fashion. If this be due less to your natural free disposition than to an ignorance of our enlightened modish arts, then could I find it in my heart to rejoice that you have lived a captive in Barbary.”

They had been looking into each other’s eyes with the delight of reading there the love that filled their hearts, but now Moll bent her head as if she could no longer bear that searching regard, and unable to make response to his pretty speech, sat twining her fingers in her lap, silent, with pain and pleasure fluttering over her downcast face. And at this time I do think she was as near as may be on the point of confessing she had been no Barbary slave, rather than deceive the man who loved her, and profit by his faith in her, which had certainly undone us all; but in her passion, a woman considered the welfare of her father and best friends very lightly; nay, she will not value her own body and soul at two straws, but is ready to yield up everything for one dear smile.

A full minute Mr. Godwin sat gazing at Moll’s pretty, blushing, half-hid face (as if for his last solace), and then, rising slowly from the little parapet, he says:

“Had I been more generous, I should have spared you this long morning ride. So you have something to forgive, and we may cry quits!” Then, stretching forth his hand, he adds, “Farewell.”

“Stay,” cries Moll, springing to her feet, as fearing to lose him suddenly again, “I have not eased myself of the burden that lay uppermost. Oh!” cries she, passionately, casting off all reserve, “I know all; who you are, and why you first came hither, and I am here to offer you the half of all I have.”

“Half, sweet cousin?” answers he, taking her two hands in his.

“Aye; for if I had not come to claim it, all would have been yours by right. And ’tis no more than fair that, owing so much to Fortune, I should offer you the half.”

“Suppose that half will not suffice me, dear?” says he.

“Why, then I’ll give you all,” answers she; “houses, gardens, everything.”

“Then what will you do, coz?”

“Go hence, as you were going but just now,” answers she, trembling.

“Why, that’s as if you took the diamond from its setting, and left me nothing but the foil,” says he. “Oh, I would order it another way: give me the gem, and let who will take what remains. Unless these little hands are mine to hold for ever, I will take nothing from them.”

“They are thine, dear love,” cries she, in a transport, flinging them about his neck, “and my heart as well.”

At this conjuncture I thought it advisable to steal softly away to the bend of the road; for surely any one coming this way by accident, and finding them locked together thus in tender embrace on the king’s highway, would have fallen to some gross conclusion, not understanding their circumstances, and so might have offended their delicacy by some rude jest. And I had not parted myself here a couple of minutes, ere I spied a team of four stout horses coming over the brow of the hill, drawing the stage waggon behind them which plies betwixt Sevenoaks and London. This prompting me to a happy notion, I returned to the happy, smiling pair, who were now seated again upon the bridge, hand in hand, and says I:

“My dear friends—for so I think I may now count you, sir, as well as my Mistress Judith here—the waggon is coming down the hill, by which I had intended to go to London this morning upon some pressing business. And so, Madam, if your cousin will take my horse and conduct you back to the Court, I will profit by this occasion and bid you farewell for the present.”

This proposal was received with evident satisfaction on their part, for there was clearly no further thought of parting; only Moll, alarmed for the proprieties, did beg her lover to lift her on her horse instantly. Nevertheless, when she was in her saddle, they must linger yet, he to kiss her hands, and she to bend down and yield her cheek to his lips, though the sound of the coming waggon was close at hand.

Scarcely less delighted than they with this surprising strange turn of events, I left ’em there with bright, smiling faces, and journeyed on to London, and there taking a pair of oars at the Bridge to Greenwich, all eagerness to give these joyful tidings to my old friend, Jack Dawson. I found him in his workroom, before a lathe, and sprinkled from head to toe with chips, mighty proud of a bed-post he was a-turning. And it did my heart good to see him looking stout and hearty, profitably occupied in this business, instead of soaking in an alehouse (as I feared at one time he would) to dull his care; but he was ever a stout, brave fellow, who would rather fight than give in any day. A better man never lived, nor a more honest—circumstances permitting.

His joy at seeing me was past everything; but his first thought after our hearty greeting was of his daughter.

“My Moll,” says he, “my dear girl; you han’t brought her to add to my joy? She’s not slinking behind a door to fright me with delight, hey?”

“No,” says I; “but I’ve brought you great news of her.”

“And good, I’ll swear, Kit, for there’s not a sad line in your face. Stay, comrade, wait till I’ve shook these chips off and we are seated in my parlour, for I do love to have a pipe of tobacco and a mug of ale beside me in times of pleasure. You can talk of indifferent things, though, for Lord! I do love to hear the sound of your voice again.”

I told him how the ceiling of our dining-hall had been painted.

“Aye,” says he. “I have heard of that; for my dear girl hath writ about that and nought else in her letters; and though I’ve no great fancy for such matters, yet I doubt not it is mighty fine by her long-winded praises of it. Come, Kit, let us in here and get to something fresher.”

So we into his parlour, which was a neat, cheerful room, with a fine view of the river, and there being duly furnished with a mighty mug of ale and clean pipes, he bids me give him my news, and I tell him how Moll had fallen over head and ears in love with the painter, and he with her, and how that very morning they had come together and laid open their hearts’ desire one to the other, with the result (as I believed) that they would be married as soon as they could get a parson to do their business.

“This is brave news indeed,” cries he, “and easeth me beyond comprehension, for I could see clearly enough she was smitten with this painter, by her writing of nothing else; and seeing she could not get at his true name and condition, I felt some qualms as to how the matter might end. But do tell me, Kit, is he an honest, wholesome sort of man?”

“As honest as the day,” says I, “and a nobler, handsomer man never breathed.”

“God be praised for all things,” says he, devoutly. “Tell me he’s an Englishman, Kit—as Moll did seem to think he was, spite his foreign name—and my joy’s complete.”

“As true-born an Englishman as you are,” says I.

“Lord love him for it!” cries he.

Then coming down to particulars, I related the events of the past few days pretty much as I have writ them here, showing in the end how Mr. Godwin would have gone away, unknown rather than profit by his claim as Sir Richard Godwin’s kinsman, even though Moll should be no better than old Simon would have him believe, upon which he cries, “Lord love him for it, say I again! Let us drink to their health. Drink deep, Kit, for I’ve a fancy that no man shall put his lips to this mug after us.”

So I drank heartily, and he, emptying the jug, flung it behind the chimney, with another fervent ejaculation of gratitude. Then a shade of sorrow falling on his face as he lay it in his hand, his elbow resting on the table:

“I’d give best half of the years I’ve got to live,” says he, “to see ’em together, and grasp Mr. Godwin’s hand in mine. But I’ll not be tempted to it, for I perceive clearly enough by what you tell me that my wayward tongue and weakness have been undoing us all, and ruining my dear Moll’s chance of happiness. But tell me, Kit” (straightening himself up), “how think you this marriage will touch our affairs?”

“Only to better them. For henceforth our prosperity is assured, which otherwise might have lacked security.”

“Aye, to be sure, for now shall we be all in one family with these Godwins, and this cousin, profiting by the estate as much as Moll, will never begrudge her giving us a hundred or two now and then, for rendering him such good service.”

“’Twill appease Moll’s compunctions into the bargain,” says I, heedlessly.

“What compunctions?”

“The word slipped me unintended,” stammers I; “I mean nothing.”

“But something your word must mean. Come, out with it, Kit.”

“Well,” says I, “since this fondness has possessed her, I have observed a greater compunction to telling of lies than she was wont to have.”

“’Tis my fault,” answers he, sadly. “She gets this leaning to honesty from me.”

“This very morning,” continues I, “she was, I truly believe, of two minds whether she should not confess to her sweetheart that she was not his cousin.”

“For all the world my case!” cries he, slapping the table. “If I could only have five minutes in secret with the dear girl, I would give her a hint that should make her profit by my folly.” And then he tells me how, in the heyday of courtship and the flush of confiding love, he did confess to his wife that he had carried gallantry somewhat too far with Sukey Taylor, and might have added a good half dozen other names beside hers but for her sudden outcry; and how, though she might very well have suspected other amours, she did never reproach him therewith, but was for ever to her dying day a-flinging Sukey Taylor in his teeth, etc.

“Lord, Kit!” cries he, in conclusion; “what would I give to save her from such torment! You know how obedient she is to my guiding, for I have ever studied to make her respect me; and no one in the world hath such empire over her. Could it not be contrived anyhow that we should meet for half an hour secretly?”

“Not secretly,” says I. “But there is no reason why you should not visit her openly. Nay, it will create less surprise than if you stay away. For what could be more natural than your coming to the Court on your return from a voyage to see the lady you risked so much to save?”

“Now God bless you for a good, true friend!” cries he, clasping my hand. “I’ll come, but to stay no great length. Not a drop will I touch that day, and a fool indeed I must be if I can’t act my part without bungling for a few hours at a stretch, and I a-listening every night in the parlour of the ‘Spotted Dog’ to old seamen swearing and singing their songs. And I’ll find an opportunity to give—Moll a hint of my past folly, and so rescue her from a like pitfall. I’ll abide by your advice, Kit—which is the wisest I ever heard from your lips.”

But I was not so sure of this, and, remembering the kind of obedience Moll had used to yield to her father’s commands, my mind misgave me.

CHAPTER XXIII.

Don Sanchez proposes a very artful way to make Mr. Godwin a party to our knavery, etc.

I returned to Hurst Court the following day in the forenoon, and there I found Mr. Godwin, with Moll clinging to his arm, in an upper room commanding a view of the northern slopes, discussing their future, and Moll told me with glee how this room was to be her husband’s workroom, where he would paint pictures for the admiration of all the world, saying that he would not (nor would she have him) renounce his calling to lead the idle life of a country gentleman.

“If the world admire my pictures, the world shall pay to have them,” says he, with a smile; then turning to her he adds very tenderly: “I will owe all my happiness to you, sweetheart; yet guard my independence in more material matters. No mercenary question shall ever cast suspicion on my love.”

Seeing I was not wanted here, I left them to settle their prospectives, and sought Don Sanchez, whom I found reading in a room below, seated in a comfortable chair before a good fire of apple logs. To please me, he shut up his book and agreed to take a stroll in the park while dinner was a-dressing. So we clap on our hats and cloaks and set forth, talking of indifferent matters till we are come into a fair open glade (which sort of place the prudent Don did ever prefer to holes and corners for secret conference), and then he told me how Moll and Mr. Godwin had already decided they would be married in three weeks.

“Three weeks?” says I. “I would it were to be done in three days.” To which desire the Don coincides with sundry grave nods, and then tells me how Moll would have herself cried in church, for all to know, and that nothing may be wanting to her husband’s dignity.

“After all,” says I, “three weeks is no such great matter. And now, Señor, do tell me what you think of all this.”

“If you had had the ordering of your own destiny, you could not have contrived it better,” answers he. “’Tis a most excellent game, and you cannot fail to win if” (here he pauses to blow his nose) “if the cards are played properly.”

This somehow brought Dawson into my thoughts, and I told the Don of my visit to him, and how he did purpose to come down to see Moll; whereat the Don, stopping short, looked at me very curiously with his eyebrows raised, but saying nothing.

“’Tis no more than natural that a father should want to see what kind of man is to be his daughter’s husband,” says I, in excuse, “and if he will come, what are we to do?”

“I know what I should do in your place, Mr. Hopkins,” says he, quietly.

“Pray, Señor, what is that?”

“Squeeze all the money you can out of old Simon before he comes,” answers he. “And it wouldn’t be amiss to make Mr. Godwin party to this business by letting him have a hundred or two for his present necessities at once.”

Acting on this hint, when Moll left us after supper and we three men were seated before the fire, I asked Mr. Godwin if he would permit me to speak upon a matter which concerned his happiness no less than his cousin Judith’s.

“Nay, sir,” replies he, “I do pray you to be open with me, for otherwise I must consider myself unworthy of your friendship.”

“Well, sir,” says I, “my mind is somewhat concerned on account of what you said this morning; namely, that no pecuniary question shall ever be discussed betwixt you and your wife, and that you will owe nothing to her but happiness. This, together with your purpose of painting pictures to sell, means, I take it, that you will leave your wife absolute mistress of her present fortune.”

“That is the case exactly, Mr. Hopkins,” says he. “I am not indifferent to the world’s esteem, and I would give no one reason to suspect that I had married my dear cousin to possess her fortune.”

“Nevertheless, sir, you would not have it thought that she begrudged you an equal share of her possessions. Your position will necessitate a certain outlay. To maintain your wife’s dignity and your own, you must dress well, mount a good horse, be liberal in hospitality, give largely to those in need, and so forth. With all due respect to your genius in painting, I can scarcely think that art will furnish you at once with supplies necessary to meet all these demands.”

“All this is very true, Mr. Hopkins,” says he, after a little reflection; “to tell the truth, I have lived so long in want that poverty has become my second nature, and so these matters have not entered into my calculations. Pray, sir, continue.”

“Your wife, be she never so considerate, may not always anticipate your needs; and hence at some future moment this question of supplies must arise—unless they are disposed of before your marriage.”

“If that could be done, Mr. Hopkins,” says he, hopefully.

“It may be done, sir, very easily. With your cousin’s consent and yours, I, as her elected guardian, at this time will have a deed drawn up to be signed by you and her, settling one-half the estate upon you, and the other on your cousin. This will make you not her debtor, but her benefactor; for without this deed, all that is now hers becomes yours by legal right upon your marriage, and she could not justly give away a shilling without your permission. And thus you assure to her the same independence that you yourself would maintain.”

“Very good,” says Don Sanchez, in a sonorous voice of approval, as he lies back in his high chair, his eyes closed, and a cigarro in the corner of his mouth.

“I thank you with all my heart, Mr. Hopkins,” says Mr. Godwin, warmly. “I entreat you have this deed drawn up—if it be my wife’s wish.”

“You may count with certainty on that,” says I; “for if my arguments lacked power, I have but to say ’tis your desire, and ’twould be done though it took the last penny from her.”

He made no reply to this, but bending forward he gazed into the fire, with a rapture in his face, pressing one hand within the other as if it were his sweetheart’s.

“In the meantime,” says I, “if you have necessity for a hundred or two in advance, you have but to give me your note of hand.”

“Can you do me this service?” cries he, eagerly. “Can you let me have five hundred by tomorrow?”

“I believe I can supply you to the extent of six or seven.”

“All that you can,” says he; “for besides a pressing need that will take me to London tomorrow, I owe something to a friend here that I would fain discharge.”

Don Sanchez waived his hand cavalierly, though I do believe the subtle Spaniard had hinted at this business as much for his own ends as for our assurance.

“I will have it ready against we meet in the morning,” says I. “You are so certain of her sanction?” he asks in delight, as if he could not too much assure himself of Moll’s devotion.

“She has been guided by me in all matters relating to her estate, and will be in this, I am convinced. But here’s another question, sir, which, while we are about business, might be discussed with advantage. My rule here is nearly at an end. Have you decided who shall govern the estate when I am gone?”

“Only that when I have authority that rascal Simon shall be turned from his office, neck and crop. He loves me as little as he loves his mistress, that he would set us by the ears for his own advantage.”

“An honest man, nevertheless—in his peculiar way,” observes the Don.

“Honest!” cries Mr. Godwin, hotly. “He honest who would have suffered Judith to die in Barbary! He shall go.”

“Then you will take in your own hands the control of your joint estate?”

“I? Why, I know no more of such matters than the man in the moon.”

“With all respect to your cousin’s abilities, I cannot think her qualified for this office.”

“Surely another steward can be found.”

“Undoubtedly,” says I. “But surely, sir, you’d not trust all to him without some supervision. Large sums of money must pass through his hands, and this must prove a great temptation to dishonest practices. ’Twould not be fair to any man.”

“This is true,” says he. “And yet from natural disinclination, ignorance, and other reasons, I would keep out of it.” Then after some reflection he adds, “My cousin has told me how you have lost all your fortune in saving her, and that ’tis not yet possible to repay you. May I ask, sir, without offence, if you have any occupation for your time when you leave us?”

“I went to London when I left you to see what might be done; but a merchant without money is like a carpenter without tools.”

“Then, sir, till your debt is discharged, or you can find some more pleasant and profitable engagement, would you not consent to govern these affairs? I do not ask you to stay here, though assuredly you will ever be a welcome guest; but if you would have one of the houses on the estate or come hither from time to time as it might fit your other purposes, and take this office as a matter of business, I should regard it as a most generous, friendly kindness on your part.”

I promised him with some demur, and yet with the civility his offer demanded, to consider of this; and so our debate ended, and I went to bed, very well content with myself, for thus will vanity blind us to our faults.

CHAPTER XXIV.

I overcome Moll’s honest compunctions, lay hold of three thousand pounds more, and do otherwise play the part of rascal to perfection.

I got together six hundred pounds (out of the sum left us after paying Don Sanchez his ten thousand), and delivered ’em to Mr. Godwin against his note of hand, telling him at the same time that, having slept upon his proposal, I was resolved to be his steward for three months, with freedom on both sides to alter our position, according to our convenience, at the end of that time, and would serve him and his lady to the best of my power. Thanking me very heartily for my friendly service to him (though, God knows, with little reason), he presently left us. And Moll, coming back from taking tender leave of him at her gates, appeared very downcast and pensive. However, after moping an hour in her chamber, she comes to me in her hood, and begs I will take her a walk to dispel her vapours. So we out across the common, it being a fine, brisk, dry morning and the ground hard with a frost. Here, being secure from observation, I showed her how I had settled matters with Mr. Godwin, dividing the estate in such a manner as would enable her to draw what funds she pleased, without let, hindrance, or any inconvenient question.

At this she draws a deep sigh, fixing her eyes sadly enough on the perspective, as if she were thinking rather of her absent lover than the business in hand. Somewhat nettled to find she prized my efforts on her behalf so lightly, I proceeded to show her the advantages of this arrangement, adding that, to make her property the surer, I had consented to manage both her affairs and Mr. Godwin’s when they were married.

“And so,” says I, in conclusion, “you may have what money you want, and dispose of it as you will, and I’ll answer for it Mr. Godwin shall never be a penny the wiser.”

“Do what you find is necessary,” says she, with passion. “But for mercy’s sake say no more on this matter to me. For all these hints do stab my heart like sharp knives.”

Not reading rightly the cause of her petulance, I was at first disposed to resent it; but, reflecting that a maiden is no more responsible for her tongue than a donkey for his heels in this season of life (but both must be for ever a-flying out at some one when parted from the object of their affections), I held my peace; and so we walked on in sullen silence for a space; then, turning suddenly upon me, she cries in a trembling voice:

“Won’t you say something to me? Can’t you see that I am unhappy?”

And now, seeing her eyes full of tears, her lips quivering, and her face drawn with pain, my heart melted in a moment; so, taking her arm under mine and pressing it to my side, I bade her be of good cheer, for her lover would return in a day or two at the outside.

“No, not of him—not of him,” she entreats. “Talk to me of indifferent things.”

So, thinking to turn her thoughts to another furrow, I told her how I had been to visit her father at Greenwich.

“My father,” says she, stopping short. “Oh, what a heartless, selfish creature am I! I have not thought of him in my happiness. Nay, had he been dead I could not have forgot him more. You saw him—is he well?”

“As hearty as you could wish, and full of love for you, and rejoiced beyond measure to know you are to marry a brave, honest gentleman.” Then I told how we had drunk to their health, and how her father had smashed his mug for a fancy. And this bringing a smile to her cheek, I went on to tell how he craved to see Mr. Godwin and grip his hand.

“Oh, if he could see what a noble, handsome man my Richard is!” cries she. “I do think my heart would ache for pride.”

“Why, so it shall,” says I, “for your father does intend to come hither before long.”

“He is coming to see my dear husband!” says she, her face aglow with joy.

“Aye, but he does promise to be most circumspect, and appear as if, returning from a voyage, he had come but to see how you fare, and will stay no longer than is reasonably civil.”

“Only that,” says she, her countenance falling again, “we are to hide our love, pretend indifference, behave towards this dear father as if he were nought to me but a friend.”

“My dear,” says I, “’tis no new part you have to play.”

“I know it,” she answers hotly, “but that makes it only the worse.”

“Well, what would you?”

“Anything” (with passion). “I would do anything but cheat and cozen the man I love.” Then, after some moments’ silence o’ both sides, “Oh, if I were really Judith Godwin!”

“If you were she, you’d be in Barbary now, and have neither father nor lover; is that what you want?” says I, with some impatience.

“Bear with me,” says she, with a humility as strange in her as these new-born scruples of conscience.

“You may be sure of this, my dear,” says I, in a gentler tone, “if you were anything but what you are, Mr. Godwin would not marry you.”

“Why, then, not tell him what I am?” asks she, boldly.

“That means that you would be tomorrow what you’re not today.”

“If he told me he had done wrong, I could forgive him, and love him none the less.”

“Your conditions are not the same. He is a gentleman by birth, you but a player’s daughter. Come, child, be reasonable. Ponder this matter but a moment justly, and you shall see that you have all to lose and nought to gain by yielding to this idle fancy. Is he lacking in affection, that you would seek to stimulate his love by this hazardous experiment?”

“Oh, no, no, no!” cries she.

“Would he be happier knowing all?” (She shakes her head.) “Happier if you force him to give you up and seek another wife?” (She starts as if flicked with a whip.) “Would you be happier stripped of your possessions, cast out of your house, and forced to fly from justice with your father?” (She looks at me in pale terror.) “Why, then, there’s nothing to be won, and what’s to lose? the love of a noble, honest gentleman, the joy of raising him from penury.”

“Oh, say no more,” cries she, in passion. “I know not what madness possessed me to overlook such consequences. I kiss you for bringing me to my senses” (with that she catches up my hand and presses her lips to it again and again). “Look in my face,” cries she, “and if you find a lurking vestige of irresolution there, I’ll tear it out.”

Indeed, I could see nothing but set determination in her countenance—a most hard expression of fixed resolve, that seemed to age her by ten years, astonishing me not less than those other phases in her rapidly developing character.

“Now,” says she, quickly, and with not a note of her repining tone, “what was that you spoke of lately—you are to be our steward?”

“Yes,” says I, “for Mr. Godwin has declared most firmly that the moment he has authority he will cast Simon out for his disloyalty.”

“I will not leave that ungrateful duty to him,” says she. “Take me to this wretch at once, and choose the shortest path.”

I led her back across the common, and coming to Simon’s lodge, she herself knocked loudly at the door.

Seeing who it was through his little grating, Simon quickly opens the door, and with fawning humility entreats her to step into his poor room, and there he stands, cringing and mopping his eyes, in dreadful apprehension, as having doubtless gathered from some about the house how matters stood betwixt Moll and Mr. Godwin.

“Where are your keys?” demands Moll, in a very hard, merciless voice.

Perceiving how the land lay, and finding himself thus beset, old Simon falls to his usual artifices, turning this way and that, like a rat in a pit, to find some hole for escape. First he feigns to misunderstand, then, clapping his hands in his pockets, he knows not where he can have laid them; after that fancies he must have given them to his man Peter, who is gone out of an errand, etc.; until Moll, losing patience, cut him short by declaring the loss of the keys unimportant, as doubtless a locksmith could be found to open his boxes and drawers without ’em.

“My chief requirement is,” adds she, “that you leave this house forthwith, and return no more.”

Upon this, finding further evasion impossible, the old man turns to bay, and asks upon what grounds she would dismiss him without writ or warrant.

“’Tis sufficient,” returns she, “that this house is mine, and that I will not have you a day longer for my tenant or my servant. If you dispute my claim—as I am told you do—you may take what lawful means you please to dispossess me of my estate, and at the same time redress what wrong is done you.”

Seeing his secret treachery discovered, Simon falls now to his whining arts, telling once more of his constant toil to enrich her, his thrift and self-denial; nay, he even carries it so far as to show that he did but incite Mr. Godwin to dispute her title to the estate, that thereby her claim should be justified before the law to the obtaining of her succession without further delay, and at the expense of her cousin, which did surpass anything I had ever heard of for artfulness. But this only incensed Moll the more.

“What!” cries she, “you would make bad blood between two cousins, to the ruin and disgrace of one, merely to save the expense of some beggarly fees! I’ll hear no more. Go at once, or I will send for my servants to carry you out by force.”

He stood some moments in deliberation, and then he says, with a certain dignity unusual to him, “I will go.” Then he casts his eye slowly round the room, with a lingering regard for his piles of documents and precious boxes of title deeds, as if he were bidding a last farewell to all that was dear to him on earth, and grotesque as his appearance might be, there was yet something pathetic in it. But even at this moment his ruling passion prevailed.

“There is no need,” says he, “to burst these goodly locks by force. I do bethink me the keys are here” (opening a drawer, and laying them upon the table). Then dropping his head, he goes slowly to the door, but there he turns, lifting his head and fixing his rheumy eyes on Moll. “I will take nothing from this house, not even the chattels that belong to me, bought from the mean wage I have allowed myself. So shalt thou judge of my honesty. They shall stand here till I return, for that I shall return I am as fully persuaded as that a just God doth dispose of his creatures. Thee hast might on thy side, woman, but whether thee hast right as well, shall yet be proven—not by the laws of man, which are an invention of the devil to fatten rogues upon the substance of fools, but by the law of Heaven, to which I do appeal with all my soul” (lifting high his shaking hands). “Morning and night I will pray that God shall smite with heavy hand which of us two hath most wronged the other. Offer the same prayer if thee darest.”

I do confess that this parting shot went home to my conscience, and troubled my mind considerably; for feeling that he was in the right of it as regarded our relative honesty, I was constrained to think that his prophecy might come true also to our shame and undoing. But Moll was afflicted with no such qualms, her spirit being very combative and high, and her conscience (such as it was) being hardened by our late discussion to resist sharper slaps than this. Nay, maintaining that Simon must be dishonest by the proof we had of his hypocrisy and double dealing, she would have me enter upon my office at once by sending letters to all her tenants, warning them to pay no rent to any one lately in her service, but only to me; and these letters (which kept my pen going all that afternoon) she signed with the name of Judith Godwin, which seemed to me a very bold, dangerous piece of business; but she would have it so, and did her signature with a strong hand and a flourish of loops beneath like any queen.

Nor was this all; for the next morning she would have me go to that Mr. Goodman, who had offered to buy her farm for ready money, and get what I could from him, seeing that she must furnish herself with fresh gowns and make other outlay for her coming marriage. So to him I go, and after much haggling (having learnt from Simon that the land was worth more than he offered for it), I brought him to give six thousand pounds instead of five, and this was clearly better business on his side than on mine at that, for that the bargain might not slip from his hands he would have me take three thousand pounds down as a handsell, leaving the rest to be paid when the deed of transference was drawn up.

And now as I jogged home with all this gold chinking in my pockets, I did feel that I had thrust my head fairly into a halter, and no chance left of drawing it out. Look at it how I might, this business wore a most curst aspect, to be sure; nor could I regard myself as anything but a thoroughpaced rogue.

“For,” thinks I, “if old Simon’s prayer be answered, what will become of this poor Mr. Goodman? His title deeds will be wrested from him, for they are but stolen goods he is paying for, and thus an innocent, honest man will be utterly ruined. And for doing this villany I may count myself lucky if my heels save my neck.”

With this weight on my mind, I resolved to be very watchful and careful of my safety, and before I fell asleep that night I had devised a dozen schemes for making good my escape as soon as I perceived danger; nevertheless, I could dream of nothing but prisons, scourgings, etc., and in every vision I perceived old Simon in his leather skull-cap sitting on the top of Tyburn tree, with his handkercher a-hanging down ready to strangle me.

CHAPTER XXV.

A table of various accidents.

As your guide, showing you an exhibition of paintings, will linger over the first room, and then pass the second in hurried review to come the quicker to a third of greater interest, so I, having dwelt, may be, at undue length upon some secondary passages in this history, must economise my space by touching lightly on the events that came immediately before Moll’s marriage, and so get to those more moving accidents which followed. Here, therefore, will I transcribe certain notes (forming a brief chronicle) from that secret journal which, for the clearer understanding of my position, I began to keep the day I took possession of Simon’s lodge and entered upon my new office.

December 8. Very busy all this forenoon setting my new house in order, conveying, with the help of the gardener, all those domestic and personal goods that belong to Simon into the attick; but Lord! so few these things, and they so patched and worn, that altogether they are not worth ten shillings of anybody’s money. I find the house wondrous neat and clean in every part, but so comfortless and prison-like, that I look forward with little relish to living here when the time comes for me to leave the Court. After this to examining books, papers, etc., and the more closely I look into these, the more assured I am that never was any servant more scrupulous, exact, and honest in his master’s service than this old steward, which puts me to the hope that I may be only half as faithful to my trust as he, but I do fear I shall not.

Conversing privily with Don Sanchez after dinner, he gave me his opinion that we had done a very unwise thing in turning out old Simon, showing how by a little skill I might have persuaded Moll to leave this business to Mr. Godwin as the proper ruler of her estate; how by such delay Mr. Godwin’s resentment would have abated and he willing to listen to good argument in the steward’s favour; how then we should have made Simon more eager than ever to serve us in order to condone his late offence, and how by abusing our opportunities we had changed this useful servant to a dangerous enemy whose sole endeavour must be to undo us and recover his former position, etc.… “Why, what have we to fear of this miserable old man?” says I. “Unless he fetch Mrs. Godwin from Barbary, he cannot disprove Moll’s right to the estate, and what else can he do?”

“There’s the mischief of it,” answers he. “’Tis because you know not how he may attack you that you have no means of defending yourself. ’Tis ever the unseen trifle in our path which trips us up.” And dismissing this part of the subject with a hunch of his shoulders, he advises me seriously to sell as many more farms as I may for ready money, and keep it in some secret convenient corner where I may lay hands on it at a moment’s warning.

This discourse coming atop of a night’s ill rest, depressed my mind to such a degree that I could take no interest in my work, but sat there in my naked room with my accounts before me, and no spirit to cast ’em up, Nor was I much happier when I gave up work and returned to the Court. For, besides having to wait an hour later than usual for dinner, Moll’s treatment of me was none of the best—she being particularly perverse and contrary, for having dressed herself in her best in expectation of her lover’s return, and he not coming when at last she permitted supper to be dished. We were scarcely seated, however, when she springs up with a cry of joy and runs from the room, crying she hears her Richard’s step, which was indeed true, though we had heard nothing more pleasant than the rattle of our plates. Presently they come in, all radiant with happiness, hand in hand, and thenceforth nought but sweetness and mirth on the part of Mistress Moll, who before had been all frown and pout. At supper Mr. Godwin tells us how his sweetheart hath certainly dispelled the clouds that have hung so long over him, he having heard in London that Sir Peter Lely, on seeing one of his pieces, desires to see him at Hatfield (where he is painting) on good business, and to Hatfield he will go to discharge this matter before his marriage; which joyeth Moll less than me, I being pleased to see he is still of the same, stout disposition to live an active life. In the evening he gives Moll a very beautiful ring for a troth token, which transports her with joy, so that she cannot enough caress her lover or this toy, but falls first to kissing one and then t’other in a rapture. In return, she gives him a ring from her finger. “’Tis too small for my finger, love,” says he; “but I will wear it against my heart as long as it beats.” After that he finds another case and puts it in Moll’s hand, and she, opening it, fetches her breath quickly and can say nothing for amazement; then, turning it in the light, she regards it with winking eyes, as if dazzled by some fierce brilliancy. And so closing the case as if it were too much for her, she lays her face upon Mr. Godwin’s breast, he having his arm about her, murmuring some inarticulate words of passionate love. Recovering her energies presently, she starts up, and putting the case in her lover’s hand, she bids him put on his gift, therewith pulling down her kerchief to expose her beautiful bare neck, whereupon he draws from the box a diamond collar and clasps it about her throat with a pretty speech. And truly this was a gift worthy of a princess, the most beautiful bauble I have ever seen, and must have cost him all he had of me to the last shilling.

December 10. Finding amongst Simon’s quittances a bill for law expenses of one John Pearson, attorney, at Maidstone, I concluded this must be the most trustworthy man of his kind in the country; and so set forth early this morning to seek him—a tedious, long journey, and the roads exceedingly foul. By good luck I found Mr. Pearson at home—a very civil, shrewd man, as I think. Having laid my business before him, he tells me there will be no difficulty in dividing the estate according to the wish of Mr. Godwin and Moll, which may be done by a simple deed of agreement; and this he promises to draw up, and send to us for signature in a couple of days. But to get the seal to Moll’s succession will not be such an easy matter, and, unless we are willing to give seven or eight hundred pounds in fees, we may be kept waiting a year, with the chance of being put to greater expense to prove our right; for he tells me the court and all about it are so corrupt that no minister is valued if he do not, by straight or crooked ways, draw money into the treasury, and that they will rather impede than aid the course of justice if it be to the king’s interest, and that none will stir a hand to the advantage of any one but the king, unless it be secretly to his own, etc. And, though he will say nothing against Simon, save (by way of hint) that all men must be counted honest till they are proved guilty, yet he do apprehend he will do all in his power to obstruct the granting of this seal, which it is only reasonable to suppose he will. So, to close this discussion, I agree he shall spend as much as one thousand pounds in bribery, and he thinks we may certainly look to have it in a month at that price. Home late, and very sore.

December 11. Much astonished this morning on going to my house to find all changed within as if by inchantment—fine hangings to my windows, handsome furniture in every room, all arranged in due order (with a pair of pictures in my parlour), the linen press stocked with all that is needful and more, and even the cellar well garnished with wines, etc. And truly thus embellished my house looks no longer like a prison, but as cheerful and pleasant a dwelling-place as the heart of man could desire (in moderation), and better than any I have yet dreamt of possessing. And ’twas easy to guess whose hands had worked this transformation, even had I not recognised certain pieces of furniture as coming from the Court, for ’twas of a piece with Moll’s loving and playful spirit to prepare this surprise for me while I was gone yesterday to Maidstone. I am resolved I will sleep here henceforth—there being two bedrooms all properly furnished—as being more in keeping with my new position.

December 13. This day a little before dinner time came Dawson to the Court, quite sober and looking as like a rough honest seaman as anything could be, but evidently with his best shore-going manners on. And when Moll very graciously offers him her hand, he whips out a red handkercher and lays it over her hand before kissing it, which was a piece of ceremony he must have observed at Greenwich, as also many odd phrases and sea expressions with which he garnished his conversation.

“Captain Evans,” says Moll, taking her lover’s hand, “this is Mr. Godwin, my cousin, and soon to be my husband.”

Mr. Godwin holds forth his hand, but ere he would take it, Dawson looks him full in the face a good minute; then, taking it in his great grimy hand, and grasping it firmly, “Master,” says Jack, “I see thou art an honest man, and none lives who hath ever sold me tar for pitch, be he never so double-faced, and so I wish you joy of your sweet wife. As for you, Mistress” (turning to Moll) “who have ever been kind to me beyond my deserts, I do wish you all the happiness in the world, and I count all my hardships well paid in bringing you safely to this anchorage. For sure I would sooner you were still Lala Mollah and a slave in Barbary than the Queen of Chiney and ill-mated; and so Lord love the both of you!”

After staying a couple of hours with us, he was for going (but not before he had given us the instructive history of the torment he had endured, by telling his wife, in an unguarded moment, of his gallantries with Sukey Taylor), nor would he be persuaded to sleep at the Court and leave next day, maintaining that whilst he had never a penny in the world he could very honestly accept Moll’s hospitality, but that now being well-to-do, thanks to her bounty, he blessed Heaven he had sufficient good breeding, and valued himself well enough not to take advantage of her beneficence. However, hearing I had a house of my own, and could offer him a bed, he willingly agreed to be my guest for the night, regarding me as one of his own quality. We stayed to sup at the Court, where he entertained us with a lengthy account of his late voyage, and how being taken in a tempest, his masts had all been swept by the board, and his craft so damaged that ’twas as much as she would hold together till he brought her into Falmouth, where she must lie a-repairing a good two months ere he could again venture to sea in her. And this story he told with such an abundance of detail and so many nautical particulars, that no one in the world could have dreamt he was lying.

He explained to me later on that he had refused to lie at the Court, for fear a glass or two after supper might lead his tongue astray, telling me that he had touched nothing but penny ale all his long journey from London, for fear of losing his head; and on my asking why he had fabricated that long history of shipwreck he vowed I had put him to it by saying I had a house of my own where he could lie; “For,” says he, “my ship being laid up will furnish me with a very good excuse for coming to spend a day or two with you now and then. So may I get another glimpse of my own dear Moll, and see her in the fulness of her joy.”

He could not sufficiently cry up the excellence of Mr. Godwin, his noble bearing, his frank, honest countenance, his tenderness for Moll, etc., and he did truly shed tears of gratitude to think that now, whatever befell him, her welfare and happiness were assured; but this was when he had emptied his bottle and had got to that stage of emotion which usually preceded boisterous hilarity when he was in his cups.

And whilst I am speaking of bottles, it will not be amiss to note here, for my future warning, a grave imprudence of mine, which I discovered on leaving the room to seek more wine. On the flame of my candle blowing aside, I perceived that I had left my door unfastened, so that it now stood ajar. And, truly, this was as culpable a piece of oversight as I could well have committed; for here, had an enemy, or even an idle busybody, been passing, he might very well have entered the little passage and overheard that which had been our undoing to have made known.

CHAPTER XXVI.

How Moll Dawson was married to Mr. Richard Godwin; brief account of attendant circumstances.

December 14. Dawson left us this morning. In parting, Mr. Godwin graciously begged him to come to his wedding feast on Christmas day—they having fixed upon Christmas eve to be married—and Dawson promised he would; but he did assure me afterwards, as we were walking along the road to meet the stage waggon, that he would certainly feign some reason for not coming. “For,” says he, “I am not so foolhardy as to jeopardise my Moll’s happiness for the pleasure this feast would give me. Nay, Kit, I do think ’twould break my heart indeed, if anything of my doing should mar my Moll’s happiness.” And I was very well pleased to find him in this humour, promising him that we would make amends for his abstinence on this occasion by cracking many a bottle to Moll’s joy when we could come together again secretly at my house. In the afternoon Mr. Pearson’s clerk brought the deed of agreement for the settlement of the estate upon Moll and Mr. Godwin, which they signed, and so that is finished as we would have it. This clerk tells me his master hath already gone to London about getting the seal. So all things look mighty prosperous.

December 17. Fearing to displease Sir Peter Lely by longer delay, Mr. Godwin set out for Hatfield Tuesday, we—that is, Moll, Don Sanchez, and I—going with him as far as the borough, where Moll had a thousand things to buy against her wedding. And here we found great activity of commerce, and many shops filled with excellent good goods—more than ever there were before the great fire drove out so many tradesmen from the city. Here Moll spends her money royally, buying whatever catches her eye that is rich and beautiful, not only for her own personal adornment, but for the embellishment of her house (as hangings, damasks, toys, etc.), yet always with a consideration of Mr. Godwin’s taste, so that I think she would not buy a pair of stockings but she must ask herself whether he would admire ’em. And the more she had, the more eager she grew to have, buying by candle-light, which was an imprudence, and making no sort of bargain, but giving all the shopkeepers asked for their wares, which, to be sure, was another piece of recklessness. This business seemed to me the most wearisome in the world, but it served only to increase her energies, and she would not be persuaded to desist until, the shops closing, she could lay out no more money that night. Supped very well (but mighty late) at the Tabard inn, where we lay all night. And the next morning, Moll’s fever still unabated, we set out again a-shopping, and no rest until we caught the stage (and that by a miracle) at four; and so home, dead beat.

December 18. Moll mad all day because the carrier hath brought but half her purchases, and they not what she wanted. By the evening waggon come three seamstresses she engaged yesterday morning, and they are to stay in the house till all is finished; but as yet nothing for them to do, which is less grievous to them than to poor Moll, who, I believe, would set ’em working all night for fear she shall not be fitted against her wedding.

December 19. Thank God, the carrier brought all our packages this morning, and they being all undone and laid out, there is no sitting down anywhere with comfort, but all confusion, and no regularity anywhere, so I was content to get my meals in the kitchen the best I could. And here I do perceive the wisdom of Don Sanchez, who did not return with us from London, and does intend (he told me) to stay there till the wedding eve. December 20. Moll, bit by a new maggot, tells me this morning she will have a great feast on Christmas day, and bids me order matters accordingly. She will have a whole ox roasted before the house by midday, and barrels of strong ale set up, that there may be meat and drink for all who choose to take it; and at four she will have a supper of geese, turkeys, and plum puddings for all her tenants, their wives and sweethearts, with fiddles afterwards for dancing, etc. Lord knows how we shall come out of this madness; but I have got the innkeeper (a busy, capable man) to help me, and he does assure me all will go well enough, and I pray he be right.

December 21. Sick with fears that all must end ill. For the place is a very Babel for tradesmen and workpeople bringing in goods, and knowing not where to set them, servants hurrying this way and that, one charged with a dozen geese, another with silk petticoats, jostling each other, laughing, quarrelling, and no sort of progress, as it seems, anywhere, but all tumult and disorder.

December 22. Could not sleep a wink all last night for casting up accounts of all this feasting and finery will cost us, and finding it must eat up all that money we had of poor Mr. Goodman, and make a deep hole in our quarter’s rents besides, I fell a speculating whether our tenants would pay me with the same punctuality they have used to pay old Simon, with grievous fears to the contrary. For, assuredly, Simon hath not been idle these past days, and will do us an ill turn if he can, by throwing doubts before these same tenants whether they should pay or not before Moll’s succession is made sure. And I have good reason to fear they will not, for I observed yesterday when I called upon Farmer Giles to invite him to our feast, he seemed very jerky and ill at ease, which perplexed me greatly, until, on quitting, I perceived through a door that stood ajar old Simon seated in a side room. And ’tis but natural that if they find prudent excuse for withholding their rents they will keep their money in pocket, which will pinch us smartly when our bills come to be paid. Yet I conceived that this feast would incline our tenants to regard us kindly; but, on the other hand, thinks I, supposing they regard this as a snare, and do avoid us altogether! Then shall we be nipped another way; for, having no one to eat our feast but a few idle rogues, who would get beef and ale for nothing, we shall but lay ourselves open to mockery, and get further into discredit. Thus, betwixt one fear and another, I lay like a toad under a harrow, all night, in a mortal sweat and perturbation of spirit.

Nor has this day done much to allay my apprehension. For at the Court all is still at sixes and sevens, none of a very cheerful spirit, but all mighty anxious, save Moll, who throughout has kept a high, bold spirit. And she does declare they will work all night, but everything shall be in its place before her lover comes tomorrow. And, truly, I pray they may, but do think they will not. For such a mighty business as this should have been begun a full month back. But she will not endure me in the house (though God knows I am as willing as any to help), saying that I do hinder all, and damp their spirit for work with my gloomy countenance, which is no more than the truth, I fear. The sky very overcast, with wind in the south and the air very muggy, mild, and close, so that I do apprehend our geese will be all stinking before they are eat. And if it pour of rain on Christmas day how will the ox be roast, and what sort of company can we expect? This puts me to another taking for dread of a new fiasco.

December 23. Going to the Court about midday, I was dumbfounded to find no sign of the disorder that prevailed there yesterday, but all swept and garnished, and Moll in a brave new gown seated at her fireside, reading a book with the utmost tranquillity—though I suspect she did assume something in this to increase my astonishment. She was largely diverted by my amazement, and made very light of her achievement; but she admitted that all had worked till daybreak, and she had slept but two hours since. Nevertheless, no one could have looked fresher and brighter than she, so healthy and vigorous are her natural parts. About one comes Mr. Godwin to cap her happiness and give fresh glory to her beauty. And sure a handsomer or better mated couple never was, Mr. Godwin’s shapely figure being now set off to advantage by a very noble clothing, as becoming his condition. With him came also by the morning stage Don Sanchez, mighty fine in a new head, of the latest mode, and a figured silk coat and waistcoat. And seeing the brave show they made at table, I was much humbled to think I had gone to no expense in this particular. But I was yet more mortified when Don Sanchez presents Moll with a handsome set of jewels for a wedding gift, to see that I had nothing in the world to offer her, having as yet taken not a penny of her money, save for the use of others and my bare necessities. Moll, however, was too full of happiness to note this omission on my part; she could think of no one now but her dear husband, and I counted for nothing.

However, this little chagrin was no more than a little cloud on a summer’s day, which harms no one and is quickly dispelled by generous heat; and the tender affection of these two for each other did impart a glow of happiness to my heart. ’Tis strange to think how all things tonight look bright and hopeful, which yesterday were gloomy and awesome. Even the weather hath changed to keep in harmony with our condition. A fresh wind sprang up from the north this morning, and tonight every star shines out sharp and clear through the frosty air, promising well for tomorrow and our Christmas feast. And smelling of the geese, I do now find them all as sweet as nuts, which contents me mightily, and so I shall go to bed this night blessing God for all things.

December 24. Now this blessed day hath ended, and Moll is sure and safely bound to Mr. Godwin in wedlock, thanks to Providence. Woke at daybreak and joyed to find all white without and covered with rime, sparkling like diamonds as the sun rose red and jolly above the firs; and so I thought our dear Moll’s life must sparkle as she looked out on this, which is like to be the brightest, happiest day of her life. Dressed in my best with great care, and put on the favour of white ribbons given me by Moll’s woman last night, and so very well pleased with my looks, to the Court, where Moll is still a-dressing, but Mr. Godwin and Don Sanchez, nobly arrayed, conversing before the fire. And here a great bowpot on the table (which Mr. Godwin had made to come from London this morning) of the most wondrous flowers I have ever seen at this time of the year, so that I could not believe them real at first, but they are indeed living; and Mr. Godwin tells me they are raised in houses of glass very artificially heated. Presently comes in Moll with her maids, she looking like any pearl, in a shining gown of white satin decked with rich lace, the collar of diamonds glittering about her white throat, her face suffused with happy blushes and past everything for sprightly beauty. Mr. Godwin offers his bowpot and takes her into his arms, and there for a moment she lay with closed eyes and a pallor spreading over her cheek as if this joy were more than her heart could bear; but recovering quickly, she was again all lively smiles and radiance.

Then comes a letter, brought by the night carrier, from her father (a most dirty, ill-written scrawl signed Robert Evans with his mark), praying he may be excused, as his masts are to be stepped o’ Wednesday, and he must take the occasion of a ketch leaving Dartford for Falmouth this day, and at the same time begging her acceptance of a canister of China tea (which is, I learn, become a fashionable dish in London) as a marriage offering. Soon after this a maid runs in to say the church bells are a-ringing; so out we go into the crisp, fresh air, with not a damp place to soil Moll’s pretty shoes—she and Mr. Godwin first, her maids next, carrying her train, and the Don and I closing the procession, very stately. In the churchyard stand two rows of village maids with baskets to strew rosemary and sweet herbs in our path, and within the church a brave show of gentlefolks, friends and neighbours, to honour the wedding.

But here was I put to a most horrid quaking the moment I passed the door, to perceive old Simon standing foremost in the throng about the altar, in his leather cap (which he would not remove for clerk or sexton, but threatened them, as I am told, with the law if they lay a finger on him). And seeing him there, I must needs conclude that he intended to do us an ill turn, for his face wore the most wicked, cruel, malicious look that ever thirst of vengeance could impart. Indeed, I expected nothing less than that he would forbid the marriage on such grounds as we had too good reason to fear; and with this dread I regarded Moll, who also could not fail to see him. Her face whitened as she looked at him, but her step never faltered, and this peril seemed but to fortify her courage and resolution; and indeed I do think by her high bearing and the defiance in her eye as she held her lover’s arm that she was fully prepared to make good answer if he challenged her right to marry Mr. Godwin. But (the Lord be thanked!) he did not put her to this trial, only he stood there like a thing of evil omen to mar the joy of this day with fearful foreboding.

I can say nothing about the ceremony, for all my attention was fixed upon this hideous Simon, and I had no relief until ’twas safely ended and Moll’s friends pressed forward to kiss the bride and offer their good wishes; nor did I feel really at ease until we were back again at the Court, and seated to a fine dinner, with all the friends who would join us, whereof there were as many as could sit comfortably to the long table. This feast was very joyous and merry, and except that the parson would be facetious over his bottle, nothing unseemingly or immodest was said. So we stayed at table in exceeding good fellowship till the candles were lit, and then the parson, being very drunk, we made a pretext of carrying him home to break up our company and leave the happy couple to their joy.

December 26. Down betimes yesterday morning to find the sky still clear, the air brisk and dry, and ample promise of a fair day. To the Court, and there perceive the great ox spitted on a stout fir pole, and the fire just kindling; John the gardener setting up the barrels of beer, and a famous crowd of boys and beggars already standing before the gates. And there they might have stayed till their dinner was cooked, ere I had let them in, but Moll coming down from the house with her husband, and seeing this shivering crew, their pinched cheeks yellow and their noses blue with cold, and so famished with hunger they could scarce find strength to cry, “God bless you, merry gentlefolks!” she would have them taste at once some of that happiness with which her heart was overflowing, and so did with her own hands unbolt the gates and set them wide, bidding the halting wretches come in and warm themselves. Not content with this, she sends up to the house for loaves and gives every one a hunch of bread and a mug of ale to stay his empty stomach. And Lord, ’twas a pleasure to see these poor folks’ joy—how they spread their hands out to the flames; how they cockered up the fire here and there to brown their ox equally, with all hands now and then to turn him on the spit; how they would set their bread to catch the dropping gravy; and how they would lift their noses to catch the savoury whiffs that came from the roasting beef.

This is all very well, thinks I, but how about our geese and turkeys? will our tenants come, or shall we find that Simon hath spoilt their appetite, and so be left with nought but starved beggars for our company? However, before four o’clock an end was put to these doubts, for some in waggons, others on horse, with their wives or sweethearts on pillions behind, clasping their men tight, and the rest afoot, all came that were asked by me, and more, and pretty jolly already with ale on the road, and a great store of mistletoe amongst them for their further merriment. And what pleased me as much as anything was to find all mighty civil to Moll—nearly all offering her a Christmas box of fresh eggs, honey, and such homely produce, which she received with the most pretty, winning grace, that went home to every heart, so that the hardest faces were softened with a glow of contentment and admiration. Then down we sat to table, Moll at one end and her husband beside her; Don Sanchez and I at t’other; and all the rest packed as close as sprats in a barrel; but every lad squeezing closer to his lass to make room for his neighbour, we found room for all and not a sour look anywhere. Dear heart! what appetites they had, yet would waste nothing, but picked every one his bone properly clean (which did satisfy me nothing was amiss with our geese), and great cheering when the puddings and flapdragons came in all aflame, and all as merry as grigs—flinging of lighted plums at each other, but most mannerly not to fling any at Moll or us. Then more shouting for joy when the bowls of wassail and posset come in, and all standing to give three times three for their new mistress and her husband. Hearing of which, the beggars without (now tired of dancing about the embers) troop up to the door and give three times three as well, and end with crying joy and long life to the wedded pair. When this tumult was ended and the door shut, Mr. Godwin gave a short oration, thanking our tenants for their company and good wishes; and then he told them how his dear wife and he, wishing others to share their joy and remember this day, had resolved to forgive every tenant one-half of his quarter’s rent. “And so, Mr. Hopkins,” says he, addressing me, “you will think of this tomorrow.”

At first I was disposed to begrudge this munificence—thinking of my accounts and the bills I should have to pay ere rent day came again; but on second thoughts it rejoiced me much as being a counterblast to anything Simon could do against us. For no tenant, thinks I, will be fool enough to withold payment when he may get his quittance tomorrow for half its value. And herein was I not mistaking; for today every tenant hath paid with a cheerful countenance. So that this is very good business, and I am not in any way astonished to find that our subtle Spaniard was at the bottom of it, for indeed it was Don Sanchez who (knowing my fears on this head and thinking them well-grounded) suggested this act of generosity to Moll, which she, in her fulness of heart, seized on at once. (Truly, I believe she would give the clothes off her back, no matter what it cost her, to any one in need, so reckless is she in love and pity.)

December 27. Don Sanchez took leave of us this day, he setting forth for Spain tomorrow, with the hope to reach his friends there, for their great feast of the New Year. And we are all mighty sorry to lose him; for not only hath he been a rare good friend to us, but also he is a most seemly gentleman (to keep us in countenance), and a very good staunch and reliable companion. But this comprises not all our loss, he having, as I confess, more wit in his little finger than we in all our bodies, and being ever ready with an expedient in the hour of need; and I know not why, but I look on his going as a sign of coming evil; nor am I greatly comforted by his telling me privily that when we want him he shall be found by a letter sent to the Albego Puerto del Sole, Toledo, in Spain. And I pray Heaven we have no occasion to write to him.

Tonight at supper I find Moll all cock-a-hoop with a new delight, by reason of her dear husband offering to take her to London for a month to visit the theatres and other diversions, which put me to a new quirk for fear Moll should be known by any of our former playhouse companions. But this I now perceive is a very absurd fear; for no one in the world who had seen Moll three years ago—a half-starved, long-legged, raw child—could recognise her now, a beautiful, well-proportioned young woman in her fine clothes; and so my mind is at ease on this head. When Moll was retired, Mr. Godwin asked if I could let him have a few hundreds upon his account, and I answered very willingly he shall. And now setting aside enough to pay all bills and furnish our wants till next quarter day, I am resolved to give him every farthing left of the rents paid yesterday, and shall be most hearty glad to be rid of it, for this money do seem to scar my hands every time I touch it; nor can I look at it but my heart is wrung with pity for those poor tenants who paid so gleefully yesterday, for surely their quittances will hold good for no more than spoilt paper if ever our roguery is discovered.

December 28. This day Moll and Mr. Godwin set out for London, all smiles and gladness, and Moll did make me promise to visit them there, and share their pleasures. But if I have no more appetite for gaiety than I feel at this moment, I shall do better to stay here and mind my business; though I do expect to find little pleasure in that, and must abide by a month of very dull, gloomy days.

CHAPTER XXVII.

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.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

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 tomorrow, 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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow 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.”

CHAPTER XXIX.

Of the subtile means whereby Simon leads Mr. Godwin to doubt his wife.

Again must I draw upon matter of after-knowledge to show you how all things came to pass on this fatal night.

When Mr. Godwin reached London, he went to Sir Peter Lely’s house in Lincoln’s Inn, to know if he was still at Hatfield, and there learning he was gone hence to Hampton, and no one answering for certainty when he would return, Mr. Godwin, seeing that he might linger in London for days to no purpose, and bethinking him how pale and sorrowful his dear wife was when they parted, concludes to leave his picture at Sir Peter Lely’s and post back to Chislehurst, counting to give his wife a happy surprise.

About eight o’clock he reaches the Court, to find all shut and barred by the prudent housekeeper, who, on letting him in (with many exclamations of joy and wonder), falls presently to sighing and shaking her head, as she tells how her mistress has lain abed since dinner, and is sick of the biliaries.

In great concern, Mr. Godwin takes the candle from Mrs. Butterby’s hand, and hastes up to his wife’s room. Opening the door softly, he enters, to find the bed tumbled, indeed, but empty. He calls her in a soft voice, going into the next room, and, getting no reply, nor finding her there, he calls again, more loudly, and there is no response. Then, as he stands irresolute and amazed, he hears a knock at the door below, and concluding that ’tis his wife, who has had occasion to go out, seeking fresh air for her comfort maybe, he runs swiftly down and opens, ere a servant can answer the call. And there he is faced, not by sweet Moll, but the jaundiced, wicked old Simon, gasping and panting for breath.

“Dost thee know,” says he, fetching his breath at every other word, “dost thee know where the woman thy wife is?”

“Where is she?” cries Mr. Godwin, in quick alarm, thinking by this fellow’s sweating haste that some accident had befallen his dear wife.

“I will show thee where she is; aye, and what she is,” gasps the old man, and then, clasping his hands, he adds, “Verily, the Lord hath heard my prayers and delivered mine enemies into my hand.”

Mr. Godwin, who had stepped aside to catch up his hat from the table, where he had flung it on entering, stopped short, hearing this fervent note of praise, and turning about, with misgivings of Simon’s purpose, cries:

“What are your enemies to me?”

“Everything,” cries Simon. “Mine enemies are thine, for as they have cheated me so have they cheated thee.”

“Enough of this,” cries Mr. Godwin. “Tell me where my wife is, and be done with it.”

“I say I will show thee where she is and what she is.”

“Tell me where she is,” cries Mr. Godwin, with passion.

“That is my secret, and too precious to throw away.”

“I comprehend you, now,” says Mr. Godwin, bethinking him of the fellow’s greed. “You shall be paid. Tell me where she is and name your price.”

“The price is this,” returns the other, “thy promise to be secret, to catch them in this trap, and give no opening for escape. Oh, I know them; they are as serpents, that slip through a man’s fingers and turn to bite. They shall not serve me so again. Promise—”

“Nothing. Think you I’m of your own base kind, to deal with you in treachery? You had my answer before, when you would poison my mind, rascal. But,” adds he, with fury, “you shall tell me where my wife is.”

“I would tear the tongue from my throat ere it should undo the work of Providence. If they escape the present vengeance of Heaven, thee shalt answer for it, not I. Yet I will give thee a clue to find this woman who hath fooled thee. Seek her where there are thieves and drunkards to mock at thy simplicity, to jeer at their easy gull, for I say again thy wife never was in Barbary, but playing the farded, wanton—”

The patience with which Mr. Godwin had harkened to this tirade, doubting by his passion that Simon was stark mad, gave way before this vile aspersion on his wife, and clutching the old man by the throat he flung him across the threshold and shut the door upon him. But where was his wife? That question was still uppermost in his thoughts. His sole misgiving was that accident had befallen her, and that somewhere in the house he should find her lying cold and insensible.

With this terror in his mind, he ran again upstairs. On the landing he was met by Mrs. Butterby, who (prudent soul), at the first hint of misconduct on her mistress’s part, had bundled the gaping servants up to their rooms.

“Mercy on us, dear master!” says she. “Where can our dear lady be? For a surety she hath not left the house, for I locked all up, as she bade me when we carried up her supper, and had the key in my pocket when you knocked. ‘See the house safe,’ says she, poor soul, with a voice could scarce be heared, ‘and let no one disturb me, for I do feel most heavy with sleep.’”

Mr. Godwin passed into his wife’s room and then into the next, looking about him in distraction.

“Lord! here’s the sweet thing’s nightgown,” exclaims Mrs. Butterby, from the next room, whither she had followed Mr. Godwin. “But dear heart o’ me, where’s the ham gone?”

Mr. Godwin, entering from the next room, looked at her as doubting whether he or all the world had taken leave of their wits.

“And the pigeon pasty?” added Mrs. Butterby, regarding the table laid out beside her mistress’s bed.

“And the cold partridge,” adds she, in redoubled astonishment. “Why, here’s nought left but my pudding, and that as cold as a stone.”

Mr. Godwin, with the candle flaring in his hand, passed hastily by her, too wrought by fear to regard either the ludicrous or incomprehensible side of Mrs. Butterby’s consternation; and so, going down the corridor away from the stairs, he comes to the door of the little back stairs, standing wide open, and seeming to bid him descend. He goes quickly down, yet trembling with fear that he may find her at the bottom, broken by a fall; but all he discovers is the bolt drawn and the door ajar. As he pushes it open a gust of wind blows out the light, and here he stood in the darkness, eager to be doing, yet knowing not which way to turn or how to act.

Clearly, his wife had gone out by this door, and so far this gave support to Simon’s statement that he knew where she was; and with this a flame was kindled within him that seemed to sear his very soul. If Simon spoke truth in one particular, why should he lie in others? Why had his wife refused to go with him to Hatfield? Why had she bid no one come near her room? Why had she gone forth by this secret stair, alone? Then, cursing himself for the unnamed suspicion that could thus, though but for a moment, disfigure the fair image that he worshipped, he asked himself why his wife should not be free to follow a caprice. But where was she? Ever that question surged upwards in the tumult of his thoughts. Where should he seek her? Suddenly it struck him that I might help him to find her, and acting instantly upon this hope he made his way in breathless haste to the road, and so towards my lodge.

Ere he has gone a hundred yards, Simon steps out of the shadow, and stands before him like a shade in the dimness.

“I crave thy pardon, Master,” says he, humbly. “I spoke like a fool in my passion.”

“If you will have my pardon, tell me where to find my wife; if not, stand aside,” answers Mr. Godwin.

“Wilt thee hear me speak for two minutes if I promise to tell thee where she is and suffer thee to find her how thee willst. ’Twill save thee time.”

“Speak,” says Mr. Godwin.

“Thy wife is there,” says Simon, under his breath, pointing towards my house. “She is revelling with Hopkins and Captain Evans—men that she did tramp the country with as vagabond players, ere the Spaniard taught them more profitable wickedness. Knock at the door—which thee mayst be sure is fast—and while one holds thee in parley the rest will set the room in order, and find a plausible tale to hoodwink thee afresh. Be guided by me, and thee shalt enter the house unknown to them, as I did an hour since, and there thee shalt know, of thine own senses, how thy wife doth profit by thy blindness. If this truth be not proved, if thee canst then say that I have lied from malice, envy, and evil purpose, this knife,” says he, showing a blade in his hand, “this knife will I thrust into my own heart, though I stand the next instant before the Eternal Judge, my hands wet with my own blood, to answer for my crime.”

“Have you finished?” asks Mr. Godwin.

“No, not yet; I hold thee to thy promise,” returns Simon, with eager haste. “Why do men lie? for their own profit. What profit have I in lying, when I pray thee to put my word to the proof and not take it on trust, with the certainty of punishment even if the proof be doubtful. Thee believest this woman is what she pretends to be; what does that show?—your simplicity, not hers. How would women trick their husbands without such skill to blind them by a pretence of love and virtue?”

“Say no more,” cries Mr. Godwin, hoarsely, “or I may strangle you before you pass trial. Go your devilish way, I’ll follow.”

“Now God be praised for this!” cries Simon. “Softly, softly!” adds he, creeping in the shade of the bank towards the house.

But ere he has gone a dozen paces Mr. Godwin repents him again, with shame in his heart, and stopping, says:

“I’ll go no further.”

“Then thee doubtest my word no longer,” whispers Simon, quickly. “’Tis fear that makest thee halt—the fear of finding thy wife a wanton and a trickster.”

“No, no, by God!”

“If that be so, then art thee bound to prove her innocent, that I may not say to all the world, thee mightest have put her honour to the test and dared not—choosing rather to cheat thyself and be cheated by her, than know thyself dishonoured. If thee dost truly love this woman and believe her guiltless, then for her honour must thee put me—not her—to this trial.”

“No madman could reason like this,” says Mr. Godwin. “I accept this trial, and Heaven forgive me if I do wrong.”

CHAPTER XXX.

How we are discovered and utterly undone.

“What!” cries Dawson, catching his daughter in his arms and hugging her to his breast, when the first shock of surprise was past. “My own sweet Moll—come hither to warm her old father’s heart?”

“And my own,” says she, tenderly, “which I fear hath grown a little wanting in love for ye since I have been mated. But, though my dear Dick draws so deeply from my well of affection, there is still somewhere down here” (clapping her hand upon her heart) “a source that first sprang for you and can never dry.”

“Aye, and ’tis a proof,” says he, “your coming here where we may speak and act without restraint, though it be but for five minutes.”

“Five minutes!” cries she, springing up with her natural vivacity, “why, I’ll not leave you before the morning, unless you weary of me.” And then with infinite relish and sly humour, she told of her device for leaving the Court without suspicion.

I do confess I was at first greatly alarmed for the safe issue of this escapade; but she assuring me ’twas a dirty night, and she had passed no one on the road, I felt a little reassured. To be sure, thinks I, Mr. Godwin by some accident may return, but finding her gone, and hearing Captain Evans keeps me to my house, he must conclude she has come hither, and think no harm of her for that neither—seeing we are old friends and sobered with years, for ’tis the most natural thing in the world that, feeling lonely and dejected for the loss of her husband, she should seek such harmless diversion as may be had in our society.

However, for the sake of appearances I thought it would be wise to get this provision of ham and birds out of sight, for fear of misadventure, and also I took instant precaution to turn the key in my street door. Being but two men, and neither of us over-nice in the formalities, I had set a cheese, a loaf, and a bottle betwixt us on the bare table of my office room, for each to serve himself as he would; but I now proposed that, having a lady in our company, we should pay more regard to the decencies by going upstairs to my parlour, and there laying a tablecloth and napkins for our repast.

“Aye, certainly!” cries Moll, who had grown mighty fastidious in these particulars since she had been mistress of Hurst Court; “this dirty table would spoil the best appetite in the world.”

So I carried a faggot and some apple logs upstairs, and soon had a brave fire leaping up the chimney, by which time Moll and her father, with abundant mirth, had set forth our victuals on a clean white cloth, and to each of us a clean plate, knife, and fork, most proper. Then, all things being to our hand, we sat down and made a most hearty meal of Mrs. Butterby’s good cheer, and all three of us as merry as grigs, with not a shadow of misgiving.

There had seemed something piteous to me in that appeal of Moll’s, that she might be herself for this night; and indeed I marvelled now how she could have so trained her natural disposition to an artificial manner, and did no longer wonder at the look of fatigue and weariness in her face on her return to London. For the old reckless, careless, daredevil spirit was still alive in her, as I could plainly see now that she abandoned herself entirely to the free sway of impulse; the old twinkle of mirth and mischief was in her eyes; she was no longer a fine lady, but a merry vagabond again, and when she laughed ’twas with her hands clasping her sides, her head thrown back, and all her white teeth gleaming in the light.

“Now,” says I, when at length our meal was finished, “I will clear the table.”

“Hoop!” cries she, catching up the corners of the tablecloth, and flinging them over the fragments; “’tis done. Let us draw round the fire, and tell old tales. Here’s a pipe, dear dad; I love the smell of tobacco; and you” (to me) “do fetch me a pipkin, that I may brew a good drink to keep our tongues going.”

About the time this drink was brewed, Simon, leading Mr. Godwin by a circuitous way, came through the garden to the back of the house, where was a door, which I had never opened for lack of a key to fit the lock. This key was now in Simon’s hand, and putting it with infinite care into the hole, he softly turned it in the wards. Then, with the like precaution, he lifts the latch and gently thrusts the door open, listening at every inch to catch the sounds within. At length ’tis opened wide; and so, turning his face to Mr. Godwin, who waits behind, sick with mingled shame and creeping dread, he beckons him to follow.

Above, Dawson was singing at the top of his voice, a sea-song he had learnt of a mariner at the inn he frequented at Greenwich, with a troll at the end, taken up by Moll and me. And to hear his wife’s voice bearing part in this rude song, made Mr. Godwin’s heart to sink within him. Under cover of this noise, Simon mounted the stairs without hesitation, Mr. Godwin following at his heels, in a kind of sick bewilderment. ’Twas pitch dark up there, and Simon, stretching forth his hands to know if Mr. Godwin was by, touched his hand, which was deadly cold and quivering; for here at the door he was seized with a sweating faintness, which so sapped his vigour that he was forced to hold by the wall to save himself from falling.

“Art thee ready?” asks Simon; but he can get no answer, for Mr. Godwin’s energies, quickened by a word from within like a jaded beast by the sting of a whip, is straining his ears to catch what is passing within. And what hears he?—The song is ended, and Dawson cries:

“You han’t lost your old knack of catching a tune, Moll. Come hither, wench, and sit upon my knee, for I do love ye more than ever. Give me a buss, chuck; this fine husband of thine shall not have all thy sweetness to himself.”

At this moment, Simon, having lifted the latch under his thumb, pushes wide open the door, and there through the thick cloud of tobacco smoke Mr. Godwin sees the table in disorder, the white cloth flung back over the remnants of our repast and stained with a patch of liquor from an overturned mug, a smutty pipkin set upon the board beside a dish of tobacco, and a broken pipe—me sitting o’ one side the hearth heavy and drowsy with too much good cheer, and on t’other side his young wife, sitting on Dawson’s knee, with one arm about his neck, and he in his uncouth seaman’s garb, with a pipe in one hand, the other about Moll’s waist, a-kissing her yielded cheek. With a cry of fury, like any wild beast, he springs forward and clutches at a knife that lies ready to his hand upon the board, and this cry is answered with a shriek from Moll as she starts to her feet.

“Who is this drunken villain?” he cries, stretching the knife in his hand towards Dawson.

And Moll, flinging herself betwixt the knife and Dawson, with fear for his life, and yet with some dignity in her voice and gesture, answers swiftly:

“This drunken villain is my father.”

CHAPTER XXXI.

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.

“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. Tomorrow 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.

CHAPTER XXXII.

How we fought a most bloody battle with Simon, the constable, and others.

For some time we spoke never a word, Dawson and I—he with his head lying on his arm, I seated in a chair with my hands hanging down by my side, quite stunned by the blow that had fallen upon us. At length, raising his head, his eyes puffed, and his face bedaubed with tears, he says:

“Han’t you a word of comfort, Kit, for a broken-hearted man?”

I stammered a few words that had more sound than sense; but indeed I needed consolation myself, seeing my own responsibility for bringing this misfortune upon Moll, and being most heartily ashamed of my roguery now ’twas discovered.

“You don’t think he’ll be too hard on poor Moll, tell me that, Kit?”

“Aye, he’ll forgive her,” says I, “sooner than us, or we ourselves.”

“And you don’t think he’ll be for ever a-casting it in her teeth that her father’s a—a drunken vagabond, eh?”

“Nay; I believe he is too good a man for that.”

“Then,” says he, standing up, “I’ll go and tell him the whole story, and you shall come with me to bear me out.”

“Tomorrow will be time enough,” says I, flinching from this office; “’tis late now.”

“No matter for that. Time enough to sleep when we’ve settled this business. We’ll not leave poor Moll to bear all the punishment of our getting. Mr. Godwin shall know what an innocent, simple child she was when we pushed her into this knavery, and how we dared not tell her of our purpose lest she should draw back. He shall know how she was ever an obedient, docile, artless girl, yielding always to my guidance; and you can stretch a point, Kit, to say you have ever known me for a headstrong, masterful sort of a fellow, who would take denial from none, but must have my own way in all things. I’ll take all the blame on my own shoulders, as I should have done at first, but I was so staggered by this fall.”

“Well,” says I, “if you will have it so—”

“I will,” says he, stoutly. “And now give me a bucket of water that I may souse my head, and wear a brave look. I would have him think the worst of me that he may feel the kinder to poor Moll. And I’ll make what atonement I can,” adds he, as I led him into my bed-chamber. “If he desire it, I will promise never to see Moll again; nay, I will offer to take the king’s bounty, and go a-sailoring; and so, betwixt sickness and the Dutch, there’ll be an end of Jack Dawson in a very short space.”

When he had ducked his head in a bowl of water, and got our cloaks from the room below, we went to the door, and there, to my dismay, I found the lock fast and the key which I had left in its socket gone.

“What’s amiss, Kit?” asks Dawson, perceiving my consternation.

“The key, the key!” says I, holding the candle here and there to seek it on the floor, then, giving up my search as it struck me that Mr. Godwin and Moll could not have left the house had the door been locked on the inside; “I do believe we are locked in and made prisoners,” says I.

“Why, sure, this is not Mr. Godwin’s doing!” cries he.

“’Tis Simon,” says I, with conviction, seeing him again in my mind, standing behind Mr. Godwin, with wicked triumph in his face.

“Is there no other door but this one?” asks Dawson.

“There is one at the back, but I have never yet opened that, for lack of a key.” And now setting one thing against another, and recalling how I had before found the door open, when I felt sure I had locked it fast, the truth appeared to me; namely, that Simon had that key and did get in the back way, going out by the front on that former occasion in haste upon some sudden alarm.

“Is there never a window we can slip through?” asks Jack.

“Only those above stairs; the lower are all barred.”

“A fig for his bars. Does he think we have neither hands nor wits to be hindered by this silly woman’s trick?”

“’Tis no silly trick. He’s not the man to do an idle thing. There’s mischief in this.”

“What mischief can he do us more than he has done?—for I see his hand in our misfortune. What mischief, I say?—out with it, man, for your looks betray a fear of something worse.”

“Faith, Jack, I dread he has gone to fetch help and will lodge us in gaol for this business.”

“Gaol!” cries he, in a passion of desperation. “Why, this will undo Moll for ever. Her husband can never forgive her putting such shame upon him. Rouse yourself, man, from your stupor. Get me something in the shape of a hammer, for God’s sake, that we may burst our way from this accursed trap.”

I bethought me of an axe for splitting wood, that lay in the kitchen, and fetching it quickly, I put it in his hand. Bidding me stand aside, he let fly at the door like a madman. The splinters flew, but the door held good; and when he stayed a moment to take a new grip on his axe, I heard a clamour of voices outside—Simon’s, higher than the rest, crying, “My new door, that cost me seven and eightpence!”

“The lock, the lock!” says I. “Strike that off.”

Down came the axe, striking a spark of fire from the lock, which fell with a clatter at the next blow; but ere we had time to open the door, Simon and his party, entering by the back door, forced us to turn for our defence. Perceiving Dawson armed with an axe, however, these fellows paused, and the leader, whom I recognised for the constable of our parish, carrying a staff in one hand and a lanthorn in t’other, cried to us in the king’s name to surrender ourselves.

“Take us, if you can,” cries Dawson; “and the Lord have mercy on the first who comes within my reach!”

Deftly enough, old Simon, snatching the fellow’s cap who stood next him, flings it at the candle that stands flaring on the floor, and justles the constable’s lanthorn from his hand, so that in a moment we were all in darkness. Taking us at this disadvantage (for Dawson dared not lay about him with his axe, for fear of hitting me by misadventure), the rascals closed at once; and a most bloody, desperate fight ensued. For, after the first onslaught, in which Dawson (dropping his axe, as being useless at such close quarters) and I grappled each our man, the rest, knowing not friend from foe in the obscurity, and urged on by fear, fell upon each other—this one striking out at the first he met, and that giving as good as he had taken—and so all fell a-mauling and belabouring with such lust of vengeance that presently the whole place was of an uproar with the din of cursing, howling, and hard blows. For my own lot I had old Simon to deal with, as I knew at once by the cold, greasy feel of his leathern jerkin, he being enraged to make me his prisoner for the ill I had done him. Hooking his horny fingers about my throat, he clung to me like any wildcat; but stumbling, shortly, over two who were rolling on the floor, we went down both with a crack, and with such violence that he, being undermost, was stunned by the fall. Then, my blood boiling at this treatment, I got astride of him, and roasted his ribs royally, and with more force than ever I had conceived myself to be possessed of. And, growing beside myself with this passion of war, I do think I should have pounded him into a pulp, but that two other combatants, falling across me with their whole weight, knocked all the wind out of my body, oppressing me so grievously, that ’twas as much as I could do to draw myself out of the fray, and get a gasp of breath again.

About this time the uproar began to subside, for those who had got the worst of the battle thought it advisable to sneak out of the house for safety, and those who had fared better, fearing a reverse of fortune, counted they had done enough for this bout, and so also withdrew.

“Are you living, Kit?” asks Dawson, then.

“Aye,” says I, as valiantly as you please, “and ready to fight another half-dozen such rascals,” but pulling the broken door open, all the same, to get out the easier, in case they returned.

“Why, then, let’s go,” says he, “unless any is minded to have us stay.”

No one responding to this challenge, we made ado to find a couple of hats and cloaks for our use and sallied out.

“Which way do we turn?” asks Dawson, as we come into the road.

“Whither would you go, Jack?”

“Why, to warn Moll of her danger, to be sure.”

I apprehended no danger to her, and believed her husband would defend her in any case better than we could, but Dawson would have it we should warn them, and so we turned towards the Court. And now upon examination we found we had come very well out of this fight; for save that the wound in Dawson’s hand had been opened afresh, we were neither much the worse.

“But let us set our best foot foremost, Jack,” says I, “for I do think we have done more mischief tonight than any we have before, and I shall not be greatly surprised if we are called to account for the death of old Simon or some of his hirelings.”

“I know not how that may be,” says he, “but I must answer for knocking of somebody’s teeth out.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.

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.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

All agree to go out to Spain again in search of our old jollity.

Another week passed by, and then Dawson, shortsighted as he was in his selfishness, began to perceive that things were not coming all right, as he had expected. Once or twice when I went into his shop, I caught him sitting idle before his lathe, with a most woe-begone look in his face.

“What’s amiss, Jack?” asks I, one day when I found him thus.

He looked to see that the door was shut, and then says he, gloomily:

“She don’t sing as she used to, Kit; she don’t laugh hearty.”

I hunched my shoulders.

“She doesn’t play us any of her old pranks,” continues he. “She don’t say one thing and go and do t’other the next moment, as she used to do. She’s too good.”

What could I say to one who was fond enough to think that the summer would come back at his wish and last for ever?

“She’s not the same, Kit,” he goes on. “No, not by twenty years. One would say she is older than I am, yet she’s scarce the age of woman. And I do see she gets more pale and thin each day. D’ye think she’s fretting for him?”

“Like enough, Jack,” says I. “What would you? He’s her husband, and ’tis as if he was dead to her. She cannot be a maid again. ’Tis young to be a widow, and no hope of being wife ever more.”

“God forgive me,” says he, hanging his head.

“We did it for the best,” says I. “We could not foresee this.”

“’Twas so natural to think we should be happy again being all together. Howsoever,” adds he, straightening himself with a more manful vigour, “we will do something to chase these black dogs hence.”

On his lathe was the egg cup he had been turning for Moll; he snapped it off from the chuck and flung it in the litter of chips and shavings, as if ’twere the emblem of his past folly.

It so happened that night that Moll could eat no supper, pleading for her excuse that she felt sick.

“What is it, chuck?” says Jack, setting down his knife and drawing his chair beside Moll’s.

“The vapours, I think,” says she, with a faint smile.

“Nay,” says he, slipping his arm about her waist and drawing her to him. “My Moll hath no such modish humours. ’Tis something else. I have watched ye, and do perceive you eat less and less. Tell us what ails you.”

“Well, dear,” says she, “I do believe ’tis idleness is the root of my disorder.”

“Idleness was never wont to have this effect on you.”

“But it does now that I am grown older. There’s not enough to do. If I could find some occupation for my thoughts, I should not be so silly.”

“Why, that’s a good thought. What say you, dear, shall we go a-play-acting again?”

Moll shook her head.

“To be sure,” says he, scratching his jaw, “we come out of that business with no great encouragement to go further in it. But times are mended since then, and I do hear the world is more mad for diversion now than ever they were before the Plague.”

“No, dear,” says Moll, “’tis of no use to think of that I couldn’t play now.”

After this we sat silent awhile, looking into the embers; then Jack, first to give expression to his thoughts, says:

“I think you were never so happy in your life, Moll, as that time we were in Spain, nor can I recollect ever feeling so free from care myself—after we got out of the hands of that gentleman robber. There’s a sort of infectious brightness in the sun, and the winds, blow which way they may, do chase away dull thoughts and dispose one to jollity; eh, sweetheart? Why, we met never a tattered vagabond on the road but he was halloing of ditties, and a kinder, more hospitable set of people never lived. With a couple of rials in your pocket, you feel as rich and independent as with an hundred pounds in your hand elsewhere.”

At this point Moll, who had hitherto listened in apathy to these eulogies, suddenly pushing back her chair, looks at us with a strange look in her eyes, and says under her breath, “Elche!”

“Barcelony for my money,” responds Dawson, whose memories of Elche were not so cheerful as of those parts where we had led a more vagabond life.

“Elche!” repeats Moll, twining her fingers, and with a smile gleaming in her eyes.

“Does it please you, chuck, to talk of these matters?”

“Yes, yes!” returns she, eagerly. “You know not the joy it gives me” (clapping her hand on her heart). “Talk on.”

Mightily pleased with himself, her father goes over our past adventures—the tricks Moll played us, as buying of her petticoat while we were hunting for her, our excellent entertainment in the mountain villages, our lying abed all one day, and waking at sundown to think it was daybreak, our lazy days and jovial nights, etc., at great length; and when his memory began to give out, giving me a kick of the shin, he says:

“Han’t you got anything to say? For a dull companion there’s nothing in the world to equal your man of wit and understanding”; which, as far as my observation goes, was a very true estimation on his part.

But, indeed (since I pretend to no great degree of wit or understanding), I must say, as an excuse for my silence, that during his discourse I had been greatly occupied in observing Moll, and trying to discover what was passing in her mind. ’Twas clear this talk of Spain animated her spirit beyond ordinary measure, so that at one moment I conceived she did share her father’s fond fancy that our lost happiness might be regained by mere change of scene, and I confess I was persuaded somewhat to this opinion by reflecting how much we owe to circumstances for our varying moods, how dull, sunless days will cast a gloom upon our spirits, and how a bright, breezy day will lift them up, etc. But I presently perceived that the stream of her thoughts was divided; for though she nodded or shook her head, as occasion required, the strained, earnest expression in her tightened lips and knitted brows showed that the stronger current of her ideas flowed in another and deeper channel. Maybe she only desired her father to talk that she might be left the freer to think.

“’Twas near about this time of the year that we started on our travels,” said I, in response to Dawson’s reminder.

“Aye, I recollect ’twas mighty cold when we set sail, and the fruit trees were all bursting into bloom when we came into France. I would we were there now; eh, Moll?”

“What, dear?” asks she, rousing herself at this direct question.

“I say, would you be back there now, child?”

“Oh, will you take me there if I would go?”

“With all my heart, dear Moll. Is there anything in the world I’d not do to make you happy?”

She took his hand upon her knee, and caressing it, says:

“Let us go soon, father.”

“What, will you be dancing of fandangos again?” asks he; and she nods for reply, though I believe her thoughts had wandered again to some other matter.

“I warrant I shall fall into the step again the moment I smell garlic; but I’ll rehearse it an hour tomorrow morning, that we may lose no time. Will you have a short petticoat and a waist-cloth again, Moll?”

She, with her elbows on her knees now, and her chin in her hands, looking into the fire, nodded.

“And you, Kit,” continues he, “you’ll get a guitar and play tunes for us, as I take it you will keep us company still.”

“Yes, you may count on me for that,” says I.

“We shan’t have Don Sanchez to play the tambour for us, but I wager I shall beat it as well as he; though, seeing he owes us more than we owe him, we might in reason call upon him, and—”

“No, no; only we three,” says Moll.

“Aye, three’s enough, in all conscience, and seeing we know a bit of the language, we shall get on well enough without him. I do long, Moll, to see you a-flinging over my shoulder, with your clappers going, your pretty eye and cheek all aglow with pleasure, and a court full of señors and caballeros crying ‘Holé!’ and casting their handkerchiefs at your feet.”

Moll fetched a long, fluttering sigh, and, turning to her father, says in an absent way: “Yes, dear; yes. When shall we go?”

Then, falling to discussing particulars, Dawson, clasping his hands upon his stomach, asked with a long face if at this season we were likely to fall in with the equinoxes on our voyage, and also if we could not hit some point of Spain so as to avoid crossing the mountains of Pyranee and the possibility of falling again into the hands of brigands. To which I replied that, knowing nothing of the northern part of Spain and its people, we stood a chance of finding a rude climate, unsuitable to travelling at this time of year, and an inhospitable reception, and that, as our object was to reach, the South as quickly as possible, it would be more to our advantage to find a ship going through the straits which would carry us as far as Alicante or Valencia. And Moll supporting my argument very vigorously, Dawson gave way with much less reluctance than I expected at the outset. But, indeed, the good fellow seemed now ready to make any sacrifice of himself so that he might see his Moll joyous again.

When I entered his shop the next morning, I found him with his coat off, cutting capers, a wooden platter in his hand for a tambourine, and the sweat pouring down his face.

“I am a couple of stone or so too heavy for the boleros,” gasps he, coming to a stand, “but I doubt not, by the time we land at Alicante, there’ll not be an ounce too much of me.”

Learning that a convoy for the Levant was about to set sail with the next favourable wind from Chatham, we took horse and rode there that afternoon, and by great good luck we found the Faithful Friend, a good ship bound for Genoa in Italy, whereof Mr. Dixon, the master, having intent to enter and victual at Alicante, undertook to carry us there for ten pounds a head, so being we could get all aboard by the next evening at sundown.

Here was short grace, to be sure; but we did so despatch our affairs that we were embarked in due time, and by daybreak the following morning, were under weigh.

CHAPTER XXXV.

How we lost our poor Moll, and our long search for her.

We reached Alicante the 15th March, after a long, tedious voyage. During this time I had ample opportunity for observing Moll, but with little relief to my gloomy apprehensions. She rarely quitted her father’s side, being now as sympathetic and considerate of him in his sufferings, as before she had been thoughtless and indifferent. She had ever a gentle word of encouragement for him; she was ever kind and patient. Only once her spirit seemed to weary: that was when we had been beating about in the bay of Cadiz four days, for a favourable gale to take us through the straits. We were on deck, she and I, the sails flapping the masts idly above our heads.

“Oh,” says she, laying her hand on my shoulder, and her wasted cheek against my arm, “oh, that it were all ended!”

She was sweeter with me than ever she had been before; it seemed as if the love bred in her heart by marriage must expend itself upon some one. But though this tenderness endeared her more to me, it saddened me, and I would have had her at her tricks once more, making merry at my expense. For I began to see that our happiness comes from within and not from without, and so fell despairing that ever this poor stricken heart of hers would be healed, which set me a-repenting more sincerely than ever the mischief I had helped to do her.

Dawson also, despite his stubborn disposition to see things as he would have them, had, nevertheless, some secret perception of the incurable sorrow which she, with all her art, could scarce dissimulate. Yet he clung to that fond belief in a return of past happiness, as if ’twere his last hope on earth. When at last our wind sprang up, and we were cutting through the waters with bending masts and not a crease in the bellied sails, he came upon deck, and spreading his hands out, cries in joy:

“Oh, this blessed sunlight! There is nought in the world like it—no, not the richest wine—to swell one’s heart with content.”

And then he fell again to recalling our old adventures and mirthful escapades. He gave the rascals who fetched us ashore a piece more than they demanded, hugely delighted to find they understood his Spanish and such quips as he could call to mind. Then being landed, he falls to extolling everything he sees and hears, calling upon Moll to justify his appreciation; nay, he went so far as to pause in a narrow street where was a most unsavoury smell, to sniff the air and declare he could scent the oranges in bloom. And Lord! to hear him praise the whiteness of the linen, the excellence of the meat and drink set before us at the posada, one would have said he had never before seen clean sheets or tasted decent victuals.

Seeing that neither Moll nor I could work ourselves up (try as we might) to his high pitch of enthusiasm, he was ready with an excuse for us.

“I perceive,” says he, “you are still suffering from your voyage. Therefore, we will not quit this town before tomorrow” (otherwise I believe he would have started off on our expedition as soon as our meal was done). “However,” adds he, “do you make enquiry, Kit, if you can get yourself understood, if there be ever a bull to be fought today or any diversion of dancing or play-acting tonight, that the time hang not too heavy on our hands.”

As no such entertainments were to be had (this being the season of Lent, which is observed very strictly in these parts), Dawson contented himself with taking Moll out to visit the shops, and here he speedily purchased a pair of clappers for her, a tambour for himself, and a guitar for me, though we were difficult to please, for no clappers pleased Moll as those she had first bought; and it did seem to me that I could strike no notes out of any instrument but they had a sad, mournful tone.

Then nothing would satisfy him but to go from one draper’s to another, seeking a short petticoat, a waist-cloth, and a round hat to Moll’s taste, which ended to his disappointment, for she could find none like the old.

“Why, don’t you like this?” he would say, holding up a gown; “to my eyes ’tis the very spit of t’other, only fresher.”

And she demurring, whispers, “Tomorrow, dear, tomorrow,” with plaintive entreaty for delay in her wistful eyes. Disheartened, but not yet at the end of his resources, her father at last proposed that she should take a turn through the town alone and choose for herself. “For,” says he, “I believe we do rather hinder than help you with our advice in such matters.”

After a moment’s reflection, Moll agreed to this, and saying she would meet us at the posada for supper, left us, and walked briskly back the way we had come.

When she was gone, Dawson had never a word to say, nor I either, for dejection, yet, had I been questioned, I could have found no better reason for my despondency than that I felt ’twas all a mistake coming here for happiness.

Strolling aimlessly through the narrow back ways, we came presently to the market that stands against the port. And here, almost at the first step, Dawson catches my arm and nods towards the opposite side of the market-place. Some Moors were seated there in their white clothes, with bundles of young palm leaves, plaited up in various forms of crowns, crosses, and the like—which the people of this country do carry to church to be blessed on Palm Sunday; and these Moors I knew came from Elche, because palms grow nowhere else in such abundance.

“Yes,” says I, thinking ’twas this queer merchandise he would point out, “I noticed these Moors and their ware when we passed here a little while back with Moll.”

“Don’t you see her there now—at the corner?” asks he.

Then, to my surprise, I perceived Moll in very earnest conversation with two Moors, who had at first screened her from my sight.

“Come away,” continues he. “She left us to go back and speak to them, and would not have us know.”

Why should she be secret about this trifling matter, I asked myself. ’Twas quite natural that, if she recognised in these Moors some old acquaintance of Elche, she should desire to speak them.

We stole away to the port; and seating ourselves upon some timber, there we looked upon the sea nigh upon half an hour without saying a word. Then turning to me, Dawson says: “Unless she speak to us upon this matter, Kit, we will say nought to her. But, if she say nothing, I shall take it for a sign her heart is set upon going back to Elche, and she would have it a secret that we may not be disheartened in our other project.”

“That is likely enough,” says I, not a little surprised by his reasoning. But love sharpens a man’s wit, be it never so dull.

“Nevertheless,” continues he, “if she can be happier at Elche than elsewhere, then must we abandon our scheme and accept hers with a good show of content. We owe her that, Kit.”

“Aye, and more,” says I.

“Then when we meet tomorrow morning, I will offer to go there, as if ’twas a happy notion that had come to me in my sleep, and do you back me up with all the spirit you can muster.”

So after some further discussion we rose, and returned to our posada, where we found Moll waiting for us. She told us she had found no clothes to her liking (which was significant), and said not a word of her speaking to the Moors in the market-place, so we held our peace on these matters.

We did not part till late that night, for Moll would sit up with us, confessing she felt too feverish for sleep; and indeed this was apparent enough by her strange humour, for she kept no constant mood for five minutes together. Now, she would sit pensive, paying no heed to us, with a dreamy look in her eyes, as if her thoughts were wandering far away—to her husband in England maybe; then she would hang her head as though she dared not look him in the face even at that distance; and anon she would recover herself with a noble exaltation, lifting her head with a fearless mien. And so presently her body drooping gradually to a reflective posture, she falls dreaming again, to rouse herself suddenly at some new prompting of her spirit, and give us all her thoughts, all eagerness for two moments, all melting sweetness the next, with her pretty manner of clinging to her father’s arm, and laying her cheek against his shoulder. And when at last we came to say good-night, she hangs about his neck as if she would fain sleep there, quitting him with a deep sigh and a passionate kiss. Also she kissed me most affectionately, but could say never a word of farewell to either of us—hurrying to her chamber to weep, as I think.

We knew not what to conclude from these symptoms, save that she might be sickening of some disorder; so we to our beds, very down in the mouth and faint at heart.

About six the next morning I was awoke by the door bursting suddenly open, and starting up in my bed, I see Dawson at my side, shaking in every limb, and his eyes wide with terror.

“Moll’s gone!” cries he, and falls a-blubbering.

“Gone!” says I, springing out of bed. “’Tis not possible.”

“She has not lain in her bed; and one saw her go forth last night as the doors were closing, knowing her for a foreigner by her hood. Come with me,” adds he, laying his hand on a chair for support. “I dare not go alone.”

“Aye, I’ll go with ye, Jack; but whither?”

“Down to the sea,” says he, hoarsely.

I stopped in the midst of dressing, overcome by this fearful hint; for, knowing Moll’s strong nature, the thought had never occurred to me that she might do away with herself. Yet now reflecting on her strange manner of late, especially her parting with us overnight, it seemed not so impossible neither. For here, seeing the folly of our coming hither, desponding of any happiness in the future, was the speediest way of ending a life that was burdensome to herself and a constant sorrow to us. Nay, with her notions of poetic justice drawn from plays, she may have regarded this as the only atonement she could make her husband; the only means of giving him back freedom to make a happier choice in marriage. With these conclusions taking shape, I shuffled on my clothes, and then, with shaking fear, we two, hanging to each other’s arms for strength, made our way through the crooked streets to the sea; and there, seeing a group of men and women gathered at the water’s edge some little distance from us, we dared not go further, conceiving ’twas a dead body they were regarding. But ’twas only a company of fishers examining their haul of fishes, as we presently perceived. So, somewhat cheered, we cast our eyes to the right and left, and, seeing nothing to justify our fears, advanced along the mole to the very end, where it juts out into the sea, with great stones around to break the surf. Here, then, with deadly apprehensions, we peered amongst the rocks, holding our breath, clutching tight hold of one another by the hand, in terror of finding that we so eagerly searched—a hood, a woman’s skirt clinging to the stones, a stiffened hand thrust up from the lapping waters. Never may I forget the sickening horror of the moment when, creeping out amidst the rocks, Dawson twitches my hand, and points down through the clear water to something lying white at the bottom. It looked for all the world like a dead face, coloured a greenish white by the water; but presently we saw, by one end curling over in the swell of a wave, that ’twas only a rag of paper.

Then I persuaded Dawson to give up this horrid search, and return to our posada, when, if we found not Moll, we might more justly conclude she had gone to Elche, than put an end to her life; and though we could learn nothing of her at our inn, more than Dawson had already told me, yet our hopes were strengthened in the probability of finding her at Elche by recollecting her earnest, secret conversation with the Moors, who might certainly have returned to Elche in the night, they preferring that time for their journey, as we knew. So, having hastily snatched a repast, whilst our landlord was procuring mules for our use, we set off across the plain, doing our best to cheer each other on the way. But I confess one thing damped my spirits exceedingly, and that was, having no hint from Moll the night before of this project, which then must have been fully matured in her mind, nor any written word of explanation and encouragement. For, thinks I, she being no longer a giddy, heedless child, ready to play any prank without regard to the consequences, but a very considerate, remorseful woman, would not put us to this anxiety without cause. Had she resolved to go to her friends at Elche, she would, at least, have comforted us with the hope of meeting her again; whereas, this utter silence did point to a knowledge on her part that we were sundered for ever, and that she could give us no hope, but such as we might glean from uncertainty.

Arriving at Elche, we made straight for the house of the merchant, Sidi ben Ahmed, with whose family Moll had been so intimate previously. Here we were met by Sidi himself, who, after laying his fingers across his lips, and setting his hand upon his heart, in token of recognition and respect, asked us very civilly our business, though without any show of surprise at seeing us. But these Moors do pride themselves upon a stoic behaviour at all times, and make it a point to conceal any emotion they may feel, so that men never can truly judge of their feelings.

Upon explaining our circumstances as well as our small knowledge of the tongue allowed us, he makes us a gesture of his open hands, as if he would have us examine his house for ourselves, to see that she was not hid away there for any reason, and then calling his servants, he bids them seek through all the town, promising them a rich reward if they bring any tidings of Lala Mollah. And while this search was being made, he entertained us at his own table, where we recounted so much of our miserable history as we thought it advisable he should know.

One by one the servants came in to tell that they had heard nothing, save that some market-men had seen and spoken with Moll at Alicante, but had not clapt eyes on her since. Not content with doing us this service, the merchant furnished us with fresh mules, to carry us back to Alicante, whither we were now all eagerness to return, in the hope of finding Moll at the posada. So, travelling all night, we came to our starting-place the next morning, to learn no tidings of our poor Moll.

We drew some grain of comfort from this; for, it being now the third day since the dear girl had disappeared, her body would certainly have been washed ashore, had she cast herself, as we feared, in the sea. It occurred to us that if Moll were still living, she had either returned to England, or gone to Don Sanchez at Toledo, whose wise counsels she had ever held in high respect. The former supposition seemed to me the better grounded; for it was easy to understand how, yearning for him night and day, she should at length abandon every scruple, and throw herself at his feet, reckless of what might follow. ’Twas not inconsistent with her impulsive character, and that more reasonable view of life she had gained by experience, and the long reflections on her voyage hither. And that which supported my belief still more was that a fleet of four sail (as I learnt) had set forth for England the morning after our arrival. So now finding, on enquiry, that a carrier was to set out for Toledo that afternoon, I wrote a letter to Don Sanchez, telling him the circumstances of our loss, and begging him to let us know, as speedily as possible, if he had heard aught of Moll. And in this letter I enclosed a second, addressed to Mr. Godwin, having the same purport, which I prayed Don Sanchez to send on with all expedition, if Moll were not with him.

And now, having despatched these letters, we had nothing to do but to await a reply, which, at the earliest, we could not expect to get before the end of the week—Toledo being a good eighty English leagues distant.

We waited in Alicante four days more, making seven in all from the day we lost Moll; and then, the suspense and torment of inactivity becoming insupportable, we set out again for Elche, the conviction growing strong upon us, with reflection, that we had little to hope from Don Sanchez. And we resolved we would not go this time to Sidi ben Ahmed, but rather seek to take him unawares, and make enquiry by more subtle means, we having our doubts of his veracity. For these Moors are not honest liars like plain Englishmen, who do generally give you some hint of their business by shifting of their eyes this way and that, hawking, stammering, etc., but they will ever look you calmly and straight in the face, never at a loss for the right word, or over-anxious to convince you, so that ’twill plague a conjurer to tell if they speak truth or falsehood. And here I would remark, that in all my observations of men and manners, there is no nation in the world to equal the English, for a straightforward, pious, horse-racing sort of people.

Well, then, we went about our search in Elche with all the slyness possible, prying here and there like a couple of thieves a-robbing a hen-roost, and putting cross-questions to every simple fellow we met—the best we could with our small knowledge of their tongue—but all to no purpose, and so another day was wasted. We lay under the palms that night, and in the morning began our perquisition afresh; now hunting up and down the narrow lanes and alleys of the town, as we had scoured those of Alicante, in vain, until, persuaded of the uselessness of our quest, we agreed to return to Alicante, in the hope of finding there a letter from Don Sanchez. But (not to leave a single stone unturned), we settled we would call once again on Sidi ben Ahmed, and ask if he had any tidings to give us, but, openly, feeling we were no match for him at subterfuge. So, to his house we went, where we were received very graciously by the old merchant, who, chiding us gently for being in the neighbourhood a whole day without giving him a call, prayed us to enter his unworthy parlour, adding that we should find there a friend who would be very pleased to see us.

At this, my heart bounded to such an extent that I could utter never a word (nor could Dawson either), for I expected nothing less than to find this friend was our dear Moll; and so, silent and shaking with feverish anticipation, we followed him down the tiled passage and round the inner garden of his house by the arcade, till we reached a doorway, and there, lifting aside the heavy hangings, he bade us enter. We pushed by him in rude haste, and then stopped of a sudden, in blank amazement; for, in place of Moll, whom we fully thought to find, we discovered only Don Sanchez, sitting on some pillows gravely smoking a Moorish chibouk.

“My daughter—my Moll!” cries Dawson, in despair. “Where is she?”

“By this time,” replies Don Sanchez, rising, “your daughter should be in Barbary.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

We learn what hath become of Moll; and how she nobly atoned for our sins.

“Barbary—Barbary!” gasps Dawson, thunderstruck by this discovery. “My Moll in Barbary?”

“She sailed three days ago,” says the Don, laying down his pipe, and rising.

Dawson regards him for a moment or two in a kind of stupor, and then his ideas taking definite shape, he cries in a fury of passion and clenching his fists:

“Spanish dog! you shall answer this. And you” (turning in fury upon Sidi), “you—I know your cursed traffic—you’ve sold her to the Turk!”

Though Sidi may have failed to comprehend his words, he could not misunderstand his menacing attitude, yet he faced him with an unmoved countenance, not a muscle of his body betraying the slightest fear, his stoic calm doing more than any argument of words to overthrow Dawson’s mad suspicion. But his passion unabated, Dawson turns again upon Don Sanchez, crying:

“Han’t you won enough by your villany, but you must rob me of my daughter? Are you not satisfied with bringing us to shame and ruin, but this poor girl of mine must be cast to the Turk? Speak, rascal!” adds he, advancing a step, and seeking to provoke a conflict. “Speak, if you have any reason to show why I shouldn’t strangle you.”

“You’ll not strangle me,” answers the Don, calmly, “and here’s my reason if you would see it.” And with that he tilts his elbow, and with a turn of the wrist displays a long knife that lay concealed under his forearm. “I know no other defence against the attack of a madman.”

“If I be mad,” says Dawson, “and mad indeed I may be, and no wonder—why, then, put your knife to merciful use and end my misery here.”

“Nay, take it in your own hand,” answers the Don, offering the knife. “And use it as you will—on yourself if you are a fool, or on me if, being not a fool, you can hold me guilty of such villany as you charged me with in your passion.”

Dawson looks upon the offered knife an instant with distraction in his eyes, and the Don (not to carry this risky business too far), taking his hesitation for refusal, claps up the blade in his waist-cloth, where it lay mighty convenient to his hand.

“You are wise,” says he, “for if that noble woman is to be served, ’tis not by spilling the blood of her best friends.”

“You, her friend!” says Dawson.

“Aye, her best friend!” replies the other, with dignity, “for he is best who can best serve her.”

“Then must I be her worst,” says Jack, humbly, “having no power to undo the mischief I have wrought.”

“Tell me, Señor,” says I, “who hath kidnapped poor Moll?”

“Nobody. She went of her free will, knowing full well the risk she ran—the possible end of her noble adventure—against the dissuasions and the prayers of all her friends here. She stood in the doorway there, and saw you cross the garden when you first came to seek her—saw you, her father, distracted with grief and fear, and she suffered you to go away. As you may know, nothing is more sacred to a Moor than the laws of hospitality, and by those laws Sidi was bound to respect the wishes of one who had claimed his protection. He could not betray her secret, but he and his family did their utmost to persuade her from her purpose. While you were yet in the town, they implored her to let them call you back, and she refused. Failing in their entreaties, they despatched a messenger to me; alas! when I arrived, she was gone. She went with a company of merchants bound for Alger, and all that her friends here could do was to provide her with a servant and letters, which will ensure her safe conduct to Thadviir.”

“But why has she gone there, Señor?” says I, having heard him in a maze of wonderment to the end.

“Cannot you guess? Surely she must have given you some hint of her purposes, for ’twas in her mind, as I learn, when she agreed to leave England and come hither.”

“Nothing—we know nothing,” falters Dawson. “’Tis all mystery and darkness. Only we did suppose to find happiness a-wandering about the country, dancing and idling, as we did before.”

“That dream was never hers,” answers the Don. “She never thought to find happiness in idling pleasure. ’Tis the joy of martyrdom she’s gone to find, seeking redemption in self-sacrifice.”

“Be more explicit, sir, I pray,” says I.

“In a word, then, she has gone to offer herself as a ransom for the real Judith Godwin.”

We were too overwrought for great astonishment; indeed, my chief surprise was that I had not foreseen this event in Moll’s desire to return to Elche, or hit upon the truth in seeking an explanation of her disappearance. ’Twas of a piece with her natural romantic disposition and her newly awaked sense of poetic justice—for here at one stroke she makes all human atonement for her fault and ours—earning her husband’s forgiveness by this proof of dearest love, and winning back for ever an honoured place in his remembrance. And I bethought me of our Lord’s saying that greater love is there none than this: that one shall lay down his life for another.

For some time Dawson stood silent, his arms folded upon his breast, and his head bent in meditation, his lips pressed together, and every muscle in his face contracted with pain and labouring thought. Then, raising his head and fixing his eyes on the Don, he says:

“If I understand aright, my Moll hath gone to give herself up for a slave, in the place of her whose name she took.”

The Don assents with a grave inclination of his head, and Dawson continues:

“I ask your pardon for that injustice I did you in my passion; but now that I am cool I cannot hold you blameless for what has befallen my poor child, and I call upon you as a man of honour to repair the wrong you’ve done me.”

Again the Don bows very gravely, and then asks what we would have him do.

“I ask you,” says Dawson, “as we have no means for such an expedition, to send me across the sea there to my Moll.”

“I cannot ensure your return,” says the Don, “and I warn you that once in Barbary you may never leave it.”

“I do not want to return if she is there; nay,” adds he, “if I may move them to any mercy, they shall do what they will with this body of mine, so that they suffer my child to be free.”

The Don turns to Sidi, and tells him what Dawson has offered to do; whereupon the Moor lays his finger across his lips, then his hand on Dawson’s breast, and afterwards upon his own, with a reverence, to show his respect. And so he and the Don fall to discussing the feasibility of this project (as I discovered by picking up a word here and there); and, this ended, the Don turns to Dawson, and tells him there is no vessel to convey him at present, wherefore he must of force wait patiently till one comes in from Barbary.

“But,” says he, “we may expect one in a few days, and rest you assured that your wish shall be gratified if it be possible.”

We went down, Dawson and I, to the sea that afternoon; and, sitting on the shore at that point where we had formerly embarked aboard the Algerine galley, we scanned the waters for a sail that might be coming hither, and Dawson with the eagerness of one who looked to escape from slavery rather than one seeking it.

As we sat watching the sea, he fell a-regretting he had no especial gift of nature, by which he might more readily purchase Moll’s freedom of her captors.

“However,” says he, “if I can show ’em the use of chairs and benches, for lack of which they are now compelled, as we see, to squat on mats and benches, I may do pretty well with Turks of the better sort who can afford luxuries, and so in time gain my end.”

“You shall teach me this business, Jack,” says I, “for at present I’m more helpless than you.”

“Kit,” says he, laying hold of my hand, “let us have no misunderstanding on this matter. You go not to Barbary with me.”

“What!” cries I, protesting. “You would have the heart to break from me after we have shared good and ill fortune together like two brothers all these years?”

“God knows we shall part with sore hearts o’ both sides, and I shall miss you sadly enough, with no Christian to speak to out there. But ’tis not of ourselves we must think now. Some one must be here to be a father to my Moll when she returns, and I’ll trust Don Sanchez no farther than I can see him, for all his wisdom. So, as you love the dear girl, you will stay here, Kit, to be her watch and ward, and as you love me you will spare me any further discussion on this head. For I am resolved.”

I would say nothing then to contrary him, but my judgment and feeling both revolted against his decision. For, thinks I, if one Christian is worth but a groat to the Turk, two must be worth eightpence, therefore we together stand a better chance of buying Moll’s freedom than either singly. And, for my own happiness, I would easier be a slave in Barbary with Jack than free elsewhere and friendless. Nowhere can a man be free from toil and pain of some sort or another, and there is no such solace in the world for one’s discomforts as the company of a true man.

But I was not regardless of Moll’s welfare when she returned, neither. For I argued with myself that Mr. Godwin had but to know of her condition to find means of coming hither for her succour. So the next time I met Don Sanchez, I took him aside and told him of my concern, asking him the speediest manner of sending a letter to England (that I had enclosed in mine to the Don having missed him through his leaving Toledo before it arrived).

“There is no occasion to write,” says he. “For the moment I learnt your history from Sidi I sent a letter, apprising him of his wife’s innocence in this business, and the noble reparation she had made for the fault of others. Also, I took the liberty to enclose a sum of money to meet his requirements, and I’ll answer for it he is now on his way hither. For no man living could be dull to the charms of his wife, or bear resentment to her for an act that was prompted by love rather than avarice, and with no calculation on her part.”

This cheered me considerably, and did somewhat return my faith in Don Sanchez, who certainly was the most extraordinary gentlemanly rascal that ever lived.

Day after day Dawson and I went down to the sea, and on the fifth day of our watching (after many false hopes and disappointments) we spied a ship, which we knew to be of the Algerine sort by the cross-set of its lateen sails—making it to look like some great bird with spread wings on the water—bearing down upon the shore.

We watched the approach of this ship in a fever of joy and expectation, for though we dared not breathe our hopes one to another, we both thought that maybe Moll was there. And this was not impossible. For, supposing Judith was married happily, she would refuse to leave her husband, and her mother, having lived so long in that country, might not care to leave it now and quit her daughter; so might they refuse their ransom and Moll be sent back to us. And, besides this reasoning, we had that clinging belief of the unfortunate that some unforeseen accident might turn to our advantage and overthrow our fears.

The Algerine came nearer and nearer, until at length we could make out certain figures moving upon the deck; then Dawson, laying a trembling hand on my sleeve, asked if I did not think ’twas a woman standing in the fore part; but I couldn’t truly answer yes, which vexed him.

But, indeed, when the galley was close enough to drop anchor, being at some distance from the shore because of the shoals, I could not distinguish any women, and my heart sank, for I knew well that if Moll were there, she, seeing us, would have given us some signal of waving a handkerchief or the like. As soon as the anchor was cast, a boat was lowered, and being manned, drew in towards us; then, truly, we perceived a bent figure sitting idle in the stern, but even Dawson dared not venture to think it might be Moll.

The boat running on a shallow, a couple of Moors stepped into the water, and lifting the figure in their arms carried it ashore to where we stood. And now we perceived ’twas a woman muffled up in the Moorish fashion, a little, wizen old creature, who, casting back her head clothes, showed us a wrinkled face, very pale and worn with care and age. Regarding us, she says in plain English:

“You are my countrymen. Is one of you named Dawson?”

“My name is Dawson,” says Jack.

She takes his hand in hers, and holding it in hers looks in his face with great pity, and then at last, as if loath to tell the news she sees he fears to hear, she says:

“I am Elizabeth Godwin.”

What need of more to let us know that Moll had paid her ransom?

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Don Sanchez again proves himself the most mannerly rascal in the world.

In silence we led Mrs. Godwin to the seat we had occupied, and seating ourselves we said not a word for some time. For my own part, the realisation of our loss threw my spirits into a strange apathy; ’twas as if some actual blow had stunned my senses. Yet I remember observing the Moors about their business—despatching one to Elche for a train of mules, charging a second boat with merchandise while the first returned, etc.

“I can feel for you,” says Mrs. Godwin at length, addressing Dawson, “for I also have lost an only child.”

“Your daughter Judith, Madam?” says I.

“She died two years ago. Yours still lives,” says she, again turning to Dawson, who sat with a haggard face, rocking himself like one nursing a great pain. “And while there is life, there’s hope, as one says.”

“Why, to be sure,” says Jack, rousing himself. “This is no more, Kit, than we bargained for. Tell me, Madam, you who know that country, do you think a carpenter would be held in esteem there? I’m yet a strong man, as you see, with some good serviceable years of life before me. D’ye think they’d take me in exchange for my Moll, who is but a bit of a girl?”

“She is beautiful, and beauty counts for more than strength and abilities there, poor man,” says she.

“I’ll make ’em the offer,” says he, “and though they do not agree to give her freedom, they may yet suffer me to see her time and again, if I work well.”

“’Tis strange,” says she. “Your child has told me all your history. Had I learnt it from other lips, I might have set you down for rogues, destitute of heart or conscience; yet, with this evidence before me, I must needs regard you and your dear daughter as more noble than many whose deeds are writ in gold. ’Tis a lesson to teach me faith in the goodness of God, who redeems his creatures’ follies, with one touch of love. Be of good cheer, my friend,” adds she, laying her thin hand on his arm. “There is hope. I would not have accepted this ransom—no, not for all your daughter’s tears and entreaties—without good assurance that I, in my turn, might deliver her.”

I asked the old gentlewoman how this might be accomplished.

“My niece,” says she, dwelling on the word with a smile, as if happy in the alliance, “my niece, coming to Barbary of her free will, is not a slave like those captured in warfare and carried there by force. She remains there as a hostage for me, and will be free to return when I send the price of my ransom.”

“Is that a great sum?”

“Three thousand gold ducats—about one thousand pounds English.”

“Why, Madam,” says Dawson, “we have nothing, being now reduced to our last pieces. And if you have the goodness to raise this money, Heaven only knows how long it may be ere you succeed. ’Tis a fortnight’s journey, at the least, to England, and then you have to deal with your steward, who will seek only to put obstacles in your way, so that six weeks may pass ere Moll is redeemed, and what may befall her in the meantime?”

“She is safe. Ali Oukadi is a good man. She has nought to fear while she is under his protection. Do not misjudge the Moors. They have many estimable qualities.”

“Yet, Madam,” says I, “by your saying there is hope, I gather there must be also danger.”

“There is,” answers she, at which Jack nods with conviction. “A beautiful young woman is never free from danger” (Jack assents again). “There are good and bad men amongst the Moors as amongst other people.”

“Aye, to be sure,” says Dawson.

“I say she is safe under the protection of Ali Oukadi, but when the ransom is paid and she leaves Thadviir, she may stand in peril.”

“Why, that’s natural enough,” cries Dawson, “be she amongst Moors or no Moors; ’tis then she will most need a friend to serve her, and one that knows the ins and outs of the place and how to deal with these Turks must surely be better than any half-dozen fresh landed and raw to their business.” Then he fell questioning Mrs. Godwin as to how Moll was lodged, the distance of Thadviir from Alger, the way to get there, and divers other particulars, which, together with his eager, cheerful vivacity, showed clearly enough that he was more firmly resolved than ever to go into Barbary and be near Moll without delay. And presently, leaving me with Mrs. Godwin, he goes down to the captain of the galley, who is directing the landing of goods from the play-boat, and, with such small store of words as he possessed, aided by plentiful gesture, he enters into a very lively debate with him, the upshot of which was that the captain tells him he shall start the next morning at daybreak if there be but a puff of air, and agrees to carry him to Alger for a couple of pieces (upon which they clap hands), as Dawson, in high glee, informs us on his return.

“And now, Kit,” says he, “I must go back to Elche to borrow those same two pieces of Don Sanchez, so I pray you, Madam, excuse me.”

But just then the train of mules from Elche appears, and with them Sidi ben Ahmed, who, having information of Mrs. Godwin coming, brings a litter for her carriage, at the same time begging her to accept his hospitality as the true friend of her niece Moll. So we all return to Elche together, and none so downcast as I at the thought of losing my friend, and speculating on the mischances that might befall him; for I did now begin to regard him as an ill-fated man, whose best intentions brought him nothing but evil and misfortune.

Being come to Elche, Don Sanchez presented himself to Mrs. Godwin with all the dignity and calm assurance in the world, and though she received him with a very cold, distant demeanour, as being the deepest rascal of us all and the one most to blame, yet it ruffled him never a bit, but he carried himself as if he had never benefited himself a penny by his roguery and at her expense.

On Dawson asking him for the loan of a couple of pieces and telling his project, the Don drew a very long serious face and tried his utmost to dissuade him from it, so that at first I suspected him of being loath to part with this petty sum; but herein I did him injustice, for, finding Dawson was by no means to be turned from his purpose, he handed him his purse, advising him the first thing he did on arriving at Alger to present himself to the Dey and purchase a firman, giving him protection during his stay in Barbary (which he said might be done for a few silver ducats). Then, after discussing apart with Sidi, he comes to Mrs. Godwin, and says he:

“Madam, with your sanction my friend Sidi ben Ahmed will charge Mr. Dawson with a letter to Ali Oukadi, promising to pay him the sum of three thousand gold ducats upon your niece being safely conducted hither within the space of three weeks.”

“Señor,” answers she, “I thank Sidi ben Ahmed very deeply—and you also,” adds she, overcoming her compunctions, “for this offer. But unhappily, I cannot hope to have this sum of money in so short a time.”

“It is needless to say, Madam,” returns he, with a scrape, “that in making this proposal I have considered of that difficulty; my friend has agreed to take my bond for the payment of this sum when it shall be convenient to you to discharge it.”

Mrs. Godwin accepted this arrangement with a profound bow, which concealed the astonishment it occasioned her. But she drew a long breath, and I perceived she cast a curious glance at all three of us, as if she were marvelling at the change that must have taken place in civilised countries since her absence, which should account for a pack of thieves nowadays being so very unlike what a pack of thieves was in her young days.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

How we hear Moll’s sweet voice through the walls of her prison, and speak two words with her though almost to our undoing.

Having written his letter, Sidi ben Ahmed proposed that Mrs. Godwin should await the return of Moll before setting out for England, very graciously offering her the hospitality of his house meanwhile, and this offer she willingly accepted. And now, there being no reason for my staying in Elche, Dawson gladly agreed I should accompany him, the more so as I knew more of the Moors’ language than he. Going down with us to the water side, Don Sanchez gave us some very good hints for our behaviour in Barbary, bidding us, above everything, be very careful not to break any of the laws of that country. “For,” says he, “I have seen three men hanged there for merely casting a Turk into the sea in a drunken frolic.”

“Be assured, I’ll touch nothing but water for my drink,” says Dawson, taking this warning to his share.

“Be careful,” continues the Don, “to pay for all you have, and take not so much as an orange from a tree by the wayside without first laying a fleece or two on the ground. I warn you that they, though upright enough amongst themselves, are crafty and treacherous towards strangers, whom they regard as their natural enemies; and they will tempt you to break the law either by provoking a quarrel, or putting you to some unlawful practice, that they may annul your firman and claim you as convicted outlaws for their slaves. For stealing a pullet I have seen the flesh beaten off the soles of an English sailor’s feet, and he and his companions condemned to slavery for life.”

“I’ll lay a dozen fleeces on the ground for every sour orange I may take,” says Dawson. “And as for quarrelling, a Turk shall pull my nose before ever a curse shall pass my lips.”

With these and other exhortations and promises, we parted, and lying aboard that night, we set sail by daybreak the next morning, having a very fair gale off the land; and no ships in the world being better than these galleys for swiftness, we made an excellent good passage, so that ere we conceived ourselves half over the voyage, we sighted Alger looking like nothing but a great chalk quarry for the white houses built up the side of the hill.

We landed at the mole, which is a splendid construction some fifteen hundred feet or thereabouts in length (with the forts), forming a beautiful terrace walk supported by arches, beneath which large, splendid magazines, all the most handsome in the world, I think. Thence our captain led us to the Cassanabah, a huge, heavy, square, brick building, surrounded by high, massive walls and defended by a hundred pieces of ordnance, cannons, and mortars, all told. Here the Dey or Bashaw lives with his family, and below are many roomy offices for the discharge of business. Our captain takes us into a vast waiting-hall where over a hundred Moors were patiently attending an audience of the Dey’s minister, and there we also might have lingered the whole day and gone away at night unsatisfied (as many of these Moors do, day after day, but that counts for nothing with these enduring people), but having a hint from our friend we found occasion to slip a ducat in the hand of a go-between officer, who straightway led us to his master. Our captain having presented us, with all the usual ceremonies, the grandee takes our letter from Sidi ben Ahmed, reads it, and without further ado signs and seals us a trader’s pass for twenty-eight days, to end at sunset the day after the festival of Ranadal. With this paper we went off in high glee, thinking that twenty-eight hours of safe-conduct would have sufficed us. And so to an eating-house, where we treated our friendly captain to the best, and greasing his palm also for his good services, parted in mighty good humour on both sides.

By this time it was getting pretty late in the day; nevertheless, we burnt with such impatience to be near our dear Moll that we set forth for Thadviir, which lies upon the seacoast about seven English leagues east of Alger. But a cool, refreshing air from the sea and the great joy in our hearts made this journey seem to us the most delightful of our lives. And indeed, after passing through the suburbs richly planted with gardens, and crossing the river, on which are many mills, and so coming into the plain of Mettegia, there is such an abundance of sweet odours and lovely fertile views to enchant the senses, that a dull man would be inspirited to a happy, cheerful mood.

‘Twas close upon nine o’clock when we reached the little town, and not a soul to be seen anywhere nor a light in any window, but that troubled us not at all (having provided ourselves with a good store of victuals before quitting Alger), for here ’tis as sweet to lie of nights in the open air as in the finest palace elsewhere. Late as it was, however, we could not dispose ourselves to sleep before we had gone all round the town to satisfy our curiosity. At the further extremity we spied a building looking very majestic in the moonlight, with a large garden about it enclosed with high walls, and deciding that this must be the residence of Ali Oukadi, who, we had learnt, was the most important merchant of these parts, we lay us down against the wall, and fell asleep, thinking of our dear Moll, who perchance, all unconscious, was lying within.

Rising at daybreak, for Dawson was mightily uneasy unless we might be breaking the law by sleeping out-of-doors (but there is no cruel law of this sort in Barbary), we washed ourselves very properly at a neighbouring stream, made a meal of dry bread and dates, then, laying our bundles in a secret place whence we might conveniently fetch them, if Ali Oukadi insisted on entertaining us a day or two, we went into the town, and finding, upon enquiry, that this was indeed his palace, as we had surmised, bethought us what to say and how to behave the most civil possible, and so presented ourselves at his gate, stating our business.

Presently, we were admitted to an outer office, and there received by a very bent, venerable old Moor, who, having greeted us with much ceremony, says, “I am Ali Oukadi. What would you have of me?”

“My daughter Moll,” answers Jack, in an eager, choking voice, offering his letter. The Moor regarded him keenly, and, taking the letter, sits down to study it; and while he is at this business a young Moor enters, whose name, as we shortly learnt, was Mohand ou Mohand. He was, I take it, about twenty-five or thirty years of age, and as handsome a man of his kind as ever I saw, with wondrous soft dark eyes, but a cruel mouth and a most high, imperious bearing which, together with his rich clothes and jewels, betokened him a man of quality. Hearing who we were, he saluted us civilly enough; but there was a flash of enmity in his eyes and a tightening of his lips, which liked me not at all.

When the elder man had finished the letter, he hands it to the younger, and he having read it in his turn, they fall to discussing it in a low tone, and in a dialect of which not one word was intelligible to us. Finally, Ali Oukadi, rising from his cushions, says gravely, addressing Dawson:

“I will write without delay to Sidi ben Ahmed in answer to his letter.”

“But my daughter,” says Dawson, aghast, and as well as he could in the Moorish tongue. “Am I not to have her?”

“My friend says nothing here,” answers the old man, regarding the letter, “nothing that would justify my giving her up to you. He says the money shall be paid upon her being brought safe to Elche.”

“Why, your Excellency, I and my comrade here will undertake to carry her safely there. What better guard should a daughter have than her father?”

“Are you more powerful than the elements? Can you command the tempest? Have you sufficient armament to combat all the enemies that scour the seas? If any accident befall you, what is this promise of payment?—Nothing.”

“At least, you will suffer me to make this voyage with my child.”

“I do not purpose to send her to Elche,” returned the old man, calmly. “’Tis a risk I will not undertake. I have said that when I am paid three thousand ducats, I will give Lala Mollah freedom, and I will keep my word. To send her to Elche is a charge that does not touch my compact. This I will write and tell my friend, Sidi ben Ahmed, and upon his payment and expressed agreement I will render you your daughter. Not before.”

We could say nothing for a while, being so foundered by this reverse; but at length Dawson says in a piteous voice:

“At least you will suffer me to see my daughter. Think, if she were yours and you had lost her—believing her a while dead—”

Mohand ou Mohand muttered a few words that seemed to fix the old Moor’s wavering resolution.

“I cannot agree to that,” says he. “Your daughter is becoming reconciled to her position. To see you would open her wounds afresh to the danger of her life, maybe. Reflect,” adds he, laying his hand on the letter, “if this business should come to nought, what could recompense your daughter for the disappointment of those false hopes your meeting would inspire? It cannot be.”

With this he claps his hands, and a servant, entering at a nod from his master, lifts the hangings for us to go.

Dawson stammered a few broken words of passionate protest, and then breaking down as he perceived the folly of resisting, he dropped his head and suffered me to lead him out. As I saluted the Moors in going, I caught, as I fancied, a gleam of triumphant gladness in the dark eyes of Mohand ou Mohand.

Coming back to the place where we had hid our bundles, Dawson cast himself on the ground and gave vent to his passion, declaring he would see his Moll though he should tear the walls down to get at her, and other follies; but after a time he came to his senses again so that he could reason, and then I persuaded him to have patience, and forbear from any outburst of violence such as we had been warned against, showing him that certainly Don Sanchez, hearing of our condition, would send the money speedily, and so we should get Moll by fair means instead of losing her (and ourselves) by foul; that after all, ’twas but the delay of a week or so that we had to put up with, and so forth. Then, discussing what we should do next, I offered that we should return to Elche and make our case known rather than trust entirely to Ali Oukadi’s promise of writing; for I did suspect some treacherous design on the part of Mohand ou Mohand, by which Mrs. Godwin failing of her agreement, he might possess himself of Moll; and this falling in with Dawson’s wishes, we set out to return to Alger forthwith. But getting to Alger half-dead with the fatigue of trudging all that distance in the full heat of the day, we learnt to our chagrin that no ship would be sailing to Elche for a fortnight at the least, and all the money we had would not tempt any captain to carry us there; so here were we cast down again beyond everything for miserable, gloomy apprehensions.

After spending another day in fruitless endeavour to obtain a passage, nothing would satisfy Dawson’s painful, restless spirit but we must return to Thadviir; so thither we went once more to linger about the palace of Ali Oukadi, in the poor hope that we might see Moll come out to take the air.

One day as we were standing in the shade of the garden wall, sick and weary with dejection and disappointment, Dawson, of a sudden, starts me from my lethargy by clutching my arm and raising his finger to bid me listen and be silent. Then straining my ear, I caught the distant sound of female voices, but I could distinguish not one from another, though by Dawson’s joyous, eager look I perceived he recognised Moll’s voice amongst them. They came nearer and nearer, seeking, as I think, the shade of those palm trees which sheltered us. And presently, quite close to us, as if but on the other side of the wall, one struck a lute and began to sing a Moorish song; when she had concluded her melancholy air a voice, as if saddened by the melody, sighed:

“Ah me! ah me!”

There was no misdoubting that sweet voice: ’twas Moll’s. Then very softly Dawson begins to whistle her old favourite ditty “Hearts will break.” Scarce had he finished the refrain when Moll within took it up in a faint trembling voice, but only a bar, to let us know we were heard; then she fell a-laughing at her maids, who were whispering in alarm, to disguise her purpose; and so they left that part, as we knew by their voices dying away in the distance.

“She’ll come again,” whispers Dawson, feverishly.

And he was in the right; for, after we had stood there best part of an hour, we hear Moll again gently humming “Hearts will break,” but so low, for fear of being heard by others, that only we who strained so hard to catch a sound could be aware of it.

“Moll, my love!” whispers Dawson, as she comes to an end.

“Dear father!” answers she, as low.

“We are here—Kit and I. Be comforted, sweet chuck—you shall be free ere long.”

“Shall I climb the wall?” asks she.

“No, no—for God’s sake, refrain!” says I, seeing that Jack was half minded to bid her come to him. “You will undo all—have patience.”

At this moment other voices came to us from within, calling Lala Mollah; and presently the quick witch answers them from a distance, with a laugh, as if she had been playing at catch-who-can.

Then Dawson and I, turning about, discovered to our consternation Ali Oukadi standing quite close beside us, with folded arms and bent brows.

“You are unwise,” says he, in a calm tone.

“Nay, master,” says Jack, piteously. “I did but speak a word to my child.”

“If you understand our tongue,” adds I, “you will know that we did but bid her have patience, and wait.”

“Possibly,” says he. “Nevertheless, you compel me henceforth to keep her a close prisoner, when I would give her all the liberty possible.”

“Master,” says Jack, imploring, “I do pray you not to punish her for my fault. Let her still have the freedom of your garden, and I promise you we will go away this day and return no more until we can purchase her liberty for ever.”

“Good,” says the old man, “but mark you keep your promise. Know that ’tis an offence against the law to incite a slave to revolt. I tell you this, not as a threat, for I bear you no ill will, but as a warning to save you from consequences which I may be powerless to avert.”

This did seem to me a hint at some sinister design of Mohand ou Mohand—a wild suspicion, maybe, on my part, and yet, as I think, justified by evils yet to come.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Of our bargaining with a Moorish seaman; and of an English slave.

We lost no time, be sure, in going back to Alger, blessing God on the way for our escape, and vowing most heartily that we would be led into no future folly, no matter how simple and innocent the temptation might seem.

And now began again a tedious season of watching on the mole of Alger; but not to make this business as wearisome to others, I will pass that over and come at once to that joyful, happy morning, when, with but scant hope, looking down upon the deck of a galley entering the port, to our infinite delight and amazement we perceived Richard Godwin waving his hand to us in sign of recognition. Then sure, mad with joy, we would have cast ourselves in the sea had we thereby been able to get to him more quickly. Nor was he much less moved with affection to meet us, and springing on the quai he took us both in his open arms and embraced us. But his first word was of Moll. “My beloved wife?” says he, and could question us no further.

We told him she was safe, whereat he thanks God most fervently, and how we had spoken with her; and then he tells us of his adventures—how on getting Don Sanchez’s letter he had started forth at once with such help as Sir Peter Lely generously placed at his disposition, and how coming to Elche, he found Mrs. Godwin there in great anxiety because we had not returned, and how Don Sanchez, guessing at our case, had procured money from Toledo to pay Moll’s ransom, and did further charter a neutral galley to bring him to Alger—which was truly as handsome a thing as any man could do, be he thief or no thief. All these matters we discussed on our way to the Cassanabah, where Mr. Godwin furnished himself as we had with a trader’s permit for twenty-eight days.

This done, we set out with a team of good mules, and reaching Thadviir about an hour before sundown, we repaired at once to Ali Oukadi’s, who received us with much civility, although ’twas clear to see he was yet loath to give up Moll; but the sight of the gold Mr. Godwin laid before him did smooth the creases from his brow (for these Moors love money before anything on earth), and having told it carefully he writes an acknowledgment and fills up a formal sheet of parchment bearing the Dey’s seal, which attested that Moll was henceforth a free subject and entitled to safe-conduct within the confines of the Dey’s administration. And having delivered these precious documents into Mr. Godwin’s hands, he leaves us for a little space and then returns leading dear Moll by the hand. And she, not yet apprised of her circumstances, seeing her husband with us, gives a shrill cry, and like to faint with happiness totters forward and falls in his ready arms.

I will not attempt to tell further of this meeting and our passionate, fond embraces, for ’twas past all description; only in the midst of our joy I perceived that Mohand ou Mohand had entered the room and stood there, a silent spectator of Moll’s tender yielding to her husband’s caresses, his nostrils pinched, and his jaundiced face overcast with a wicked look of mortification and envy. And Moll seeing him, paled a little, drawing closer to her husband; for, as I learnt later on, and ’twas no more than I had guessed, he had paid her most assiduous attentions from the first moment he saw her, and had gone so far as to swear by Mahomet that death alone should end his burning passion to possess her. And I observed that when we parted, and Moll in common civility offered him her hand, he muttered some oath as he raised it to his lips.

Declining as civilly as we might Ali Oukadi’s tender of hospitality, we rested that night at the large inn or caravansary, and I do think that the joy of Moll and her husband lying once more within each other’s arms was scarcely less than we felt, Dawson and I, at this happy ending of our long tribulations; but one thing it is safe to say, we slept as sound as they.

And how gay were we when we set forth the next morning for Alger—Moll’s eyes twinkling like stars for happiness, and her cheeks all pink with blushes like any new bride, her husband with not less pride than passion in his noble countenance, and Dawson and I as blithe and jolly as schoolboys on a holiday. For now had Moll by this act of heroism and devotion redeemed not only herself, but us also, and there was no further reason for concealment or deceit, but all might be themselves and fear no man.

Thus did joy beguile us into a false sense of security.

Coming to Alger about midday, we were greatly surprised to find that the sail chartered by Don Sanchez was no longer in the port, and the reason of this we presently learnt was that the Dey, having information of a descent being about to be made upon the town by the British fleet at Tangier, he had commanded, the night before, all alien ships to be gone from the port by daybreak. This put us to a quake, for in view of this descent not one single Algerine would venture to put to sea for all the money Mr. Godwin could offer or promise. So here we were forced to stay in trepidation and doubt as to how we, being English, might fare if the town should be bombarded as we expected, and never did we wish our own countrymen further. Only our Moll and her husband did seem careless in their happiness; for so they might die in each other’s arms, I do think they would have faced death with a smile upon their faces.

However, a week passing, and no sign of any English flag upon the seas, the public apprehension subsided; and now we began very seriously to compass our return to Elche, our trader’s passes (that is, Dawson’s and mine) being run out within a week, and we knowing full well that we should not get them renewed after this late menace of an English attack upon the town. So, one after the other, we tried every captain in the port, but all to no purpose. And one of these did openly tell me the Dey had forbidden any stranger to be carried out of the town, on pain of having his vessel confiscated and being bastinadoed to his last endurance.

“And so,” says he, lifting his voice, “if you offered me all the gold in the world, I would not carry you a furlong hence.” But at the same time, turning his back on a janizary who stood hard by, he gave me a most significant wink and a little beck, as if I were to follow him presently.

And this I did as soon as the janizary was gone, following him at a distance through the town and out into the suburbs, at an idle, sauntering gait. When we had got out beyond the houses, to the side of the river I have mentioned, he sits him down on the bank, and I, coming up, sit down beside him as if for a passing chat. Then he, having glanced to the right and left, to make sure we were not observed, asks me what we would give to be taken to Elche; and I answered that we would give him his price so we could be conveyed shortly.

“When would you go?” asks he.

“Why,” says I, “our passes expire at sundown after the day of Ramadah, so we must get hence, by hook or by crook, before that.”

“That falls as pat as I would have it,” returns he (but not in these words), “for all the world will be up at the Cassanabah on that day, to the feast the Dey gives to honour his son’s coming of age. Moreover, the moon by then will not rise before two in the morning. So all being in our favour, I’m minded to venture on this business. But you must understand that I dare not take you aboard in the port, where I must make a pretence of going out a-fishing with my three sons, and give the janizaries good assurance that no one else is aboard, that I may not fall into trouble on my return.”

“That’s reasonable enough,” says I, “but where will you take us aboard?”

“I’ll show you,” returns he, “if you will stroll down this bank with me, for my sons and I have discussed this matter ever since we heard you were seeking a ship for this project, and we have it all cut and dried properly.”

So up we get and saunter along the bank leisurely, till we reached a part where the river spreads out very broad and shallow.

“You see that rock,” says he, nodding at a huge boulder lapped by the incoming sea. “There shall you be at midnight. We shall lie about a half a mile out to sea, and two of my sons will pull to the shore and take you up; so may all go well and nought be known, if you are commonly secret, for never a soul is seen here after sundown.” I told him I would consult with my friends and give him our decision the next day, meeting him at this spot.

“Good,” says he, “and ere you decide, you may cast an eye at my ship, which you shall know by a white moon painted on her beam; ’tis as fast a ship as any that sails from Alger, though she carry but one mast, and so be we agree to this venture, you shall find the cabin fitted for your lady and everything for your comfort.”

On this we separated presently, and I, joining my friends at our inn, laid the matter before them. There being still some light, we then went forth on the mole, and there we quickly spied the White Moon, which, though a small craft, looked very clean, and with a fair cabin house, built up in the Moorish fashion upon the stern. And here, sitting down, we all agreed to accept this offer, Mr. Godwin being not less eager for the venture than we, who had so much more to dread by letting it slip, though his pass had yet a fortnight to run.

So the next day I repaired to the rock, and meeting Haroun (as he was called), I closed with him, and put a couple of ducats in his hand for earnest money.

“’Tis well,” says he, pocketing the money, after kissing it and looking up to heaven with a “Dill an,” which means “It is from God.” “We will not meet again till the day of Ramadah at midnight, lest we fall under suspicion. Farewell.”

We parted as we did before, he going his way, and I mine; but, looking back by accident before I had gone a couple of hundred yards, I perceived a fellow stealing forth from a thicket of canes that stood in the marshy ground near the spot where I had lately stood with Haroun, and turning again presently, I perceived this man following in my steps. Then, fairly alarmed, I gradually hastened my pace (but not so quick neither as to seem to fly), making for the town, where I hoped to escape pursuit in the labyrinth of little, crooked, winding alleys. As I rounded a corner, I perceived him out of the tail of my eye, still following, but now within fifty yards of me, he having run to thus overreach me; and ere I had turned up a couple of alleys he was on my heels and twitching me by the sleeve.

“Lord love you, Master,” says he, in very good English, but gasping for breath. “Hold hard a moment, for I’ve a thing or two to say to you as is worth your hearing.”

So I, mightily surprised by these words, stop; and he seeing the alley quite empty and deserted, sits down on a doorstep, and I do likewise, both of us being spent with our exertions.

“Was that man you were talking with a little while back named Haroun?” asks he, when he could fetch his breath. I nodded.

“Did he offer to take you and three others to Elche, aboard a craft called the White Moon?”

I nodded again, astonished at his information, for we had not discussed our design today, Haroun and I.

“Did he offer to carry you off in a boat to his craft from the rock on the mouth?”

Once more I nodded.

“Can you guess what will happen if you agree to this?”

Now I shook my head.

“The villain,” says he, “will run you on a shoal, and there will he be overhauled by the janizaries, and you be carried prisoners back to Alger. Your freedom will be forfeited, and you will be sold for slaves. And that’s not all,” adds he; “the lass you have with you will be taken from you and given to Mohand ou Mohand, who has laid this trap for your destruction and the gratification of his lust.”

I fell a-shaking only to think of this crowning calamity, and could only utter broken, unintelligible sounds to express my gratitude for this warning.

“Listen, Master, if you cannot speak,” said he; “for I must quit you in a few minutes, or get my soles thrashed when I return home. What I have told you is true, as there is a God in heaven; ’twas overheard by my comrade, who is a slave in Mohand’s household. If you escape this trap, you will fall in another, for there is no bounds to Mohand’s devilish cunning. I say, if you stay here you are doomed to share our miserable lot, by one device or another. But I will show you how you may turn the tables on this villain, and get to a Christian country ere you are a week older, if you have but one spark of courage amongst you.”

CHAPTER XL.

Of our escape from Barbary, of the pursuit and horrid, fearful slaughter that followed, together with other moving circumstances.

So Groves, as my man was named, told me how he and eight other poor Englishmen, sharing the same bagnio, had endured the hardships and misery of slavery, some for thirteen, and none less than seven, years; how for three years they had been working a secret tunnel by which they could escape from their bagnio (in which they were locked up every night at sundown) at any moment; how for six months, since the completion of their tunnel, they had been watching a favourable opportunity to seize a ship and make good their escape (seven of them being mariners); and how now they were, by tedious suspense, wrought to such a pitch of desperation that they were ripe for any means of winning their freedom. “And here,” says he, in conclusion, “hath merciful Providence given us the power to save not only ourselves from this accursed bondage, but you, also, if you are minded to join us.”

Asking him how he proposed to accomplish this end, he replies:

“’Tis as easy as kiss your hand. First, do you accept Haroun’s offer?”

“I have,” says I.

“Good!” says he, rubbing his hands, and speaking thick with joy. “You may be sure that Mohand will suffer no one to interfere with your getting aboard, to the achievement of his design. When is it to be?”

I hesitated a moment, lest I should fall into another trap, trying to escape from the first; but, seeing he was an Englishman, I would not believe him capable of playing into the Turks’ hands for our undoing, and so I told him our business was for midnight on the feast of Ramadah.

“Sure, nought but Providence could have ordered matters so well,” says he, doubling himself up, as if unable to control his joy. “We shall be there, we nine sturdy men. Some shall hide in the canes, and others behind the rock; and when Haroun rows to shore, four of us will get into his boat (muffled up as you would be to escape detection), and as soon as they lay themselves to their oars, their business shall be settled.”

“As how?” asks I, shrinking (as ever) from deeds of violence.

“Leave that to us; but be assured they shall not raise a cry that shall fright your lady. Oh, we know the use of a bow-string as well as any Turk amongst them. We have that to thank ’em for. Well, these two being despatched, we return to shore, and two more of our men will get in; then we four to the felucca, and there boarding, we serve the others as we served the first two; so back comes one of us to fetch off our other comrades and you four. Then, all being aboard, we cut our cable, up with our sail, and by the time Mohand comes, in the morning, to seek his game on the sand-bank, we shall be half way to Elche, and farther, if Providence do keep pace with this happy beginning. What say you, friend?” adds he, noting my reflective mood.

Then I frankly confessed that I would have some assurance of his honesty.

“I can give you none, Master,” says he, “but the word of a good Yorkshireman. Surely, you may trust me as I trust you; for ’tis in your power to reveal all to Haroun, and so bring us all to the galleys. Have you no faith in a poor broken Englishman?”

“Yes,” says I; “I’ll trust you.”

Then we rose, clapping hands, and he left me, with tears of gratitude and joy in his eyes. Telling my friends I had something of a secret nature to impart, we went out to the end of the mole, where we were secure from eavesdroppers, and there I laid the whole story before them, whereupon we fell debating what we should do, looking at this matter from every side, with a view to our security; but, slavery lying before us, and no better means of escaping it coming to our minds, we did at last unanimously agree to trust Joe Groves rather than Haroun.

The next day there fell a great deluge of rain, and the morrow being the feast of Ramadah, we regarded this as highly favourable to our escape; for here when rain falls it ceases not for forty-eight hours, and thus might we count upon the aid of darkness. And that evening as we were regarding some merchandise in a bazaar, a fellow sidles up to me, and whispers (fingering a piece of cloth as if he were minded to buy it):

“Does all go well?”

Then perceiving this was Joe Groves, I answered in the same manner:

“All goes well.”

“Tomorrow at midnight?”

“Tomorrow at midnight,” I return. Upon which, casting down the cloth, he goes away without further sign.

And now comes in the feast of Ramadah with a heavy, steady downpour of rain all day, and no sign of ceasing at sundown, which greatly contented us. About ten, the house we lodged in being quite still, and our fear of accident pressing us to depart, we crept silently out into the street without let or hindrance (though I warrant some spy of Mohand’s was watching to carry information of our flight to his master), and so through the narrow deserted alleys to the outskirts of the town, and thence by the river side to the great rock, with only just so much light as enabled us to hang together, and no more. And I do believe we should have floundered into the river o’ one side of the marsh of canes or t’other, but that having gone over this road the last time with the thought that it might lead us to liberty, every object by the way impressed itself upon my mind most astonishingly.

Here under this rock stood we above an hour with no sound but the beating of the rain, and the lap of the water running in from the sea. Then, as it might be about half-past eleven, a voice close beside us (which I knew for Joe Groves, though I could see no one but us four, Jack by my side, and Moll bound close to her husband) says:

“All goes well?”

“Yes, all goes well,” says I; whereupon he gives a cry like the croak of a frog, and his comrades steal up almost unseen and unheard, save that each as he came whispered his name, as Spinks, Davis, Lee, Best, etc., till their number was all told. Then Groves, who was clearly chosen their captain, calls Spinks, Lee, and Best to stand with him, and bids the others and us to stand back against the canes till we are called. So we do his bidding, and fall back to the growth of canes, whence we could but dimly make out the mass of the rock for the darkness, and there waited breathless, listening for the sound of oars. But these Moors, for a better pretence of secrecy, had muffled their oars, so that we knew not they were at hand until we heard Haroun’s voice speaking low.

“Englishmen, are you there?” asks he.

“Aye, we four,” whispers Groves, in reply.

Then we hear them wade into the water and get into the boat with whispering of Haroun where they are to dispose themselves, and so forth. After that silence for about ten minutes, and no sound but the ceaseless rain until we next hear Groves’ voice.

“Davis, Negus,” whispers he, on which two of our number leave us and go out to the boat to replace Haroun and that other Moor, who, in the manner of the Turks, had been strangled and cast overboard.

And now follows a much longer period of silence, but at length that comes to an end, and we hear Groves’ voice again whispering us to come. At the first sound of his voice his three comrades rush forward; but Groves, recognising them, says hoarsely, “Back, every one of you but those I called, or I’ll brain you! There’s room but for six in the boat, and those who helped us shall go first, as I ordered. The rest must wait their time.”

So these fellows, who would have ousted us, give way, grumbling, and Mr. Godwin carrying Moll to the boat, Dawson and I wade in after him, and so, with great gratitude, take our places as Groves directs. We being in, he and his mate lay to their oars, and pull out to the felucca, guided by the lanthorn on her bulwarks.

Having put us aboard safely, Groves and his mate fetch the three fellows that remained ashore, and now all being embarked, they abandon the small boat, slip the anchor, and get out their long sweeps, all in desperate haste; for that absence of wind, which I at first took to be a blessing, appeared now to be a curse, and our main hope of escape lay in pulling far out to sea before Mohand discovered the trick put upon him, and gave chase. All night long we toiled with most savage energy, dividing our number into two batches, so that one might go to the oars as the other tired, turn and turn about. Not one of us but did his utmost—nay, even Moll would stand by her husband, and strain like any man at this work. But for all our labour, Alger was yet in sight when the break of day gave us light to see it. Then was every eye searching the waters for sign of a sail, be it to save or to undo us. Sail saw we none, but about nine o’clock Groves, scanning the waters over against Alger, perceived something which he took to be a galley; nor were we kept long in uncertainty, for by ten it was obvious to us all, showing that it had gained considerably upon us in spite of our frantic exertions, which convinced us that this was Mohand, and that he had discovered us with the help of a spy-glass, maybe.

At the prospect of being overtaken and carried back to slavery, a sort of madness possessed those at the oars, the first oar pulling with such a fury of violence that it snapped at the rowlock, and was of no further use. Still we made good progress, but what could we with three oars do against the galley which maybe was mounted with a dozen? Some were for cutting down the mast and throwing spars, sails, and every useless thing overboard to lighten our ship, but Groves would not hear of this, seeing by a slant in the rain that a breeze was to be expected; and surely enough, the rain presently smote us on the cheek smartly, whereupon Groves ran up our sail, which, to our infinite delight, did presently swell out fairly, careening us so that the oar on t’other side was useless.

But that which favoured us favoured also our enemies, and shortly after we saw two sails go up to match our one. Then Groves called a council of us and his fellows, and his advice was this: that ere the galley drew nigh enough for our number to be sighted, he and his fellows should bestow themselves away in the stern cabin, and lie there with such arms of knives and spikes as they had brought with them ready to their hands, and that, on Mohand boarding us with his men, we four should retire towards the cabin, when he and his comrades would spring forth and fight every man to the death for freedom. And he held out good promise of a successful issue. “For,” says he, “knowing you four” (meaning us) “are unarmed, ’tis not likely he will have furnished himself with any great force; and as his main purpose is to possess this lady, he will not suffer his men to use their firepieces to the risk of her destruction; therefore,” adds he, “if you have the stomach for your part of this business, which is but to hold the helm as I direct, all must go well. But for the lady, if she hath any fear, we may find a place in the cabin for her.”

This proposal was accepted by all with gladness, except Moll, who would on no account leave her husband’s side; but had he not been there, I believe she would have been the last aboard to feel fear, or play a cowardly part.

So without further parley, the fellows crept into the little cabin, each fingering his naked weapon, which made me feel very sick with apprehension of bloodshed. The air of wind freshening, we kept on at a spanking rate for another hour, Groves lying on the deck with his eyes just over the bulwarks and giving orders to Dawson and me, who kept the helm; then the galley, being within a quarter of a mile of us, fired a shot as a signal to us to haul down our sail, and this having no effect, he soon after fires another, which, striking us in the stern, sent great splinters flying up from the bulwarks there.

“Hold her helm, stiff,” whispers Groves, and then he backs cautiously into the cabin without rising from his belly, for the men aboard the galley were now clearly distinguishable.

Presently bang goes another gun, and the same moment, its shot taking our mast a yard or so above the deck, our lateen falls over upon the water with a great slap, and so are we brought to at once.

Dropping her sail, the galley sweeps up alongside us, and casting out divers hooks and tackle they held ready for their purpose, they grappled us securely. My heart sank within me as I perceived the number of our enemies, thirty or forty, as I reckon (but happily not above half a dozen armed men), and Mohand ou Mohand amongst them with a scimitar in his hand; for now I foresaw the carnage which must ensue when we were boarded.

Mohand ou Mohand was the first to spring upon our deck, and behind came his janizaries and half a score of seamen. We four, Mr. Godwin holding Moll’s hand in his, stood in a group betwixt Mohand and his men and the cabin where Joe Groves lay with his fellows, biding his time. One of the janizaries was drawing his scimitar, but Mohand bade him put it up, and making an obeisance to Moll, he told us we should suffer no hurt if we surrendered peaceably.

“Never, you Turkish thief!” cries Dawson, shaking his fist at him.

Mohand makes a gesture of regret, and turning to his men tells them to take us, but to use no weapons, since we had none. Then, he himself leading, with his eyes fixed hungrily upon Moll, the rest came on, and we fell back towards the cabin.

The next instant, with a wild yell of fury, the hidden men burst out of the cabin, and then followed a scene of butchery which I pray Heaven it may nevermore be my fate to witness.

Groves was the first to spill blood. Leaping upon Mohand, he buried a long curved knife right up to the hilt in his neck striking downwards just over the collar bone, and he fell, the blood spurting from his mouth upon the deck. At the same time our men, falling upon the janizaries, did most horrid battle—nay, ’twas no battle, but sheer butchery; for these men, being taken so suddenly, had no time to draw their weapons, and could only fly to the fore end of the boat for escape, where, by reason of their number and the narrow confines of the deck, they were so packed and huddled together that none could raise his hand to ward a blow even, and so stood, a writhing, shrieking mass of humanity, to be hacked and stabbed and ripped and cut down to their death.

And their butchers had no mercy. They could think only of their past wrongs, and of satiating the thirst for vengeance, which had grown to a madness by previous restraint.

“There’s for thirteen years of misery,” cries one, driving his spike into the heart of one. “Take that for hanging of my brother,” screams a second, cleaving a Moor’s skull with his hatchet. “Quits for turning an honest lad into a devil,” calls a third, drawing his knife across the throat of a shrieking wretch, and so forth, till not one of all the crowd was left to murder.

Then still devoured by their lust for blood, they swarmed over the side of the galley to finish this massacre—Groves leading with a shout of “No quarter,” and all echoing these words with a roar of joy. But here they were met with some sort of resistance, for the Moors aboard, seeing the fate of their comrades, forewarning them of theirs, had turned their swivel gun about and now fired—the ball carrying off the head of Joe Groves, the best man of all that crew, if one were better than another. But this only served to incense the rest the more, and so they went at their cruel work again, and ceased not till the last of their enemies was dead. Then, with a wild hurrah, they signal their triumph, and one fellow, holding up his bloody hands, smears them over his face with a devilish scream of laughter.

And now, caring no more for us or what might befall us, than for the Turks who lay all mangled on our deck, one cuts away the tackle that lashes their galley to us, while the rest haul up the sail, and so they go their way, leaving us to shift for ourselves.

CHAPTER XLI.

How Dawson counts himself an unlucky man who were best dead; and so he quits us, and I, the reader.

The galley bent over to the wind and sped away, and I watched her go without regret, not thinking of our own hapless condition, but only of the brutal ferocity of that mad crew aboard her.

Their shouts of joy and diabolical laughter died away, and there was no sound but the lapping of the waves against the felucca’s side. They had done their work thoroughly; not a moan arose from the heaps of butchered men, not a limb moved, but all were rigid, some lying in grotesque postures as the death agony had drawn them. And after the tumult that had prevailed this stillness of death was terrific. From looking over this ghastly picture I turned and clutched at Dawson’s hand for some comforting sense of life and humanity.

We were startled at this moment by a light laugh from the cabin, whither Mr. Godwin had carried Moll, fainting with the horror of this bloody business, and going in there we found her now lying in a little crib, light-headed—clean out of her wits indeed, for she fancied herself on the dusty road to Valencia, taking her first lesson in the fandango from Don Sanchez. Mr. Godwin knelt by the cot side, with his arm supporting her head, and soothing her the best he could. We found a little cask of water and a cup, that he might give her drink, and then, seeing we could be of no further service, Dawson and I went from the cabin, our thoughts awaking now to the peril of our position, without sail in mid-sea.

And first we cast our eyes all round about the sea, but we could descry no sail save the galley (and that at a great distance), nor any sign of land. Next, casting our eyes upon the deck, we perceived that the thick stream of blood that lay along that side bent over by the broken mast, was greatly spread, and not so black, but redder, which was only to be explained by the mingling of water; and this was our first notice that the felucca was filling and we going down.

Recovering presently from the stupor into which this suspicion threw us, we pulled up a hatch, and looking down into the hold perceived that this was indeed true, a puncheon floating on the water there within arms’ reach. Thence, making our way quickly over the dead bodies, which failed now to terrify us, to the fore part of our felucca, we discovered that the shot which had hit us had started a plank, and that the water leaked in with every lap of a wave. So now, our wits quickened by our peril, we took a scimitar and a dirk from a dead janizary, to cut away the cordage that lashed us to the fallen mast, to free us of that burden and right the ship if we might. But ere we did this, Dawson, spying the great sail lying out on the water, bethought him to hack out a great sheet as far as we could reach, and this he took to lay over the started plank and staunch the leakage, while I severed the tackle and freed us from the great weight of the hanging mast and long spar. And certainly we thought ourselves safe when this was done, for the hull lifted at once and righted itself upon the water. Nevertheless, we were not easy, for we knew not what other planks below the water line were injured, nor how to sink our sheet or bind it over the faulty part. So, still further to lighten us, we mastered our qualms and set to work casting the dead bodies overboard. This horrid business, at another time, would have made me sick as any dog, but there was no time to yield to mawkish susceptibilities in the face of such danger as menaced us. Only when all was done, I did feel very weakened and shaky, and my gorge rising at the look of my jerkin, all filthy with clotted blood, I tore it off and cast it in the sea, as also did Dawson; and so, to turn our thoughts (after washing of our hands and cleaning our feet), we looked over the side, and agreed that we were no lower than we were, but rather higher for having lightened our burden. But no sail anywhere on the wide sea to add to our comfort.

Going into the cabin, we found that our dear Moll had fallen into a sleep, but was yet very feverish, as we could see by her frequent turning, her sudden starts, and the dreamy, vacant look in her eyes, when she opened them and begged for water. We would not add to Mr. Godwin’s trouble by telling him of ours (our minds being still restless with apprehensions of the leak), but searching about, and discovering two small, dry loaves, we gave him one, and took the other to divide betwixt us, Dawson and I. And truly we needed this refreshment (as our feeble, shaking limbs testified), after all our exertions of the night and day (it being now high noon), having eaten nothing since supper the night before. But, famished as we were, we must needs steal to the side and look over to mark where the water rose; and neither of us dared say the hull was no lower, for we perceived full well it had sunk somewhat in the last hour.

Jack took a bite of his loaf, and offered me the rest, saying he had no stomach for food; but I could not eat my own, and so we thrust the bread in our breeches pockets and set to work, heaving everything overboard that might lighten us, and for ever a-straining our eyes to sight a ship. Then we set to devising means to make the sheet cling over the damaged planks, but to little purpose, and so Dawson essayed to get at it from the inside by going below, but the water was risen so high there was no room between it and the deck to breathe, and so again to wedging the canvas in from the outside till the sun sank. And by that time the water was beginning to lap up through the hatchway. Then no longer able to blink the truth, Jack turns to me and asks:

“How long shall we last?”

“Why,” says I, “we have sunk no more than a foot these last six hours, and at this slow pace we may well last out eight or nine more ere the water comes over the bulwarks.”

He shook his head ruefully, and, pointing to a sluice hole in the side, said he judged it must be all over with us when the water entered there.

“Why, in that case,” says I, “let us find something to fill the sluice hole.”

So having nothing left on deck, we went into the cabin on a pretence of seeing how Moll fared, and Jack sneaked away an old jacket and I a stone bottle, and with these we stopped the sluice hole the best we could.

By the time we had made a job of this ’twas quite dark, and having nothing more to do but to await the end, we stood side by side, too dejected to speak for some time, thinking of the cruelty of fate which rescued us from one evil only to plunge us in a worse. At length, Jack fell to talking in a low tone of his past life, showing how things had ever gone ill with him and those he loved.

“I think,” says he in conclusion, “I am an unlucky man, Kit. One of those who are born to be a curse against their will to others rather than a blessing.”

“Fie, Jack,” says I, “’tis an idle superstition.”

“Nay,” says he, “I am convinced ’tis the truth. Not one of us here but would have been the happier had I died a dozen years ago. ’Tis all through me that we drown tonight.”

“Nay, ’tis a blessing that we die all together, and none left to mourn.”

“That may be for you and me who have lived the best years of our life, but for those in there but just tasting the sweets of life, with years of joy unspent, ’tis another matter.”

Then we were silent for a while, till feeling the water laving my feet, I asked if we should not now tell Mr. Godwin of our condition.

“’Twas in my mind, Kit,” answers he; “I will send him out to you.”

He went into the cabin, and Mr. Godwin coming out, I showed him our state. But ’twas no surprise to him. Only, it being now about three in the morning, and the moon risen fair and full in the heavens, he casts his eyes along the silver path on the water in the hope of rescue, and finding none, he grasps my hand and says:

“God’s will be done! ’Tis a mercy that my dear love is spared this last terror. Our pain will not be long.”

A shaft of moonlight entered the cabin, and there we perceived Dawson kneeling by the crib, with his head laid upon the pillow beside his daughter.

He rose and came out without again turning to look on Moll, and Mr. Godwin took his place.

“I feel more happy, Kit,” says Jack, laying his hand upon my shoulder. “I do think God will be merciful to us.”

“Aye, surely,” says I, wilfully mistaking his meaning. “I think the water hath risen no higher this last hour.”

“I’ll see how our sheet hangs; do you look if the water comes in yet at the sluice hole.”

And so, giving my arm a squeeze as he slips his hand from my shoulder, he went to the fore part of the vessel, while I crossed to the sluice hole, where the water was spurting through a chink.

I rose after jamming the jacket to staunch the leak, and turning towards Jack I perceived him standing by the bulwark, with the moon beyond. And the next moment he was gone. And so ended the life of this poor, loving, unlucky man.

I know not whether it was this lightening of our burden, or whether at that time some accident of a fold in the sail sucking into the leaking planks, stayed the further ingress of waters, but certain it is that after this we sank no deeper to any perceptible degree; and so it came about that we were sighted by a fishing-boat from Carthagena, a little after daybreak, and were saved—we three who were left.

I have spent the last week at Hurst Court, where Moll and her husband have lived ever since Lady Godwin’s death. They are making of hay in the meadows there; and ’twas sweet to see Moll and her husband, with their two boys, cocking the sweet grass. And all very merry at supper; only one sad memory cast me down as I thought of poor Jack, sorrowing to think he could not see the happiness which, as much as our past troubles, was due to him.