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