“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