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.”