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Title: A Set of Rogues

Author: Frank Barrett

Release Date: January 16, 2004  [eBook #10727]

Language: English

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A SET OF ROGUES

NAMELY

CHRISTOPHER SUTTON, JOHN DAWSON, THE SENOR DON SANCHEZ DEL CASTILLO DE
CASTELANA AND MOLL DAWSON


Their Wicked Conspiracy, and a True Account of their Travels and
Adventures


THE MARRIAGE OF MOLL DAWSON BY SINFUL MEANS TO A WORTHY GENTLEMAN OF
MERIT; HER FALL, REMORSE AND GREAT SORROW; HER SECOND EXPEDITION WITH
HER FORMER ROGUISH COMPANIONS INTO STRANGE PLACES


HER ATONEMENT TO MR. RICHARD GODWIN (WHEREBY SHE RENDERS UP ALL SHE EVER
HAD OF HIM AND MORE) AND SELLING OF HERSELF TO ALGERINE PIRATES AND
GOING INTO BARBARY A SLAVE; TOGETHER WITH THE TRIBULATIONS OF THOSE WHO
LED HER TO WRONG DOING, AND MANY OTHER SURPRISING THINGS NOW DISCLOSED
FOR THE FIRST TIME AS THE FAITHFUL CONFESSION OF CHRISTOPHER SUTTON

BY

FRANK BARRETT

1895






[Illustration: "'GIVE ME THY HAND, CHILD,' SAYS HE."]




CHAPTER I.


_Of my companions and our adversities, and in particular from our
getting into the stocks at Tottenham Cross to our being robbed at
Edmonton._


There being no plays to be acted at the "Red Bull," because of the
Plague, and the players all cast adrift for want of employment, certain
of us, to wit, Jack Dawson and his daughter Moll, Ned Herring, and
myself, clubbed our monies together to buy a store of dresses, painted
cloths, and the like, with a cart and horse to carry them, and thus
provided set forth to travel the country and turn an honest penny, in
those parts where the terror of pestilence had not yet turned men's
stomachs against the pleasures of life. And here, at our setting out,
let me show what kind of company we were. First, then, for our master,
Jack Dawson, who on no occasion was to be given a second place; he was a
hale, jolly fellow, who would eat a pound of beef for his breakfast
(when he could get it), and make nothing of half a gallon of ale
therewith,--a very masterful man, but kindly withal, and pleasant to
look at when not contraried, with never a line of care in his face,
though turned of fifty. He played our humorous parts, but he had a sweet
voice for singing of ditties, and could fetch a tear as readily as a
laugh, and he was also exceeding nimble at a dance, which was the
strangest thing in the world, considering his great girth. Wife he had
none, but Moll Dawson was his daughter, who was a most sprightly, merry
little wench, but no miracle for beauty, being neither child nor woman
at this time; surprisingly thin, as if her frame had grown out of
proportion with her flesh, so that her body looked all arms and legs,
and her head all mouth and eyes, with a great towzled mass of chestnut
hair, which (off the stage) was as often as not half tumbled over her
shoulder. But a quicker little baggage at mimicry (she would play any
part, from an urchin of ten to a crone of fourscore), or a livelier at
dancing of Brantles or the single Coranto never was, I do think, and as
merry as a grig. Of Ned Herring I need only here say that he was the
most tearing villain imaginable on the stage, and off it the most
civil-spoken, honest-seeming young gentleman. Nor need I trouble to give
a very lengthy description of myself; what my character was will appear
hereafter, and as for my looks, the less I say about them, the better.
Being something of a scholar and a poet, I had nearly died of
starvation, when Jack Dawson gave me a footing on the stage, where I
would play the part of a hero in one act, a lacquey in the second, and a
merry Andrew in the third, scraping a tune on my fiddle to fill up the
intermedios.

We had designed to return to London as soon as the Plague abated, unless
we were favoured with extraordinary good fortune, and so, when we heard
that the sickness was certainly past, and the citizens recovering of
their panic, we (being by this time heartily sick of our venture, which
at the best gave us but beggarly recompense) set about to retrace our
steps with cheerful expectations of better times. But coming to Oxford,
we there learned that a prodigious fire had burnt all London down, from
the Tower to Ludgate, so that if we were there, we should find no house
to play in. This lay us flat in our hopes, and set us again to our
vagabond enterprise; and so for six months more we scoured the country
in a most miserable plight, the roads being exceedingly foul, and folks
more humoured of nights to drowse in their chimnies than to sit in a
draughty barn and witness our performances; and then, about the middle
of February we, in a kind of desperation, got back again to London, only
to find that we must go forth again, the town still lying in ruins, and
no one disposed to any kind of amusement, except in high places, where
such actors as we were held in contempt. So we, with our hearts in our
boots, as one may say, set out again to seek our fortunes on the
Cambridge road, and here, with no better luck than elsewhere, for at
Tottenham Cross we had the mischance to set fire to the barn wherein we
were playing, by a candle falling in some loose straw, whereby we did
injury to the extent of some shilling or two, for which the farmer would
have us pay a pound, and Jack Dawson stoutly refusing to satisfy his
demand he sends for the constable, who locks us all up in the cage that
night, to take us before the magistrate in the morning. And we found to
our cost that this magistrate had as little justice as mercy in his
composition; for though he lent a patient ear to the farmer's case, he
would not listen to Jack Dawson's argument, which was good enough, being
to the effect that we had not as much as a pound amongst us, and that he
would rather be hanged than pay it if he had; and when Ned Herring
(seeing the kind of Puritanical fellow he was) urged that, since the
damage was not done by any design of ours, it must be regarded as a
visitation of Providence, he says: "Very good. If it be the will of
Providence that one should be scourged, I take it as the Divine purpose
that I should finish the business by scourging the other"; and therewith
he orders the constable to take what money we have from our pockets and
clap us in the stocks till sundown for payment of the difference. So in
the stocks we three poor men were stuck for six mortal hours, which was
a wicked, cruel thing indeed, with the wind blowing a sort of rainy snow
about our ears; and there I do think we must have perished of cold and
vexation but that our little Moll brought us a sheet for a cover, and
tired not in giving us kind words of comfort.

At five o'clock the constable unlocked us from our vile confinement, and
I do believe we should have fallen upon him and done him a mischief for
his pains there and then, but that we were all frozen as stiff as stones
with sitting in the cold so long, and indeed it was some time ere we
could move our limbs at all. However, with much ado, we hobbled on at
the tail of our cart, all three very bitter, but especially Ned Herring,
who cursed most horridly and as I had never heard him curse off the
stage, saying he would rather have stayed in London to carry links for
the gentry than join us again in this damnable adventure, etc. And that
which incensed him the more was the merriment of our Moll, who, seated
on the side of the cart, could do nothing better than make sport of our
discontent. But there was no malice in her laughter, which, if it sprang
not from sheer love of mischief, arose maybe from overflowing joy at our
release.

Coming at dusk to Edmonton, and finding a fine new inn there, called the
"Bell," Jack Dawson leads the cart into the yard, we following without a
word of demur, and, after putting up our trap, into the warm parlour we
go, and call for supper as boldly as you please. Then, when we had eaten
and drunk till we could no more, all to bed like princes, which, after a
night in the cage and a day in the stocks, did seem like a very
paradise. But how we were to pay for this entertainment not one of us
knew, nor did we greatly care, being made quite reckless by our
necessities. It was the next morning, when we met together at breakfast,
that our faces betrayed some compunctions; but these did not prevent us
eating prodigiously. "For," whispers Ned Herring, "if we are to be
hanged, it may as well be for a sheep as a lamb." However, Jack Dawson,
getting on the right side of the landlord, who seemed a very honest,
decent man for an innkeeper, agreed with him that we should give a
performance that night in a cart-shed very proper to our purpose, giving
him half of our taking in payment of our entertainment. This did Jack,
thinking from our late ill-luck we should get at the most a dozen people
in the sixpenny benches, and a score standing at twopence a head. But it
turned out, as the cunning landlord had foreseen, that our hanger was
packed close to the very door, in consequence of great numbers coming to
the town in the afternoon to see a bull baited, so that when Jack Dawson
closed the doors and came behind our scene to dress for his part, he
told us he had as good as five pounds in his pocket. With that to cheer
us we played our tragedy of "The Broken Heart" very merrily, and after
that, changing our dresses in a twinkling, Jack Dawson, disguised as a
wild man, and Moll as a wood nymph, came on to the stage to dance a
pastoral, whilst I, in the fashion of a satyr, stood on one side plying
the fiddle to their footing. Then, all being done, Jack thanks the
company for their indulgence, and bids 'em good-night.

And now, before all the company are yet out of the place, and while Jack
Dawson is wiping the sweat from his face, comes the landlord, and asks
pretty bluntly to be paid his share of our earnings.

"Well," says Jack, in a huff, "I see no reason for any such haste; but
if you will give me time to put on my breeches, you shall be paid all
the same." And therewith he takes down his trunks from the nail where
they hung. And first giving them a doubtful shake, as seeming lighter
than he expected, and hearing no chink of money, he thrusts his hand
into one pocket, and then into the other, and cries in dismay: "Heaven's
mercy upon us; we are robbed! Every penny of our money is gone!"

"Can you think of nothing better than such an idle story as that?" says
the landlord. "There hath been none behind this sheet but yourselves all
the night."

We could make no reply to this, but stood gaping at each other in a maze
for some seconds; then Jack Dawson, recovering his wits, turns him
round, and looking about, cries: "Why, where's Ned Herring?"

"If you mean him as was killed in your play," says the landlord, "I'll
answer for it he's not far off; for, to my knowledge, he was in the
house drinking with a man while you were a-dancing of your antics like a
fool. And I only hope you may be as honest a man as he, for he paid for
his liquor like a gentleman."

That settled the question, for we knew the constable had left never a
penny in his pocket when he clapt us in the stocks.

"Well," says Jack, "he has our money, as you may prove by searching us,
and if you have faith in him 'tis all as one, and you may rest easy for
your reckoning being paid against his return."

The landlord went off, vowing he would take the law of us if he were not
paid by the morning; and we, as soon as we had shuffled on our clothes,
away to hunt for Ned, thinking that maybe he had made off with the money
to avoid paying half to the landlord, and hoping always that, though he
might play the rogue with him, he would deal honestly by us. But we
could find no trace of him, though we visited every alehouse in the
town, and so back we go, crestfallen, to the Bell, to beg the innkeeper
to give us a night's lodging and a crust of bread on the speculation
that Ned would come back and settle our accounts; but he would not
listen to our prayers, and so, hungry and thirsty, and miserable beyond
expression, we were fain to make up with a loft over the stables, where,
thanks to a good store of sweet hay, we soon forgot our troubles in
sleep, but not before we had concerted to get away in the morning
betimes to escape another day in the stocks.

Accordingly, before the break of day, we were afoot, and after
noiselessly packing our effects in the cart in the misty grey light,
Jack Dawson goes in the stable to harness our nag, while I as silently
take down the heavy bar that fastened the yard gate. But while I was yet
fumbling at the bolts, and all of a shake for fear of being caught in
the act, Jack Dawson comes to me, with Moll holding of his hand, as she
would when our troubles were great, and says in a tone of despair:

"Give over, Kit. We are all undone again. For our harness is stole, and
there's never another I can take in its place."

While we were at this stumble, out comes our landlord to make sport of
us. "Have you found your money yet, friends?" says he, with a sneer.

"No," says Jack, savagely, "and our money is not all that we have lost,
for some villain has filched our nag's harness, and I warrant you know
who he is."

"Why, to be sure," returns the other, "the same friend may have taken it
who has gone astray with your other belongings; but, be that as it may,
I'll answer for it when your money is found your harness will be
forthcoming, and not before."

"Come, Master," says I, "have you no more heart than to make merry at
the mischances of three poor wretches such as we?"

"Aye," says he, "when you can show that you deserve better treatment."

"Done," says Jack. "I'll show you that as quickly as you please." With
that he whips off his cap, and flinging it on the ground, cries: "Off
with your jacket, man, and let us prove by such means as Heaven has
given all which is the honester of us two." And so he squares himself up
to fight; but the innkeeper, though as big a man as he, being of a
spongy constitution, showed no relish for this mode of argument, and
turning his back on us with a shake of the head, said he was very well
satisfied of his own honesty, and if we doubted it we could seek what
satisfaction the law would give us, adding slyly, as he turned at the
door, that he could recommend us a magistrate of his acquaintance,
naming him who had set us in the stocks at Tottenham Cross.

The very hint of this put us again in a quake, and now, the snow
beginning to fall pretty heavily, we went into the shed to cast about as
to what on earth we should do next. There we sat, glum and silent,
watching idly the big flakes of snow fluttering down from the leaden
sky, for not one of us could imagine a way out of this hobble.

"Holy Mother!" cries Jack at length, springing up in a passion, "we
cannot sit here and starve of cold and hunger. Cuddle up to my arm,
Moll, and do you bring your fiddle, Kit, and let us try our luck
a-begging in alehouses."

And so we trudged out into the driving snow, that blinded us as we
walked, bow our heads as we might, and tried one alehouse after the
other, but all to no purpose, the parlours being empty because of the
early hour, and the snow keeping folks within doors; only, about midday,
some carters, who had pulled up at an inn, took pity on us, and gave us
a mug of penny ale and half a loaf, and that was all the food we had the
whole miserable day. Then at dusk, wet-footed and fagged out in mind and
body, we trudged back to the Bell, thinking to get back into the loft
and bury ourselves in the sweet hay for warmth and comfort. But coming
hither, we found our nag turned out of the stable and the door locked,
so that we were thrown quite into despair by the loss of this last poor
hope, and poor Moll, turning her face away from us, burst out
a-crying--she who all day had set us a brave example by her cheerful
merry spirit.




CHAPTER II.


_Of our first acquaintance with the Senor Don Sanchez del Castillo de
Castelana, and his brave entertaining of us._


I was taking a turn or two outside the shed,--for the sight of Jack
Dawson hugging poor Moll to his breast and trying to soothe her bodily
misery with gentle words was more than I could bear,--when a drawer
coming across from the inn told me that a gentleman in the Cherry room
would have us come to him. I gave him a civil answer and carried this
message to my friends. Moll, who had staunched her tears and was smiling
piteously, though her sobs, like those of a child, still shook her thin
frame, and her father both looked at me in blank doubt as fearing some
trap for our further discomfiture.

"Nay," says Jack, stoutly. "Fate can serve us no worse within doors than
without, so let us in and face this gentleman, whoever he is."

So in we go, and all sodden and bedrabbled as we were, went to follow
the drawer upstairs, when the landlady cried out she would not have us
go into her Cherry room in that pickle, to soil her best furniture and
disgrace her house, and bade the fellow carry us into the kitchen to
take off our cloaks and change our boots for slip-shoes, adding that if
we had any respect for ourselves, we should trim our hair and wash the
grime off our faces. So we enter the kitchen, nothing loath, where a
couple of pullets browning on the spit, kettles bubbling on the fire,
and a pasty drawing from the oven, filled the air with delicious odours
that nearly drove us mad for envy; and to think that these good things
were to tempt the appetite of some one who never hungered, while we,
famishing for want, had not even a crust to appease our cravings! But it
was some comfort to plunge our blue, numbed fingers into a tub of hot
water and feel the life blood creeping back into our hearts. The paint
we had put on our cheeks the night before was streaked all over our
faces by the snow, so that we did look the veriest scarecrows
imaginable; but after washing our heads well and stroking our hair into
order with a comb Mistress Cook lent us, we looked not so bad. And thus
changed, and with dry shoes to our feet, we at length went upstairs, all
full of wondering expectation, and were led into the Cherry room, which
seemed to us a very palace, being lit with half a dozen candles (and
they of wax) and filled with a warm glow by the blazing logs on the
hearth reflected in the cherry hangings. And there in the midst was a
table laid for supper with a wondrous white cloth, glasses to drink
from, and silver forks all set out most bravely.

"His worship will be down ere long," says the drawer, and with that he
makes a pretence of building up the fire, being warned thereto very like
by the landlady, with an eye to the safety of her silver.

"Can you tell me his worship's name, friend?" I whispered, my mind
turning at once to his worship of Tottenham Cross.

"Not I, were you to pay me," says he. "'Tis that outlandish and
uncommon. But for sure he is some great foreign grandee."

He could tell us no more, so we stood there all together, wondering,
till presently the door opens, and a tall, lean gentleman enters, with a
high front, very finely dressed in linen stockings, a long-waisted coat,
and embroidered waistcoat, and rich lace at his cuffs and throat. He
wore no peruke, but his own hair, cut quite close to his head, with a
pointed beard and a pair of long moustachios twisting up almost to his
ears; but his appearance was the more striking by reason of his beard
and moustachios being quite black, while the hair on his head was white
as silver. He had dark brows also, that overhung very rich black eyes;
his nose was long and hooked, and his skin, which was of a very dark
complexion, was closely lined with wrinkles about the eyes, while a deep
furrow lay betwixt his brows. He carried his head very high, and was
majestic and gracious in all his movements, not one of which (as it
seemed to me) was made but of forethought and purpose. I should say his
age was about sixty, though his step and carriage were of a younger man.
To my eyes he appeared a very handsome and a pleasing, amiable
gentleman. But, Lord, what can you conclude of a man at a single glance,
when every line in his face (of which he had a score and more) has each
its history of varying passions, known only to himself, and secret
phases of his life!

He saluted us with a most noble bow, and dismissed the drawer with a
word in an undertone. Then turning again to us, he said: "I had the
pleasure of seeing you act last night, and dance," he adds with a slight
inclination of his head to Moll. "Naturally, I wish to be better
acquainted with you. Will it please you to dine with me?"

I could not have been more dumbfounded had an angel asked me to step
into heaven; but Dawson was quick enough to say something.

"That will we," cries he, "and God bless your worship for taking pity on
us, for I doubt not you have heard of our troubles."

The other bowed his head and set a chair at the end of the table for
Moll, which she took with a pretty curtsey, but saying never a word, for
glee did seem to choke us all. And being seated, she cast her eyes on
the bread hungrily, as if she would fain begin at once, but she had the
good manners to restrain herself. Then his worship (as we called him),
having shown us the chairs on either side, seated himself last of all,
at the head of the table, facing our Moll, whom whenever he might
without discourtesy, he regarded with most scrutinising glances from
first to last. Then the door flinging open, two drawers brought in those
same fat pullets we had seen browning before the fire, and also the
pasty, with abundance of other good cheer, at which Moll, with a little
cry of delight, whispers to me:

"'Tis like a dream. Do speak to me, Kit, or I must think 'twill all fade
away presently and leave us in the snow."

Then I, finding my tongue, begged his worship would pardon us if our
manners were more uncouth than the society to which he was accustomed.

"Nay," says Dawson, "Your worship will like us none the worse, I
warrant, for seeing what we are and aping none."

Finding himself thus beworshipped on both hands, our good friend says:

"You may call me Senor. I am a Spaniard. Don Sanchez del Castillo de
Castelana." And then to turn the subject, he adds: "I have seen you play
twice."

"Aye, Senor, and I should have known you again if by nothing but this
piece of generosity," replies Dawson, with his cheek full of pasty, "for
I remember both times you set down a piece and would take no change."

Don Sanchez hunched his shoulders cavalierly, as if such trifles were
nought to him; but indeed throughout his manner was most high and noble.

And now, being fairly settled down to our repast, we said no more of any
moment that I can recall to mind till we had done (which was not until
nought remained of the pullets and the pasty but a few bones and the
bare dish), and we were drawn round the fire at Don Sanchez's
invitation. Then the drawers, having cleared the tables, brought up a
huge bowl of hot spiced wine, a dish of tobacco, and some pipes. The Don
then offered us to smoke some cigarros, but we, not understanding them,
took instead our homely pipes, and each with a beaker of hot wine to his
hand sat roasting before the fire, scarce saying a word, the Don being
silent because his humour was of the reflective grave kind (with all his
courtesies he never smiled, as if such demonstrations were unbecoming to
his dignity), and we from repletion and a feeling of wondrous
contentment and repose. And another thing served to keep us still, which
was that our Moll, sitting beside her father, almost at once fell
asleep, her head lying against his shoulder as he sat with his arm about
her waist. As at the table, Don Sanchez had seated himself where he
could best observe her, and now he scarcely once took his eyes off her,
which were half closed as if in speculation. At length, taking the
cigarro from his lips, he says softly to Jack Dawson, so as not to
arouse Moll:

"Your daughter."

Jack nods for an answer, and looking down on her face with pride and
tenderness, he put back with the stem of his pipe a little curl that had
strayed over her eyes. She was not amiss for looks thus, with her long
eyelashes lying like a fringe upon her cheeks, her lips open, showing
her good white teeth, and the glow of the firelight upon her face; but
her attitude and the innocent, happy expression of her features made up
a picture which seemed to me mighty pretty.

"Where is her mother?" asks Don Sanchez, presently; and Dawson, without
taking his eyes from Moll's face, lifts his pipe upwards, while his big
thick lips fell a-trembling. Maybe, he was thinking of his poor Betty as
he looked at the child's face.

"Has she no other relatives?" asks the Don, in the same quiet tone; and
Jack shakes his head, still looking down, and answers lowly:

"Only me."

Then after another pause the Don asks:

"What will become of her?"

And that thought also must have been in Jack Dawson's mind; for without
seeming surprised by the question, which appeared a strange one, he
answers reverently, but with a shake in his hoarse voice, "Almighty God
knows."

This stilled us all for the moment, and then Don Sanchez, seeing that
these reflections threw a gloom upon us, turned to me, sitting next him,
and asked if I would give him some account of my history, whereupon I
briefly told him how three years ago Jack Dawson had lifted me out of
the mire, and how since then we had lived in brotherhood. "And," says I
in conclusion, "we will continue with the favour of Providence to live
so, sharing good and ill fortune alike to the end, so much we do love
one another."

To this Jack Dawson nods assent.

"And your other fellow,--what of him?" asked Don Sanchez.

I replied that Ned Herring was but a fair-weather friend, who had joined
fortunes with us to get out of London and escape the Plague, and how
having robbed us, we were like never to see his face again.

"And well for him if we do not," cries Dawson, rousing up; "for by the
Lord, if I clap eyes on him, though it be a score of years hence, he
shan't escape the most horrid beating ever man outlived!"

The Don nodded his satisfaction at this, and then Moll, awaking with the
sudden outburst of her father's voice, gives first a gape, then a
shiver, and looking about her with an air of wonder, smiles as her eye
fell on the Don. Whereon, still as solemn as any judge, he pulls the
bell, and the maid, coming to the room with a rushlight, he bids her
take the poor weary child to bed, and the best there is in the house,
which I think did delight Dawson not less than his Moll to hear.

Then Moll gives her father a kiss, and me another according to her wont,
and drops a civil curtsey to Don Sanchez.

"Give me thy hand, child," says he; and having it, he lifts it to his
lips and kisses it as if she had been the finest lady in the land.

She being gone, the Don calls for a second bowl of spiced wine, and we,
mightily pleased at the prospect of another half-hour of comfort,
stretch our legs out afresh before the fire. Then Don Sanchez, lighting
another cigarro, and setting his chair towards us, says as he takes his
knee up betwixt his long, thin fingers:

"Now let us come to the heart of this business and understand one
another clearly."




CHAPTER III.


_Of that design which Don Sanchez opened to us at the Bell._


We pulled our pipes from our mouths, Dawson and I, and stretched our
ears very eager to know what this business was the Don had to propound,
and he, after drawing two or three mouthfuls of smoke, which he expelled
through his nostrils in a most surprising unnatural manner, says in
excellent good English, but speaking mighty slow and giving every letter
its worth:

"What do you go to do to-morrow?"

"The Lord only knows," answers Jack, and Don Sanchez, lifting his
eyebrows as if he considers this no answer at all, he continues: "We
cannot go hence with none of our stage things; and if we could, I see
not how we are to act our play, now that our villain is gone, with a
plague to him! I doubt but we must sell all that we have for the few
shillings they will fetch to get us out of this hobble."

"With our landlord's permission," remarks Don Sanchez, dryly.

"Permission!" cries Dawson, in a passion. "I ask no man's permission to
do what I please with my own."

"Suppose he claims these things in payment of the money you owe him.
What then?" asks the Don.

"We never thought of that, Kit," says Dawson, turning to me in a pucker.
"But 'tis likely enough he has, for I observed he was mighty careless
whether we found our thief or not. That's it, sure enough. We have
nought to hope. All's lost!"

With that he drops his elbows on his knees, and stares into the fire
with a most desponding countenance, being in that stage of liquor when a
man must either laugh or weep.

"Come, Jack," says I. "You are not used to yield like this. Let us make
the best of a bad lot, and face the worst like men. Though we trudge
hence with nothing but the rags on our backs, we shall be no worse off
to-morrow than we were this morning."

"Why, that's true enough!" cries he, plucking up his courage. "Let the
thieving rascal take our poor nag and our things for his payment, and
much good may they do him. We will wipe this out of our memory the
moment we leave his cursed inn behind us."

It seemed to me that this would not greatly advance us, and maybe Don
Sanchez thought the same, for he presently asks:

"And what then?"

"Why, Senor," replies Dawson, "we will face each new buffet as it comes,
and make a good fight of it till we're beat. A man may die but once."

"You think only of yourselves," says the Don, very quietly.

"And pray, saving your Senor's presence, who else should we think of?"

"The child above," answers the Don, a little more sternly than he had
yet spoken. "Is a young creature like that to bear the buffets you are
so bold to meet? Can you offer her no shelter from the wind and rain but
such as chance offers? make no provision for the time when she is left
alone, to protect her against the evils that lie in the path of
friendless maids?"

"God forgive me," says Jack, humbly. And then we could say nothing, for
thinking what might befall Moll if we should be parted, but sat there
under the keen eye of Don Sanchez, looking helplessly into the fire. And
there was no sound until Jack's pipe, slipping from his hand, fell and
broke in pieces upon the hearth. Then rousing himself up and turning to
Don Sanchez, he says:

"The Lord help her, Senor, if we find no good friend to lend us a few
shillings for our present wants."

"Good friends are few," says the Don, "and they who lend need some
better security for repayment than chance. For my own part, I would as
soon fling straws to a drowning man as attempt to save you and that
child from ruin by setting you on your feet to-day only to fall again
to-morrow."

"If that be so, Senor," says I, "you had some larger view in mind than
that of offering temporary relief to our misery when you gave us a
supper and Moll a bed for the night."

Don Sanchez assented with a grave inclination of his head, and going to
the door opened it sharply, listened awhile, and then closing it softly,
returned and stood before us with folded arms. Then, in a low voice, not
to be heard beyond the room, he questioned us very particularly as to
our relations with other men, the length of time we had been wandering
about the country, and especially about the tractability of Moll. And,
being satisfied with our replies,--above all, with Jack's saying that
Moll would jump out of window at his bidding, without a thought to the
consequences,--he says:

"There's a comedy we might play to some advantage if you were minded to
take the parts I give you and act them as I direct."

"With all my heart," cries Dawson. "I'll play any part you choose; and
as to the directing, you're welcome to that, for I've had my fill of it.
If you can make terms with our landlord, those things in the yard shall
be yours, and for our payment I'm willing to trust to your honour's
generosity."

"As regards payment," says the Don, "I can speak precisely. We shall
gain fifty thousand pounds by our performance."

"Fifty thousand pounds," says Jack, as if in doubt whether he had heard
aright. Don Sanchez bent his head, without stirring a line in his face.

Dawson took up his beaker slowly, and looked in it, to make sure that he
was none the worse for drink, then, after emptying it, to steady his
wits, he says again:

"Fifty thousand pounds."

"Fifty thousand pounds, if not more; and that there be no jealousies one
of the other, it shall be divided fairly amongst us,--as much for your
friend as for you, for the child as for me."

"Pray God, this part be no more than I can compass," says Jack,
devoutly.

"You may learn it in a few hours--at least, your first act."

"And mine?" says I, entering for the first time into the dialogue.

The Don hunched his shoulders, lifting his eyebrows, and sending two
streams of smoke from his nose.

"I scarce know what part to give you, yet," says he. "To be honest, you
are not wanted at all in the play."

"Nay, but you must write him a part," says Dawson, stoutly; "if it be
but to bring in a letter--that I am determined on. Kit stood by us in
ill fortune, and he shall share better, or I'll have none of it, nor
Moll neither. I'll answer for her."

"There must be no discontent among us," says the Don, meaning thereby,
as I think, that he had included me in his stratagem for fear I might
mar it from envy. "The girl's part is that which gives me most
concern--and had I not faith in my own judgment--"

"Set your mind at ease on that score," cried Jack. "I warrant our Moll
shall learn her part in a couple of days or so."

"If she learn it in a twelvemonth, 'twill be time enough."

"A twelvemonth," said Jack, going to his beaker again, for
understanding. "Well, all's as one, so that we can get something in
advance of our payment, to keep us through such a prodigious study."

"I will charge myself with your expenses," says Don Sanchez; and then,
turning to me, he asks if I have any objection to urge.

"I take it, Senor, that you speak in metaphor," says I; "and that this
'comedy' is nought but a stratagem for getting hold of a fortune that
doesn't belong to us."

Don Sanchez calmly assented, as if this had been the most innocent
design in the world.

"Hang me," cries Dawson, "if I thought it was anything but a whimsey of
your honour's."

"I should like to know if we may carry out this stratagem honestly,"
says I.

"Aye," cries Jack. "I'll not agree for cutting of throats or breaking of
bones, for any money."

"I can tell you no more than this," says the Don. "The fortune we may
take is now in the hands of a man who has no more right to it than we
have."

"If that's so," says Jack, "I'm with you, Senor. For I'd as lief bustle
a thief out of his gains as say my prayers, any day, and liefer."

"Still," says I, "the money must of right belong to some one."

"We will say that the money belongs to a child of the same age as Moll."

"Then it comes to this, Senor," says I, bluntly. "We are to rob that
child of fifty thousand pounds."

"When you speak of robbing," says the Don, drawing himself up with much
dignity, "you forget that I am to play a part in this stratagem--I, Don
Sanchez del Castillo de Castelana."

"Fie, Kit, han't you any manners?" cries Dick. "What's all this talk of
a child? Hasn't the Senor told us we are but to bustle a cheat?"

"But I would know what is to become of this child, if we take her
fortune, though it be withheld from her by another," says I, being
exceeding obstinate and persistent in my liquor.

"I shall prove to your conviction," says the Don, "that the child will
be no worse off, if we take this money, than if we leave it in the hands
of that rascally steward. But I see," adds he, contemptuously, "that for
all your brotherly love, 'tis no such matter to you whether poor little
Molly comes to her ruin, as every maid must who goes to the stage, or is
set beyond the reach of temptation and the goading of want."

"Aye, and be hanged to you, Kit!" cries Dawson.

"Tell me, Mr. Poet," continues Don Sanchez, "do you consider this
steward who defrauds that child of a fortune is more unfeeling than you
who, for a sickly qualm of conscience, would let slip this chance of
making Molly an honest woman?"

"Aye, answer that, Kit," adds Jack, striking his mug on the table.

"I'll answer you to-morrow morning, Senor," says I. "And whether I fall
in with the scheme or not is all as one, since my help is not needed;
for if it be to Moll's good, I'll bid you farewell, and you shall see me
never again."

"Spoken like a man!" says Don Sanchez, "and a wise one to boot. An
enterprise of this nature is not to be undertaken without reflection,
like the smoking of a pipe. If you put your foot forward, it must be
with the understanding that you cannot go back. I must have that
assurance, for I shall be hundreds of pounds out of pocket ere I can get
any return for my venture."

"Have no fear of me or of Moll turning tail at a scarecrow," says Jack,
adding with a sneer, "we are no poets."

"Reflect upon it. Argue it out with your friend here, whose scruples do
not displease me, and let me know your determination when the last word
is said. Business carries me to London to-morrow; but you shall meet me
at night, and we will close the business--aye or nay--ere supper."

With that he opens the door and gives us our congee, the most noble in
the world; but not offering to give us a bed, we are forced to go out of
doors and grope our way through the snow to the cart-shed, and seek a
shelter there from the wind, which was all the keener and more bitter
for our leaving a good fire. And I believe the shrewd Spaniard had put
us to this pinch as a foretaste of the misery we must endure if we
rejected his design, and so to shape our inclinations to his.

Happily, the landlord, coming out with a lantern, and finding us by the
chattering of our teeth, was moved by the consideration shown us by Don
Sanchez to relax his severity; and so, unlocking the stable door, he
bade us get up into the loft, which we did, blessing him as if he had
been the best Christian in the world. And then, having buried ourselves
in hay, Jack Dawson and I fell to arguing the matter in question, I
sticking to my scruples (partly from vanity), and he stoutly holding
t'other side; and I, being warmed by my own eloquence, and he not less
heated by liquor (having taken best part of the last bowl to his share),
we ran it pretty high, so that at one point Jack was for lighting a
candle end he had in his pocket and fighting it out like men. But,
little by little, we cooled down, and towards morning, each giving way
something, we came to the conclusion that we would have Don Sanchez show
us the steward, that we might know the truth of his story (which I
misdoubted, seeing that it was but a roguish kind of game at best that
he would have us take part in), and that if we found all things as he
represented them, then we would accept his offer. And also we resolved
to be down betimes and let him know our determination before he set out
for London, to the end that we might not be left fasting all the day.
But herein we miscalculated the potency of liquor and a comfortable bed
of hay, for 'twas nine o'clock before either of us winked an eye, and
when we got down, we learnt that Don Sanchez had been gone a full hour,
and so no prospect of breaking our fast till nightfall.

Presently comes Moll, all fresh and pink from the house, and falls to
exclaiming upon the joy of sleeping betwixt clean sheets in a feather
bed, and could speak of nothing else, saying she would give all the
world to sleep so well every day of her life.

"Eh," whispers her father in my ear, "you see how luxuries do tempt the
poor child, and what kind of a bed she is like to lie in if our hopes
miscarry."

On which, still holding to my scruples, I says to Moll:

"'Tis easy to say you would give the world, Moll, but I know full well
you would give nothing for all the comfort possible that was not your
own."

"Nay," says she, crossing her hands on her breast, and casting up her
eyes with the look of a saint, "what are all the fruits of the earth to
her who cannot take them with an easy conscience? Honesty is dearer to
me than the bread of life."

Then, as Jack and I are looking at each other ruefully in the face at
this dash to our knavish project, she bursts into a merry peal of
laughter, like a set of Christmas bells chiming, whereupon we, turning
about to find the cause of her merriment, she pulls another demure face,
and, slowly lifting her skirt, shows us a white napkin tied about her
waist, stuffed with a dozen delicacies she had filched from Don
Sanchez's table in coming down from her room.




CHAPTER IV.


_Of the several parts that we are appointed to play._


Finding a sheltered secret corner, we made a very hasty breakfast of
these stolen dainties, and since we had not the heart to restore them to
our innkeeper, so we had not the face to chide Moll for her larceny, but
made light of the business and ate with great content and some mirth.

A drizzly rain falling and turning the snow into slush, we kept under
the shelter of the shed, and this giving us scope for the reflection Don
Sanchez had counselled, my compunctions were greatly shaken by the
consideration of our present position and the prospect of worse. When I
thought of our breakfast that Moll had stolen, and how willingly we
would all have eaten a dinner got by the same means, I had to
acknowledge that certainly we were all thieves at heart; and this
conclusion, together with sitting all day doing nothing in the raw cold,
did make the design of Don Sanchez seem much less heinous to me than it
appeared the night before, when I was warm and not exceedingly sober,
and indeed towards dusk I came to regard it as no bad thing at all.

About six comes back our Don on a fine horse, and receives our
salutations with a cool nod--we standing there of a row, looking our
sweetest, like hungry dogs in expectation of a bone. Then in he goes to
the house without a word, and now my worst fear was that he had thought
better of his offer and would abandon it. So there we hang about the
best part of an hour, now thinking the Don would presently send for us,
and then growing to despair of everything but to be left in the cold
forgotten; but in the end comes Master Landlord to tell us his worship
in the Cherry room would see us. So, after the same formalities of
cleansing ourselves as the night afore, upstairs we go at the heels of a
drawer, carrying a roast pig, which to our senses was more delightful
than any bunch of flowers.

With a gesture of his hands, after saluting us with great dignity, Don
Sanchez bade us take our places at the table and with never a word of
question as to our decision; but that was scarce necessary, for it
needed no subtle observation to perceive that we would accept any
conditions to get our share of that roast pig. This supper differed not
greatly from the former, save that our Moll was taken with a kind of
tickling at the throat which presently attracted our notice.

"What ails you, Molly, my dear?" asks Jack. "Has a bit of crackling gone
down the wrong way?"

She put it off as if she would have us take no notice of it, but it grew
worse and worse towards the end of the meal, and became a most horrid,
tearing cough, which she did so natural as to deceive us all and put us
in great concern, and especially Don Sanchez, who declared she must have
taken a cold by being exposed all day to the damp weather.

"If I have," says she, very prettily, after wiping the tears from her
eyes upon another fit, "'tis surely a most ungrateful return for the
kindness with which you sheltered me last night, Senor."

"I shall take better care to shelter you in the future, my poor child,"
replies the Don, ringing the bell. Then, the maid coming, he bids her
warm a bed and prepare a hot posset against Moll was tucked up in the
blankets. "And," says he, turning to Moll, "you shall not rise till
noon, my dear; your breakfast shall be brought to you in your room,
where a fire shall be made, and such treatment shown you as if you were
my own child."

"Oh! what have I done that you should be so gentle to me?" exclaims
Moll, smothering another cough. And with that she reaches out her leg
under the table and fetches me a kick of the shin, looking all the while
as pitiful and innocent as any painted picture. "Would it be well to
fetch in a doctor?" says Don Sanchez, when Moll was gone barking
upstairs. "The child looks delicate, though she eats with a fairly good
appetite."

"'Tis nothing serious," replies Jack, who had doubtless received the
same hint from Moll she had given me. "I warrant she will be mended in a
day or so, with proper care. 'Tis a kind of family complaint. I am taken
that way at times," and with that he rasps his throat as a hint that he
would be none the worse for sleeping a night between sheets.

This was carrying the matter too far, and I thought it had certainly
undone us; for stopping short, with a start, in crossing the room, he
turns and looks first at Dawson, then at me, with anything but a
pleasant look in his eyes as finding his dignity hurt, to be thus
bustled by a mere child. Then his dark eyebrows unbending with the
reflection, maybe, that it was so much the better to his purpose that
Moll could so act as to deceive him, he seats himself gravely, and
replies to Jack:

"Your family wit may get you a night's lodging, but I doubt if you will
ever merit it so well as your daughter."

"Well," says Jack, with a laugh, "what wit we have amongst us we are
resolved to employ in your honour's service, so that you show us this
steward-fellow is a rascal that deserves to be bounced, and we do no
great injury to any one else."

"Good," says Don Sanchez. "We will proceed to that without delay. And
now, as we have no matter to discuss, and must be afoot early to-morrow,
I will ring for a light to take you to bed."

So we up presently to a good snug room with a bed to each of us fit for
a prince. And there, with the blankets drawn up to our ears, we fell
blessing our stars that we were now fairly out of our straits, and after
that to discussing whether we should consult Moll's inclination to this
business. First, Dawson was for telling her plump out all about our
project, saying that being so young she had no conscience to speak of,
and would like nothing better than to take part in any piece of
mischief. But against this I protested, seeing that it would be
dangerous to our design to let her know so much (she having a woman's
tongue in her head), and also of a bad tendency to make her, as it were,
at the very beginning of her life, a knowing active party to what looked
like nothing more nor less than a piece of knavery. Therefore I proposed
we should, when necessary, tell her just so much of our plan as was
expedient, and no more. And this agreeing mightily with Jack's natural
turn for taking of short cuts out of difficulties, he fell in with my
views at once, and so, bidding God bless me, he lays the clothes over
his head and was snoring the next minute.

In the morning we found the Don just as kind to us as the day before he
had been careless, and so made us eat breakfast with him, to our great
content. Also, he sent a maid up to Moll to enquire of her health, and
if she could eat anything from our table, to which the baggage sends
reply that she feels a little easier this morning and could fancy a dish
of black puddings. These delicacies her father carried to her, being
charged by the Don to tell her that we should be gone for a couple of
days, and that in our absence she might command whatever she felt was
necessary to her complete recovery against our return. Then I told Don
Sanchez how we had resolved to tell Moll no more of our purpose than was
necessary for the moment, which pleased him, I thought, mightily, he
saying that our success or failure depended upon secrecy as much as
anything, for which reason he had kept us in the dark as much as ever it
was possible.

About eight o'clock three saddle nags were brought to the door, and we,
mounting, set out for London, where we arrived about ten, the roads
being fairly passable save in the marshy parts about Shoreditch, where
the mire was knee-deep; so to Gracious Street, and there leaving our
nags at the Turk inn, we walked down to the Bridge stairs, and thence
with a pair of oars to Greenwich. Here, after our tedious chilly voyage,
we were not ill-pleased to see the inside of an inn once more, and Don
Sanchez, taking us to the King's posting-house, orders a fire to be
lighted in a private room, and the best there was in the larder to be
served us in the warm parlour. While we were at our trenchers Don
Sanchez says:

"At two o'clock two men are coming hither to see me. One is a master
mariner named Robert Evans, the other a merchant adventurer of his
acquaintance whom I have not yet seen. Now you are to mark these two men
well, note all they say and their manner of speaking, for to-morrow you
will have to personate these characters before one who would be only too
glad to find you at fault."

"Very good, Senor," says Dawson; "but which of these parts am I to
play?"

"That you may decide when you have seen the men, but I should say from
my knowledge of Robert Evans that you may best represent his character.
For in your parts to-day you are to be John and Christopher Knight, two
needy cousins of Lady Godwin, whose husband, Sir Richard Godwin, was
lost at sea seven years ago. I doubt if you will have to do anything in
these characters beyond looking eager and answering merely yes and no to
such questions as I may put."

Thus primed, we went presently to the sitting-room above, and the drawer
shortly after coming to say that two gentlemen desired to see Don
Sanchez, Jack and I seated ourselves side by side at a becoming distance
from the Don, holding our hats on our knees as humbly as may be. Then in
comes a rude, dirty fellow with a patch over one eye and a most peculiar
bearish gait, dressed in a tarred coat, with a wool shawl about his
neck, followed by a shrewd-visaged little gentleman in a plain cloth
suit, but of very good substance, he looking just as trim and
well-mannered as t'other was uncouth and rude.

"Well, here am I," says Evans (whom we knew at once for the master
mariner), flinging his hat and shawl in a corner. "There's his
excellency Don Sanchez, and here's Mr. Hopkins, the merchant I spoke on
yesterday; and who be these?" turning about to fix us with his one blue
eye.

"Two gentlemen related to Mrs. Godwin, and very anxious for her return,"
replies the Don.

"Then we being met friends all, let's have up a bottle and heave off on
this here business without more ado," says Evans; and with that he seats
himself in the Don's chair, pokes up the fire with his boots, and spits
on the hearth.

The Don graciously places a chair for Mr. Hopkins, rings the bell, and
seats himself. Then after a few civilities while the bottle was being
opened and our glasses filled, he says:

"You have doubtless heard from Robert Evans the purpose of our coming
hither, Mr. Hopkins."

"Roughly," replies Mr. Hopkins, with a dry little cough. "But I should
be glad to have the particulars from you, that I may judge more clearly
of my responsibilities in this undertaking."

"Oh, Lord!" exclaims Evans, in disgust. "Here give us a pipe of tobacco
if we're to warp out half a day ere we get a capful of wind."




CHAPTER V.


_Don Sanchez puts us in the way of robbing with an easy conscience._


Promising to make his story as short as he possibly could, Don Sanchez
began:

"On the coming of our present king to his throne, Sir Richard Godwin was
recalled from Italy, whither he had been sent as embassador by the
Protector. He sailed from Livorno with his wife and his daughter Judith,
a child of nine years old at that time, in the Seahawk."

"I remember her," says Evans, "as stout a ship as ever was put to sea."

"On the second night of her voyage the Seahawk became parted from her
convoy, and the next day she was pursued and overtaken by a pair of
Barbary pirates, to whom she gave battle."

"Aye, and I'd have done the same," cries Evans, "though they had been a
score."

"After a long and bloody fight," continues Don Sanchez, "the corsairs
succeeded in boarding the Seahawk and overcoming the remnant of her
company."

"Poor hearts! would I had been there to help 'em," says Evans.

"Exasperated by the obstinate resistance of these English and their own
losses, the pirates would grant no mercy, but tying the living to the
dead they cast all overboard save Mrs. Godwin and her daughter. Her lot
was even worse; for her wounded husband, Sir Richard, was snatched from
her arms and flung into the sea before her eyes, and he sank crying
farewell to her."

"These Turks have no hearts in their bellies, you must understand,"
explains Evans. "And nought but venom in their veins."

"The Seahawk was taken to Alger, and there Mrs. Godwin and her daughter
were sold for slaves in the public market-place."

"I have seen 'em sold by the score there," says Evans, "and fetch but an
onion a head."

"By good fortune the mother and daughter were bought by Sidi ben Moula,
a rich old merchant who was smitten by the pretty, delicate looks of
Judith, whom he thenceforth treated as if she had been his own child. In
this condition they lived with greater happiness than falls to the lot
of most slaves, until the beginning of last year, when Sidi died, and
his possessions fell to his brother, Bare ben Moula. Then Mrs. Godwin
appeals to Bare for her liberty and to be sent home to her country,
saying that what price (in reason) he chooses to set upon their heads
she will pay from her estate in England--a thing which she had proposed
before to Sidi, but he would not hear of it because of his love for
Judith and his needing no greater fortune than he had. But this Bare,
though he would be very well content, being also an old man, to have his
household managed by Mrs. Godwin and to adopt Judith as his child, being
of a more avaricious turn than his brother, at length consents to it, on
condition that her ransoms be paid before she quits Barbary. And so,
casting about how this may be done, Mrs. Godwin finds a captive whose
price has been paid, about to be taken to Palma in the Baleares, and to
him she entrusts two letters." Here Don Sanchez pulls two folded sheets
of vellum from his pocket, and presenting one to me, he says:

"Mayhap you recognise this hand, Mr. Knight."

And I, seeing the signature Elizabeth Godwin, answers quickly enough:
"Aye, 'tis my dear cousin Bess, her own hand."

"This," says the Don, handing the other to Evans, "you may understand."

"I can make out 'tis writ in the Moorish style," says Evans, "but the
meaning of it I know not, for I can't tell great A from a bull's foot
though it be in printed English."

"'Tis an undertaking on the part of Bare ben Moula," says the Don, "to
deliver up at Dellys in Barbary the persons of Mrs. Godwin and her
daughter against the payment of five thousand gold ducats within one
year. The other writing tells its own story."

Mr. Hopkins took the first sheet from me and read it aloud. It was
addressed to Mr. Richard Godwin, Hurst Court, Chislehurst in Kent, and
after giving such particulars of her past as we had already heard from
Don Sanchez, she writes thus: "And now, my dear nephew, as I doubt not
you (as the nearest of my kindred to my dear husband after us two poor
relicts) have taken possession of his estate in the belief we were all
lost in our voyage from Italy, I do pray you for the love of God and of
mercy to deliver us from our bondage by sending hither a ship with the
money for our ransoms forthwith, and be assured by this that I shall not
dispossess you of your fortune (more than my bitter circumstances do now
require), so that I but come home to die in a Christian country and have
my sweet Judith where she may be less exposed to harm than in this
infidel country. I count upon your love,--being ever a dear nephew,--and
am your most hopeful, trusting, and loving aunt, Elizabeth Godwin."

"Very well, sir," says Mr. Hopkins, returning the letter. "You have been
to Chislehurst."

"I have," answers the Don, "and there I find the estate in the hands of
a most curious Puritanical steward, whose honesty is rather in the
letter than the spirit. For though I have reason to believe that not one
penny's value of the estate has been misemployed since it has been in
his hands, yet will he give nothing--no, not a maravedi to the
redemption of his mistress, saying that the letter is addressed to
Richard Godwin and not to him, etc., and that he hath no power to pay
out monies for this purpose, even though he believed the facts I have
laid before him--which for his own ends doubtless he fains to misdoubt."

"As a trader, sir," says Mr. Hopkins, "I cannot blame his conduct in
that respect. For should the venture fall through, the next heir might
call upon him to repay out of his own pocket all that he had put into
this enterprise. But this Mr. Richard Godwin, what of him?"

"He is nowhere to be found. The only relatives I have been able to
discover are these two gentlemen."

"Who," remarks Mr. Hopkins, with a shrewd glance at our soiled clothes,
"are not, I venture to think, in a position to pay their cousin's
ransom."

"Alas, no, sir," says Jack. "We are but two poor shopkeepers of London
undone by the great fire."

"Well now, sir," says Mr. Hopkins, fetching an inkpot, a pen, and a
piece of paper from his pocket. "I may conclude that you wish me to
adventure upon the redemption of these two ladies in Barbary, upon the
hazard of being repaid by Mrs. Godwin when she recovers her estate." And
the Don making him a reverence, he continues, "We must first learn the
extent of our liabilities. What sum is to be paid to Bare ben Moula?"

"Five thousand gold ducats--about two thousand pounds English."

"Two thousand," says Mr. Hopkins, writing. "Then, Robert Evans, what
charge is yours for fetching the ladies from Dellys?"

"Master Hopkins, I have said fifteen hundred pounds," says he, "and I
won't go from my word though all laugh at me for a madman."

"That seems a great deal of money," says Mr. Hopkins.

"Well, if you think fifteen hundred pounds too much for my carcase and a
ship of twenty men, you can go seek a cheaper market elsewhere."

"You think there is very small likelihood of coming back alive?"

"Why, comrade, 'tis as if you should go into a den of lions and hope to
get out whole; for though I have the Duke's pass, these Moors are no
fitter to be trusted than a sackful of serpents. 'Tis ten to one our
ship be taken, and we fools all sold into slavery."

"Ten to one," says Mr. Hopkins; "that is to say, you would make this
voyage for the tenth part of what you ask were you sure of returning
safe."

"I would go as far anywhere outside the straits for an hundred pounds
with a lighter heart."

Mr. Hopkins nods his head, and setting down some figures on his paper,
says:

"The bare outlay in hard money amounts to thirty-five hundred pounds.
Reckoning the risk at Robert Evans' own valuation (which I take to be a
very low one), I must see reasonable prospect of winning thirty-five
thousand pounds by my hazard."

"Mrs. Godwin's estate I know to be worth double that amount."

"But who will promise me that return?" asks Mr. Hopkins. "Not you?" (The
Don shook his head.) "Not you?" (turning to us, with the same result).
"Not Mrs. Godwin, for we have no means of communicating with her. Not
the steward--you have shown me that. Who then remains but this Richard
Godwin who cannot be found? If," adds he, getting up from his seat, "you
can find Richard Godwin, put him in possession of the estate, and obtain
from him a reasonable promise that this sum shall be paid on the return
of Mrs. Godwin, I may feel disposed to consider your proposal more
seriously. But till then I can do nothing."

"Likewise, masters all," says Evans, fetching his hat and shawl from the
corner, "I can't wait for a blue moon; and if so be we don't sign
articles in a week, I'm off of my bargain, and mighty glad to get out of
it so cheap."

"You see," says Don Sanchez, when they were gone out of the room, "how
impossible it is that Mrs. Godwin and her daughter shall be redeemed
from captivity. To-morrow I shall show you what kind of a fellow the
steward is that he should have the handling of this fortune rather than
we."

Then presently, with an indifferent, careless air, as if 'twas nought,
he gives us a purse and bids us go out in the town to furnish ourselves
with what disguise was necessary to our purpose. Therewith Dawson gets
him some seaman's old clothes at a Jew's, and I a very neat, presentable
suit of cloth, etc., and the rest of the money we take back to Don
Sanchez without taking so much as a penny for our other uses; but he,
doing all things very magnificent, would have none of it, but bade us
keep it against our other necessities. And now having his money in our
pockets, we felt 'twould be more dishonest to go back from this business
than to go forward with it, lead us whither it might.

Next morning off we go betimes, Jack more like Robert Evans than his
mother's son, and I a most seeming substantial man (so that the very
stable lad took off his hat to me), and on very good horses a long ride
to Chislehurst And there coming to a monstrous fine park, Don Sanchez
stayed us before the gates, and bidding us look up a broad avenue of
great oaks to a most surprising brave house, he told us this was Hurst
Court, and we might have it for our own within a year if we were so
minded.

Hence, at no great distance we reach a square plain house, the windows
all barred with stout iron, and the most like a prison I did ever see.
Here Don Sanchez ringing a bell, a little grating in the door is opened,
and after some parley we are admitted by a sturdy fellow carrying a
cudgel in his hand. So we into a cold room, with not a spark of fire on
the hearth but a few ashes, no hangings to the windows, nor any ornament
or comfort at all, but only a table and half a dozen wooden stools, and
a number of shelves against the wall full of account books and papers
protected by a grating of stout wire secured with sundry padlocks. And
here, behind a tableful of papers, sat our steward, Simon
Stout-in-faith, a most withered, lean old man, clothed all in leather,
wearing no wig but his own rusty grey hair falling lank on his
shoulders, with a sour face of a very jaundiced complexion, and pale
eyes that seemed to swim in a yellowish rheum, which he was for ever
a-mopping with a rag.

"I am come, Mr. Steward," says Don Sanchez, "to conclude the business we
were upon last week."

"Aye," cries Dawson, for all the world in the manner of Evans, "but ere
we get to this dry matter let's have a bottle to ease the way, for this
riding of horseback has parched up my vitals confoundedly."

"If thou art athirst," says Simon, "Peter shall fetch thee a jug of
water from the well; but other liquor have we none in this house."

"Let Peter drown in your well," says Dawson, with an oath; "I'll have
none of it. Let's get this matter done and away, for I'd as lief sit in
a leaky hold as in this here place for comfort."

"Here," says Don Sanchez, "is a master mariner who is prepared to risk
his life, and here a merchant adventurer of London who will hazard his
money, to redeem your mistress and her daughter from slavery."

"Praise the Lord, Peter," says the steward. Whereupon the sturdy fellow
with the cudgel fell upon his knees, as likewise did Simon, and both in
a snuffling voice render thanks to Heaven in words which I do not think
it proper to write here. Then, being done, they get up, and the steward,
having dried his eyes, says:

"So far our prayers have been answered. Put me in mind, friend Peter,
that to-night we pray these worthy men prosper in their design."

"If they succeed," says Don Sanchez, "it will cost your mistress
five-and-thirty thousand pounds."

The steward clutched at the table as if at the fortune about to turn
from him; his jaw fell, and he stared at Don Sanchez in bewilderment,
then getting the face to speak, he gasps out, "Thirty-five thousand
pounds!" and still in a maze asks: "Art thou in thy right senses,
friend?"

The Don hunches his shoulders and turns to me. Whereupon I lay forth in
pretty much the same words as Mr. Hopkins used, the risk of the venture,
etc., to all which this Simon listened with starting eyes and gaping
mouth.

"Thirty-five thousand pounds!" he says again; "why, friend, 'tis half of
all I have made of the estate by a life of thrift and care and earnest
seeking."

"'Tis in your power, Simon," says Don Sanchez, "to spare your mistress
this terrible charge, for which your fine park must be felled, your
farms cut up, and your economies be scattered. The master here will
fetch your mistress home for fifteen hundred pounds."

"Why, even that is an extortion."

"Nay," says Jack, "if you think fifteen hundred pounds too much for my
carcase and a ship of twenty men, you may seek a cheaper market and
welcome, for I've no stomach to risk my life and property for less."

"To the fifteen hundred pounds you must add the ransom of two thousand
pounds. Thus Mrs. Godwin and her daughter may be redeemed for
thirty-five hundred pounds to her saving of thirty-one thousand five
hundred pounds," says the Don.

And here Dawson and I were secretly struck by his honesty in not seeking
to affright the steward from an honest course, but rather tempting him
to it by playing upon his parsimony and avarice.

"Three thousand five hundred," says Simon, putting it down in writing,
that he might the better realise his position. "But you say, friend
merchant, that the risk is as ten to one against seeing thy money
again."

"I will run the risk for thirty-one thousand pounds, and no less," says
I.

"But if it may be done for a tenth part, how then?"

"Why, 'tis your risk, sir, and not mine," says I.

"Yea, yea, my risk. And you tell me, friend sailor, that you stand in
danger of being plundered by these infidels."

"Aye, more like than not."

"Why, then we may count half the estate gone; and the peril is to be run
again, and thus all cast away for nought."

In this manner did Simon halt betwixt two ways like one distracted, but
only he did mingle a mass of sacred words with his arguments which
seemed to me nought but profanity, his sole concern being the gain of
money. Then he falls to the old excuses Don Sanchez had told us of,
saying he had no money of his own, and offering to show his books that
we might see he had taken not one penny beyond his bare expenses from
the estate, save his yearly wage, and that no more than Sir Richard had
given him in his lifetime. And on Don Sanchez showing Mrs. Godwin's
letter as a fitting authority to draw out this money for her use, he
first feigns to doubt her hand, and then says he: "If an accident
befalls these two women ere they return to justify me, how shall I
answer to the next heir for this outlay? Verily" (clasping his hands) "I
am as one standing in darkness, and I dare not move until I am better
enlightened; so prithee, friend, give me time to commune with my
conscience."

Don Sanchez hunches up his shoulders and turns to us.

"Why, look here, Master," says Dawson. "I can't see as you need much
enlightenment to answer yes or no to a fair offer, and as for me, I'm
not going to hang in a hedge for a blue moon. So if you won't clap hands
on the bargain without more ado, I throw this business overboard and
shall count I've done the best day's work of my life in getting out of
the affair."

Then I made as if I would willingly draw out of my share in the project.

"My friends," says Simon, "there can be scarce any hope at all if thou
wilt not hazard thy money for such a prodigious advantage." Then turning
to Peter as his last hope, he asks in despair, "What shall we do, my
brother?"

"We can keep on a-praying, friend Simon," replies Peter, in a snivelling
voice.

"A blessed thought!" exclaims the steward in glee. "Surely that is more
righteous than to lay faith in our own vain effort. So do thou, friend"
(turning to me), "put thy money to this use, for I will none."

"I cannot do that, sir," says I, "without an assurance that Mrs.
Godwin's estate will bear this charge."

With wondrous alacrity Simon fetches a book with a plan of the estate,
whereby he showed us that not a holding on the estate was untenanted,
not a single tenant in arrear with his rent, and that the value of the
property with all deductions made was sixty-five thousand pounds.

"Very good sir," says I. "Now you must give me a written note, stating
what you have shown, with your sanction to my making this venture on
Mrs. Godwin's behalf, that I may justify my claim hereafter."

But this Simon stoutly refused to do, saying his conscience would not
allow him to sign any bond (clearly with the hope that he might in the
end shuffle out of paying anything at all), until Don Sanchez, losing
patience, declared he would certainly hunt all London through to find
that Mr. Richard Godwin, who was the next of kin, hinting that he would
certainly give us such sanction as we required if only to prove his
right to the succession should our venture fail.

This put the steward to a new taking; but the Don holding firm, he at
length agreed to give us this note, upon Don Sanchez writing another
affirming that he had seen Mrs. Godwin and her daughter in Barbary, and
was going forth to fetch them, that should Mr. Richard Godwin come to
claim the estate he might be justly put off.

And so this business ended to our great satisfaction, we saying to
ourselves that we had done all that man could to redeem the captives,
and that it would be no harm at all to put a cheat upon the miserly
steward. Whether we were any way more honest than he in shaping our
conduct according to our inclinations is a question which troubled us
then very little.




CHAPTER VI.


_Moll is cast to play the part of a fine lady; doubtful promise for this
undertaking._


On our way back to Greenwich we stayed at an inn by the road to refresh
ourselves, and there, having a snug parlour to ourselves, and being
seated about a fine cheese with each a full measure of ale, Don Sanchez
asks us if we are satisfied with our undertaking.

"Aye, that we are," replies Dawson, mightily pleased as usual to be
a-feasting. "We desire nothing better than to serve your honour
faithfully in all ways, and are ready to put our hands to any bond you
may choose to draw up."

"Can you show me the man," asks the Don, lifting his eyebrows
contemptuously, "who ever kept a treaty he was minded to break? Men are
honest enough when nought's to be gained by breaking faith. Are you both
agreed to this course?"

"Yes, Senor," says I, "and my only compunction now is that I can do so
little to forward this business."

"Why, so far as I can see into it," says Dawson, "one of us must be cast
for old Mrs. Godwin, if Moll is to be her daughter, and you're fitter to
play the part than I, for I take it this old gentlewoman should be of a
more delicate, sickly composition than mine."

"We will suppose that Mrs. Godwin is dead," says the Don, gravely.

"Aye, to be sure; that simplifies the thing mightily. But pray, Senor,
what parts are we to play?"

"The parts you have played to-day. You go with me to fetch Judith Godwin
from Barbary."

"This hangs together and ought to play well; eh, Kit?"

I asked Don Sanchez how long, in the ordinary course of things an
expedition of this kind would take.

"That depends upon accidents of many kinds," answers he. "We may very
well stretch it out best part of a year."

"A year," says Jack, scratching his ear ruefully, for I believe he had
counted upon coming to live like a lord in a few weeks. "And what on
earth are we to do in the meanwhile?"

"Teach Moll," answers the Don.

"She can read anything print or scrip," says Jack, proudly, "and write
her own name."

"Judith Godwin," says the Don, reflectively, "lived two years in Italy.
She would certainly remember some words of Italian. Consider this: it is
not sufficient merely to obtain possession of the Godwin estate; it must
be held against the jealous opposition of that shrewd steward and of the
presumptive heir, Mr. Richard Godwin, who may come forward at any time."

"You're in the right, Senor. Well, there's Kit knows the language and
can teach her a smattering of the Italian, I warrant, in no time."

"Judith would probably know something of music," pursues the Don.

"Why, Moll can play Kit's fiddle as well as he."

"But, above all," continues the Don, as taking no heed of this tribute
to Moll's abilities, "Judith Godwin must be able to read and write the
Moorish character and speak the tongue readily, answer aptly as to their
ways and habits, and to do these things beyond suspect. Moll must live
with these people for some months."

"God have mercy on us!" cries Jack. "Your honour is not for taking us to
Barbary."

"No," answers the Don, dryly, passing his long fingers with some
significance over the many seams in his long face, "but we must go where
the Moors are to be found, on the hither side of the straits."

"Well," says Dawson, "all's as one whither we go in safety if we're to
be out of our fortune for a year. There's nothing more for our Moll to
learn, I suppose, senor."

"It will not be amiss to teach her the manners of a lady," replies the
Don, rising and knitting his brows together unpleasantly, "and
especially to keep her feet under her chair at table."

With this he rings the bell for our reckoning, and so ends our
discussion, neither Dawson nor I having a word to say in answer to this
last hit, which showed us pretty plainly that in reaching round with her
long leg for our shins, Moll had caught the Don's shanks a kick that
night she was seized with a cough.

So to horse again and a long jog back to Greenwich, where Dawson and I
would fain have rested the night (being unused to the saddle and very
raw with our journey), but the Don would not for prudence, and
therefore, after changing our clothes, we make a shift to mount once
more, and thence another long horrid jolt to Edmonton very painfully.

Coming to the Bell (more dead than alive) about eight, and pitch dark,
we were greatly surprised that we could make no one hear to take our
horses, and further, having turned the brutes into the stable ourselves,
to find never a soul in the common room or parlour, so that the place
seemed quite forsaken. But hearing a loud guffaw of laughter from below,
we go downstairs to the kitchen, which we could scarce enter for the
crowd in the doorway. And here all darkness, save for a sheet hung at
the further end, and lit from behind, on which a kind of phantasmagory
play of Jack and the Giant was being acted by shadow characters cut out
of paper, the performer being hid by a board that served as a stage for
the puppets. And who should this performer be but our Moll, as we knew
by her voice, and most admirably she did it, setting all in a roar one
minute with some merry joke, and enchanting 'em the next with a pretty
song for the maid in distress.

We learnt afterwards that Moll, who could never rest still two minutes
together, but must for ever be a-doing something new, had cut out her
images and devised the show to entertain the servants in the kitchen,
and that the guests above hearing their merriment had come down in time
to get the fag end, which pleased them so vastly that they would have
her play it all over again.

"This may undo us," says Don Sanchez, in a low voice of displeasure,
drawing us away. "Here are a dozen visitors who will presently be
examining Moll as a marvel. Who can say but that one of them may know
her again hereafter to our confusion? We must be seen together no more
than is necessary, until we are out of this country. I shall leave here
in the morning, and you will meet me next at the Turk, in Gracious
Street, to-morrow afternoon." Therewith he goes up to his room, leaving
us to shift for ourselves; and we into the parlour to warm our feet at
the fire till we may be served with some victuals, both very silent and
surly, being still sore, and as tired as any dogs with our day's
jolting.

While we are in this mood, Moll, having finished her play, comes to us
in amazing high spirits, and all aglow with pleasure shows us a handful
of silver given her by the gentry; then, pulling up a chair betwixt us,
she asks us a dozen questions of a string as to where we have been, what
we have done, etc., since we left her. Getting no answer, she presently
stops, looks first at one, then at the other, and bursting into a fit of
laughter, cries: "Why, what ails you both to be so grumpy?"

"In the first place, Moll," says Jack, "I'll have you to know that I am
your father, and will not be spoken to save with becoming respect."

"Why, I did but ask you where you have been."

"Children of your age should not ask questions, but do as they're bid,
and there's an end of it."

"La, I'm not to ask any questions. Is there nothing else I am not to
do?"

"Yes; I'll not have you playing of Galimaufray to cook wenches and such
stuff. I'll have you behave with more decency. Take your feet off the
hearth, and put 'em under your chair. Let me have no more of these
galanty-shows. Why, 'twill be said I cannot give you a basin of
porridge, that you must go a-begging of sixpences like this!"

"Oh, if you begrudge me a little pocket-money," cries she, springing up
with the tears in her eyes, "I'll have none of it."

And with that she empties her pocket on the chair, and out roll her
sixpences together with a couple of silver spoons.

"What," cries Jack, after glancing round to see we were alone. "You have
filched a couple of spoons, Moll?"

"And why not?" asks she, her little nose turning quite white with
passion. "If I am to ask no questions, how shall I know but we may have
never a spoon to-morrow for your precious basin of porridge?"




CHAPTER VII.


_Of our journey through France to a very horrid pass in the Pyraneans._


Skipping over many unimportant particulars of our leaving Edmonton, of
our finding Don Sanchez at the Turk in Gracious Street, of our going
thence (the next day) to Gravesend, of our preparation there for voyage,
I come now to our embarking, the 10th March, in the Rose, for Bordeaux
in France. Nor shall I dwell long on that journey, neither, which was
exceedingly long and painful, by reason of our nearing the equinoctials,
which dashed us from our course to that degree that it was the 26th
before we reached our port and cast anchor in still water. And all those
days we were prostrated with sickness, and especially Jack Dawson,
because of his full habit, so that he declared he would rather ride
a-horseback to the end of the earth than go another mile on sea.

We stayed in Bordeaux, which is a noble town, but dirty, four days to
refresh ourselves, and here the Don lodged us in a fine inn and fed us
on the best; and also he made us buy new clothes and linen (which we
sadly needed after the pickle we had lain in a fortnight) and cast away
our old; but no more than was necessary, saying 'twould be better to
furnish ourselves with fresh linen as we needed it, than carry baggage,
etc. "And let all you buy be good goods," says he, "for in this country
a man is valued at what he seems, and the innkeepers do go in such fear
of their seigneurs that they will charge him less for entertainment than
if he were a mean fellow who could ill afford to pay."

So not to displease him we dressed ourselves in the French fashion, more
richly than ever we had been clad in our lives, and especially Moll did
profit by this occasion to furnish herself like any duchess; so that
Dawson and I drew lots to decide which of us should present the bill to
Don Sanchez, thinking he would certainly take exception to our
extravagance; but he did not so much as raise his eyebrows at the total,
but paid it without ever a glance at the items. Nay, when Moll presents
herself in her new equipment, he makes her a low reverence and pays her
a most handsome compliment, but in his serious humour and without a
smile. He himself wore a new suit all of black, not so fine as ours, but
very noble and becoming, by reason of his easy, graceful manner and his
majestic, high carriage.

On the last day of March we set forth for Toulouse. At our starting Don
Sanchez bade Moll ride by his side, and so we, not being bid, fell
behind; and, feeling awkward in our new clothes, we might very well have
been taken for their servants, or a pair of ill-bred friends at the
best, for our Moll carried herself not a whit less magnificent than the
Don, to the admiration of all who looked at her.

To see these grand airs of hers charmed Jack Dawson.

"You see, Kit," whispers he, "what an apt scholar the minx is, and what
an obedient, dutiful, good girl. One word from me is as good as six
months' schooling, for all this comes of that lecture I gave her the
last night we were at Edmonton."

I would not deny him the satisfaction of this belief, but I felt pretty
sure that had she been riding betwixt us in her old gown, instead of
beside the Don as his daughter, all her father's preaching would not
have stayed her from behaving herself like an orange wench.

We journey by easy stages ten days through Toulouse, on the road to
Perpignan, and being favoured with remarkably fine weather, a blue sky,
and a bright sun above us, and at every turn something strange or
beautiful to admire, no pleasure jaunt in the world could have been more
delightful. At every inn (which here they call hotels) we found good
beds, good food, excellent wine, and were treated like princes, so that
Dawson and I would gladly have given up our promise of a fortune to have
lived in this manner to the end of our days. But Don Sanchez professed
to hold all on this side of the Pyrenese Mountains in great contempt,
saying these hotels were as nothing to the Spanish posadas, that the
people here would rob you if they dared, whereas, on t'other side, not a
Spaniard would take so much as the hair of your horse's tail, though he
were at the last extremity, that the food was not fit for aught but a
Frenchman, and so forth. And our Moll, catching this humour, did also
turn up her nose at everything she was offered, and would send away a
bottle of wine from the table because 'twas not ripe enough, though but
a few weeks before she had been drinking penny ale with a relish, and
that as sour as verjuice. And, indeed, she did carry it mighty high and
artificial, wherever respect and humility were to be commanded. But it
was pretty to see how she would unbend and become her natural self where
her heart was touched by some tender sentiment. How she would empty her
pockets to give to any one with a piteous tale, how she would get from
her horse to pluck wild-flowers by the roadside, and how, one day,
overtaking a poor woman carrying a child painfully on her back, she must
have the little one up on her lap and carry it till we reached the
hamlet where the woman lived, etc. On the fifteenth day we stayed at St.
Denys, and going thence the next morning, had travelled but a couple of
hours when we were caught in a violent storm of hailstones as big as
peas, that was swept with incredible force by a wind rushing through a
deep ravine in the mountains, so that 'twas as much as we could make
headway through it and gain a village which lay but a little distance
from us. And here we were forced to stay all day by another storm of
rain, that followed the hail and continued till nightfall. Many others
besides ourselves were compelled to seek refuge at our inn, and amongst
them a company of Spanish muleteers, for it seems we were come to a pass
leading through the mountains into Spain. These were the first Spaniards
we had yet seen (save the Don), and for all we had heard to their
credit, we could not admire them greatly, being a low-browed,
coarse-featured, ragged crew, and more picturesque than cleanly, besides
stinking intolerably of garlic. By nightfall there was more company than
the inn could accommodate; nevertheless, in respect to our quality, we
were given the best rooms in the house to ourselves.

About eight o'clock, as we were about to sit down to supper, our
innkeeper's wife comes in to tell us that a Spanish grandee is below,
who has been travelling for hours in the storm, and then she asked very
humbly if our excellencies will permit her to lay him a bed in our room
when we have done with it, as she can bestow him nowhere else (the
muleteers filling her house to the very cock loft), and has not the
heart to send him on to St. Denys in this pitiless driving rain. To this
Don Sanchez replies, that a Spanish gentleman is welcome to all we can
offer him, and therewith sends down a mighty civil message, begging his
company at our table.

Moll has just time to whip on a piece of finery, and we to put on our
best manners, when the landlady returns, followed by a stout, robust
Spaniard, in an old coat several times too small for him, whom she
introduced as Senor Don Lopez de Calvados.

Don Lopez makes us a reverence, and then, with his shoulders up to his
ears and like gestures, gives us an harangue at some length, but this
being in Spanish, is as heathen Greek to our ears. However, Don Sanchez
explains that our visitor is excusing his appearance as being forced to
change his wet clothes for what the innkeeper can lend him, and so we,
grinning to express our amiability, all sit down to table and set
to--Moll with her most finicking, delicate airs and graces, and Dawson
and I silent as frogs, with understanding nothing of the Dons'
conversation. This, we learn from Don Sanchez after supper, has turned
chiefly on the best means of crossing into Spain, from which it appears
there are two passes through the mountains, both leading to the same
town, but one more circuitous than the other. Don Lopez has come by the
latter, because the former is used by the muleteers, who are not always
the most pleasant companions one can have in a dangerous road; and for
this reason he recommends us to take his way, especially as we have a
young lady with us, which will be the more practicable, as the same
guides who conducted him will be only too glad to serve us on their
return the next morning. To this proposition we very readily agree, and
supper being ended, Don Sanchez sends for the guides, two hardy
mountaineers, who very readily agree to take us this way the next
morning, if the weather permits. And so we all, wishing Don Lopez a
good-night, to our several chambers.

I was awoke in the middle of the night, as it seemed to me, by a great
commotion below of Spanish shouting and roaring with much jingling of
bells; and looking out of window I perceived lanterns hanging here and
there in the courtyard, and the muleteers packing their goods to depart,
with a fine clear sky full of stars overhead. And scarce had I turned
into my warm bed again, thanking God I was no muleteer, when in comes
the Don with a candle, to say the guide will have us moving at once if
we would reach Ravellos (our Spanish town) before night. So I to
Dawson's chamber, and he to Moll's, and in a little while we all
shivering down to the great kitchen, where is never a muleteer left, but
only a great stench of garlic, to eat a mess of soup, very hot and
comforting. And after that out into the dark (there being as yet but a
faint flush of green and primrose colour over towards the east), where
four fresh mules (which Don Sanchez overnight had bargained to exchange
against our horses, as being the only kind of cattle fit for this
service) are waiting for us with other two mules, belonging to our
guides, all very curiously trapped out with a network of wool and little
jingling bells. Then when Don Sanchez had solemnly debated whether we
should not awake Don Lopez to say farewell, and we had persuaded him
that it would be kinder to let him sleep on, we mounted into our high,
fantastic saddles, and set out towards the mountains, our guides
leading, and we following close upon their heels as our mules could get,
but by no guidance of ours, though we held the reins, for these
creatures are very sagacious and so pertinacious and opiniastre that I
believe though you pulled their heads off they would yet go their own
way.

Our road at first lay across a rising plain, very wild and scrubby, as I
imagine, by the frequent deviations of our beast, and then through a
forest of cork oaks, which keep their leaves all the year through, and
here, by reason of the great shade, we went, not knowing whither, as if
blindfold, only we were conscious of being on rough, rising ground, by
the jolting of our mules and the clatter of their hoofs upon stones; but
after a wearisome, long spell of this business, the trees growing more
scattered and a thin grey light creeping through, we could make out that
we were all together, which was some comfort. From these oaks, we passed
into a wood of chestnuts, and still going up and up, but by such
devious, unseen ways, that I think no man, stranger to these parts,
could pick it out for himself in broad daylight, we came thence into a
great stretch of pine trees, with great rocks scattered amongst them, as
if some mountain had been blown up and fallen in a huge shower of
fragments.

And so, still for ever toiling and scambling upwards, we found ourselves
about seven o'clock, as I should judge by the light beyond the trees and
upon the side of the mountain, with the whole champaign laid out like a
carpet under us on one side, prodigious slopes of rock on either hand,
with only a shrub or a twisted fir here and there, and on the further
side a horrid stark ravine with a cascade of water thundering down in
its midst, and a peak rising beyond, covered with snow, which glittered
in the sunlight like a monstrous heap of white salt.

After resting at this point half an hour to breathe our mules, the
guides got into their saddles, and we did likewise, and so on again
along the side of the ravine, only not of a cluster as heretofore, but
one behind the other in a long line, the mules falling into this order
of themselves as if they had travelled the path an hundred times; but
there was no means of going otherwise, the path being atrociously narrow
and steep, and only fit for wild goats, there being no landrail, coping,
or anything in the world to stay one from being hurled down a thousand
feet, and the mountain sides so inclined that 'twas a miracle the mules
could find foothold and keep their balance. From the bottom of the
ravine came a constant roar of falling water, though we could spy it
only now and then leaping down from one chasm to another; and more than
once our guides would cry to us to stop (and that where our mules had to
keep shifting their feet to get a hold) while some huge boulder,
loosened by the night's rain, flew down across our path in terrific
bounds from the heights above, making the very mountain tremble with the
shock. Not a word spoke we; nay, we had scarce courage at times to draw
breath, for two hours and more of this fearful passage, with no
encouragement from our guides save that one of them did coolly take out
a knife and peel an onion as though he had been on a level, broad road;
and then, reaching a flat space, we came to a stand again before an
ascent that promised to be worse than that we had done. Here we got
down, Moll clinging to our hands and looking around her with large,
frighted eyes.

"Shall we soon be there?" she asked.

And the Don, putting this question in Spanish to the guides, they
pointed upwards to a gap filled with snow, and answered that was the
highest point. This was some consolation, though we could not regard the
rugged way that lay betwixt us and that without quaking. Indeed, I
thought that even Don Sanchez, despite the calm, unmoved countenance he
ever kept, did look about him with a certain kind of uneasiness.
However, taking example from our guides, we unloosed our saddle bags,
and laid out our store of victuals with a hogskin of wine which
rekindled our spirits prodigiously.

While we were at this repast, our guides, starting as if they had caught
a sound (though we heard none save the horrid bursting of water), looked
down, and one of them, clapping two dirty fingers in his mouth, made a
shrill whistle. Then we, looking down, presently spied two mules far
below on the path we had come, but at such a distance that we could
scarce make out whether they were mounted or not.

"Who are they?" asks Don Sanchez, sternly, as I managed to understand.

"Friends," replies one of the fellows, with a grin that seemed to lay
his face in two halves.




CHAPTER VIII.


_How we were entertained in the mountains, and stand in a fair way to
have our throats cut._


"We will go on when you are ready," says Don Sanchez, turning to us.

"Aye," growled Jack in my ear, "with all my heart. For if these friends
be of the same kidney as Don Lopez, we may be persuaded to take a better
road, which God forbid if this be a sample of their preference."

So being in our saddles forth we set once more and on a path no easier
than before, but worse--like a very housetop for steepness, without a
tinge of any living thing for succour if one fell, but only sharp,
jagged rocks, and that which now added to our peril was here and there a
patch of snow, so that the mules must cock their ears and feel their way
before advancing a step, now halting for dread, and now scuttling on
with their tails betwixt their legs as the stones rolled under them.

But the longest road hath an end, and so at length reaching that gap we
had seen from below, to our great content we beheld through an angle in
the mountain a tract of open country below, looking mighty green and
sweet in the distance. And at the sight of this, Moll clapt her hands
and cried out with joy; indeed, we were all as mad as children with the
thought that our task was half done. Only the Don kept his gravity. But
turning to Moll, he stretches out his hand towards the plain and says
with prodigious pride, "My country!"

And now we began the descent, which was actually more perilous than the
ascent, but we made light of it, being very much enlivened by the high
mountain air and the relief from dread uncertainty, shouting out our
reflections one to another as we jolted down the rugged path.

"After all, Jack," says I to him at the top of my voice, being in
advance and next to Don Sanchez; "after all, Don Lopez was not such a
bad friend to us."

Upon which, the Don, stopping his mule at the risk of being cast down
the abyss, turns in his saddle, and says:

"Fellow, Don Lopez is a Spaniard. A Castilian of noble birth--" but here
his mule deciding that this was no fit place for halting, bundled onward
at a trot to overtake the guides, and obliged his rider to turn his
attention to other matters.

By the look of the sun it must have been about two in the afternoon
when, rounding a great bluff of rock, we came upon a kind of tableland
which commanded a wide view of the plain below, most dazzling to our
eyes after the gloomy recesses of the pass; and here we found trees
growing and some rude attempt at cultivation, but all very poor and
stunted, being still very high and exposed to the bleak winds issuing
from the gorges.

Our guides, throwing themselves on the ground, repaired once more to
their store of onions, and we, nothing loath to follow their examples,
opened our saddle bags, and with our cold meat and the hogskin of wine
made another good repast and very merry. And the Don, falling into
discourse with the guides, pointed out to us a little white patch on the
plain below, and told us that was Ravellos, where we should find one of
the best posadas in the world, which added to our satisfaction. "But"
says he, "'tis yet four hours' march ere we reach it, so we had best be
packing quickly."

Thereupon we finished our meal in haste, the guides still lying on the
ground eating onions, and when we were prepared to start they still lay
there and would not budge. On this ensued another discussion, very
indignant and passionate on the part of Don Sanchez, and as cool and
phlegmatic on the side of the guides, the upshot of which was, as we
learned from Don, that these rascals maintained they had fulfilled their
bargain in bringing us over into Spain, but as to carrying us to
Ravellos they would by no means do that without the permission of their
zefe, who was one of those they had whistled to from our last halting
place, and whom they were now staying for.

Then, beginning to quake a bit at the strangeness of this treatment, we
looked about us to see if we might venture to continue our journey
alone. But Lord! one might as easily have found a needle in a bundle of
hay as a path amidst this labyrinth of rocks and horrid fissures that
environed us; and this was so obvious that the guides, though not yet
paid for their service, made no attempt to follow or to stay us, as
knowing full well we must come back in despair. So there was no choice
but to wait the coming up of the zefe, the Don standing with his legs
astride and his arms folded, with a very storm of passion in his face,
in readiness to confront the tardy zefe with his reproaches for this
delay and the affront offered to himself, we casting our eye longingly
down at Ravellos, and the guides silently munching their onions. Thus we
waited until the fine ear of our guides catching a sound, they rose to
their feet muttering the word "zefe," and pull off their hats as two men
mounted on mules tricked out like our own, came round the corner and
pulled up before us. But what was our surprise to see that the foremost
of these fellows was none other than the Don Lopez de Calvados we had
entertained to supper the night before, and of whose noble family Don
Sanchez had been prating so highly, and not a thread better dressed than
when we saw him last, and full as dirty. That which gave us most
uneasiness, however, was to observe that each of these "friends" carried
an ugly kind of musket slung across his back, and a most unpleasant long
sheath knife in his waist cloth.

Not a word says our Don Sanchez, but feigning still to believe him a man
of quality, he returns the other Don's salutation with all the ceremony
possible. Then Don Lopez, smiling from ear to ear, begs us (as I learnt
afterwards) to pardon him for keeping us waiting, which had not
happened, he assures us, if we had not suffered him to oversleep
himself. He then informs us that we are now upon his domain, and begs us
to accept such hospitality as his Castillo will furnish, in return for
our entertainment of last night. To this Don Sanchez replies with a
thousand thanks that we are anxious to reach Ravellos before nightfall,
and that, therefore, we will be going at once if it is all the same to
him. With more bowing and scraping Don Lopez amiably but firmly declines
to accept any refusal of his offer or to talk of business before his
debt of gratitude is paid. With that he gives a sign to our guides, who
at once lead off our mules at a brisk trot, leaving us to follow on foot
with Don Lopez and his companion, whom he introduces as Don Ruiz del
Puerto,--as arrant a cut-throat rascal to look at as ever I clapt eyes
on.


So we with very dismal forebodings trudge on, having no other course to
take, Don Sanchez, to make the best of it, warranting that no harm shall
come to us while we are under the hospitable protection of a Spaniard,
but to no great effect--our faith being already shaken in his valuation
of Spaniards.

Quitting the tableland, ten minutes of leaping and scrambling brought us
to a collection of miserable huts built all higgledy-piggledy along the
edge of a torrent, overtopped by a square building of more consequence,
built of grey stone and roofed with slate shingles, but with nothing but
ill-shaped holes for windows; and this, Don Lopez with some pride told
us was his castillo. A ragged crew of women and children, apprised of
our coming by the guide, maybe, trooped out of the village to meet us
and hailed our approach with shouts of joy, "for all the world like a
pack of hounds at the sight of their keeper with a dish of bones,"
whispers Jack Dawson in my ear ominously. But it was curious to see how
they did all fall back in two lines, those that had hats taking them off
as Don Lopez passed, he bowing to them right and left, like any prince
in his progress.

So we up to the castillo, where all the men of the village are assembled
and all armed like Don Lopez, and they greet us with cries of "Hola!"
and throwing up of hats. They making way for us with salutations on both
sides, we enter the castillo, where we find one great ill-paved room
with a step-ladder on one side leading to the floor above, but no
furniture save a table and some benches of wood, all black and shining
with grease and dirt. But indeed the walls, the ceiling, and all else
about us was beyond everything for blackness, and this was easily to be
understood, for a wench coming in with a cauldron lights a faggot of
wood in a corner, where was no chimney to carry off the smoke, but only
a hole in the wall with a kind of eaves over it, so that presently the
place was so filled with the fumes 'twas difficult to see across it.

Don Lopez (always as gracious as a cat with a milkmaid) asks Moll
through Don Sanchez if she would like to make her toilette, while dinner
is preparing, and at this offer all of us jump--choosing anything for a
change; so he takes us up the step-ladder to the floor above, which
differs from that below in being cut up into half a dozen pieces by some
low partition of planks nailed loosely together like cribs for cattle,
with some litter of dry leaves and hay in each, but in other respects
being just as naked and grimy, with a cloud of smoke coming up through
the chinks in the floor.

"You will have the sole use of these chambers during your stay," says
Don Lopez, "and for your better assurance you can draw the ladder up
after you on retiring for the night."

But for the gravity of our situation and prospects I could have burst
out laughing when Don Sanchez gave us the translation of this promise,
for the idea of regarding these pens as chambers was not less ludicrous
than the air of pride with which Don Lopez bestowed the privilege of
using 'em upon us.

Don Lopez left us, promising to send a maid with the necessary
appointments for Moll's toilette.

"A plague of all this finery!" growled Dawson. "How long may it be,
think you, Senor, ere we can quit this palace and get to one of those
posadas you promised us?"

Don Sanchez hunched his shoulders for all reply and turned away to hide
his mortification. And now a girl comes up with a biggin of water on her
head, a broken comb in her hand, and a ragged cloth on her arm that
looked as if it had never been washed since it left the loom, and sets
them down on a bench, with a grin at Moll; but she, though not
over-nice, turns away with a pout of disgust, and then we to get a
breath of fresh air to a hole in the wall on the windward side, where we
stand all dumb with disappointment and dread until we are called down to
dinner. But before going down Don Sanchez warns us to stand on our best
behaviour, as these Spaniards, for all their rude seeming, were of a
particularly punctilious, ticklish disposition, and that we might come
badly out of this business if we happened to displease them.

"I cannot see reason in that, Senor," says Dawson; "for the less we
please 'em, the sooner they are likely to send us hence, and so the
better for us."

"As you please," replies the Don, "but my warning is to your advantage."

Down we go, and there stands Don Lopez with a dozen choice friends, all
the raggedest, dirty villains in the world; and they saluting us, we
return their civility with a very fair pretence and take the seats
offered us--they standing until we are set. Then they sit down, and each
man lugs out a knife from his waist-cloth. The cauldron, filled with a
mess of kid stewed in a multitude of onions, is fetched from the fire,
and, being set upon a smooth board, is slid down the table to our host,
who, after picking out some titbits for us, serves himself, and so
slides it back, each man in turn picking out a morsel on the end of his
knife. Bearing in mind Don Sanchez's warning, we do our best to eat of
this dish; but, Heaven knows! with little relish, and mighty glad when
the cauldron is empty and that part of the performance ended. Then the
bones being swept from the table, a huge skin of wine is set before Don
Lopez, and he serves us each with about a quart in an odd-shaped vessel
with a spout, which Don Sanchez and his countrymen use by holding it
above their heads and letting the wine spurt into their mouths; but we,
being unused to this fashion, preferred rather to suck it out of the
spout, which seemed to them as odd a mode as theirs was to us. However,
better wine, drink it how you may, there is none than the wine of these
parts, and this reconciling us considerably to our condition, we
listened with content to their singing of ditties, which they did very
well for such rude fellows, to the music of a guitar and a tambourine.
And so when our pots came to be replenished a second time, we were all
mighty merry and agreeable save Jack Dawson, who never could take his
liquor like any other man, but must fall into some extravagant humour,
and he, I perceived, regarded some of the company with a very sour,
jealous eye because, being warmed with drink, they fell to casting
glances at Moll with a certain degree of familiarity. Especially there
was one fellow with a hook nose, who stirred his bile exceedingly,
sitting with his elbows on the table and his jaws in his hands, and
would scarcely shift his eyes from Moll. And since he could not make his
displeasure understood in words, and so give vent to it and be done,
Jack sat there in sullen silence watching for an opportunity to show his
resentment in some other fashion. The other saw this well enough, but
would not desist, and so these two sat fronting each other like two dogs
ready to fly at each other's throats. At length, the hook-nosed rascal,
growing bolder with his liquor, rises as if to reach for his wine pot,
and stretching across the table, chucks Moll under the chin with his
grimy fingers. At this Jack flinging out his great fist with all the
force of contained passion, catches the other right in the middle of the
face, with such effect that the fellow flies clean back over his bench,
his head striking the pavement with a crash. Then, in an instant, all
his fellows spring to their feet, and a dozen long knives flash out from
their sheaths.




CHAPTER IX.


_Of the manner in which we escaped pretty fairly out of the hands of
Senor Don Lopez and his brigands._


Up starts Jack Dawson, catching Moll by the arm and his joint stool by
the leg, and stepping back a pace or two not to be taken in the flank,
he swings his stool ready to dash the brains out of the first that nears
him. And I do likewise, making the same show of valour with my stool,
but cutting a poor figure beside Dawson's mighty presence.

Seeing their fellow laid out for dead on the floor, with his hook nose
smashed most horridly into his face, the others had no stomach to meet
the same fate, but with their Spanish cunning began to spread out that
so they might attack us on all sides; and surely this had done our
business but that Don Lopez, flinging himself before us with his knife
raised high, cries out at the top of his voice, "Rekbah!"--a word of
their own language, I am told, taken from the Moorish, and signifying
that whosoever shall outrage the laws of hospitality under his roof
shall be his enemy to the death. And at this word every man stood still
as if by inchantment, and let fall his weapon. Then in the same high
voice he gives them an harangue, showing them that Dawson was in the
right to avenge an insult offered his daughter, and the other justly
served for his offence to us. "For his offence to me as the host of
these strangers," adds he, "Jose shall answer to me hereafter if he
live; if he be dead, his body shall be flung to the vultures of the
gorge, and his name be never uttered again beneath this roof."

"I bear no grudges, not I," says Dawson, when Don Sanchez gave him the
English of this. "If he live, let his nose be set; and if dead, let him
be buried decently in a churchyard. But hark ye, Senor, lest we fall out
again and come out worse the next bout, do pray ask his worship if we
may not be accommodated with a guide to take us on our way at once. We
have yet two hours of daylight before us, there's not a cloud in the
sky, and with such a moon as we had the night before last, we may get on
well enough."

Poor Moll, who was all of a shake with the terror of another
catastrophe, added her prayers to Dawson's, and Don Sanchez with a
profusion of civilities laid the proposal before Don Lopez, who, though
professing the utmost regret to lose us so soon, consented to gratify
our wish, adding that his mules were so well accustomed to the road that
they could make the journey as well in the dark as in broad day.

"Well, then," says Dawson, when this was told us, "let us settle the
business at once, and be off."

And now, when Don Sanchez proposed to pay for the service of our guides,
it was curious to see how every rascal at the table craned forward to
watch the upshot. Don Lopez makes a pretence of leaving the payment to
Don Sanchez's generosity; and he, not behindhand in courtesy, lugs out
his purse and begs the other to pay himself. Whereupon, with more
apologies, Don Lopez empties the money on the table and carefully counts
it, and there being but about a score of gold pieces and some silver, he
shakes his head and says a few words to Don Sanchez in a very
reproachful tone of remonstrance, to which our Don replies by turning
all the trifles out of his pocket, one after the other, to prove that he
has no money.

"I thought as much," growls Jack in my ear. "A pretty nest of hornets
we're fallen into."

The company, seeing there was no more to be got out of Don Sanchez,
began to murmur and cast their eyes at us; whereupon Dawson, seeing how
the land lay, stands up and empties his pockets on the table, and I
likewise; but betwixt us there was no more than some French pennies and
a few odds and ends of no value at all. Fetching a deep sigh, Don Lopez
takes all these possessions into a heap before him, and tells Don
Sanchez that he cannot believe persons of our quality could travel with
so little, that he feels convinced Don Sanchez must have dropped a purse
on the way, and that until it is found he can on no account allow us to
leave the neighbourhood.

"This comes of being so mighty fine!" says Dawson, when Don Sanchez had
explained matters. "Had we travelled as became our condition, this
brigand would never have ensnared us hither. And if they won't believe
your story, Senor, I can't blame 'em; for I would have sworn you had a
thousand pounds to your hand."

"Do you reproach me for my generosity?" asks the Don.

"Nay, Master, I love you for being free with your money while you have
it, but 'tis a queer kind of generosity to bring us into these parts
with no means of taking us back again. Hows'ever, we'll say no more
about that if we get out of this cursed smoke-hole; and as we are like
to come off ill if these Jack-thieves keep us here a week or so and get
nothing by it, 'twill be best to tell 'em the honest truth, and acquaint
them that we are no gentle folk, but only three poor English mountebanks
brought hither on a wild goose chase."

This was a bitter pill for Don Sanchez to swallow; however, seeing no
other cure for our ills, he gulped it down with the best face he could
put on it. But from the mockery and laughter of all who heard him, 'twas
plain to see they would not believe a word of his story.

"What would you have me do now?" asks the Don, turning to us when the
clamour had subsided, and he told us how he had tried to persuade them
we were dancers he was taking for a show to the fair at Barcelona, which
they, by our looks, would not believe, and especially that a man of such
build as Jack Dawson could foot it, even to please such heavy people as
the English.

"What!" cries Jack. "I can't dance! We will pretty soon put them to
another complexion if they do but give us space and a fair trial. You
can strum a guitar, Kit, for I've heard you. And Moll, my chick, do you
dash the tears from your cheek and pluck up courage to show these
Portugals what an English lass can do."

The brigands agreeing to this trial, the table is shoved back to give us
a space in the best light, and our judges seat themselves conveniently.
Moll brushes her eyes (to a little murmur of sympathy, as I thought),
and I, striking out the tune, Jack, with all the magnificence of a king,
takes her hand and leads her out to a French pavan; and sure no one in
the world ever stepped it more gracefully than our poor little Moll (now
put upon her mettle), nor more lightly than Dawson, so that every rascal
in our audience was won to admiration, clapping hands and shouting
"Hola!" when it was done. And this warming us, we gave 'em next an
Italian coranto, and after that, an English pillow dance; and, in good
faith, had they all been our dearest friends, these dirty fellows could
not have gone more mad with delight. And then Moll and her father
sitting down to fetch their breath, a dispute arose among the brigands
which we were at a loss to understand, until Don Sanchez explained that
a certain number would have it we were real dancers, but that another
party, with Don Lopez, maintained these were but court dances, which
only proved the more we were of high quality to be thus accomplished.

"We'll convince 'em yet, Moll, with a pox of their doubts," cries
Dawson, starting to his feet again. "Tell 'em we will give 'em a stage
dance of a nymph and a wild man, Senor, with an excuse for our having no
costume but this. Play us our pastoral, Kit. And sing you your ditty of
'Broken Heart,' Moll, in the right place, that I may get my wind for the
last caper."

Moll nods, and with ready wit takes the ribbon from her head, letting
her pretty hair tumble all about her shoulders, and then whipping up her
long skirt, tucks one end under her girdle, thereby making a very dainty
show of pink lining against the dark stuff, and also giving more play
for her feet. And so thus they dance their pastoral, Don Sanchez taking
a tambourine and tapping it lightly to the measure, up to Moll's song,
which so ravished these hardy, stony men by the pathetic sweetness of
her voice,--for they could understand nothing save by her
expression,--that they would not let the dance go on until she had sung
it through again. To conclude, Jack springs up as one enamoured to
madness and flings out his last steps with such vigour and agility as to
quite astound all.

[Illustration: "MOLL AND HER FATHER DANCE A PASTORAL."]

And now the show being ended, and not one but is a-crying of "Hola!" and
"Animo!" Moll snatches the tambourine from Don Sanchez's hand, and
stepping before Don Lopez drops him a curtsey, and offers it for her
reward. At this Don Lopez, glancing at the money on the table by his
side, and looking round for sanction to his company (which they did give
him without one voice of opposition), he takes up two of the gold pieces
and drops them on the parchment. Thus did our Moll, by one clever hit,
draw an acknowledgment from them that we were indeed no fine folks, but
mere players, which point they might have stumbled over in their cooler
moments.

But we were not quit yet; for on Don Sanchez's begging that we should
now be set upon our road to Ravellos, the other replies that though he
will do us this service with great pleasure, yet he cannot permit us to
encounter the danger again of being taken for persons of quality. "Fine
dress," says he, "may be necessary to the Senor and his daughter for
their court dances, and they are heartily welcome to them for the
pleasure they have given us, but for you and the musician who plays but
indifferent well, meaner garb is more suitable; and so you will be good
enough to step upstairs, the pair of you, and change your clothing for
such as we can furnish from our store."

And upstairs we were forced to go, Don Sanchez and I, and there being
stripped we were given such dirty foul rags and so grotesque, that when
we came down, Jack Dawson and Moll fell a-laughing at us, as though they
would burst. And, in truth, we made a most ludicrous spectacle,
--especially the Don, whom hitherto we had seen only in the
neatest and most noble of clothes,--looking more like a couple of
scarecrows than living men.

Don Sanchez neither smiled nor frowned at this treatment, taking this
misfortune with the resignation of a philosopher; only to quiet Dawson's
merriment he told him that in the clothes taken from him was sewed up a
bond for two hundred pounds, but whether this was true or not I cannot
tell.

And now, to bring an end to this adventure, we were taken down the
intricate passes of the mountain in the moonlight, as many of the gang
as could find mules coming with us for escort, and brought at last to
the main road, where we were left with nought but what we stood in (save
Moll's two pieces), the robbers bidding us their adios with all the
courtesy imaginable. But even then, robbed of all he had even to the
clothes of his back, Don Sanchez's pride was unshaken, for he bade us
note that the very thieves in Spain were gentlemen.

As we trudged along the road toward Ravellos, we fell debating on our
case, as what we should do next, etc., Don Sanchez promising that we
should have redress for our ill-treatment, that his name alone would
procure us a supply of money for our requirements, etc., to my great
content. But Dawson was of another mind.

"As for seeking redress," says he, "I would as soon kick at a hive for
being stung by a bee, and the wisest course when you've been once bit by
a dog is to keep out of his way for the future. With respect of getting
money by your honour's name, you may do as you please, and so may you,
Kit, if you're so minded. But for my part, henceforth I'll pretend to be
no better than I am, and the first suit of rags I can get will I wear in
the fashion of this country. And so shall you, Moll, my dear; so make up
your mind to lay aside your fine airs and hold up your nose no longer as
if you were too good for your father."

"Why, surely, Jack," says I, "you would not quit us and go from your
bargain."

"Not I, and you should know me well enough, Kit, to have no doubt on
that score. But 'tis no part of our bargain that we should bustle
anybody but Simon the steward."

"We have four hundred miles to go ere we reach Elche," says Don Sanchez.
"Can you tell me how we are to get there without money?"

"Aye, that I can, and I warrant my plan as good as your honour's. How
many tens are there in four hundred, Kit?"

"Forty."

"Well, we can walk ten miles a day on level ground, and so may do this
journey in six weeks or thereabouts, which is no such great matter,
seeing we are not to be back in England afore next year. We can buy a
guitar and a tabor out of Moll's pieces; with them we can give a show
wherever we stay for the night, and if honest men do but pay us half as
much as the thieves of this country, we may fare pretty well."

"I confess," says Don Sanchez, "your scheme is the best, and I would
myself have proposed it but that I can do so little for my share."

"Why, what odds does that make, Senor?" cries Jack. "You gave us of the
best while you had aught to give, and 'tis but fair we should do the
same now. Besides which, how could we get along without you for a
spokesman, and I marked that you drummed to our dance very tunefully.
Come, is it a bargain, friend?"

And on Don Sanchez's consenting, Jack would have us all shake hands on
it for a sign of faith and good fellowship. Then, perceiving that we
were arrived at the outskirts of the town, we ended our discussion.




CHAPTER X.


_Of our merry journeying to Alicante._


We turned into the first posada we came to--a poor, mean sort of an inn
and general shop, to be sure, but we were in no condition to cavil about
trifles, being fagged out with our journey and the adventures of the
day, and only too happy to find a house of entertainment still open. So
after a dish of sausages with very good wine, we to our beds and an end
to the torment of fleas I had endured from the moment I changed my
French habit for Spanish rags.

The next morning, when we had eaten a meal of goats' milk and bread and
paid our reckoning, which amounted to a few rials and no more, Don
Sanchez and I, taking what rested of Moll's two pieces, went forth into
the town and there bought two plain suits of clothes for ourselves in
the mode of the country, and (according to his desire) another of the
same cut for Dawson, together with a little jacket and petticoat for
Moll. And these expenditures left us but just enough to buy a good
guitar and a tambourine--indeed, we should not have got them at all but
that Don Sanchez higgled and bargained like any Jew, which he could do
with a very good face now that he was dressed so beggarly. Then back to
our posada, where in our room Jack and I were mighty merry in putting on
our new clothes; but going below we find Moll still dressed in her
finery, and sulking before the petticoat and jacket we had bought for
her, which she would not put on by any persuasion until her father fell
into a passion of anger. And the sight of him fuming in a short jacket
barely covering his loins, and a pair of breeches so tight the seams
would scarce hold together, so tickled her sense of humour that she fell
into a long fit of laughter, and this ending her sulks she went upstairs
with a good grace and returned in her hated petticoat, carrying her fine
dress in a bundle. But I never yet knew the time when this sly baggage
would not please herself for all her seeming yielding to others, and we
were yet to have more pain from her than she from us in respect of that
skirt. For ere we had got half way through the town she, dawdling behind
to look first in this shop and then in that, gave us the slip, so that
we were best part of an hour hunting the streets up and down in the
utmost anxiety. Then as we were sweating with our exercise and trouble,
lo! she steps out of a shop as calm as you please in a petticoat and
jacket of her own fancy (and ten times more handsome than our purchase),
a red shawl tied about her waist, and a little round hat with a bright
red bob in it, set on one side of her head, and all as smart as a
carrot.

"Da!" says she, "where have you been running all this time?"

And we, betwixt joy at finding her and anger at her impudence, could say
nothing; and yet we were fain to admire her audacity too. But how, not
knowing one word of the language, she had made her wants known was a
mystery, and how she had obtained this finery was another, seeing that
we had spent all there was of her two pieces. Certainly she had not
changed her French gown and things for them, for these in a cumbrous
bundle had her father been carrying up and down the town since we lost
the minx.

"If you han't stole 'em," says Dawson, finding his tongue at last,
"where did you find the money to pay for those trappings, slut?"

"In my pocket, sir," says she, with a curtsey, "where you might have
found yours had you not emptied it so readily for the robbers yesterday.
And I fancy," adds she slyly, "I may still find some left to offer you a
dinner at midday if you will accept of it."

This hint disposed us to make light of our grievance against her, and we
went out of Ravellos very well satisfied to know that our next meal
depended not solely upon chance. And this, together with the bright
sunlight and the sweet invigorating morning air, did beget in us a
spirit of happy carelessness, in keeping with the smiling gay aspect of
the country about us.

It was strange to see how easily Moll fell into our happy-go-lucky
humour, she, who had been as stately as any Roman queen in her long
gown, being now, in her short coloured petticoat, as frolicsome and
familiar as a country wench at a fair; but indeed she was a born actress
and could accommodate herself as well to one condition as another with
the mere change of clothes. But I think this state was more to her real
taste than the other, as putting no restraint upon her impulses and
giving free play to her healthy, exuberant mirth. Her very step was a
kind of dance, and she must needs fall a-carolling of songs like a lark
when it flies. Then she would have us rehearse our old songs to our new
music. So, slinging my guitar in front of me, I put it in tune, and Jack
ties his bundle to his back that he may try his hand at the tambourine.
And so we march along singing and playing as if to a feast, and stopping
only to laugh prodigiously when one or other fell out of tune,--the most
mad, light-hearted fools in the world;--but I speak not of Don Sanchez,
who, feel what he might, never relaxed his high bearing or unbent his
serious countenance.

One thing I remember of him on this journey. Having gone about five
miles, we sat us down on a bridge to rest a while, and there the Don
left us to go a little way up the course of the stream that flowed
beneath, and he came back with a posey of sweet jonquils set off with a
delicate kind of fern very pretty, and this he presents to Moll with a
gracious little speech, which act, it seemed to me, was to let her know
that he respected her still as a young gentlewoman in spite of her short
petticoat, and Moll was not dull to the compliment neither; for, after
the first cry of delight in seeing these natural dainty flowers (she
loving such things beyond all else in the world), she bethought her to
make him a curtsey and reply to his speech with another as good and well
turned, as she set them in her waist scarf. Also I remember on this road
we saw oranges and lemons growing for the first time, but full a mile
after Moll had first caught their wondrous perfume in the air. And these
trees, which are about the size of a crab tree, grew in close groves on
either side of the road, with no manner of fence to protect them, so
that any one is lief to pluck what he may without let, so plentiful are
they, and curious to see how fruit and blossom grow together on the same
bush, the lemons, as I hear, giving four crops in the year, and more
delicious, full, and juicy than any to be bought in England at six to
the groat.

We got a dinner of bread and cheese (very high) at a roadside house, and
glad to have that, only no meat of any kind, but excellent good wine
with dried figs and walnuts, which is the natural food of this country,
where one may go a week without touching flesh and yet feel as strong
and hearty at the end. And here very merry, Jack in his pertinacious,
stubborn spirit declaring he would drink his wine in the custom of the
country or none at all, and so lifting up the spouted mug at arm's
length he squirts the liquor all over his face, down his new clothes and
everywhere but into his mouth, before he could arrive to do it like Don
Sanchez; but getting into the trick of it, he so mighty proud of his
achievement that he must drink pot after pot until he got as drunk as
any lord. So after that, finding a retired place,--it being midday and
prodigious hot (though only now in mid-April),--we lay down under the
orange trees and slept a long hour, to our great refreshment. Dawson on
waking remembered nothing of his being drunk, and felt not one penny the
worse for it. And so on another long stretch through sweet country, with
here and there a glimpse of the Mediterranean, in the distance, of a
surprising blueness, before we reached another town, and that on the top
of a high hill. But it seems that all the towns in these parts (save
those armed with fortresses) are thus built for security against the
pirates, who ravage the seaboard of this continent incessantly from end
to end. And for this reason the roads leading up to the town are made
very narrow, tortuous, and difficult, with watch-towers in places, and
many points where a few armed men lying in ambush may overwhelm an enemy
ten times as strong. The towns themselves are fortified with gates, the
streets extremely narrow and crooked, and the houses massed all together
with secret passages one to another, and a network of little alleys
leading whither only the inhabitants knew, so that if an enemy do get
into them 'tis ten to one he will never come out alive.

It being market day in this town, here Jack and his daughter gave a show
of dancing, first in their French suits, which were vastly admired, and
after in their Spanish clothes; but then they were asked to dance a
fandango, which they could not. However, we fared very well, getting the
value of five shillings in little moneys, and the innkeepers would take
nothing for our entertainment, because of the custom we had brought his
house, which we considered very handsome on his part.

We set out again the next morning, but having shown how we passed the
first day I need not dwell upon those which followed before we reached
Barcelona, there being nothing of any great importance to tell. Only
Moll was now all agog to learn the Spanish dances, and I cannot easily
forget how, after much coaxing and wheedling on her part, she at length
persuaded Don Sanchez to show her a fandango; for, surely, nothing in
the world was ever more comic than this stately Don, without any music,
and in the middle of the high road, cutting capers, with a countenance
as solemn as any person at a burying. No one could be more quick to
observe the ludicrous than he, nor more careful to avoid ridicule;
therefore it said much for Moll's cajolery, or for the love he bore her
even at this time, to thus expose himself to Dawson's rude mirth and
mine in order to please her.

We reached Barcelona the 25th of April, and there we stayed till the 1st
of May, for Moll would go no further before she had learnt a bolero and
a fandango--which dances we saw danced at a little theatre excellently
well, but in a style quite different to ours, and the women very fat and
plain. And though Moll, being but a slight slip of a lass, in whom the
warmer passions were unbegotten, could not give the bolero the
voluptuous fervour of the Spanish dancers, yet in agility and in pretty
innocent grace she did surpass them all to nought, which was abundantly
proved when she danced it in our posada before a court full of
Spaniards, for there they were like mad over her, casting their silk
handkerchiefs at her feet in homage, and filling Jack's tambourine three
times over with cigarros and a plentiful scattering of rials. And I
believe, had we stayed there, we might have made more money than ever we
wanted at that time--though not so much as Don Sanchez had set his mind
on; wherefore he would have us jogging again as soon as Moll could be
brought to it.

From Barcelona, we journeyed a month to Valencia, growing more indolent
with our easier circumstances, and sometimes trudging no more than five
or six miles in a day. And we were, I think, the happiest, idlest set of
vagabonds in existence. But, indeed, in this country there is not that
spur to exertion which is for ever goading us in this. The sun fills
one's heart with content, and for one's other wants a few halfpence a
day will suffice, and if you have them not 'tis no such great matter.
For these people are exceeding kind and hospitable; they will give you a
measure of wine if you are thirsty, as we would give a mug of water, and
the poorest man will not sit down to table without making you an offer
to share what he has. Wherever we went we were well received, and in
those poor villages where they had no money to give they would pay us
for our show in kind, one giving us bed, another board, and filling our
wallets ere we left 'em with the best they could afford.

'Twas our habit to walk a few miles before dinner, to sleep in the shade
during the heat of the day, and to reach a town (if possible) by the
fall of the sun. There would we spend half the night in jollity, and lie
abed late in the morning. The inns and big houses in these parts are
built in the form of squares, enclosing an open court with a sort of
arcade all round, and mostly with a grape-vine running over the sunnier
side, and in this space we used to give our performance, by the light of
oil lamps hung here and there conveniently, with the addition, maybe, of
moonlight reflected from one of the white walls. Here any one was free
to enter, we making no charge, but taking only what they would freely
give. And this treatment engenders a feeling of kindness on both sides
(very different to our sentiment at home, where we players as often as
not dread the audience as a kind of enemy, ready to tear us to pieces if
we fail to please), and ours was as great a pleasure to amuse as theirs
to be amused. I can recall to mind nothing of any moment occurring on
this journey, save that we spent some time every day in perfecting our
Spanish dances, I getting to play the tunes correctly, which at first I
made sad bungling of, and Dawson in learning of his steps. Also, he and
Moll acquired the use of a kind of clappers, called costagnettes, which
they play with their hands in these fandangos and boleros, with a very
pleasing effect.

At Valencia we stayed a week and three days, lingering more than was
necessary, in order to see a bull-fight. And this pastime they do not as
we with dogs, but with men, and the bull quite free, and, save for the
needless killing of horses, I think this a very noble exercise, being a
fair trial of human address against brute force. And 'tis not nearly so
beastly as seeing a prize fought by men, and not more cruel, I take it,
than the shooting of birds and hares for sport, seeing that the agony of
death is no greater for a sturdy bull than for a timid coney, and hath
this advantage, that the bull, when exhausted, is despatched quickly,
whereas the bird or hare may just escape capture, to die a miserable
long death with a shattered limb.

From Valencia we travelled five weeks (growing, I think, more lazy every
day), over very hilly country to Alicante, a seaport town very strongly
protected by a castle on a great rock, armed with guns of brass and
iron, so that the pirates dare never venture near. And here I fully
thought we were to dawdle away another week at the least, this being a
very populous and lively city, promising much entertainment. For Moll,
when not playing herself, was mad to see others play, and she did really
govern, with her subtle wiles and winning smiles, more than her father,
for all his masterful spirit, or Don Sanchez with his stern authority.
But seeing two or three English ships in the port, the Don deemed it
advisable that we should push on at once for Elche, and, to our great
astonishment, Moll consented to our speedy going without demur, though
why, we could not then discover, but did soon after, as I shall
presently show.




CHAPTER XI.


_Of our first coming to Elche and the strangeness of that city._


Being resolved to our purpose overnight, we set out fairly early in the
morning for Elche, which lies half a dozen leagues or thereabouts to the
west of Alicante. Our way lay through gardens of oranges and spreading
vineyards, which flourish exceedingly in this part, being protected from
unkind winds by high mountains against the north and east; and here you
shall picture us on the white, dusty road, Moll leading the way a dozen
yards in advance, a tambourine slung on her back with streaming ribbons
of many colours, taking two or three steps on one foot, and then two or
three steps on t'other, with a Spanish twist of her hips at each turn,
swinging her arms as she claps her costagnettes to the air of a song she
had picked up at Barcelona, and we three men plodding behind, the Don
with a guitar across his back, Dawson with our bundle of clothes, and I
with a wallet of provisions hanging o' one side and a skin of wine on
the other--and all as white as any millers with the dust of Moll's
dancing.

"It might be as well," says Don Sanchez, in his solemn, deliberate
manner, "if Mistress Moll were advised to practise her steps in our
rear."

"Aye, Senor," replied Dawson, "I've been of the same mind these last ten
minutes. But with your consent, Don Sanchez, I'll put her to a more
serious exercise."

The Don consenting with a bow, Jack continues:

"You may have observed that I haven't opened my lips since we left the
town, and the reason thereof is that I've been turning over in my mind
whether, having come thus far, it would not be advisable to let my Moll
know of our project. Because, if she should refuse, the sooner we
consider some other plan, the better, seeing that now she is in good
case and as careless as a bird on the bough, and she is less tractable
to our purposes than when she felt the pinch of hunger and cold and
would have jumped at anything for a bit of comfort."

"Does she not know of our design?" asks the Don, lifting his eyebrows.

"No more than the man in the moon, Senor," answers Jack. "For, though
Kit and I may have discoursed of it at odd times, we have been mighty
careful to shut our mouths or talk of a fine day at her approach."

"Very good," says Don Sanchez. "You are her father."

"And she shall know it," says Jack, with resolution, and taking a stride
or two in advance he calls to her to give over dancing and come to him.

"Have you forgot your breeding," he asks as she turns and waits for him,
"that you have no more respect for your elders than to choke 'em with
dust along of your shuffling?"

"What a thoughtless thing am I!" cries she, in a voice of contrition.
"Why, you're floured as white as a shade!"

Then taking up a corner of her waist-shawl, she gently rubs away the
dust from the tip of his nose, so that it stood out glowing red from his
face like a cherry through a hole in a pie-crust, at which she claps her
hands and rings out a peal of laughter.

"I counted to make a lady of you, Moll," says Jack, in sorrow, "but I
see plainly you will ever be a fool, and so 'tis to no purpose to speak
seriously."

"Surely, father, I have ever been what you wish me to be," answers she,
demurely, curious now to know what he would be telling her.

"Then do you put them plaguy clappers away, and listen to me patiently,"
says he.

Moll puts her hands behind her, and drawing a long lip and casting round
eyes at us over her shoulder, walks along very slowly by her father's
side, while he broaches the matter to her. And this he did with some
difficulty (for 'tis no easy thing to make a roguish plot look
innocent), as we could see by his shifting his bundle from one shoulder
to the other now and again, scratching his ear and the like; but what he
said, we, walking a pace or two behind, could not catch, he dropping to
a very low tone as if ashamed to hear his own voice. To all he has to
tell she listens very attentively, but in the end she says something
which causes him to stop dead short and turn upon her gaping like a pig.

"What!" he cries as we came up. "You knew all this two months ago?"

"Yes, father," answers she, primly, "quite two months."

"And pray who told you?" he asks.

"No one, father, since you forbade me to ask questions. But though I may
be dumb to oblige you, I can't be deaf. Kit and you are for ever
a-talking of it."

"Maybe, child," says Dawson, mightily nettled. "Maybe you know why we
left Alicante this morning."

"I should be dull indeed if I didn't," answers she. "And if you hadn't
said when we saw the ships that we might meet more Englishmen in the
town than we might care to know hereafter, why,--well, maybe we should
have been in Alicante now."

"By denying yourself that satisfaction," says Don Sanchez, "we may
conclude that the future we are making for you is not unacceptable."

Moll stopped and says with some passion:

"I would turn back now and go over those mountains the way we came to
ride through France in my fine gown like a lady."

"Brava! bravamente!" says the Don, in a low voice, as she steps on in
front of us, holding her head high with the recollection of her former
state.

"She was ever like that," whispers Dawson, with pride. "We could never
get her to play a mean part willingly; could we, Kit? She was for ever
wanting the part of a queen writ for her."

The next day about sundown, coming to a little eminence, Don Sanchez
points out a dark patch of forest lying betwixt us and the mountains,
and says:

"That is Elche, the place where we are to stay some months."

We could make out no houses at all, but he told us the town lay in the
middle of the forest, and added some curious particulars as how, lying
on flat ground and within easy access of the sea, it could not exist at
all but for the sufferance of the Spaniards on one side and of the
Barbary pirates on the other, how both for their own convenience
respected it as neutral ground on which each could exchange his
merchandise without let or hindrance from the other, how the sort of
sanctuary thus provided was never violated either by Algerine or
Spaniard, but each was free to come and go as he pleased, etc., and this
did somewhat reassure us, though we had all been more content to see our
destination on the crest of a high hill.

From this point we came in less than half an hour to Santa Pola, a small
village, but very bustling, for here the cart-road from Alicante ends,
all transport of commodities betwixt this and Elche being done on mules;
so here great commotion of carriers setting down and taking up
merchandise, and the way choked with carts and mules and a very babel of
tongues, there being Moors here as well as Spaniards, and all shouting
their highest to be the better understood of each other. These were the
first Moors we had seen, but they did not encourage us with great hopes
of more intimate acquaintance, wearing nothing but a kind of long,
ragged shirt to their heels, with a hood for their heads in place of a
hat, and all mighty foul with grease and dirt.

Being astir betimes the next morning, we reached Elche before midday,
and here we seemed to be in another world, for this region is no more
like Spain than Spain is like our own country. Entering the forest, we
found ourselves encompassed on all sides by prodigious high palm trees,
which hitherto we had seen only singly here and there, cultivated as
curiosities. And noble trees they are, standing eighty to a hundred feet
high, with never a branch, but only a great spreading crown of leaves,
with strings of dates hanging down from their midst. Beneath, in marshy
places, grew sugar-canes as high as any haystack; and elsewhere were
patches of rice, which grows like corn with us, but thrives well in the
shade, curiously watered by artificial streams of water. And for hedges
to their property, these Moors have agaves, with great spiky leaves
which no man can penetrate, and other strange plants, whereof I will
mention only one, they call the fig of Barbary, which is no fig at all,
but a thing having large, fleshy leaves, growing one out of the other,
with fruit and flower sprouting out of the edges, and all monstrous
prickly. To garnish and beautify this formidable defence, nature had
cast over all a network of creeping herbs with most extraordinary
flowers, delightful both to see and smell, but why so prickly, no man
can say.

"Surely, this must be paradise," cries Moll, staying to look around her.

And we were of the same thinking, until we came to the town, which, as I
have said, lies in the midst of this forest, and then all our hopes and
expectations were dashed to the ground. For we had looked to find a city
in keeping with these surroundings,--of fairy palaces and stately
mansions; in place whereof was nought but a wilderness of mean, low,
squalid houses, with meandering, ill-paved alleys, and all past
everything for unsavoury smells,--heaps of refuse lying before every
door, stark naked brats of children screaming everywhere, and a pack of
famished dogs snapping at our heels.

Don Sanchez leads the way, we following, with rueful looks one at the
other, till we reach the market-place, and there he takes us into a
house of entertainment, where a dozen Moors are squatting on their
haunches in groups about sundry bowls of a smoking mess, called
cuscusson, which is a kind of paste with a little butter in it and a
store of spices. Their manner of eating it is simple enough: each man
dips his hand in the pot, takes out a handful, and dances it about till
it is fashioned into a ball, and then he eats it with all the gusto in
the world. For our repast we were served with a joint of roast mutton,
and this being cut up, we had to take up in our hands and eat like any
savages,--their religion denying these Moors anything but the bare
necessities of life. Also, their law forbids the drinking of wine, which
did most upset Jack Dawson, he having for drink with his meat nothing
but the choice of water and sour milk; but which he liked least I know
not, for he would touch neither, saying he would rather go dry any day
than be poisoned with such liquor.

Whilst we were at our meal, a good many Moors came in to stare at us, as
at a raree show, and especially at Moll, whose bright clothes and loose
hair excited their curiosity, for their women do rarely go abroad,
except they be old, and wear only long dirty white robes, muffling the
lower part of their faces. None of them smiled, and it is noticeable
that these people, like our own Don, do never laugh, taking such
demonstration as a sign of weak understanding and foolishness, but
watching all our actions very intently. And presently an old Moor, with
a white beard and more cleanly dressed than the rest, pushing the crowd
aside to see what was forward, recognised Don Sanchez, who at once rose
to his feet; we, not to be behind him in good manners, rising also.

"May Baba," says the old Moor; and repeating this phrase thrice (which
is a sure sign of hearty welcome), he claps the Don's hand, without
shaking it, and lays his own upon his breast, the Don doing likewise.
Then Don Sanchez, introducing us as we understood by his gestures, the
old Moor bends his head gravely, putting his right hand first to his
heart, next to his forehead, and then kissing the two foremost fingers
laid across his lips, we replying as best we could with a bowing and
scraping. These formalities concluded, the Don and the old Moor walk
apart, and we squat down again to our mutton bones.

After a lengthy discussion the old Moor goes, and Don Sanchez, having
paid the reckoning, leads us out of the town by many crooked alleys and
cross-passages; he speaking never a word, and we asking no questions,
but marvelling exceedingly what is to happen next. And, following a wall
overhung by great palms, we turn a corner, and find there our old Moor
standing beside an open door with a key in his hand. The old Moor gives
the key into Don Sanchez's hand, and with a very formal salutation,
leaves us.

Then following the Don through the doorway, we find ourselves in a
spacious garden, but quite wild for neglect; flower and weed and fruit
all mingling madly together, but very beautiful to my eye, nevertheless,
for the abundance of colour, the richness of the vegetables, and the
graceful forms of the adjacent palms.

A house stood in the midst of this wilderness, and thither Don Sanchez
picked his way, we at his heels still too amazed to speak. Beside the
house was a well with a little wall about it, and seating himself on
this, Don Sanchez opens his lips for the first time.

"My friend, Sidi ben Ahmed, has offered me the use of this place as long
as we choose to stay here," says he. "Go look in the house and tell me
if you care to live in it for a year."




CHAPTER XII.


_How Don Sanchez very honestly offers to free us of our bargain if we
will; but we will not._


The house, like nearly all Moorish houses of this class, was simply one
large and lofty room, with a domed ceiling built of very thick masonry,
to resist the heat of the sun. There was neither window nor chimney, the
door serving to admit light and air, and let out the smoke if a fire
were lighted within. One half of this chamber was dug out to a depth of
a couple of feet, for the accommodation of cattle (the litter being
thrown into the hollow as it is needed, and nought removed till it
reaches the level of the other floor), and above this, about eight feet
from the ground and four from the roof, was a kind of shelf (the breadth
and length of that half), for the storage of fodder and a sleeping-place
for the inhabitants, with no kind of partition, or any issue for the
foul air from the cattle below.

"Are we to live a year in this hutch?" asks Moll, in affright.

"Have done with your chatter, Moll!" answers Jack, testily. "Don't you
see I'm a-thinking? Heaven knows there's enough to swallow without any
bugbears of your raising."

With that, having finished his inspection of the interior, he goes out
and looks at it outside.

"Well," says Don Sanchez, "what think you of the house?"

"Why, Senor, 'tis no worse as I can see than any other in these parts,
and hath this advantage, which they have not, of being in a sweet air.
With a bit of contrivance we could make a shift to live here well
enough. We should not do amiss neither for furniture, seeing that 'tis
the custom of the country to eat off the floor and sit upon nothing. A
pot to cook victuals in is about all we need in that way. But how we are
to get anything to cook in it is one mystery, and" (clacking his tongue)
"what we are going to drink is another, neither of which I can fathom.
For, look you, Senor, if one may judge of men's characters by their
faces or of their means by their habitations, we may dance our legs off
ere ever these Moors will bestow a penny piece upon us, and as for their
sour milk, I'd as lief drink hemlock, and liefer. Now, if this town had
been as we counted on, like Barcelona, all had gone as merry as a
marriage bell, for then might we have gained enough to keep us in
jollity as long as you please; but here, if we die not of the colicks in
a week, 'twill be to perish of starvation in a fortnight. What say you,
Kit?"

I was forced to admit that I had never seen a town less likely to afford
a subsistence than this.

Then Don Sanchez, having heard us with great patience, and waited a
minute to see if we could raise any further objections, answers us in
measured tones.

"I doubt not," says he, "that with a little ingenuity you may make the
house habitable and this wilderness agreeable. My friend, Sidi ben
Ahmed, has offered to provide us with what commodities are necessary to
that end. I agree with you that it would be impossible to earn the
meanest livelihood here by dancing; it would not be advisable if we
could. For that reason, my knowledge of various tongues making me very
serviceable to Sidi ben Ahmed (who is the most considerable merchant of
this town), I have accepted an office in his house. This will enable me
to keep my engagement with you. You will live at my charge, as I
promised, and you shall want for nothing in reason. If the Moors drink
no wine themselves, they make excellent for those who will, and you
shall not be stinted in that particular."

"Come, this sounds fair enough," cries Dawson. "But pray, Senor, are we
to do nothing for our keep?"

"Nothing beyond what we came here to do," replies he, with a meaning
glance at Moll.

"What!" cries poor Moll, in pain. "We are to dance no more!"

The Don shook his head gravely; and, remembering the jolly, vagabond,
careless, adventurous life we had led these past two months and more,
with a thousand pleasant incidents of our happy junketings, we were all
downcast at the prospect of living in this place--though a paradise--for
a year without change.

"Though I promised you no more than I offer," says the Don, "yet if this
prospect displease you, we will cry quits and part here. Nay," adds he,
taking a purse from his pocket, "I will give you the means to return to
Alicante, where you may live as better pleases you."

It seemed to me that there was an unfeigned carelessness in his manner,
as if he would as lief as not throw up this hazardous enterprise for
some other more sure undertaking. And, indeed, I believe he was then
balancing another alternative in his mind.

At this generous offer Moll dashed away the tears that had sprung to her
eyes, brightening up wonderfully, but then, casting her eyes upon the
Don, her face fell again as at the thought of leaving him. For we all
admired him, and she prodigiously, for his great reserve and many good
qualities which commanded respect, and this feeling was tinged in her
case, I believe, with a kind of growing affection.

Seeing this sentiment in her eyes, the Don was clearly touched by it,
and so, laying his hand gently on her shoulder, he says:

"My poor child, remember you the ugly old women we saw dancing at
Barcelona? They were not more than forty; what will they be like in a
few years? Who will tolerate them? who love them? Is that the end you
choose for your own life--that the estate to which our little princess
shall fall?"

"No, no, no!" cries she, in a passion, clenching her little hands and
throwing up her head in disdain.

"And no, no, no, say I," cries Dawson. "Were our case ten times as bad,
I'd not go back from my word. As it is, we are not to be pitied, and I
warrant ere long we make ourselves to be envied. Come, Kit, rouse you
out of your lethargies, and let us consult how we may improve our
condition here; and do you, Senor, pray order us a little of that same
excellent wine you spoke of, if it be but a pint, when you feel disposed
that way."

The Don inclined his head, but lingered, talking to Moll very gravely,
and yet tenderly, for some while, Dawson and I going into the house to
see what we could make of it; and then, telling us we should see him no
more till the next day, he left us. But for some time after he was gone
Moll sat on the side of the well, very pensive and wistful, as one to
whom the future was opened for the first time.

Anon comes a banging at our garden gate, which Moll had closed behind
the Don; and, going to it, we find a Moorish boy with a barrow charged
with many things. We could not understand a word he said, but Dawson
decided these chattels were sent us by the Don, by perceiving a huge
hogskin of wine, for which he thanked God and Don Sanchez an hundred
times over. So these commodities we carried up to the house, marvelling
greatly at the Don's forethought and generosity, for here were a score
of things over and above those we had already found ourselves lacking;
namely, earthen pipkins and wooden vessels, a bag of charcoal, a box of
carpenters' tools (which did greatly like Dawson, he having been bred a
carpenter in his youth), instruments for gardening (to my pleasure, as I
have ever had a taste for such employment), some very fine Moorish
blankets, etc. So when the barrow was discharged, Dawson gives the lad
some rials out of his pocket, which pleased him also mightily.

Then, first of all, Dawson unties the leg of the hogskin, and draws off
a quart of wine, very carefully securing the leg after, and this we
drank to our great refreshment; and next Moll, being awoke from her
dreams and eager to be doing, sets herself to sort out our goods, such
as belong to us (as tools, etc.), on one side, and such as belong to her
(as pipkins and the rest) on the other. Leaving her to this employment,
Dawson and I, armed with a knife and bagging hook, betake ourselves to a
great store of canes stacked in one corner of the garden, and sorting
out those most proper to our purpose, we lopped them all of an equal
length, and shouldering as many as we could carried them up to our
house. Here we found Moll mighty jubilant in having got her work done,
and admirably she had done it, to be sure. For, having found a long
recess in the wall, she had brushed it out clean with a whisp of herbs,
and stored up her crocks according to their size, very artificial, with
a dish of oranges plucked from the tree at our door on one side, and a
dish of almonds on the other, a pipkin standing betwixt 'em with a
handsome posey of roses in it. She had spread a mat on the floor, and
folded up our fine blankets to serve for cushions; and all that did not
belong to her she had bundled out of sight into that hollowed side I
have mentioned as being intended for cattle.

After we had sufficiently admired the performance, she told us she had a
mind to give us a supper of broth. "But," says she, "the Don has
forgotten that we must eat, and hath sent us neither bread nor flesh nor
salt."

This put us to a stumble, for how to get these things we knew not; but
Moll declared she would get all she needed if we could only find the
money.

"Why, how?" asks Jack. "You know not their gibberish."

"That may be," answers she, "but I warrant the same language that bought
me this petticoat will get us a supper."

So we gave her what money we had, and she went off a-marketing, with as
much confidence as if she were a born Barbary Moor. Then Jack falls to
thanking God for blessing him with such a daughter, at the same time
taking no small credit to himself for having bred her to such
perfection, and in the midst of his encomiums, being down in the hollow
searching for his hammer, he cries:

"Plague take the careless baggage! she has spilled all our nails, and
here's an hour's work to pick 'em up!"

This accident was repaired, however, and Moll's transgression forgotten
when she returned with an old woman carrying her purchases. Then were we
forced to admire her skill in this business, for she had bought all that
was needful for a couple of meals, and yet had spent but half our money.
Now arose the difficult question how to make a fire, and this Jack left
us to settle by our own devices, he returning to his own occupation.
Moll resolved we should do our cooking outside the house, so here we
built up a kind of grate with stones; and, contriving to strike a spark
with the back of a jack-knife and a stone, upon a heap of dried leaves,
we presently blew up a fine flame, and feeding this with the ends of
cane we had cut and some charcoal, we at last got a royal fire on which
to set our pot of mutton. And into this pot we put rice and a multitude
of herbs from the garden, which by the taste we thought might serve to
make a savoury mess. And, indeed, when it began to boil, the odour was
so agreeable that we would have Jack come out to smell it. And he having
praised it very highly, we in return went in to look at his handiwork
and praise that. This we could do very heartily and without hypocrisy,
for he had worked well and made a rare good job, having built a very
seemly partition across the room, by nailing of the canes
perpendicularly to that kind of floor that hung over the hollowed
portion, thus making us now three rooms out of one. At one end he had
left an opening to enter the cavity below and the floor above by the
little ladder that stood there, and these canes were set not so close
together but that air and light could pass betwixt them, and yet from
the outer side no eye could see within, which was very commodious. Also
upon the floor above, he had found sundry bundles of soft dried leaves,
and these, opened out upon the surface of both chambers, made a very
sweet, convenient bed upon which to lie. Then Dawson offering Moll her
choice, she took the upper floor for her chamber, leaving us two the
lower; and so, it being near sundown by this time, we to our supper in
the sweet, cool air of evening, all mightily content with one another,
and not less satisfied with our stew, which was indeed most savoury and
palatable. This done, we took a turn round our little domain, admiring
the many strange and wonderful things that grew there (especially the
figs, which, though yet green, were wondrous pleasant to eat); and I
laying out my plans for the morrow, how to get this wilderness into
order, tear out the worthless herbs, dig the soil, etc., Dawson's
thoughts running on the building of an outhouse for the accommodation of
our wine, tools, and such like, and Moll meditating on dishes to give us
for our repasts. And at length, when these divers subjects were no more
to be discussed, we turned into our dormitories, and fell asleep mighty
tired, but as happy as princes.




CHAPTER XIII.


_A brief summary of those twelve months we spent at Elche._


The surprising activity with which we attacked our domestic business at
Elche lasted about two days and a half,--Dawson labouring at his shed, I
at the cultivation of the garden, and Moll quitting her cooking and
household affairs, as occasion permitted, to lend a helping hand first
to her father and then to me. And as man, when this fever of enterprise
is upon him, must for ever be seeking to add to his cares, we persuaded
Don Sanchez to let us have two she-goats to stall in the shed and
consume our waste herbage, that we might have milk and get butter, which
they do in these parts by shaking the cream in a skin bag (a method that
seems simple enough till you have been shaking the bag for twenty
minutes in vain on a sultry morning) without cost. But the novelty of
the thing wearing off, our eagerness rapidly subsided, and so about the
third day (as I say), the heat being prodigious, we toiled with no
spirit at all.

Dawson was the first to speak his mind. Says he, coming to me whilst I
was still sweating over my shovel:

"I've done it, but hang me if I do more. There's a good piece of work
worth thirty shillings of any man's money, but who'll give me a thank ye
for it when we leave here next year?"

And then he can find nothing better to do than fall a-commenting on my
labours, saying there was but precious little to show for my efforts,
that had he been in my place he would have ordered matters otherwise,
and begun digging t'other end, wagering that I should give up my job
before it was quarter done, etc., all which was mighty discouraging and
the more unpleasant because I felt there was a good deal of truth in
what he said.

Consequently, I felt a certain malicious enjoyment the next morning upon
finding that the goats had burst out one side of his famous shed, and
got loose into the garden, which enabled me to wonder that two such
feeble creatures could undo such a good thirty shillings' worth of work,
etc. But ere I was done galling him, I myself was mortified exceedingly
to find these mischievous brutes had torn up all the plants I had set by
the trees in the shade as worthy of cultivation, which gave Jack a
chance for jibing at me. But that which embittered us as much as
anything was to have Moll holding her sides for laughter at our attempts
to catch these two devilish goats, which to our cost we found were not
so feeble, after all; for getting one up in a corner, she raises herself
up on her hind legs and brings her skull down with such a smack on my
knee that I truly thought she had broke my cramp-bone, whilst t'other,
taking Dawson in the ankles with her horns, as he was reaching forward
to lay hold of her, lay him sprawling in our little stream of water. Nor
do I think we should ever have captured them, but that, giving over our
endeavours from sheer fatigue, they of their own accord sauntered into
the shed for shelter from the sun, where Moll clapt to the door upon
them, and set her back against the gap in the side, until her father
came with a hammer and some stout nails to secure the planks. So for the
rest of that day Jack and I lay on our backs in the shade, doing
nothing, but exceedingly sore one against the other for these
mischances.

But our heart burnings ended not there; for coming in to supper at
sundown, Moll has nothing to offer us but dry bread and a dish of dates,
which, though it be the common supper of the Moors in this place, was
little enough to our satisfaction, as Dawson told her in pretty round
terms, asking her what she was good for if not to give us a meal fit for
Christians, etc., and stating very explicitly what he would have her
prepare for our dinner next day. Moll takes her upbraiding very humbly
(which was ever a bad sign), and promises to be more careful of our
comfort in the future. And so ended that day.

The next morning Dawson and I make no attempt at work, but after
breakfast, by common accord, stretch us out under the palms to meditate;
and there about half past ten, Don Sanchez, coming round to pay us a
visit, finds us both sound asleep. A sudden exclamation from him aroused
us, and as we stumbled to our feet, staring about us, we perceived Moll
coming from the house, but so disfigured with smuts of charcoal all over
her face and hands, we scarce knew her.

"God's mercy!" cries the Don. "What on earth have you been doing,
child?"

To which Moll replies with a curtsey:

"I am learning to be a cook-wench, Senor, at my father's desire."

"You are here," answers the Don, with a frown, "to learn to be a lady.
If a cook-wench is necessary, you shall have one" (this to us), "and
anything else that my means may afford. You will do well to write me a
list of your requirements; but observe," adds he, turning on his heel,
"we may have to stay here another twelvemonth, if my economies are not
sufficient by the end of the first year to take us hence."

This hint brought us to our senses very quickly, and overtaking him ere
he reached our garden gate, Dawson and I assured the Don we had no need
of any servant, and would be careful that Moll henceforth did no menial
office; that we would tax his generosity no more than we could help,
etc., to our great humiliation when we came to reflect on our conduct.

Thenceforth Dawson charged himself with the internal economy of the
house, and I with that part which concerned the custody and care of the
goats, the cultivation of pot-herbs and with such instruction of Moll in
the Italian tongue as I could command. But to tell the truth, we neither
of us did one stroke of work beyond what was absolutely necessary, and
especially Dawson, being past everything for indolence, did so order his
part that from having two dishes of flesh a day, we came, ere long, to
getting but one mess a week; he forcing himself and us to be content
with dates and bread for our repasts, rather than give himself the
trouble of boiling a pot. Beyond browsing my goats, drawing their milk
(the making of butter I quickly renounced), and watering my garden night
and morn (which is done by throwing water from the little stream
broadcast with a shovel on either side), I did no more than Dawson, but
joined him in yawning the day away, for which my sole excuse is the
great heat of this region, which doth beget most slothful humours in
those matured in cooler climes.

With Moll, however, the case was otherwise; for she, being young and of
an exceeding vivacious, active disposition, must for ever be doing of
something, and lucky for us when it was not some mischievous trick at
our expense--as letting the goats loose, shaking lemons down on our
heads as we lay asleep beneath it, and the like. Being greatly smitten
with the appearance of the Moorish women (who, though they are not
permitted to wander about at will like our women, are yet suffered to
fetch water from the public fountains), she surprised us one morning by
coming forth dressed in their mode. And this dress, which seems to be
nought but a long sheet wound loosely twice or thrice about the body,
buckled on the shoulder, with holes for the arms to be put through in
the manner of the old Greeks, became her surprisingly; and we noticed
then for the first time that her arms were rounder and fuller than when
we had last seen them bare. Then, to get the graceful, noble bearing of
the Moors, she practised day after day carrying a pitcher of water on
her head as they do, until she could do this with perfect ease and
sureness. In this habit the Don, who was mightily pleased with her
looks, took her to the house of his friend and employer, Sidi ben Ahmed,
where she ingratiated herself so greatly with the women of his household
that they would have her come to them again the next day, and after that
the next,--indeed, thenceforth she spent far more of her time with these
new friends than with us. And here, from the necessity of making herself
understood, together with an excellent memory and a natural aptitude,
she learned to speak the Moorish tongue in a marvellously short space of
time. Dawson and I were frequently asked to accompany Moll, and we went
twice to this house, which, though nothing at all to look at outside,
was very magnificently furnished within, and the entertainment most
noble. But Lord! 'twas the most tedious, wearisome business for us, who
could make out never a word of the civil speeches offered us without the
aid of Don Sanchez and Moll, and then could think of no witty response,
but could only sit there grinning like Gog and Magog. Still, it gave us
vast pleasure to see how Moll carried herself with this company, talking
as freely as they, yet holding herself with the dignity of an equal, and
delighting all by her vivacity and sly, pretty ways.

[Illustration: "SHE PRACTISED DAY AFTER DAY BY CARRYING A PITCHER OF
WATER ON HER HEAD."]

I think no country in Europe can be richer than this Elche in fruits and
vegetation, more beautiful in its surrounding aspects of plain and
mountain, more blessed with constant, glorious sunlight; and the effect
of these charms upon the quick, receptive spirit of our Molly was like a
gentle May upon a nightingale, so that the days were all too short for
her enjoyment, and she must need vent her happiness in song; but on us
they made no more impression than on two owls in a tower, nay, if
anything they did add to that weariness which arose from our lack of
occupation. For here was no contrast in our lives, one day being as like
another as two peas in a pod, and having no sort of adversities to give
savour to our ease, we found existence the most flat, insipid, dull
thing possible. I remember how, on Christmas day, Dawson did cry out
against the warm sunshine as a thing contrary to nature, wishing he
might stand up to his knees in snow in a whistling wind, and taking up
the crock Moll had filled with roses (which here bloom more fully in the
depth of winter than with us in the height of summer), he flung it out
of the door with a curse for an unchristian thing to have in the house
on such a day.

As soon as the year had turned, we began to count the days to our
departure, and thenceforth we could think of nought but what we would do
with our fortune when we got it; and, the evenings being long, we would
set the bag of wine betwixt us after our supper of dates, and sit there
for hours discussing our several projects. Moll being with us (for in
these parts no womankind may be abroad after sundown), she would take
part in these debates with as much gusto as we. For though she was not
wearied of her life here as we were, yet she was possessed of a very
stirring spirit of adventure, and her quick imagination furnished
endless visions of lively pleasures and sumptuous living. We agreed that
we would live together, and share everything in common as one family,
but not in such an outlandish spot as Chislehurst. That estate we would
have nothing to do with; but, selling it at once, have in its place two
houses,--one city house in the Cheap, and a country house not further
from town than Bednal Green, or Clerkenwell at the outside, to the end
that when we were fatigued with the pleasures of the town, we might, by
an easy journey, resort to the tranquillity of rural life, Dawson
declaring what wines he would have laid down in our cellars, I what
books should furnish our library, and Moll what dresses she would wear
(not less than one for every month of the year), what coaches and horses
we should keep, what liveries our servants should wear, what
entertainments we would give, and so forth. Don Sanchez was not excluded
from our deliberations; indeed, he encouraged us greatly by approving of
all our plans, only stipulating that we would guard one room for him in
each of our houses, that he might feel at home in our society whenever
he chanced to be in our neighbourhood. In all these arguments, there was
never one word of question from any of us as to the honesty of our
design. We had settled that, once and for all, before starting on this
expedition; and since then, little by little, we had come to regard the
Godwin estate as a natural gift, as freely to be taken as a blackberry
from the hedge. Nay, I believe Dawson and I would have contested our
right to it by reason of the pains we were taking to possess it.

And now, being in the month of June, and our year of exile (as it liked
us to call it) nigh at an end, Dawson one night put the question to Don
Sanchez, which had kept us fluttering in painful suspense these past six
months, whether he had saved sufficient by his labours, to enable us to
return to England ere long.

"Yes," says he, gravely, at which we did all heave one long sigh of
relief, "I learn that a convoy of English ships is about to sail from
Alicante in the beginning of July, and if we are happy enough to find a
favourable opportunity, we will certainly embark in one of them."

"Pray, Senor," says I, "what may that opportunity be; for 'tis but two
days' march hence to Alicante, and we may do it with a light foot in
one."

"The opportunity I speak of," answers he, "is the arrival, from Algeria,
of a company of pirates, whose good service I hope to engage in putting
us aboard an English ship under a flag of truce as redeemed slaves from
Barbary."

"Pirates!" cry we, in a low breath.

"What, Senor!" adds Dawson, "are we to trust ourselves to the mercy and
honesty of Barbary pirates on the open sea?"

"I would rather trust to their honesty," answers the Don, dropping his
voice that he might not be heard by Moll, who was leading home the
goats, "than to the mercy of an English judge, if we should be brought
to trial with insufficient evidence to support our story."

Jack and I stared at each other aghast at this talk of trial, which had
never once entered into our reckoning of probabilities.

"If I know aught of my fellow-men," continues the Don, surely and slow,
"that grasping steward will not yield up his trust before he has made
searching enquiry into Moll's claim, act she her part never so well. We
cannot refuse to give him the name of the ship that brought us home,
and, learning that we embarked at Alicante, jealous suspicion may lead
him to seek further information there; with what result?"

"Why, we may be blown with a vengeance, if he come ferreting so nigh as
that," says Dawson, "and we are like to rot in gaol for our pains."

"You may choose to run that risk; I will not," says the Don.

"Nor I either," says Dawson, "and God forgive me for overlooking such a
peril to my Moll. But, do tell me plainly, Senor, granting these pirates
be the most honest thieves in the world, is there no other risk to
fear?"

The Don hunched his shoulders.

"Life itself is a game," says he, "in which the meanest stroke may not
be won without some risk; but, played as I direct, the odds are in our
favour. Picked up at sea from an Algerine boat, who shall deny our story
when the evidence against us lies there" (laying his hand out towards
the south), "where no man in England dare venture to seek it?"

"Why, to be sure," says Dawson; "that way all hangs together to a
nicety. For only a wizard could dream of coming hither for our undoing."

"For the rest," continues the Don, thoughtfully, "there is little to
fear. Judith Godwin has eyes the colour of Moll's, and in all else Simon
must expect to find a change since he last saw his master's daughter.
They were in Italy three years. That would make Judith a lisping child
when she left England. He must look to find her altered. Why," adds he,
in a more gentle voice, as if moved by some inner feeling of affection
and admiration, nodding towards Moll, "see how she has changed in this
little while. I should not know her for the raw, half-starved spindle of
a thing she was when I saw her first playing in the barn at Tottenham
Cross."

Looking at her now (browsing the goats amongst my most cherished herbs),
I was struck also by this fact, which, living with her day by day, had
slipped my observation somewhat. She was no longer a gaunt, ungainly
child, but a young woman, well proportioned, with a rounded cheek and
chin, brown tinted by the sun, and, to my mind, more beautiful than any
of their vaunted Moorish women. But, indeed, in this country all things
do mature quickly; and 'twas less surprising in her case because her
growth had been checked before by privation and hardship, whereas since
our coming hither it had been aided by easy circumstances and good
living.




CHAPTER XIV.


_Of our coming to London (with incidents by the way), and of the great
address whereby Moll confounds Simon, the steward._


On the third day of July, all things falling in pat with the Don's
design, we bade farewell to Elche, Dawson and I with no sort of regret,
but Moll in tears at parting from those friends she had grown to love
very heartily. And these friends would each have her take away something
for a keepsake, such as rings to wear on her arms and on her ankles (as
is the Moorish fashion), silk shawls, etc., so that she had quite a
large present of finery to carry away; but we had nothing whatever but
the clothes we stood in, and they of the scantiest, being simply long
shirts and "bernouses" such as common Moors wear. For the wise Don would
let us take nought that might betray our sojourn in Spain, making us
even change our boots for wooden sandals, he himself being arrayed no
better than we. Nor was this the only change insisted on by our
governor; for on Dawson bidding Moll in a surly tone to give over a
shedding of tears, Don Sanchez turns upon him, and says he:

"It is time to rehearse the parts we are to play. From this day forth
your daughter is Mistress Judith Godwin, you are Captain Robert Evans,
and you" (to me), "Mr. Hopkins, the merchant. Let us each play our part
with care, that we do not betray ourselves by a slip in a moment of
unforeseen danger."

"You are in the right, Senor," answers Jack, "for I doubt it must be a
hard task to forget that Mistress Judith is my daughter, as it is for a
loving father to hold from chiding of his own flesh and blood; so I pray
you, Madam" (to Moll), "bear that in mind and vex me no more."

We lay this lesson seriously to heart, Dawson and I, for the Don's hint
that we might end our career in gaol did still rankle woundily in our
minds. And so very soberly we went out of the forest of Elche in the
night on mules lent us by Sidi ben Ahmed, with a long cavalcade of mules
charged with merchandise for embarking on board the pirates' vessel, and
an escort of some half-dozen fierce-looking corsairs armed with long
firelocks and a great store of awesome crooked knives stuck in their
waist-cloths.

After journeying across the plain, we came about midday to the seaboard,
and there we spied, lying in a sheltered bay, a long galley with three
masts, each dressed with a single cross-spar for carrying a
leg-of-mutton sail, and on the shore a couple of ship's boats with a
company of men waiting to transport our goods and us aboard. And here
our hearts quaked a bit at the thought of trusting ourselves in the
hands of these same murderous-looking pirates. Nevertheless, when our
time came we got us into their boat, recommending ourselves very
heartily to God's mercy, and so were rowed out to the galley, where we
were very civilly received by an old Moor with a white beard, who seemed
well acquainted with Don Sanchez. Then the merchandise being all aboard,
and the anchor up, the men went to their oars, a dozen of each side, and
rowed us out of the bay until, catching a little wind of air, the sails
were run up, and we put out to sea very bravely.

"Senor," says Dawson, "I know not how I am to play this part of a
sea-captain when we are sent on board an English ship, for if they ask
me any questions on this business of navigating, I am done for a
certainty."

"Rest easy on that score, Evans," replies the Don. "I will answer for
you, for I see very clearly by your complexion that you will soon be
past answering them yourself."

And this forecast was quickly verified; for ere the galley had dipped a
dozen times to the waves, poor Dawson was laid low with a most horrid
sickness like any dying man.

By sundown we sighted the island of Maggiore, and in the roads there we
cast anchor for the night, setting sail again at daybreak; and in this
latitude we beat up and down a day and a night without seeing any sail,
but on the morning of the third day a fleet of five big ships appeared
to the eastward, and shifting our course we bore down upon them with
amazing swiftness. Then when we were near enough to the foremast to see
her English flag and the men aboard standing to their deck guns for a
defence, our old Moor fires a gun in the air, takes in his sails, and
runs up a great white flag for a sign of peace. And now with shrewd
haste a boat was lowered, and we were set in it with a pair of oars, and
the old pirate bidding us farewell in his tongue, clapt on all sail and
stood out before the wind, leaving us there to shift for ourselves. Don
Sanchez took one oar, and I t'other,--Dawson lying in the bottom and not
able to move a hand to save his life,--and Moll held the tiller, and so
we pulled with all our force, crying out now and then for fear we should
not be seen, till by God's providence we came alongside the Talbot of
London, and were presently hoisted aboard without mishap. Then the
captain of the Talbot and his officers gathering about us were mighty
curious to know our story, and Don Sanchez very briefly told how we had
gone in the Red Rose of Bristol to redeem two ladies from slavery; how
we had found but one of these ladies living (at this Moll buries her
face in her hands as if stricken with grief); how, on the eve of our
departure, some of our crew in a drunken frolic had drowned a Turk of
Alger, for which we were condemned by their court to pay an indemnity
far and away beyond our means; how they then made this a pretext to
seize our things, though we were properly furnished with the Duke's
pass, and hold our men in bond; and how having plundered us of all we
had, and seeing there was no more to be got, they did offer us our
freedom for a written quittance of all they had taken for their
justification if ever they should be brought to court; and finally, how,
accepting of these conditions, we were shipped aboard their galley with
nothing in the world but a few trifles, begged by Mistress Judith in
remembrance of her mother.

This story was accepted without any demur; nay, Captain Ballcock, being
one of those men who must ever appear to know all things, supported it
in many doubtful particulars, saying that he remembered the Rose of
Bristol quite well; that he himself had seen a whole ship's crew sold
into slavery for no greater offence than breaking a mosque window; that
the Duke's pass counted for nothing with these Turks; that he knew the
galley we were brought in as well as he knew Paul's Church, having
chased it a dozen times, yet never got within gunshot for her swift
sailing, etc., which did much content us to hear.

But the officers were mighty curious to know what ailed Captain Robert
Evans (meaning Dawson), fearing he might be ill of the plague; however,
on the Don's vowing that he was only sick of a surfeit, Captain Ballcock
declared he had guessed it the moment he clapt eyes on him, as he
himself had been taken of the same complaint with only eating a dish of
pease pudding. Nevertheless, he ordered the sick man to be laid in a
part of the ship furthest from his quarters, and so great was the dread
of pestilence aboard that (as his sickness continued) not a soul would
venture near him during the whole voyage except ourselves, which also
fell in very well with our wishes. And so after a fairly prosperous
voyage we came up the Thames to Chatham, the third day of August.

We had been provided with some rough seamen's clothes for our better
covering on the voyage; but now, being landed, and lodged in the Crown
inn at Chatham, Don Sanchez would have the captain take them all back.

"But," says he, "if you will do us yet another favour, Captain, will you
suffer one of your men to carry a letter to Mistress Godwin's steward at
Chislehurst, that he may come hither to relieve us from our present
straits?"

"Aye," answers he, "I will take the letter gladly, myself; for nothing
pleases me better than a ramble in the country where I was born and
bred."

So Moll writes a letter at once to Simon, bidding him come at once to
her relief; and Captain Ballcock, after carefully enquiring his way to
this place he knew so well (as he would have us believe), starts off
with it, accompanied by his boatswain, a good-natured kind of
lick-spittle, who never failed to back up his captain's assertions,
which again was to our great advantage; for Simon would thus learn our
story from his lips, and find no room to doubt its veracity.

As soon as these two were out of the house, Dawson, who had been carried
from the ship and laid in bed, though as hale since we passed the
Godwins as ever he was in his life before, sprang up, and declared he
would go to bed no more, for all the fortunes in the world, till he had
supped on roast pork and onions,--this being a dish he greatly loved,
but not to be had at Elche, because the Moors by their religion forbid
the use of swine's flesh,--and seeing him very determined on this head,
Don Sanchez ordered a leg of pork to be served in our chamber, whereof
Dawson did eat such a prodigious quantity, and drank therewith such a
vast quantity of strong ale (which he protested was the only liquor an
Englishman could drink with any satisfaction), that in the night he was
seized with most severe cramp in his stomach. This gave us the occasion
to send for a doctor in the morning, who, learning that Jack had been
ill ever since we left Barbary, and not understanding his present
complaint, pulled a very long face, and, declaring his case was very
critical, bled him copiously, forbade him to leave his bed for another
fortnight, and sent him in half a dozen bottles of physic. About midday
he returns, and, finding his patient no better, administers a bolus; and
while we are all standing about the bed, and Dawson the colour of death,
and groaning, betwixt the nausea of the drug he had swallowed and the
cramp in his inwards, in comes our Captain Ballcock and the little
steward.

"There!" cries he, turning on Simon, "did not I tell you that my old
friend Evans lay at death's door with the treatment he hath received of
these Barbary pirates? Now will you be putting us off with your doubts
and your questionings? Shall I have up my ship's company to testify to
the truth of my history? Look you, Madam," (to Moll), "we had all the
trouble in the world to make this steward of yours do your bidding; but
he should have come though we had to bring him by the neck and heels,
and a pox to him--saving your presence."

"But this is not Simon," says Moll, with a pretty air of innocence. "I
seem to remember Simon a bigger man than he."

"You must consider, Madam," says Don Sanchez, "that then you were very
small, scarce higher than his waist, maybe, and so you would have to
look up into his face."

"I did not think of that. And are you really Simon, who used to scold me
for plucking fruit?"

"Yea, verily," answers he. "Doubt it not, for thou also hast changed
beyond conception. And so it hath come to pass!" he adds, staring round
at us in our Moorish garb like one bewildered. "And thou art my mistress
now" (turning again to Moll).

"Alas!" says she, bowing her head and covering her eyes with her hand.

"Han't I told you so, unbelieving Jew Quaker!" growls Captain Ballcock,
in exasperation. "Why will you plague the unhappy lady with her loss?"

"We will leave Evans to repose," says Moll, brushing her eyes and
turning to the door. "You will save his life, Doctor, for he has given
me mine."

The doctor vowed he would, if bleeding and boluses could make him whole,
and so, leaving him with poor groaning Dawson, we went into the next
chamber. And there Captain Ballcock was for taking his leave; but Moll,
detaining him, says:

"We owe you something more than gratitude--we have put you to much
expense."

"Nay," cries he. "I will take nought for doing a common act of mercy."

"You shall not be denied the joy of generosity," says she, with a sweet
grace. "But you must suffer me to give your ship's company some token of
my gratitude." Then turning to Simon with an air of authority, she says,
"Simon, I have no money."

The poor man fumbled in his pocket, and bringing out a purse, laid it
open, showing some four or five pieces of silver and one of gold, which
he hastily covered with his hand.

"I see you have not enough," says Moll, and taking up a pen she quickly
wrote some words on a piece of paper, signing it "Judith Godwin." Then
showing it to Simon, she says, "You will pay this when it is presented
to you," and therewith she folds it and places it in the captain's hand,
bidding him farewell in a pretty speech.

"A hundred pounds! a hundred pounds!" gasps Simon, under his breath, in
an agony and clutching up his purse to his breast.

"I am astonished," says Moll, returning from the door, and addressing
Simon, with a frown upon her brow, "that you are not better furnished to
supply my wants, knowing by my letter how I stand."

"Mistress," replies he, humbly, "here is all I could raise upon such
sudden notice"--laying his purse before her.

"What is this?" cries she, emptying the contents upon the table. "'Tis
nothing. Here is barely sufficient to pay for our accommodation in this
inn. Where is the money to discharge my debt to these friends who have
lost all in saving me? You were given timely notice of their purpose."

"Prithee, be patient with me, gentle mistress. 'Tis true, I knew of
their intent, but they were to have returned in six months, and when
they came not at the end of the year I did truly give up all for lost;
and so I made a fresh investment of thy fortune, laying it out all in
life bonds and houses, to great worldly advantage, as thou shalt see in
good time. Ere long I may get in some rents--"

"And in the meanwhile are we to stay in this plight--to beg for
charity?" asks Moll, indignantly. "Nay, mistress. Doubtless for your
present wants this kind merchant friend--"

"We have lost all," says I, "Evans his ship, and I the lading in which
all my capital was embarked."

"And I every maravedi I possessed," adds the Don.

"And had they not," cries Moll, "were they possessed now of all they
had, think you that I with an estate, as I am told, of sixty thousand
pounds would add to the debt I owe them by one single penny!"

"If I may speak in your steward's defence, Madam," says I, humbly, "I
would point out that the richest estate is not always readily converted
into money. 'Tis like a rich jewel which the owner, though he be
starving, must hold till he find a market."

"Thee hearest him, mistress," cries Simon, in delight. "A man of
business--a merchant who knows these things. Explain it further, friend,
for thine are words of precious wisdom."

"With landed property the case is even more difficult. Tenants cannot be
forced to pay rent before it is due, nor can their messuages be sold
over their heads. And possibly all your capital is invested in land--"

"Every farthing that could be scraped together," says Simon, "and not a
rood of it but is leased to substantial men. Oh! what excellent
discourse! Proceed further, friend."

"Nevertheless," says I, "there are means of raising money upon credit.
If he live there still, there is a worthy Jew in St. Mary Axe, who upon
certain considerations of interest--"

"Hold, friend," cries Simon. "What art thee thinking of? Wouldst deliver
my simple mistress into the hands of Jew usurers?"

"Not without proper covenants made out by lawyers and attorneys."

"Lawyers, attorneys, and usurers! Heaven have mercy upon us! Verily,
thee wouldst infest us with a pest, and bleed us to death for our cure."

"I will have such relief as I may," says Moll; "so pray, sir, do send
for these lawyers and Jews at once, and the quicker, since my servant
seems more disposed to hinder than to help me."

"Forbear, mistress; for the love of God, forbear!" cries Simon, in an
agony, clasping his hands. "Be not misguided by this foolish merchant,
who hath all to gain and nought to lose by this proceeding. Give me but
a little space, and their claims shall be met, thy desires shall be
satisfied, and yet half of thy estate be saved, which else must be all
devoured betwixt these ruthless money-lenders and lawyers. I can make a
covenant more binding than any attorney, as I have proved again and
again, and" (with a gulp) "if money must be raised at once, I know an
honest, a fairly honest, goldsmith in Lombard Street who will lend at
the market rate."

"These gentlemen," answers Moll, turning to us, "may not choose to wait,
and I will not incommode them for my own convenience."

"Something for our present need we must have, Madam," says the Don, with
a significant glance at his outlandish dress; "but those wants supplied,
_I_ am content to wait."

"And you, sir?" says Moll to me.

"With a hundred or two," says I, taking Don Sanchez's hint, "we may do
very well till Michaelmas."

"Be reasonable, gentlemen," implores Simon, mopping his eyes, which ran
afresh at this demand. "'Tis but some five or six weeks to Michaelmas;
surely fifty pounds--"

"Silence!" cries Moll, with an angry tap of her foot. "Will three
hundred content you, gentlemen? Consider, the wants of our good friend,
Captain Evans, may be more pressing than yours."

"He is a good, honest, simple man, and I think we may answer for his
accepting the conditions we make for ourselves. Then, with some
reasonable guarantee for our future payment--"

"That may be contrived to our common satisfaction, I hope," says Moll,
with a gracious smile. "I owe you half my estate; share my house at
Chislehurst with me till the rest is forthcoming. That will give me yet
a little longer the pleasure of your company. And there, sir," turning
to me, "you can examine my steward's accounts for your own satisfaction,
and counsel me, mayhap, upon the conduct of my affairs, knowing so much
upon matters of business that are incomprehensible to a simple,
inexperienced maid. Then, should you find aught amiss in my steward's
books, anything to shake your confidence in his management, you will, in
justice to your friends, in kindness to me, speak your mind openly, that
instant reformation may be made."

Don Sanchez and I expressed our agreement to this proposal, and Moll,
turning to the poor, unhappy steward, says in her high tone of
authority:

"You hear how this matter is ordered, Simon. Take up that purse for your
own uses. Go into the town and send such tradesmen hither as may supply
us with proper clothing. Then to your goldsmith in Lombard Street and
bring me back six hundred pounds."

"Six--hundred--pounds!" cries he, hardly above his breath, and with a
pause between each word as if to gain strength to speak 'em.

"Six hundred. Three for these gentlemen and three for my own needs; when
that is done, hasten to Chislehurst and prepare my house; and, as you
value my favour, see that nothing is wanting when I come there."


And here, lest it should be thought that Moll could not possibly play
her part so admirably in this business, despite the many secret
instructions given by the longheaded Don, I do protest that I have set
down no more than I recollect, and that without exaggeration. Further,
it must be observed that in our common experience many things happen
which would seem incredible but for the evidence of our senses, and
which no poet would have the hardihood to represent. 'Tis true that in
this, as in other more surprising particulars to follow, Moll did
surpass all common women; but 'tis only such extraordinary persons that
furnish material for any history. And I will add that anything is
possible to one who hath the element of greatness in her composition,
and that it depends merely on the accident of circumstances whether a
Moll Dawson becomes a great saint or a great sinner--a blessing or a
curse to humanity.




CHAPTER XV.


_Lay our hands on six hundred pounds and quarter ourselves in Hurst
Court, but stand in a fair way to be undone by Dawson, his folly._


The next day comes Simon with a bag of six hundred pounds, which he
tells over with infinite care, groaning and mopping his eyes betwixt
each four or five pieces with a most rueful visage, so that it seemed he
was weeping over this great expenditure, and then he goes to prepare the
Court and get servants against Moll's arrival. By the end of the week,
being furnished with suitable clothing and equipment, Moll and Don
Sanchez leave us, though Dawson was now as hale and hearty as ever he
had been, we being persuaded to rest at Chatham yet another week, to
give countenance to Jack's late distemper, and also that we might appear
less like a gang of thieves.

Before going, Don Sanchez warned us that very likely Simon would pay us
a visit suddenly, to satisfy any doubts that might yet crop up in his
suspicious mind; and so, to be prepared for him, I got in a good store
of paper and books, such as a merchant might require in seeking to
reestablish himself in business, and Dawson held himself in readiness to
do his share of this knavish business.

Sure enough, about three days after this, the drawer, who had been
instructed to admit no one to my chamber without my consent, comes up to
say that the little old man in leather, with the weak eyes, would see
me; so I bade him in a high voice bid Mr. Simon step up, and setting
myself before my table of paper, engage in writing a letter (already
half writ), while Dawson slips out into the next room.

"Take a seat, Mr. Steward," says I, when Simon entered, cap in hand, and
casting a very prying, curious look around. "I must keep you a minute or
two"; and so I feign to be mighty busy, and give him scope for
observation.

"Well, sir," says I, finishing my letter with a flourish, and setting it
aside. "How do you fare?"

He raised his hands, and dropped them like so much lead on his knees,
casting up his eyes and giving a doleful shake of his head for a reply.

"Nothing is amiss at the Court, I pray--your lady Mistress Godwin is
well?"

"I know not, friend," says he. "She hath taken my keys, denied me
entrance to her house, and left me no privilege of my office save the
use of the lodge house. Thus am I treated like a faithless servant,
after toiling night and day all these years, and for her advantage,
rather than mine own."

"That has to be proved, Mr. Steward," says I, severely; "for you must
admit that up to this present she has had no reason to love you, seeing
that, had her fate been left in your hands, she would now be in Barbary,
and like to end her days there. How, then, can she think but that you
had some selfish, wicked end in denying her the service we, who are
strangers, have rendered her?"

"Thee speakest truth, friend, and yet thee knowest that I observed only
the righteous prudence of an honest servant."

"We will say no more on that head, but you may rest assured on my
promise--knowing as I do the noble, generous nature of your
mistress--that if she has done you wrong in suspecting you of base
purpose, she will be the first to admit her fault and offer you
reparation."

"I seek no reparation, no reward, nothing in the world but the right to
cherish this estate," cries he, in passion; and, upon my looking at him
very curiously, as not understanding the motive of such devotion, he
continues: "Thee canst not believe me, and yet truly I am neither a liar
nor a madman. What do others toil for? A wife--children--friends--the
gratification of ambition or lust! I have no kith or kin, no ambition,
no lust; but this estate is wife, child, everything, to me. 'Tis like
some work of vanity,--a carved image that a man may give his whole life
to making, and yet die content if he achieves but some approach to the
creation of his soul. I have made this estate out of nothing; it hath
grown larger and larger, richer and more rich, in answer to my skill;
why should I not love it, and put my whole heart in the accomplishment
of my design, with the same devotion that you admire in the maker of
graven images?"

Despite his natural infirmities, Simon delivered this astonishing
rhapsody with a certain sort of vehemence that made it eloquent; and
indeed, strange as his passion was, I could not deny that it was as
reasonable in its way as any nobler act of self-sacrifice.

"I begin to understand you, Mr. Steward," says I.

"Then, good friend, as thee wouldst help the man in peril of being torn
from his child, render me this estate to govern; save it from the hands
of usurers and lawyers, men of no conscience, to whom this Spanish Don
would deliver it for the speedy satisfaction of his greed."

"Nay, my claim's as great as his," says I, "and my affairs more
pressing" (with a glance at my papers), "I am undone, my credit lost, my
occupation gone."

"Thee shalt be paid to the last farthing. Examine my books, enquire into
the value of my securities, and thee wilt find full assurance."

"Well, one of these days mayhap," says I, as if to put him off.

"Nay, come at once, I implore thee; for until I am justified to my
mistress, I stand like one betwixt life and death."

"For one thing," says I, still shuffling, "I can do nothing, nor you
either, to the payment of our just claim, before the inheritance is
safely settled upon Mistress Godwin."

"That shall be done forthwith. I understand the intricacies of the law,
and know my way" (tapping his head and then his pocket), "to get a seal,
with ten times the despatch of any attorney. I promise by Saturday thee
shalt have assurance to thy utmost requirement. Say, good friend, thee
wilt be at my lodge house on that day."

"I'll promise nothing," says I. "Our poor Captain Evans is still a
prisoner in his room."

"Aye," says Dawson, coming in from the next room, in his nightgown,
seeming very feeble and weak despite his blustering voice, "and I'm like
to be no better till I can get a ship of my own and be to sea again.
Have you brought my money, Mr. Quaker?"

"Thee shalt have it truly; wait but a little while, good friend, a
little while."

"Wait a little while and founder altogether, eh? I know you land sharks,
and would I'd been born with a smack of your cunning; then had I never
gone of this venture, and lost my ship and twoscore men, that money'll
ne'er replace. Look at me, a sheer hulk and no more, and all through
lending ear to one prayer and another. I doubt you're minded to turn
your back on poor old Bob Evans, as t'others have, Mr. Hopkins,--and why
not? The poor old man's worth nothing, and cannot help himself." With
this he fell a-snivelling like any girl.

"I vow I'll not quit you, Evans, till you're hale again."

"Bring him with thee o' Saturday," urged Simon. "Surely, my mistress can
never have the heart to refuse you shelter at the Court, who owes her
life to ye. Come and stay there till thy wage be paid, friend Evans."

"What! would ye make an honest sailor play bum-bailiff, and stick in a
house, willy nilly, till money's found? Plague of your dry land! Give me
a pitching ship and a rolling sea, and a gale whistling in my shrouds.
Oh, my reins, my reins! give me a paper of tobacco, Mr. Hopkins, and a
pipe to soothe this agony, or I shall grow desperate!"

I left the room as if to satisfy this desire, and Simon followed,
imploring me still to come on Saturday to Chislehurst; and I at length
got rid of him by promising to come as soon as Evans could be left or
induced to accompany me.

I persuaded Dawson, very much against his gree, to delay our going until
Monday, the better to hoodwink old Simon; and on that day we set out for
Chislehurst, both clad according to our condition,--he in rough frieze,
and I in a very proper, seemly sort of cloth,--and with more guineas in
our pockets than ever before we had possessed shillings. And a very
merry journey this was; for Dawson, finding himself once more at
liberty, and hearty as a lark after his long confinement and under no
constraint, was like a boy let loose from school. Carolling at the top
of his voice, playing mad pranks with all who passed us on the road, and
staying at every inn to drink twopenny ale, so that I feared he would
certainly fall ill of drinking, as he had before of eating; but the
exercise of riding, the fresh, wholesome air, and half an hour's doze in
a spinney, did settle his liquor, and so he reached Hurst Court quite
sober, thanks be to Heaven, though very gay. And there we had need of
all our self-command, to conceal our joy in finding those gates open to
us, which we had looked through so fondly when we were last here, and to
spy Moll, in a stately gown, on the fine terrace before this noble
house, carrying herself as if she had lived here all her life, and Don
Sanchez walking very deferential by her side. Especially Dawson could
scarce bring himself to speak to her in an uncouth, surly manner, as
befitted his character, and no sooner were we entered the house but he
whips Moll behind a door, and falls a-hugging and kissing her like any
sly young lover.

Whilst he was giving way to these extravagances, which Moll had not the
heart to rebuff,--for in her full, warm heart she was as overjoyed to
see him there as he her,--Don Sanchez and I paced up and down the
spacious hall, I all of a twitter lest one or other of the servants
might discover the familiarity of these two (which must have been a fine
matter for curious gossip in the household and elsewhere), and the Don
mighty sombre and grave (as foreseeing an evil outcome of this
business), so that he would make no answer to my civilities save by dumb
gestures, showing he was highly displeased. But truly 'twas enough to
set us all crazy, but he, with joy, to be in possession of all these
riches and think that we had landed at Chatham scarce a fortnight before
without decent clothes to our backs, and now, but for the success of our
design, might be the penniless strolling vagabonds we were when Don
Sanchez lighted on us.

Presently Moll came out from the side room with her father, her hair all
tumbled, and as rosy as a peach, and she would have us visit the house
from top to bottom, showing us the rooms set apart for us, her own
chamber, the state room, the dining-hall, the store closets for plate
and linen, etc., all prodigious fine and in most excellent condition;
for the scrupulous minute care of old Simon had suffered nothing to fall
out of repair, the rooms being kept well aired, the pictures,
tapestries, and magnificent furniture all preserved fresh with linen
covers and the like. From the hall she led us out on to the terrace to
survey the park and the gardens about the house, and here, as within
doors, all was in most admirable keeping, with no wild growth or
runaweeds anywhere, nor any sign of neglect. But I observed, as an
indication of the steward's thrifty, unpoetic mind, that the garden beds
were planted with onions and such marketable produce, in place of
flowers, and that instead of deer grazing upon the green slopes of the
park there was only such profitable cattle as sheep, cows, etc. And at
the sight of all this abundance of good things (and especially the
well-stored buttery), Dawson declared he could live here all his life
and never worry. And with that, all unthinkingly, he lays his arm about
Moll's waist.

Then the Don, who had followed us up and down stairs, speaking never one
word till this, says, "We may count ourselves lucky, Captain Evans, if
we are suffered to stay here another week."




CHAPTER XVI.


_Prosper as well as any thieves may; but Dawson greatly tormented._


The next morning I went to Simon at his lodge house, having writ him a
note overnight to prepare him for my visit, and there I found him, with
all his books and papers ready for my examination. So to it we set,
casting up figures, comparing accounts, and so forth, best part of the
day, and in the end I came away convinced that he was the most
scrupulous, honest steward ever man had. And, truly, it appeared that by
his prudent investments and careful management he had trebled the value
of the estate, and more, in the last ten years. He showed me, also, that
in all his valuations he had set off a large sum for loss by accident of
fire, war, etc., so that actually at the present moment the estate,
which he reckoned at seventy-five thousand pounds, was worth at the
least one hundred and twenty-five thousand. But for better assurance on
this head, I spent the remainder of the week in visiting the farms,
messuages, etc., on his rent roll, and found them all in excellent
condition, and held by good substantial men, nothing in any particular
but what he represented it.

Reporting on these matters privily to Don Sanchez and Dawson, I asked
the Don what we should now be doing.

"Two ways lie before us," says he, lighting a cigarro. "Put Simon out of
his house--and make an enemy of him," adds he, betwixt two puffs of
smoke, "seize his securities, sell them for what they will fetch, and
get out of the country as quickly as possible. If the securities be
worth one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds, we may" (puff)
"possibly" (puff) "get forty thousand for them" (puff), "about a third
of their value--not more. That yields us ten thousand apiece. On ten
thousand pounds a man may live like a prince--in Spain. The other way is
to make a friend of Simon by restoring him to his office, suffer him to
treble the worth of the estate again in the next ten years, and live
like kings" (puff) "in England."

"Pray, which way do you incline, Senor?" says I.

"Being a Spaniard," answers he, gravely, "I should prefer to live like a
prince in Spain."

"That would not I," says Dawson, stoutly. "A year and a half of Elche
have cured me of all fondness for foreign parts. Besides, 'tis a
beggarly, scurvy thing to fly one's country, as if we had done some
unhandsome, dishonest trick. If I faced an Englishman, I should never
dare look him straight in the eyes again. What say you, Mr. Hopkins?"

"Why, Evans," says I, "you know my will without telling. I will not, of
my own accord, go from your choice, which way you will."

"Since we owe everything to Mistress Judith," observes the Don, "and as
she is no longer a child, ought not her wishes to be consulted?"

"No," says Jack, very decidedly, and then, lowering his voice, he adds,
"for was she Judith Godwin ten times told, and as old as my grandmother
into the bargain, she is still my daughter, and shall do as I choose her
to do. And if, as you say, we owe her everything, then I count 'twould
be a mean, dirty return to make her live out of England and feel she has
a sneaking coward for a father."

"As you please," says the Don. "Give me ten thousand of the sum you are
to be paid at Michaelmas, and you are welcome to all the rest."

"You mean that, Senor," cries Jack, seizing the Don's hand and raising
his left.

"By the Holy Mother," answers Don Sanchez, in Spanish.

"Done!" cries Dawson, bringing his hand down with a smack on the Don's
palm. "Nay, I always believed you was the most generous man living. Ten
from t'other. Master Hopkins," says he, turning to me, "what does that
leave us?"

"More than a hundred thousand!"

"The Lord be praised for evermore!" cries Jack.

Upon this, Moll, by the advice of Don Sanchez, sends for Simon, and
telling him she is satisfied with the account I have given of his
stewardship, offers him the further control of her affairs, subject at
all times to her decision on any question concerning her convenience,
and reserving to herself the sole government of her household, the
ordering of her home, lands, etc. And Simon grasping eagerly at this
proposal, she then gives him the promise of one thousand pounds for his
past services, and doubles the wages due to him under his contract with
Sir R. Godwin.

"Give me what it may please thee to bestow that way," cries he. "All
shall be laid out to enrich this property. I have no other use for
money, no other worldly end in life but that."

And when he saw me next he was most slavish in his thanks for my good
offices, vowing I should be paid my claim by Michaelmas, if it were in
the power of man to raise so vast a sum in such short space. Surely,
thinks I, there was never a more strange, original creature than this,
yet it do seem to me that there is no man but his passion must appear a
madness to others.

I must speak now of Moll, her admirable carriage and sober conduct in
these new circumstances, which would have turned the heads of most
others. Never once to my knowledge did she lose her self-possession, on
the most trying occasion, and this was due, not alone to her own shrewd
wit and understanding, but to the subtle intelligence of Don Sanchez,
who in the character of an old and trusty friend was ever by her side,
watchful of her interest (and his own), ready at any moment to drop in
her ear a quiet word of warning or counsel. By his advice she had taken
into her service a most commendable, proper old gentlewoman, one Mrs.
Margery Butterby, who, as being the widow of a country parson, was very
orderly in all things, and particularly nice in the proprieties. This
notable good soul was of a cheery, chatty disposition, of very pleasing
manners, and a genteel appearance, and so, though holding but the part
of housekeeper, she served as an agreeable companion and a respectable
guardian, whose mere presence in the house silenced any question that
might have arisen from the fact of three men living under the same roof
with the young and beautiful mistress of Hurst Court. Moreover, she
served us as a very useful kind of mouthpiece; for all those marvellous
stories of her life in Barbary, of the pirates we had encountered in
redeeming her from the Turk, etc., with which Moll would beguile away
any tedious half-hour, for the mere amusement of creating Mrs.
Butterby's wonder and surprise,--as one will tell stories of fairies to
children,--this good woman repeated with many additions of her own
concerning ourselves, which, to reflect credit on herself, were all to
our advantage. This was the more fitting, because the news spreading
that the lost heiress had returned to Hurst Court excited curiosity far
and wide, and it was not long before families in the surrounding seats,
who had known Sir R. Godwin in bygone times, called to see his daughter.
And here Moll's wit was taxed to the utmost, for those who had known
Judith Godwin as an infant expected that she should remember some
incident stored in their recollection; but she was ever equal to the
occasion, feigning a pretty doubting innocence at first, then suddenly
asking this lady if she had not worn a cherry dress with a beautiful
stomacher at the time, or that gentleman if he had not given her a gold
piece for a token, and it generally happened these shrewd shafts hit
their mark: the lady, though she might have forgotten her gown,
remembering she had a very becoming stomacher; the gentleman believing
that he did give her a lucky penny, and so forth, from very vanity. Then
Moll's lofty carriage and her beauty would remind them of their dear
lost friend, Mrs. Godwin, in the heyday of her youth, and all agreed in
admiring her beyond anything. And though Moll, from her lack of
knowledge, made many slips, and would now and then say things
uncustomary to women of breeding, yet these were easily attributed to
her living so long in a barbarous country, and were as readily glanced
over. Indeed, nothing could surpass Moll's artificial conduct on these
occasions. She would lard her conversation with those scraps of Italian
she learnt from me, and sometimes, affecting to have forgot her own
tongue, she would stumble at a word, and turning to Don Sanchez, ask him
the English of some Moorish phrase. Then one day, there being quite a
dozen visitors in her state room, she brings down her Moorish dress and
those baubles given her by friends at Elche, to show the ladies, much to
the general astonishment and wonder; then, being prayed to dress herself
in these clothes, she with some hesitation of modesty consents, and
after a short absence from the room returns in this costume, looking
lovelier than ever I had before seen, with the rings about her shapely
bare arms and on her ankles, and thus arrayed she brings me a guitar,
and to my strumming sings a Moorish song, swaying her arms above her
head and turning gracefully in their fashion, so that all were in an
ecstasy with this strange performance. And the talk spreading, the
number of visitors grew apace,--as bees will flock to honey,--and
yielding to their urgent entreaties, she would often repeat this piece
of business, and always with a most winning grace, that charmed every
one. But she was most a favourite of gentlemen and elderly ladies; for
the younger ones she did certainly put their noses out of joint, since
none could at all compare with her in beauty nor in manner, either, for
she had neither the awkward shyness of some nor the boldness of others,
but contrived ever to steer neatly betwixt the two extremes by her
natural self-possession and fearlessness.

Of all her new friends, the most eager in courting her were Sir Harry
Upton and his lady (living in the Crays); and they, being about to go to
London for the winter, did press Moll very hard to go with them, that
she might be presented to the king; and, truth to tell, they would not
have had to ask her twice had she been governed only by her own
inclination. For she was mad to go,--that audacious spirit of adventure
still working very strong in her,--and she, like a winning gamester,
must for ever be playing for higher and higher stakes. But we, who had
heard enough of his excellent but lawless Majesty's court to fear the
fate of any impulsive, beauteous young woman that came within his sway,
were quite against this. Even Don Sanchez, who was no innocent, did
persuade her from it with good strong argument,--showing that, despite
his worldliness, he did really love her as much as 'twas in his withered
heart to love any one. As for Dawson, he declared he would sooner see
his Moll in her winding-sheet than in the king's company, adding that
'twould be time enough for her to think of going to court when she had a
husband to keep her out of mischief. And so she refused this offer (but
with secret tears, I believe). "But," says she to her father, "if I'm
not to have my own way till I'm married, I shall get me a husband as
soon as I can."

And it seemed that she would not have to look far nor wait long for one
neither. Before a month was passed, at least half a dozen young sparks
were courting her, they being attracted, not only by her wit and beauty,
but by the report of her wealth, it being known to all how Simon had
enriched the estate. And 'twas this abundance of suitors which prevented
Moll from choosing any one in particular, else had there been but one, I
believe the business would have been settled very quickly. For now she
was in the very flush of life, and the blood that flowed in her veins
was of no lukewarm kind.

But here (that I may keep all my strings in harmony) I must quit Moll
for a space to tell of her father. That first hint of the Don's bringing
him to his senses somewhat (like a dash of cold water), and the
exuberance of his joy subsiding, he quickly became more circumspect in
his behaviour, and fell into the part he had to play. And the hard,
trying, sorrowful part that was, neither he nor I had foreseen. For now
was he compelled for the first time in his life, at any length, to live
apart from his daughter, to refrain from embracing her when they met in
the morning, to speak to her in a rough, churlish sort when his heart,
maybe, was overflowing with love, and to reconcile himself to a cool,
indifferent behaviour on her side, when his very soul was yearning for
gentle, tender warmth. And these natural cravings of affection were
rather strengthened than stilled by repression, as one's hunger by
starving. To add to this, he now saw his Moll more bewitching than ever
she was before, the evidence of her wit and understanding stimulating
that admiration which he dared not express. He beheld her loved and
courted openly by all, whilst he who had deeper feeling for her than
any, and more right to caress her, must at each moment stifle his
desires and lay fetters on his inclinations, which constraint, like
chains binding down a stout, thriving oak, did eat and corrode into his
being, so that he did live most of these days in a veritable torment.
Yet, for Moll's sake, was he very stubborn in his resolution; and, when
he could no longer endure to stand indifferently by while others were
enjoying her sprightly conversation, he would go up to his chamber and
pace to and fro, like some she-lion parted from her cub.

These sufferings were not unperceived by Moll, who also had strong
feeling to repress, and therefore could comprehend her father's torture,
and she would often seize an opportunity, nay, run great risk of
discovery, to hie her secretly to his room, there to throw herself in
his arms and strain him to her heart, covering his great face with
tender kisses, and whispering words of hope and good cheer (with the
tears on her cheek). And one day when Jack seemed more than usual
downhearted, she offered him to give up everything and return to her old
ways, if he would. But this spurring his courage, he declared he would
live in hell rather than she should fall from her high estate, and
become a mere vagabond wench again, adding that 'twas but the first
effort gave him so much pain, that with practice 'twould all be as
nothing; that such sweet kisses as hers once a week did amply compensate
him for his fast, etc. Then her tears being brushed away, she would quit
him with noiseless step and all precautions, and maybe five minutes
afterwards, whilst Jack was sitting pensive at his window pondering her
sweetness and love, he would hear her laughing lightly below, as if he
were already forgotten.




CHAPTER XVII.


_How Dawson for Moll's good parts company with us, and goes away a
lonely man._


On the eve of Michaelmas day old Simon returned from London, whither he
had gone two days before, to raise the money he had promised; and
calling upon him in the afternoon I found him seated at his table, with
a most woe-begone look in his face, and his eyes streaming more
copiously than usual. And with most abject humility he told me that
doing the utmost that lay in his power, he had not been able to persuade
his goldsmith to lend more than ten thousand pounds on the title deeds.
Nor had he got that, he declared, but that the goldsmith knew him for an
honest and trustworthy man whom he would credit beyond any other in the
world; for the seal not yet being given to Judith Godwin's succession,
there was always peril of dispute and lawsuits which might make these
papers of no value at all (the king's ministers vying one with another
to please their master by bringing money rightly or wrongly into the
treasury), and this, indeed, may have been true enough.

"But," says he, "all will go well if thee wilt have but a little
patience for a while. To-morrow my rents will come in, and I will exact
to the last farthing; and there is a parcel of land I may sell, mayhap,
for instant payment, though 'twill be at a fearsome loss" (mopping his
eyes), "yet I will do it rather than put thee to greater incommodity;
and so, ere the end of the week, thee mayst safely count on having yet
another three thousand, which together makes nigh upon half the sum
promised. And this, dear good friend," adds he, slyly, "thee mayst well
take on account of thine own share,--and none dispute thy right, for
'tis thy money hath done all. And from what I see of him, smoking of
pipes in the public way and drinking with any low fellows in alehouses,
this Captain Evans is but a paltry, mean man who may be easily put off
with a pound or two to squander in his pleasures; and as for the Spanish
grandee, he do seem so content to be with our mistress that I doubt he
needs no pretext for quitting her, added to which, being of a haughty,
proud nature, he should scorn to claim his own, to the prejudice of a
merchant who hath nought but his capital to live upon. And I do implore
thee, good friend, to lay this matter before my mistress in such a way
that she may not be wroth with me."

I told him I would do all he could expect of me in reason, but bade him
understand that his chance of forgiveness for having broke his first
engagement depended greatly upon his exactitude in keeping the second,
and that he might count on little mercy from us if the other three
thousand were not forthcoming as he promised. So I took the money and
gave him a quittance for it, signing it with my false name, James
Hopkins, but, reflecting on this when I left him, I wished I had not.
For I clearly perceived that by this forgery I laid myself open to very
grievous consequences; moreover, taking of this solid money, disguise it
how I would, appeared to me nothing short of downright robbery, be it
whose it might. In short, being now plunged up to my neck in this
business, I felt like a foolish lad who hath waded beyond his depth in a
rapid current, hoping I might somehow get out of it safely, but with
very little expectation. However, the sight of all this gold told up in
scores upon the table in our closed room served to quiet these qualms
considerably. Nevertheless, I was not displeased to remember our bargain
with Don Sanchez, feeling that I should breathe more freely when he had
taken this store of gold out of my hands, etc. Thus did my mind waver
this way and that, like a weather-cock to the blowing of contrary winds.

'Twas this day that Moll (as I have said) dressed herself in her Moorish
clothes for the entertainment of her new friends, and Dawson, hearing
her voice, yet not daring to go into the state room where she was, must
needs linger on the stairs listening to her song, and craning his neck
to catch a glimpse of her through the open door below. Here he stands in
a sort of ravishment, sucking in her sweet voice, and the sounds of
delight with which her guests paid tribute to her performance, feeding
his passion which, like some fire, grew more fierce by feeding, till he
was well-nigh beside himself. Presently, out comes Moll from her state
room, all glowing with exercise, flushed with pleasure, a rich colour in
her cheek, and wild fire in her eyes, looking more witching than any
siren. Swiftly she crosses the hall, and runs up the stairs to gain her
chamber and reclothe herself, but half way up Dawson stops her, and
clasping her about, cries hoarsely in a transport:

"Thou art my own Moll--my own sweet Moll!" adding, as she would break
from him to go her way, "Nay, chick. You shall not go till you have
bussed your old dad."

Then she, hesitating a moment betwixt prudence and her warmer feelings,
suddenly yields to the impulse of her heart (her head also being turned
maybe with success and delight), and flinging her arms about his neck
gives him a hearty kiss, and then bursts away with a light laugh.

Jack watches her out of sight, and then, when the moment of escape is
past, he looks below to see if there be any danger, and there he spies
Don Sanchez, regarding him from the open door, where he stands, as if to
guard it. Without a sign the Don turns on his heel and goes back into
the room, while Dawson, with a miserable hangdog look, comes to me in my
chamber, where I am counting the gold, and confesses his folly with a
shamed face, cursing himself freely for his indiscretion, which at this
rate must ruin all ere long.

This was no great surprise to me, for I myself had seen him many a time
clip his dear daughter's hand, when he thought no one was by, and, more
than once, the name of Moll had slipped out when he should have spoken
of Mistress Judith.

These accidents threw us both into a very grave humour, and especially I
was tormented with the reflection that a forgery could be proved against
me, if things came to the worst. The danger thereof was not slight; for
though all in the house loved Moll dearly and would willingly do her no
hurt, yet the servants, should they notice how Mistress Judith stood
with Captain Evans, must needs be prating, and there a mischief would
begin, to end only the Lord knows where! Thereupon, I thought it as well
to preach Jack a sermon, and caution him to greater prudence; and this
he took in amazing good part--not bidding me tend my own business as he
might at another time, but assenting very submissively to all my hints
of disaster, and thanking me in the end for speaking my mind so freely.
Then, seeing him so sadly downcast, I (to give a sweetmeat after a
bitter draught) bade him take the matter not too much to heart,
promising that, with a little practice, he would soon acquire a habit of
self-restraint, and so all would go well. But he made no response, save
by shaking of his head sorrowfully, and would not be comforted. When all
were abed that night, we three men met in my chamber, where I had set
the bags of money on the table, together with a dish of tobacco and a
bottle of wine for our refreshment, and then the Don, having lit him a
cigarro, and we our pipes, with full glasses beside us, I proposed we
should talk of our affairs, to which Don Sanchez consented with a solemn
inclination of his head. But ere I began, I observed with a pang of
foreboding, that Jack, who usually had emptied his glass ere others had
sipped theirs, did now leave his untouched, and after the first pull or
two at his pipe, he cast it on the hearth as though it were foul to his
taste. Taking no open notice of this, I showed Don Sanchez the gold, and
related all that had passed between Simon and me.

"Happily, Senor," says I, in conclusion, "here is just the sum you
generously offered to accept for your share, and we give it you with a
free heart, Evans and I being willing to wait for what may be
forthcoming."

"Is it your wish both, that I take this?" says he, laying his hand on
the money and looking from me to Dawson.

"Aye," says he, "'tis but a tithe of what is left to us, and not an
hundredth part of what we owe to you."

"Very good," says the Don. "I will carry it to London to-morrow."

"But surely, Senor," says I, "you will not quit us so soon."

Don Sanchez rolls his cigarro in his lips, looking me straight in the
face and somewhat sternly, and asks me quietly if I have ever found him
lacking in loyalty and friendship.

"In truth, never, Senor."

"Then why should you imagine I mean to quit you now when you have more
need of a friend in this house" (with a sideward glance as towards
Moll's chamber) "than ever you before had?" Then, turning towards Jack,
he says, "What are you going to do, Captain Evans?"

Dawson pauses, as if to snatch one last moment for consideration, and
then, nodding at me, "You'll not leave my--Moll, Kit?" says he, with no
attempt to disguise names.

"Why should I leave her; are we not as brothers, you and I?"

"Aye, I'd trust you with my life," answers he, "and more than that, with
my--Moll! If you were her uncle, she couldn't love you more, Kit. And
you will stand by her, too, Senor?"

The Don bowed his head.

"Then when you leave, to-morrow, I'll go with you to London," says Jack.

"I shall return the next day," says Don Sanchez, with significance.

"And I shall not, God help me!" says Jack, bitterly.

"Give me your hand," says the Don; but I could speak never a word, and
sat staring at Jack, in a maze.

"We'll say nought of this to her," continues Jack; "there must be no
farewells, I could never endure that. But it shall seem that I have gone
with you for company, and have fallen in with old comrades who would
keep me for a carousing."

"But without friends--alone--what shall you do there in London?" says I,
heart-stricken at the thought of his desolation. The Don answers for
Jack.

"Make the best of his lot with a stout heart, like any other brave man,"
says he. "There are natural hardships which every man must bear in his
time, and this is one of them." Then lowering his voice, he adds,
"Unless you would have her die an old maid, she and her father must part
sooner or later."

"Why, that's true, and yet, Master," says Jack, "I would have you know
that I'm not so brave but I would see her now and then."

"That may be ordered readily enough," says the Don.

"Then do you tell her, Senor, I have but gone a-junketing, and she may
look to see me again when my frolic's over."

The Don closed his eyes as one in dubitation, and then says, lifting his
eyebrows: "She is a clever woman--shrewd beyond any I have ever known;
then why treat her as you would a foolish child? You must let me tell
her the truth when I come back, and I warrant it will not break her
heart, much as she loves you."

"As you will," says t'other. "'Twill be all as one to me," with a sigh.

"This falls out well in all ways," continues the Don, turning to me.
"You will tell Simon, whose suspicion we have most to fear, that we have
handed over four thousand of those pieces to Captain Evans as being most
in need, we ourselves choosing to stay here till the rest of our claim
is paid. That will account for Evans going away, and give us a pretext
for staying here."

"I'll visit him myself, if you will," says Jack, "and wring his hand to
show my gratitude. I warrant I'll make him wince, such a grip will I
give him. And I'll talk of nothing else but seas and winds, and the
manner of ship I'll have for his money."


The following morning before Moll was stirring, Don Sanchez and Dawson
set forth on their journey, and I going with them beyond the park gates
to the bend of the road, we took leave of each other with a great show
of cheerfulness on both sides. But Lord! my heart lay in my breast like
any lump of lead, and when Jack turned his back on me, the tears sprang
up in my eyes as though indeed this was my brother and I was never to
see him more. And long after he was out of sight I sat on the bank by
the roadside, sick with pain to think of his sorrow in going forth like
this, without one last loving word of parting from his dear Moll, to
find no home in London, no friend to cheer him, and he the most
companionable man in the world.




CHAPTER XVIII.


_Of our getting a painter into the Court, with whom our Moll falls
straightway in love._


Being somewhat of a coward, I essayed to put Moll off with a story of
her father having gone a-frolicking with Don Sanchez, leaving it to the
Don to break the truth to her on his return. And a sorry, bungling
business I made of it, to be sure. For, looking me straight in the eyes,
whenever I dared lift them, she did seem to perceive that I was lying,
from the very first, which so disconcerted me, though she interrupted me
by never a word, that I could scarce stammer to the end of my tale.
Then, without asking a single question, or once breaking her painful
silence, she laid her face in her hands, her shoulders shook, and the
tears ran out between her fingers, and fell upon her lap.

"I know, I know," says she, putting me away, when I attempted to speak.
"He has gone away for my sake, and will come back no more; and 'tis all
my fault, that I could not play my part better."

Then, what words of comfort I could find, I offered her; but she would
not be consoled, and shut herself up in her room all that morning.
Nevertheless, she ate more heartily than I at dinner, and fresh visitors
coming in the afternoon, she entertained them as though no grief lay at
her heart. Indeed, she recovered of this cruel blow much easier than I
looked for; and but that she would at times sit pensive, with
melancholy, wistful eyes, and rise from her seat with a troubled sigh,
one would have said, at the end of the week, that she had ceased to feel
for her father. But this was not so (albeit wounds heal quickly in the
young and healthful), for I believe that they who weep the least do ache
the most.

Then, for her further excuse (if it be needed), Don Sanchez brought back
good tidings of her father,--how he was neatly lodged near the Cherry
garden, where he could hear the birds all day and the fiddles all night,
with abundance of good entertainment, etc. To confirm which, she got a
letter from him, three days later, very loving and cheerful, telling
how, his landlord being a carpenter, he did amuse himself mightily at
his old trade in the workshop, and was all agog for learning to turn
wood in a lathe, promising that he would make her a set of egg-cups
against her birthday, please God. Added to this, the number of her
friends multiplying apace, every day brought some new occupation to her
thoughts; also, having now those three thousand pounds old Simon had
promised us, Moll set herself to spending of them as quickly as
possible, by furnishing herself with all sorts of rich gowns and
appointments, which is as pretty a diversion of melancholy from a young
woman's thoughts as any. And so I think I need dwell no longer on this
head.

About the beginning of October, Simon comes, cap in hand, and very
humble, to the Court to crave Moll's consent to his setting some men
with guns in her park at night, to lie in ambush for poachers, telling
how they had shot one man in the act last spring, and had hanged another
the year before for stealing of a sheep; adding that a stranger had been
seen loitering in the neighbourhood, who, he doubted not, was of their
thieving crew.

"What makes you think that?" asks Moll. "He has been seen lingering
about here these three days," answers Simon. "Yet to my knowledge he
hath not slept at either of the village inns. Moreover, he hath the look
of a desperate, starving rascal, ripe for such work."

"I will have no man killed for his misfortunes."

"Gentle mistress, suffer me to point out that if thee lets one man steal
with impunity, others, now innocent, are thereby encouraged to sin, and
thus thy mercy tends to greater cruelty."

"No man shall be killed on my land,--there is my answer," says Moll,
with passion. "If you take this poor, starved creature, it shall be
without doing him bodily hurt. You shall answer for it else."

"Not a bone shall be broken, mistress. 'Tis enough if we carry him
before Justice Martin, a godly, upright man, and a scourge to
evil-doers."

"Nay, you shall not do that, neither, till I have heard his case," says
Moll. "'Tis for me to decide whether he has injured me or not, and I'll
suffer none to take my place."

Promising obedience, Simon withdrew before any further restrictions
might be put upon him; but Moll's mind was much disturbed all day by
fear of mischief being done despite her commands, and at night she would
have me take her round the park to see all well. Maybe, she thought that
her own father, stealing hither to see her privily, might fall a victim
to Simon's ambushed hirelings. But we found no one, though Simon had
certainly hidden these fellows somewhere in the thickets.

Whilst we were at table next morning, we heard a great commotion in the
hall; and Mrs. Butterby coming in a mighty pucker, told how the robber
had been taken in the park, and how Simon had brought him to the house
in obedience to her lady's command. "But do, pray, have a care of
yourself, my dear lady," says she; "for this hardy villain hath struck
Mr. Simon in the face and made most desperate resistance; and Heaven
protect us from such wicked outlaws as have the villany to show
themselves in broad daylight!"

Moll, smiling, said she would rather face a lion in the day than a mouse
by night, and so bade the captive to be brought before her.

Then in comes Simon, with a stout band over one eye, followed by two
sturdy fellows holding their prisoner betwixt them. And this was a very
passionate man, as was evidenced by the looks of fury he cast from side
to side upon his captors as they dragged him this way and that to make a
show of their power, but not ill-looking. In his struggles he had lost
his hat, and his threadbare coat and shirt were torn open, laying bare
his neck and showing a very fair white skin and a good beard of light
curling hair. There was nought mean or vile in his face, but rather it
seemed to me a noble countenance, though woefully wasted, so that at a
glance one might perceive he was no born rascal, but likely enough some
ruined man of better sort driven to unlawful ways by his distress. He
was of a fair height, but gaunt beyond everything, and so feeble that
after one effort to free his arms his chin sank upon his breast as if
his forces were all spent.

Seeing this, Moll bade the fellows unbind him, telling them sharply they
might see there was no need of such rigour.

Being freed, our prisoner lifts his head and makes a slight reverence to
Moll, but with little gratitude in his look, and places himself at the
end of the table facing us, who are at the other end, Moll sitting
betwixt Don Sanchez and me. And there, setting his hands for support
upon the board, he holds his head up pretty proudly, waiting for what
might come.

"Who are you?" asks Moll, in a tone of authority.

He waits a moment, as if deliberating with himself whether to speak
fairly or not, then, being still sore with his ill-treatment, and
angered to be questioned thus by a mere girl (he, as I take it, being a
man of thirty or thereabouts), he answers:

"I do not choose to tell. Who I am, what I am, concerns you no more than
who and what you are concerns me, and less since I may justly demand by
what right these fellows, whom I take to be your servants, have thus
laid hands on me."

"How do you answer this?" asks Moll, turning to Simon.

Then Simon told very precisely, as if he were before a magistrate, how
this man, having been seen lingering about the Court several days, and
being without home or occupation, had been suspected of felonious
purposes; how, therefore, he had set a watch to lay wait for him; how
that morning they had entrapped him standing within a covert of the park
regarding the house; how he had refused to give his name or any excuse
for his being there, and how he had made most desperate attempt to
escape when they had lain hands on him.

"Is this true?" asks Moll of the prisoner.

"Yes," says he.

Moll regards him with incredulous eyes a moment, then, turning to Simon,
"What arms had he for this purpose that you speak of?" says she.

"None, mistress; but 'twould be a dread villain verily who would carry
the engines of his trade abroad in daylight to betray him." And then he
told how 'tis the habit of these poachers to reconnoitre their ground by
day, and keep their nets, guns, etc., concealed in some thicket or
hollow tree convenient for their purpose. "But," adds he, "we may
clearly prove a trespass against him, which is a punishable offence, and
this assault upon me, whereof I have evidence, shall also count for
something with Justice Martin, and so the wicked shall yet come by their
deserts." And with that he gives his fellows a wink with his one eye to
carry off their quarry.

"Stay," says Moll, "I would be further convinced--"

"If he be an honest man, let him show thee his hand," says Simon.

The man innocently enough stretches out his palm towards us, not
perceiving Simon's end.

"There!" cries Simon. "What said I? Is that a hand that ever did a day's
honest work?"

"'Tis no worse than mine," says Moll, regarding the hand which in truth
was exceeding smooth and well formed. "Come," adds she, still more
kindly, "you see I am no harsh judge. I would not deny a fellow-creature
the pleasure that is not grudged the coney that runs across my lawn.
Tell me you were there but to gratify a passing caprice, and I'll
forgive you as freely as I'll believe you."

This gentle appeal seemed to move the young man greatly, and he made as
if he would do more than was demanded of him, and make that free
confession which he had refused to force. But ere a word could leave his
parted lips a deadly shade passed over his face, his knees gave under
him, and staggering to save himself, he fell to the ground in a swoon.

Then, whilst all we men stood fixed in wonderment, Moll, with the quick,
helpful impulse of her womanhood, ran swiftly from her place to his
side, and dropping on her knees cried for water to be brought her.

"Dead of hunger," says Don Sanchez, in my ear. "Fetch a flask of
brandy."

And then, laying hold of Simon by the shoulder, he pointed significantly
to the open door. This hint Simon was not slow to take, and when I
returned from the buttery with a case of strong waters, I found no one
in the room but Don Sanchez, and Moll with the fainting man's head upon
her lap, bathing his temples gently. Life had not come back, and the
young man's face looked very handsome in death, the curls pushed back
from his brow, and his long features still and colourless like a carved
marble.

Then with a "lack-a-day" and "alas," in bustles Mrs. Butterby with a
bottle of cordial in one hand and a bunch of burning feathers in the
other.

"Fling that rubbish in the chimney," says the Don. "I know this
malady--well enough," and pouring some hollands in a cup he put it to
the dead man's parted lips.

In a few moments he breathed again, and hearing Moll's cry of joy, he
opened his eyes as one waking from a dream and turned his head to learn
what had happened. Then finding his head in Moll's lap and her small,
soft, cool hand upon his brow, a smile played over his wasted face. And
well, indeed, might he smile to see that young figure of justice turned
to the living image of tender mercy.

Perceiving him out of danger, and recovering her own wits at the same
time, Mrs. Butterby cries: "Lord! Madam, do let me call a maid to take
your place; for, dear heart! you have quite spoiled your new gown with
this mess of water, and all for such a paltry fellow as this!"

Truly, it must have seemed to her understanding an outrageous thing that
a lady of her mistress' degree should be nursing such a ragged rascal;
but to me, knowing Moll's helpful, impulsive disposition, 'twas no such
extraordinary matter, for she at such a moment could not entertain those
feelings which might have restrained a lady of more refined breeding.

The pretty speech of Mrs. Butterby, reaching the fallen man's ear,
seemed instantly to quicken his spirits, and, casting off his lethargic
humour, he quickly staggered to his feet, while we raised Moll. Then,
resting one hand upon the table for support, he craved her pardon for
giving so much trouble, but in a very faint, weak voice.

"I would have done as much for a dog," says Moll. "My friends will
render you what further services are fit; and, if it appears that you
have been unjustly used (as I do think you have), be sure you shall have
reparation."

"I ask no more," says he, "than to be treated as I may merit in your
esteem."

"Justice shall be done," says Don Sanchez, in his stern voice, and with
that he conducts Moll to the door.

But Moll was not content with this promise of justice. For the quality
of mercy begetteth love, so that one cannot moderate one's anger against
an enemy, but it doth breed greater compassion and leniency by making
one better content with oneself, and therefore more indulgent to others.
And so, when she had left the room, she sends in her maid to fetch me,
and taking me aside says with vivacity:

"I will have no punishment made upon that man."

"Nay," says I, "but if 'tis proved that his intent was to rob you--"

"What then!" says she. "Hath he not as much right to this estate as we?
And are we one whit the better than he, save in the more fortunate issue
of our designs? Understand me," adds she, with passion; "I will have
nothing added to his unhappiness."

I found the young man seated at the table, and Don Sanchez gravely
setting food before him. But he would take nothing but bread, and that
he ate as though it were the sweetest meat in all the world. I lead the
Don to the window, and there, in an undertone, told him of Moll's
decision; and, whether her tone of supreme authority amused him or not,
I cannot say, because of his impassive humour, but he answered me with a
serious inclination of his head, and then we fell speaking of other
matters in our usual tone, until the young man, having satisfied the
cravings of nature, spoke:

"When you are at liberty, gentlemen," says he, "to question my conduct,
I will answer you."




CHAPTER XIX.


_Of the business appointed to the painter, and how he set about the
same._


The young man had risen and was standing by the table when we turned
from the window; he seemed greatly refreshed, his face had lost its
livid hue of passion and death, and looked the better for a tinge of
colour. He met our regard boldly, yet with no braggart, insolent air,
but the composure of a brave man facing his trial with a consciousness
of right upon his side.

"I would ask you," says the Don, seating himself on t'other side the
table, "why you refused to do that before?"

"Sir," answers he, "I have lost everything in the world save some small
modicum of pride, which, being all I have, I do cherish, maybe, unduly.
And so, when these unmannerly hinds took me by the throat, calling on me
to tell my name and business, this spirit within me flaring up, I could
not answer with the humility of a villain seeking to slink out of danger
by submissive excuses."

"Be seated," says the Don, accepting this explanation with a bow. "How
may we call you?"

"In Venice," replies the other, with some hesitation, "I was called
Dario--a name given me by my fellow-scholars because my English name was
not to their taste."

"Enough," says the Don. "I can understand a man of better fortune, as I
perceive you have been, wishing in such a position as this to retain his
incognito. There are no parks in Venice, to my knowledge, but surely,
sir, you would not enter a palazzo there uninvited without some
reasonable pretext."

"It would be sufficient that in such a house as this I thought I might
find some employment for a painter."

"You are a painter?" says I.

"A poor one, as you see," replies Dario, with a significant glance at
his clothes.

Don Sanchez turned to me, hunching his shoulders.

"'Tis clear," says he, "that Signor Dario has been grossly abused by our
lady's over-zealous steward. You have but to tell us, sir, what
reparation we can make you."

"I'll not refuse it," answers Dario, eagerly. "You shall grant me
permission to prove the honesty of my story--and something more than
that. Somewhere here," adds he, glancing around him, "I'd leave a
tribute to the grace of that dear lady who brought me back to life."

Don Sanchez assents with a bow to this proposal, but with a rueful
glance at the rich panels of the wall, as fearing this painter might be
as poor in talent as in his clothes--the latter reflecting discredit on
the former--and would disfigure the handsome walls with some rude daub.

"Ah!" cries Dario, casting his eye upon the ceiling, which was plastered
in the Italian mode and embellished with a poor design of cherubs and
clouds, "this ceiling is ill done. I could paint a fresco that would
less disgrace the room."

"You will need materials," says the Don, laying his purse upon the
table. "When you return with them, you may rely upon having our lady's
consent to your wishes."

The painter took the purse with a bow of acknowledgment, and no more
hesitation than one gentleman would show in receiving an obligation from
another, and presently left us.

"Shall we see him again, think ye, Senor?" I asked when we were left to
ourselves.

He nodded, but with such a reflective, sombre air, that I was impelled
to ask him if he lacked confidence in the story told us by the painter.

"His story may be true enough, but whether Signor Dario be an honest man
or not is another matter. A painter's but a man. A ruined gentleman will
accommodate his principles to circumstances" (with a side glance that
seemed to say, "I am a ruined gentleman")--"and my mind would be easier
if I knew by what curious accident a painter in need should find himself
in the heart of Kent, and why fixing on this house to seek employment he
should linger to the point of starvation before he can pluck up courage
to ask a simple question. We must keep our eyes open, Mr. Hopkins, and,"
adds he, dropping his voice, "our mouths shut."

I could not sleep that night for thinking of house-breakings and bloody
struggles for dear life; for 'tis a matter of common report that this
sort of robbers, ere they make attack, do contrive to get one of their
number into the house that he may learn where good goods are stowed,
which part is easiest of attack, etc. I know not whether these quakings
were shared by the Don, but certainly our misgivings never entered
Moll's little head. Nay, rather, her romantic disposition did lead her
(when she heard our narration) to conceive that this mysterious Dario
might be some wandering genius, whose work upon our ceiling would make
the Court for ever glorious. And while in this humour she bade me go to
Simon, whose presence she would not tolerate in her house, and make him
acquainted with her high displeasure, and furthermore, to command that
he should make satisfactory apology to Dario upon his return. So to him
I went, and he wringing his hands in anguish deplored that his best
endeavours to serve his mistress served only to incense her the more
against him. But for his apology he declared that has been made the
moment he heard of the gentleman's release, at the same time that he
restored to him his hat and a pocket-book which had fallen from his
pocket.

This did somewhat reassure me, knowing full well that Simon would not
have given up this book without first acquainting himself with its
contents, and urging that had there been anything in it to incriminate
him, he had certainly laid it before his mistress for his own
justification.

A couple of days after this, as Don Sanchez and I were discoursing in
the great avenue, Dario presents himself, looking all the better for a
decent suit of clothes and a more prosperous condition, and Moll joining
us at that moment, he makes her a very handsome obeisance and standing
uncovered before her, begs to know if it is her will that he should
paint the ceiling of her dining-hall.

As he spoke, the colour rose on his cheek, and a shaft of sunlight
falling on his curling hair, which shone with the lustre of health, made
him look as comely a man as ever I did see, and a good five years
younger than when he stood before us in the extremity of distress.

"Sir," says Moll, "were you my debtor as much as I am yours, I could not
ask for better payment."

Don Sanchez put an end to this pretty exchange of courtesies--which
maybe he considered overmuch as between a lady of Moll's degree and one
who might turn out to be no more than an indifferent painter at the
best--by proposing that Dario should point out what disposition he would
have made for his convenience in working. So he went within doors, and
there Dario gave orders to our gardener, who was a handy sort of
Jack-of-all-trades, what pieces of furniture should be removed, how the
walls and floor should be protected, and how a scaffold should be set up
for him to work on. And the gardener promising to carry out all these
instructions in the course of the day, Dario took his leave of us in a
very polished style, saying he would begin his business the next morning
betimes.

Sure enough, we were awoke next day by a scraping below, and coming
down, we found our painter in a scull-cap and a smock that covered him
to his heels, upon his scaffold, preparing the ceiling in a very
workmanlike manner. And to see him then, with his face and beard thickly
crusted over with a mess of dry plaster and paint, did I think somewhat
dispel those fanciful illusions which our Moll had fostered--she,
doubtless, expecting to find him in a very graceful attitude and
beautiful to look at, creating a picture as if by inchantment. Her
mortification was increased later in the day when, we having invited him
on her insistence to dine at our table, he declined (civilly enough),
saying he had brought his repast with him, and we presently found him
seated astride one of his planks with a pocket knife in one hand and a
thumb-piece of bread and bacon in the other, which he seemed to be
eating with all the relish in the world.

"Why, he is nought but a common labourer," says Moll, disgusted to see
him regaling himself in this fashion, as we returned to our room. "A
pretty picture we are like to get for all this mess and inconvenience!"

And her idol being broken (as it were), and all her fond fancies dashed,
she would not as much as look at him again nor go anigh the room, to be
reminded of her folly.

However, on the third day Dario sent to ask if she would survey his
outlines and decide whether the design pleased her or not. For this
purpose he had pushed aside his scaffold, and here we saw a perspective
done on the ceiling in charcoal, representing a vaulted roof with an
opening to the sky in the middle, surrounded by a little balcony with
trailing plants running over it, and flowers peeping out betwixt the
balusters. And this, though very rough, was most artificial, making the
room look twice its height, and the most admirable, masterly drawing
that I did ever see.

And now Moll, who had prepared a courteous speech to cover the contempt
she expected to feel for the work, could say nought for astonishment,
but stood casting her eyes round at the work like one in a maze.

"If you would prefer an allegory of figures," says Dario, misconceiving
her silence.

"Nay," answers she, "I would have nothing altered. 'Tis wonderful how
such effect can be made with mere lines of black. I can scarce believe
the ceiling is flat." And then she drops her eyes upon Dario, regarding
him with wonder, as if doubting that such a dirty-looking man could have
worked this miracle.

"You must have seen better designs in Rome," says he.

At this I took alarm, not thinking for the moment that he might have
picked up some particulars of Judith Godwin's history from Mrs.
Butterby, or the curious servants who were ever prying in the room.

"'Tis so long ago," says Moll, readily.

"I think I have seen something like it in the Holy City," observes the
Don, critically.

"Probably. Nothing has been left undone in Rome--I am told. It has not
been my good fortune to get so far."

This was good news; for otherwise he might have put some posers to Moll,
which she had found it hard to answer without betraying her ignorance.

Having Moll's approval, Dario set to work forthwith to colour his
perspective; and this he did with the sure firm hand of one who
understands his business, and with such nice judgment, that no builder,
whose design is ordered by fixed rule and line, could accomplish his
work with greater truth and justice. He made it to appear that the lower
part of his vaulted roof was wainscoted in the style of the walls, and
to such perfection that 'twould have puzzled a conjurer to decide where
the oaken panels ended and the painted ones began.

And now Moll suffers her fancies to run wild again, and could not
sufficiently marvel over this poor painter and his work, of which she
would discourse to such lengths, that both the Don and I at times had
some ado to stifle our yawns. She would have it that he was no common
man, but some great genius, compelled by misfortune or the persecution
of rivals, to wander abroad in disguise, taking for evidence the very
facts which had lately led her to condemn him, pointing out that,
whereas those young gentlemen who courted her so persistently did
endeavour, on all occasions, to make their estate and natural parts
appear greater than they were, this Dario did not, proving that he had
no such need of fictitious advancement, and could well afford to let the
world judge of his worth by his works, etc. This point we did not
contest, only we were very well content to observe that he introduced no
one into the house, had no friends in the village (to our knowledge),
and that nought was lacking from our store of plate.

She never tired of watching him at his work--having the hardihood to
mount upon the scaffold where he stood, and there she would sit by the
hour on a little stool, chatting like any magpie, when the nature of his
occupation allowed his thoughts to wander, silent as a mouse when she
perceived that his mind was absorbed in travail--ready at any moment to
fetch this or hold t'other, and seizing every opportunity to serve him.
Indeed, I believe she would gladly have helped him shift the heavy
planks, when he would have their position altered, had he permitted her
this rough usage of her delicate hands. One day, when he was about to
begin the foliage upon his balcony, he brought in a spray of ivy for a
model; then Moll told him she knew where much better was to be found,
and would have him go with her to see it. And she, coming back from this
expedition, with her arms full of briony and herbage, richly tinted by
the first frost, I perceived that there was a new kind of beauty in her
face, a radiance of great happiness and satisfaction which I had never
seen there before.

Here was herbage enough for a week, but she must have fresh the next
morning, and thenceforth every day they would go out ere the sun was
high, hunting for new models.

To prepare for these early excursions, Mistress Moll, though commonly
disposed to lie abed late in the morning, must have been up by daybreak.
And, despite her admiration of Dario's simplicity in dress, she showed
no inclination to follow his example in this particular; but, on the
contrary, took more pains in adorning her person at this time than ever
she had done before; and as she would dress her hair no two mornings
alike, so she would change the fashion of her dress with the same
inconstancy until the sly hussy discovered which did most please Dario's
taste; then a word of approval from him, nay, a glance, would suffice to
fix her choice until she found that his admiration needed rekindling.
And so, as if her own imagination was not sufficiently forcible, she
would talk of nothing with her friends but the newest fashions at court,
with the result that her maids were for ever a-brewing some new wash for
her face (which she considered too brown), compounding charms to remove
a little mole she had in the nape of her neck, cutting up one gown to
make another, and so forth. One day she presented herself with a black
patch at the corner of her lip, and having seen nought of this fashion
before, I cried out in alarm:

"Lord, child! have you injured your face with that mess Betty was
stewing yesterday?"

"What an absurd, old-fashioned creature you are!" answers she, testily.
"Don't you know that 'tis the mode now for ladies to wear spots? Signor
Dario," adds she, her eyes lighting up, "finds it mighty becoming." When
I saw her thus disfiguring her pretty face (as I considered it then,
though I came to admire this embellishment later on) to please Signor
Dario, I began to ask myself how this business was likely to end.




CHAPTER XX.


_Of Moll's ill humour and what befel thereby._


Feeling, in the absence of Dawson, that I stood in the position of a
guardian to his daughter, and was responsible for her welfare, my mind
grew very uneasy about the consequences of her extravagant admiration
for the painter; and, knowing that Don Sanchez, despite his phlegmatic
humour, loved Moll very sincerely at heart, I took him aside one day,
and asked him if he had observed nothing particular in Moll's behaviour
of late.

"One would be blind," says he, "not to see that she is enamoured of
Dario, if that's what you mean."

I admitted that my suspicions inclined that way, and, explaining my
concern on her behalf, I asked him what he would do in my place.

"In my country," says he, "matters never would have been suffered to go
so far, and Mistress Judith would have been shut up a prisoner in her
room these past three weeks. But I doubt if our maidens are any the
safer or better for such treatment, and I am quite sure that such
treatment would be worse than useless for an English girl, and
especially such an one as this. For, guard her how you might, she would
assuredly find means to break her prison, and then no course is open to
her but to throw herself in the arms of the man she loves, trusting to
mere accident whether he abuses her devotion or not. You might as well
strive to catch the wind and hold it as stay and stem the course of
youthful passion."

"Aye, Senor," says I, "this may be all very true. But what should you do
in my place?"

"Nothing," says he.

This was a piece of advice which set me scratching my head in
dubitation.

"Beware," continues he, "how you suggest the thing you fear to one who
needs but a hint to act. I have great faith in the natural modesty of
women (and I do think no child more innocent than Mistress Judith),
which, though it blind them to their danger, does, at the same time,
safeguard them against secret and illicit courses of more fatal
consequences. Let her discourse with him, openly, since it pleases her.
In another fortnight or so Dario's work will be finished, he will go
away, our young lady will shed secret tears and be downcast for a week.
Then another swain will please her, and she'll smile again. That, as I
take it, will be the natural order of events, unless," adds he, "that
natural order is disturbed by some external influence."

Maugre this sage advice, my concern being unabated, I would step pretty
frequently into the room where these young people were, as if to see how
the work was going forward, and with such a quick step that had any
interchange of amorous sentiments existed, I must at one time or another
have discovered it. But I never detected any sign of this--no bashful
silence, no sudden confusion, or covert interchange of glances.
Sometimes they would be chatting lightly, at others both would be
standing silent, she, maybe, holding a bunch of leaves with untiring
steadfastness, for him to copy. But I observed that she was exceedingly
jealous of his society, and no matter how glibly she was talking when I
entered, or how indifferent the subject, she would quickly become
silent, showing me very plainly by her manner that she would vastly
prefer my room to my company.

Still, I was not displeased when I perceived this fresco drawing near to
its completion.

"You are getting on apace," says I, very cheerfully one day. "I reckon
you will soon have done."

"Yes," answers he, "in a week I shall have nought to do but to pack up
my tools and go." There was an accent of sorrow in his voice, despite
himself, which did not escape me nor Moll neither, for I saw her cast
her eyes upon his face, as if to read if there were sadness there. But
she said never a word.

However, in the afternoon she comes to me, and says she:

"I am resolved I will have all the rooms in the house plastered, if
Signor Dario will consent to paint them."

"All the rooms!" says I, in alarm. "Surely you have not counted the cost
of what you propose."

"I suppose I have enough to keep my house in suitable condition."

"Without doubt, though I expect such work as Signor Dario's must command
a high price."

"All I ask of you, then," says she, "is to bid my steward have five
thousand pounds ready for my uses, and within a week, lest I should need
it suddenly. Should he raise objections--"

"As assuredly he will," says I, who knew the crafty, subtle character of
old Simon full well by, this time. "A thousand objections, and not one
you can pick a hole in."

"Then show him this and tell him I accept Mr. Goodman's offer unless he
can find more profitable means of raising money."

With that she puts in my hand a letter she had that morning received
from one Henry Goodman, a tenant, who having heard that she had disposed
of a farm to his neighbour, now humbly prayed she would do him the same
good turn by selling him the land he rented, and for which he was
prepared to pay down in ready money the sum of five thousand pounds.

Armed with this letter, I sought Simon and delivered Moll's message. As
I expected, the wily old man had good excuses ready for not complying
with this request, showing me the pains he had taken to get the king's
seal, his failures to move the king's officers, and the refusal of his
goldsmith to furnish further supplies before the deed of succession was
passed.

"These objections are all very just," says I, "so I see no way of
pleasing our lady but by selling Mr. Goodman's farm, which she will have
done at once if there be no alternative." So I give him the letter,
which he can scarce read for trembling with anguish.

"What," cries he, coming to the end, "I am to sell this land which I
bought for nine hundred pounds and is now worth six thousand? I would
rather my mistress had bid me have the last teeth torn from my head."

"We must have money," says I.

"Thee shalt have it in good time. Evans hath been paid, and thy debt
shall be discharged; fear not."

"I spoke as representing our lady; for ourselves we are content to wait
her better convenience." And I told him how his mistress would lay out
her money in embellishing the Court with paintings, which put him to a
new taking to think so much good money should be wasted in such
vanities.

"But," says he, "this work must take time, and one pays for nothing ere
'tis done. By quarter day our rents will be coming in again--"

"No," says I, cutting him short, "the money must be found at once, or be
assured that your lady will take the management of her affairs out of
your hands."

This raised a fresh outcry and more lamentations, but in the end he
promised to procure the money by collecting his rents in advance, if his
mistress would refuse Mr. Goodman's offer and wait three weeks; and on
Moll's behalf I agreed to these terms.

A few days after this, we were called into the dining-hall to see the
finished ceiling, which truly deserved all the praise we could bestow
upon it, and more. For now that the sky appeared through the opening,
with a little pearly cloud creeping across it, the verdure and flowers
falling over the marble coping, and the sunlight falling on one side and
throwing t'other into shade, the illusion was complete, so that one
could scarcely have been more astonished had a leaf fallen from the
hanging flowers or a face looked over the balcony. In short; 'twas
prodigious.

Nevertheless, the painter, looking up at his work with half-closed,
critical eyes, seemed dissatisfied, and asking us if we found nothing
lacking, we (not to appear behindhand in judgment) agreed that on one
side there was a vacant place which might yet be adorned to advantage.

"Yes," says he, "I see what is wanted and will supply it. That," adds
he; gently turning to Moll, "will give me still another day."

"Why, what charm can you add that is not there?" asks she.

"Something," says he, in a low voice, "which I must see whenever I do
cast my eyes heavenwards."

And now Moll, big with her purpose, which she had hitherto withheld from
Dario, begs him to come into her state room, and there she told how she
would have this ceiling plastered over and painted, like her
dining-hall, if he would undertake to do it.

Dario casts his eye round the room and over the ceiling, and then,
shaking his head, says: "If I were in your place, I would alter nothing
here."

"But I will have it altered," says she, nettled, because he did not leap
at once at her offer, which was made rather to prolong their communion
than to obtain a picture. "I detest these old-fashioned beams of wood."

"They are in keeping with the character of the room. I think," adds he,
looking round him again with renewed admiration, "I think I have never
seen a more perfect example of English art."

"What of that," cries she, "if it pleases me to have it otherwise?"

"Nothing," returns he, calmly. "You have as just a right to stand by
your opinion as I by mine."

"And am I to understand that you will rather hold by your opinion than
give me pleasure?"

"I pray you, do not press me to discourtesy," says he.

"Nay, but I would have a plain answer to my question," says she,
haughtily.

"Then," says he, angering in his turn, "I must tell you that I would as
soon chip an antique statue to suit the taste of a French modiste as
disfigure the work of him who designed this room."

Now, whether Moll took this to be a reflection on her own figure, which
had grown marvellous slim in the waist since she had her new stays from
London, or not, I will not say; but certainly this response did
exasperate her beyond all endurance (as we could see by her blanched
cheek and flashing eye); so, dismissing him with a deep curtsey, she
turns on her heel without another word.

This foolish business, which was not very creditable to our Moll's good
sense (though I think she acted no worse than other maids in her
condition,--for I have observed that young people do usually lose their
heads at the same time that they lose their hearts), this foolish scene,
I say, I would gladly omit from my history, but that it completely
changed our destiny; for had these two parted with fair words, we should
probably have seen no more of Dario, and Don Sanchez's prognostic had
been realised. Such trifles as these do influence our career as greatly
as more serious accidents, our lives being a fabric of events that hang
together by the slenderest threads.

Unmoved from his design by Moll's displeasure, Dario replaced his
scaffold before he left that day, and the next morning he came to put
the last touch upon his work. Moll, being still in dudgeon, would not go
near him, but sat brooding in a corner of her state room, ready, as I
perceived, to fly out in passion at any one who gave her the occasion.
Perceiving this, Don Sanchez prudently went forth for a walk after
dinner; but I, seeing that some one must settle accounts with the
painter for his work, stayed at home. And when I observed that he was
collecting his materials to go, I went in to Moll.

"My dear," says I, "I believe Dario is preparing to leave us."

"My congratulations to him," says she, "for 'tis evident he is weary of
being here."

"Nay, won't you come in and see his work now 'tis finished?"

"No; I have no desire to see it. If I have lost my taste for Italian
art, 'tis through no fault of his."

"You will see him, surely, before he goes."

"No; I will not give him another opportunity to presume upon my
kindness."

"Why, to be sure," says I, like a fool, "you have been a little
over-familiar."

"Indeed," says she, firing up like a cracker. "Then I think 'twould have
been kinder of you to give me a hint of it beforehand. However, 'tis a
very good excuse for treating him otherwise now."

"Well, he must be paid for his work, at any rate."

"Assuredly. If you have not money enough, I will fetch it from my
closet."

"I have it ready, and here is a purse for the purpose. The question is,
how much to put in it. I should think such a perspective as that could
not be handsomely paid under fifty guineas."

"Then you will give him a hundred, and say that I am exceedingly obliged
to him."

I put this sum in the purse and went out into the hall where Dario was
waiting, with his basket of brushes beside him. In a poor, bungling,
stammering fashion, I delivered Moll's message, and made the best excuse
I could for delivering it in her stead.

He waited a moment or two after I had spoken, and then, says he, in a
low voice:

"Is that all?"

"Nay," says I, offering the purse, "we do beg you to take this as--"

He stopped me, pushing my hand aside.

"I have taken a purse from Don Sanchez," says he. "There was more in it
than I needed--there are still some pieces left. But as I would not
affront him by offering to return them, so I beg you will equally
respect my feelings. I undertook the task in gratitude, and it hath been
a work of love all through, well paid for by the happiness that I have
found here."

He stood musing a little while, as if he were debating with himself
whether he should seek to overcome Moll's resentment or not. Then,
raising his head quickly, he says: "'Tis best so, maybe. Farewell, sir"
(giving me his hand). "Tell her," adds he, as we stand hand in hand at
the door, "that I can never forget her kindness, and will ever pray for
her happiness."

I found the door ajar and Moll pacing the room very white, when I
returned. She checked me the moment I essayed to deliver Dario's
message.

"You can save your breath," says she, passionately, "I've heard every
word."

"More shame for you," says I, in a passion, casting my purse on the
table. "'Tis infamous to treat an honest gentleman thus, and silly
besides. Come, dear," altering my tone, "do let me run and fetch him
back."

"You forget whom you are speaking to, Mr. Hopkins," cries she.

I saw 'twas impossible to move her whilst she was in this mood, for she
had something of her father's obstinate, stubborn disposition, and did
yet hope to bring Dario back to her feet, like a spaniel, by harsh
treatment. But he came no more, though a palette he had overlooked could
have given him the excuse, and for very vexation with Moll I was glad he
did not.

He had not removed the scaffold, but when I went upon it to see what
else he had put into his painting, the fading light only allowed me to
make out a figure that seemed to be leaning over the balcony.

Moll would not go in there, though I warrant she was dying of curiosity;
and soon after supper, which she could scarce force herself to touch,
she went up to her own chamber, wishing us a very distant, formal
good-night, and keeping her passionate, angry countenance.

But the next morning, ere I was dressed, she knocked at my door, and,
opening it, I found her with swollen eyes and tears running down her
cheeks.

"Come down," says she, betwixt her sobs, and catching my hand in hers.
"Come down and see."

So we went downstairs together,--I wondering what now had happened,--and
so into the dining-hall. And there I found the scaffold pushed aside,
and the ceiling open to view. Then looking up, I perceived that the
figure bending over the balcony bore Moll's own face, with a most sweet,
compassionate expression in it as she looked down, such as I had
observed when she bent over Dario, having brought him back to life. And
this, thinks I, remembering his words, this is what he must ever see
when he looks heavenwards.




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."

[Illustration: "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,
Senor, 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, Senor, 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 to-morrow?"

"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 to-morrow, 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 to-morrow what you're not to-day."

"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 to-morrow. 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
to-night 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
to-night every star shines out sharp and clear through the frosty air,
promising well for to-morrow 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 to-morrow."

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 to-morrow
for half its value. And herein was I not mistaking; for to-day 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 to-morrow, 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.

To-night 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 to-morrow, 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 to-morrow
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 to-morrow 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.

[Illustration: "FORGIVE ME, OH, FORGIVE ME!"]

"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. To-morrow 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."

"To-morrow 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 to-night 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 to-morrow 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 senors
and caballeros crying 'Hole!' 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 to-morrow" (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 to-day or any
diversion of dancing or play-acting to-night, 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, "To-morrow, dear, to-morrow," 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 to-morrow 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, Senor," 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, Senor?" 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."

"Senor," 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.

[Illustration: "ONLY IN THE MIDST OF OUR JOY I PERCEIVED THAT MOHAND OU
MOHAND HAD ENTERED THE ROOM."]

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 to-day, 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."

"To-morrow at midnight?"

"To-morrow 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 to-night."

"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.



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