“Three weeks?” says I. “I would it were to be done in three days.” To which desire the Don coincides with sundry grave nods, and then tells me how Moll would have herself cried in church, for all to know, and that nothing may be wanting to her husband’s dignity.
“After all,” says I, “three weeks is no such great matter. And now, Señor, do tell me what you think of all this.”
“If you had had the ordering of your own destiny, you could not have contrived it better,” answers he. “’Tis a most excellent game, and you cannot fail to win if” (here he pauses to blow his nose) “if the cards are played properly.”
This somehow brought Dawson into my thoughts, and I told the Don of my visit to him, and how he did purpose to come down to see Moll; whereat the Don, stopping short, looked at me very curiously with his eyebrows raised, but saying nothing.
“’Tis no more than natural that a father should want to see what kind of man is to be his daughter’s husband,” says I, in excuse, “and if he will come, what are we to do?”
“I know what I should do in your place, Mr. Hopkins,” says he, quietly.
“Pray, Señor, what is that?”
“Squeeze all the money you can out of old Simon before he comes,” answers he. “And it wouldn’t be amiss to make Mr. Godwin party to this business by letting him have a hundred or two for his present necessities at once.”
Acting on this hint, when Moll left us after supper and we three men were seated before the fire, I asked Mr. Godwin if he would permit me to speak upon a matter which concerned his happiness no less than his cousin Judith’s.
“Nay, sir,” replies he, “I do pray you to be open with me, for otherwise I must consider myself unworthy of your friendship.”
“Well, sir,” says I, “my mind is somewhat concerned on account of what you said this morning; namely, that no pecuniary question shall ever be discussed betwixt you and your wife, and that you will owe nothing to her but happiness. This, together with your purpose of painting pictures to sell, means, I take it, that you will leave your wife absolute mistress of her present fortune.”
“That is the case exactly, Mr. Hopkins,” says he. “I am not indifferent to the world’s esteem, and I would give no one reason to suspect that I had married my dear cousin to possess her fortune.”
“Nevertheless, sir, you would not have it thought that she begrudged you an equal share of her possessions. Your position will necessitate a certain outlay. To maintain your wife’s dignity and your own, you must dress well, mount a good horse, be liberal in hospitality, give largely to those in need, and so forth. With all due respect to your genius in painting, I can scarcely think that art will furnish you at once with supplies necessary to meet all these demands.”
“All this is very true, Mr. Hopkins,” says he, after a little reflection; “to tell the truth, I have lived so long in want that poverty has become my second nature, and so these matters have not entered into my calculations. Pray, sir, continue.”
“Your wife, be she never so considerate, may not always anticipate your needs; and hence at some future moment this question of supplies must arise—unless they are disposed of before your marriage.”
“If that could be done, Mr. Hopkins,” says he, hopefully.
“It may be done, sir, very easily. With your cousin’s consent and yours, I, as her elected guardian, at this time will have a deed drawn up to be signed by you and her, settling one-half the estate upon you, and the other on your cousin. This will make you not her debtor, but her benefactor; for without this deed, all that is now hers becomes yours by legal right upon your marriage, and she could not justly give away a shilling without your permission. And thus you assure to her the same independence that you yourself would maintain.”
“Very good,” says Don Sanchez, in a sonorous voice of approval, as he lies back in his high chair, his eyes closed, and a cigarro in the corner of his mouth.
“I thank you with all my heart, Mr. Hopkins,” says Mr. Godwin, warmly. “I entreat you have this deed drawn up—if it be my wife’s wish.”
“You may count with certainty on that,” says I; “for if my arguments lacked power, I have but to say ’tis your desire, and ’twould be done though it took the last penny from her.”
He made no reply to this, but bending forward he gazed into the fire, with a rapture in his face, pressing one hand within the other as if it were his sweetheart’s.
“In the meantime,” says I, “if you have necessity for a hundred or two in advance, you have but to give me your note of hand.”
“Can you do me this service?” cries he, eagerly. “Can you let me have five hundred by tomorrow?”
“I believe I can supply you to the extent of six or seven.”
“All that you can,” says he; “for besides a pressing need that will take me to London tomorrow, I owe something to a friend here that I would fain discharge.”
Don Sanchez waived his hand cavalierly, though I do believe the subtle Spaniard had hinted at this business as much for his own ends as for our assurance.
“I will have it ready against we meet in the morning,” says I. “You are so certain of her sanction?” he asks in delight, as if he could not too much assure himself of Moll’s devotion.
“She has been guided by me in all matters relating to her estate, and will be in this, I am convinced. But here’s another question, sir, which, while we are about business, might be discussed with advantage. My rule here is nearly at an end. Have you decided who shall govern the estate when I am gone?”
“Only that when I have authority that rascal Simon shall be turned from his office, neck and crop. He loves me as little as he loves his mistress, that he would set us by the ears for his own advantage.”
“An honest man, nevertheless—in his peculiar way,” observes the Don.
“Honest!” cries Mr. Godwin, hotly. “He honest who would have suffered Judith to die in Barbary! He shall go.”
“Then you will take in your own hands the control of your joint estate?”
“I? Why, I know no more of such matters than the man in the moon.”
“With all respect to your cousin’s abilities, I cannot think her qualified for this office.”
“Surely another steward can be found.”
“Undoubtedly,” says I. “But surely, sir, you’d not trust all to him without some supervision. Large sums of money must pass through his hands, and this must prove a great temptation to dishonest practices. ’Twould not be fair to any man.”
“This is true,” says he. “And yet from natural disinclination, ignorance, and other reasons, I would keep out of it.” Then after some reflection he adds, “My cousin has told me how you have lost all your fortune in saving her, and that ’tis not yet possible to repay you. May I ask, sir, without offence, if you have any occupation for your time when you leave us?”
“I went to London when I left you to see what might be done; but a merchant without money is like a carpenter without tools.”
“Then, sir, till your debt is discharged, or you can find some more pleasant and profitable engagement, would you not consent to govern these affairs? I do not ask you to stay here, though assuredly you will ever be a welcome guest; but if you would have one of the houses on the estate or come hither from time to time as it might fit your other purposes, and take this office as a matter of business, I should regard it as a most generous, friendly kindness on your part.”
I promised him with some demur, and yet with the civility his offer demanded, to consider of this; and so our debate ended, and I went to bed, very well content with myself, for thus will vanity blind us to our faults.
CHAPTER XXIV.
I overcome Moll’s honest compunctions, lay hold of three thousand pounds more, and do otherwise play the part of rascal to perfection.
I got together six hundred pounds (out of the sum left us after paying Don Sanchez his ten thousand), and delivered ’em to Mr. Godwin against his note of hand, t
elling him at the same time that, having slept upon his proposal, I was resolved to be his steward for three months, with freedom on both sides to alter our position, according to our convenience, at the end of that time, and would serve him and his lady to the best of my power. Thanking me very heartily for my friendly service to him (though, God knows, with little reason), he presently left us. And Moll, coming back from taking tender leave of him at her gates, appeared very downcast and pensive. However, after moping an hour in her chamber, she comes to me in her hood, and begs I will take her a walk to dispel her vapours. So we out across the common, it being a fine, brisk, dry morning and the ground hard with a frost. Here, being secure from observation, I showed her how I had settled matters with Mr. Godwin, dividing the estate in such a manner as would enable her to draw what funds she pleased, without let, hindrance, or any inconvenient question.
At this she draws a deep sigh, fixing her eyes sadly enough on the perspective, as if she were thinking rather of her absent lover than the business in hand. Somewhat nettled to find she prized my efforts on her behalf so lightly, I proceeded to show her the advantages of this arrangement, adding that, to make her property the surer, I had consented to manage both her affairs and Mr. Godwin’s when they were married.
“And so,” says I, in conclusion, “you may have what money you want, and dispose of it as you will, and I’ll answer for it Mr. Godwin shall never be a penny the wiser.”
“Do what you find is necessary,” says she, with passion. “But for mercy’s sake say no more on this matter to me. For all these hints do stab my heart like sharp knives.”
Not reading rightly the cause of her petulance, I was at first disposed to resent it; but, reflecting that a maiden is no more responsible for her tongue than a donkey for his heels in this season of life (but both must be for ever a-flying out at some one when parted from the object of their affections), I held my peace; and so we walked on in sullen silence for a space; then, turning suddenly upon me, she cries in a trembling voice:
“Won’t you say something to me? Can’t you see that I am unhappy?”
And now, seeing her eyes full of tears, her lips quivering, and her face drawn with pain, my heart melted in a moment; so, taking her arm under mine and pressing it to my side, I bade her be of good cheer, for her lover would return in a day or two at the outside.
“No, not of him—not of him,” she entreats. “Talk to me of indifferent things.”
So, thinking to turn her thoughts to another furrow, I told her how I had been to visit her father at Greenwich.
“My father,” says she, stopping short. “Oh, what a heartless, selfish creature am I! I have not thought of him in my happiness. Nay, had he been dead I could not have forgot him more. You saw him—is he well?”
“As hearty as you could wish, and full of love for you, and rejoiced beyond measure to know you are to marry a brave, honest gentleman.” Then I told how we had drunk to their health, and how her father had smashed his mug for a fancy. And this bringing a smile to her cheek, I went on to tell how he craved to see Mr. Godwin and grip his hand.
“Oh, if he could see what a noble, handsome man my Richard is!” cries she. “I do think my heart would ache for pride.”
“Why, so it shall,” says I, “for your father does intend to come hither before long.”
“He is coming to see my dear husband!” says she, her face aglow with joy.
“Aye, but he does promise to be most circumspect, and appear as if, returning from a voyage, he had come but to see how you fare, and will stay no longer than is reasonably civil.”
“Only that,” says she, her countenance falling again, “we are to hide our love, pretend indifference, behave towards this dear father as if he were nought to me but a friend.”
“My dear,” says I, “’tis no new part you have to play.”
“I know it,” she answers hotly, “but that makes it only the worse.”
“Well, what would you?”
“Anything” (with passion). “I would do anything but cheat and cozen the man I love.” Then, after some moments’ silence o’ both sides, “Oh, if I were really Judith Godwin!”
“If you were she, you’d be in Barbary now, and have neither father nor lover; is that what you want?” says I, with some impatience.
“Bear with me,” says she, with a humility as strange in her as these new-born scruples of conscience.
“You may be sure of this, my dear,” says I, in a gentler tone, “if you were anything but what you are, Mr. Godwin would not marry you.”
“Why, then, not tell him what I am?” asks she, boldly.
“That means that you would be tomorrow what you’re not today.”
“If he told me he had done wrong, I could forgive him, and love him none the less.”
“Your conditions are not the same. He is a gentleman by birth, you but a player’s daughter. Come, child, be reasonable. Ponder this matter but a moment justly, and you shall see that you have all to lose and nought to gain by yielding to this idle fancy. Is he lacking in affection, that you would seek to stimulate his love by this hazardous experiment?”
“Oh, no, no, no!” cries she.
“Would he be happier knowing all?” (She shakes her head.) “Happier if you force him to give you up and seek another wife?” (She starts as if flicked with a whip.) “Would you be happier stripped of your possessions, cast out of your house, and forced to fly from justice with your father?” (She looks at me in pale terror.) “Why, then, there’s nothing to be won, and what’s to lose? the love of a noble, honest gentleman, the joy of raising him from penury.”
“Oh, say no more,” cries she, in passion. “I know not what madness possessed me to overlook such consequences. I kiss you for bringing me to my senses” (with that she catches up my hand and presses her lips to it again and again). “Look in my face,” cries she, “and if you find a lurking vestige of irresolution there, I’ll tear it out.”
Indeed, I could see nothing but set determination in her countenance—a most hard expression of fixed resolve, that seemed to age her by ten years, astonishing me not less than those other phases in her rapidly developing character.
“Now,” says she, quickly, and with not a note of her repining tone, “what was that you spoke of lately—you are to be our steward?”
“Yes,” says I, “for Mr. Godwin has declared most firmly that the moment he has authority he will cast Simon out for his disloyalty.”
“I will not leave that ungrateful duty to him,” says she. “Take me to this wretch at once, and choose the shortest path.”
I led her back across the common, and coming to Simon’s lodge, she herself knocked loudly at the door.
Seeing who it was through his little grating, Simon quickly opens the door, and with fawning humility entreats her to step into his poor room, and there he stands, cringing and mopping his eyes, in dreadful apprehension, as having doubtless gathered from some about the house how matters stood betwixt Moll and Mr. Godwin.
“Where are your keys?” demands Moll, in a very hard, merciless voice.
Perceiving how the land lay, and finding himself thus beset, old Simon falls to his usual artifices, turning this way and that, like a rat in a pit, to find some hole for escape. First he feigns to misunderstand, then, clapping his hands in his pockets, he knows not where he can have laid them; after that fancies he must have given them to his man Peter, who is gone out of an errand, etc.; until Moll, losing patience, cut him short by declaring the loss of the keys unimportant, as doubtless a locksmith could be found to open his boxes and drawers without ’em.
“My chief requirement is,” adds she, “that you leave this house forthwith, and return no more.”
Upon this, finding further evasion impossible, the old man turns to bay, and asks upon what grounds she would dismiss him without writ or warrant.
“’Tis sufficient,” returns she, “that this house is mine, and that I will not have you a day longer for my ten
ant 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.”
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 36