A Set of Rogues

by Frank Barrett

  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 cloakedfigure coming hurriedly towards us in the dim light.

  "'Tis another, come to succour his friends," whispers I. "Let us stepinto 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 thefigure, 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 hisastonishment, 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 Iam."

  "What folly then is this?" asks her father.

  "'Tis no folly. I have left him of my own free will, and shall never goback 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 arelost."

  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 newsthrowing us into a silence with new bewilderment, she asks us simplywhither 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 sprungat this word of loving sympathy, and forcing herself to a more cheerfultone. "Why, let us think that we are just awake from a long sleep tofind ourselves no worse off than when we fell a-dreaming. Nay, not soill," adds she, "for you have a home near London. Take me there, dear."

  "With all my heart, chuck," answers her father, eagerly. "There, atleast, I can give you a shelter till your husband can offer better."

  She would not dispute this point (though I perceived clearly her mindwas resolved fully never to claim her right to Mr. Godwin's roof), butonly begged we should hasten on our way, saying she felt chilled; and inpassing Mother Fitch's cottage she constrained us to silence andcaution; then when we were safely past she would have us run, stillfeigning to be cold, but in truth (as I think) to avoid being overtakenby Mr. Godwin, fearing, maybe, that he would overrule her will. This waywe sped till Moll was fain to stop with a little cry of pain, andclapping her hand to her heart, being fairly spent and out of breath.Then we took her betwixt us, lending her our arms for support, andfalling into a more regular pace made good progress. We trudged on tillwe reached Croydon without any accident, save that at one point, Moll'sstep faltering and she with a faint sob weighing heavily upon our arms,we stopped, as thinking her strength overtaxed, and then glancing aboutme I perceived we were upon that little bridge where we had overtakenMr. Godwin and he had offered to make Moll his wife. Then I knew 'twasnot fatigue that weighed her down, and gauging her feelings by my ownremorse, I pitied this poor wife even more than I blamed myself; for hadshe revealed herself to him at that time, though he might have shrunkfrom marriage, he must have loved her still, and so she had been sparedthis shame and hopeless sorrow.

  At Croydon we overtook a carrier on his way to London for the Saturdaymarket, who for a couple of shillings gave us a place in his waggon withsome good bundles of hay for a seat, and here was rest for our tiredbodies (though little for our tormented minds) till we reached MarshEnd, where we were set down; and so, the ground being hard with frost,across the Marsh to Greenwich about daybreak. Having the key of hisworkshop with him, Dawson took us into his lodgings without disturbingthe other inmates of the house (who might well have marvelled to see usenter at this hour with a woman in a man's cloak, and no covering but ahandkerchief to her head), and Moll taking his bed, we disposedourselves on some shavings in his shop to get a little sleep.

  Dawson was already risen when I awoke, and going into his littleparlour, I found him mighty busy setting the place in order, which wasin a sad bachelor's pickle, to be sure--all littered up with odds andends of turning, unwashed plates, broken victuals, etc., just as he hadleft it.

  "She's asleep," says he, in a whisper. "And I'd have this room like alittle 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 thatdoor; carry everything in there, and what's of no use fling out of thewindow 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 furbishedup, and everything in its place in no time; then leaving me to light afire in the parlour, Dawson goes forth a-marketing, with a basket on hisarm, 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 inanother (for now we heard Moll stirring in her chamber), one would havethought that this was an occasion for rejoicing rather than grief, andthis was due not to want of kind feeling, but to the fond, simple natureof 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 itgave him joy to have Moll beside him once more, he must needs thinkhopefully, 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 bravelyand well to spare him the anguish of remorse that secretly wrung her ownheart. She met us with a cheerful countenance, admired the neatness ofthe parlour, the glowing fire, ate her share of porridge, and findingthe eggs cooked hard, declared she could not abide them soft. Then shewould see her father work his lathe (to his great delight), and beggedhe would make her some cups for eggs, as being more to our presentfashion than eating them from one's hand.

  "Why," says he, "there's an old bed-post in the corner that will serveme to a nicety. But first I must see our landlord and engage a room forKit and me; for I take it, my dear," adds he, "you will be content tostay with us here."

  "Yes," answers she, "'tis a most cheerful view of the river from thewindows."

  She tucked up her skirt and sleeves to busy herself in householdmatters, and when I would have relieved her of this office, she beggedme to go and bear her father company, saying with a piteous look in hereyes that we must leave her some occupation or she should weary. She waspale, there were dark lines beneath her eyes, and she was silent; but Isaw no outward sign of grief till the afternoon, when, coming fromJack's shop unexpected, I spied her sitting by the window, with her facein 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 suitableto 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 richesand joy."

  Upon a seasonable occasion I told Dawson we must soon begin to think ofdoing something for a livelihood--a matter which was as remote from hisconsideration as the day of wrath.

  "Why, Kit," says he, "I've as good as fifty pounds yet in a hole at thechimney 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 forgoing forth to meet troubles half way. However, I warrant I shall findsome jobs of carpentry to keep us from begging our bread when the pinchcomes."

  Not content to wait for this pinch, I resolved I would go into the cityand 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 purposethe morning I was about to go, Moll takes me aside and asks me in aquavering voice if I knew where Mr. Godwin might be found. This questionstaggered me a moment, for her husband's name had not been spoken by anyof us since the catastrophe, and it came into my mind now that shedesigned to return to him, and I stammered out some foolish hint atHurst Court.

  "No, he is not there," says he, "but I thought maybe
that Sir PeterLely--"

  "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 aletter from her breast. She had writ her husband's name on it, and nowshe pressed her lips to it twice, and putting the warm letter in myhand, she turned away, her poor mouth twitching with smothered grief. Iknew then that there was no thought in her mind of seeing her husbandagain.

  I carried the letter with me to the city, wondering what was in it. Iknow not now, yet I think it contained but a few words of explanationand farewell, with some prayer, maybe, that she might be forgiven andforgotten.

  Learning where Sir Peter Lely lived, I myself went to his house, and henot being at home, I asked his servant if Mr. Godwin did sometimes comethere.

  "Why, yes, sir, he was here but yesterday," answers he. "Indeed, never aday 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 fetchingout 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, hebids me say he is ever at his lodging in Holborn, from five in theevening to eight in the morning."

  "'Twill answer all ends if you give him that letter. He is in goodhealth, I hope."

  "Well, sir, he is and he isn't, as you may say," answers he, droppinginto a familiar, confidential tone after casting his eye over me to besure I was no great person. "He ails nothing, to be sure, for I hear heis ever afoot from morn till even a-searching hither and thither; but amore downhearted, rueful looking gentleman for his age I never see.'Twixt you and me, sir, I think he hath lost his sweetheart, seeing I amcharged, with Sir Peter's permission, to follow and not lose sight ofany lady who may chance to call here for him."

  I walked back to Greenwich across the fields, debating in my mindwhether I should tell Moll of her husband's distress or not, soperplexed with conflicting arguments that I had come to no decision whenI reached home.

  Moll spying me coming, from her window in the front of the house, met meat the door, in her cloak and hood, and begged I would take her a littleturn 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 todeliver 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 Istop again, all hanging in a hedge for not knowing whether it were wiserto speak or hold my tongue.

  "There is something else. I see it in your face. Hide nothing from mefor love's sake," says she, piteously. Whereupon, my heart getting thebetter of my head (which, to be sure, was no great achievement), I toldall as I have set it down here.

  "My dear, dear love! my darling Dick!" says she, in the end. And thenshe would have it told all over again, with a thousand questions, todraw forth more; and these being exhausted, she asks why I would haveconcealed 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 husbanddoes forgive you, and yearns but to take you back into his arms, itwould be an unnatural, cruel thing to keep you apart. Therefore, toconfess the whole truth, I did meditate going to him and showing how weand not you are to blame in this matter, and then telling him where hemight find you, if on reflection he felt that he could honestly hold youguiltless. But ere I do that (as I see now), I must know if you arewilling to this accommodation; for if you are not, then are our woundsall 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 tobias her judgment by a single word (doubting my wisdom). But I perceivedby the quivering of her arm within mine that a terrible conflict 'twixtpassion and principle was convulsing every fibre of her being. At thetop of the hill above Greenwich she stopped, and, throwing back herhood, let the keen wind blow upon her face, as she gazed over the greyflats beyond the river. And the air seeming to give her strength and aclearer perception, she says, presently:

  "Accommodation!" (And she repeats this unlucky word of mine twice orthrice, as if she liked it less each time.) "That means we shall agreeto let bygones be bygones, and do our best to get along together for therest 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 deceivethe curious, and hoodwink our decent friends. Chuckle at our success,and come in time" (here she paused a moment) "to 'chat so lightly of ourpast 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 mylife for a play, would you end it thus?"

  "My dear," says I, "a play's one thing, real life's another; and believeme, as far as my experience goes of real life, the less heroics thereare in it the better parts are those for the actors in't."

  She shook her head fiercely in the wind, and, turning about with abrusque vigour, cries, "Come on. I'll have no accommodation. And yet,"says she, stopping short after a couple of hasty steps, and with afervent earnestness in her voice, "and yet, if I could wipe out thisstain, if by any act I could redeem my fault, God knows, I'd do it, costwhat 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 stagewas but too evident.