Part 22 (2/2)
G.o.dwin, 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. G.o.dwin'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. G.o.dwin shall never be a penny the wiser.”
”Do what you find is necessary,” says she, with pa.s.sion. ”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 s.p.a.ce; 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. G.o.dwin and grip his hand.
”Oh, if he could see what a n.o.ble, 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 circ.u.mspect, 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 pa.s.sion). ”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 G.o.dwin!”
”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. G.o.dwin would not marry you.”
”Why, then, not tell him what I am?” asks she, boldly.
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