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 myarm.
But I had no feeling now but pity and forgiveness, and so could only tryto comfort her, saying we would make amends to Dario when we saw himnext.
"I will go to him," says she. "For nought in the world would I have himyield 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 himto 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 pathby which Dario came and went habitually, we reached a little wicketgate, opening from the path upon the highway; and here, seeing a manmending the road, we asked him where we should find Anne Fitch, as shewas called, with whom the painter lodged. Pointing to a neat cottagethat stood by the wayside, within a stone's throw, he told us the "wisewoman" lived there. We crossed over and knocked at the door, and a voicewithin bidding us come in, we did so.
There was a very sweet, pleasant smell in the room from the herbs thathung in little parcels from the beams, for this Anne Fitch was greatlyskilled in the use of simples, and had no equal for curing fevers andthe like in all the country round. (But, besides this, it was said shecould 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 somebroken bread; but the wise woman sat in the chimney corner, bending overthe hearth, though the fire had burnt out, and not an ember glowed. Anda strange little elf she looked, being very wizen and small, with oneshoulder higher than the other, and a face full of pain.
When I told her our business,--for Moll was too greatly moved tospeak,--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 firstentered the room, seeming as if they would penetrate to the most secretrecesses of her heart, with that shrewd perception which is common tomany whose bodily infirmity compels an extraordinary employment of theirother faculties, rises from her settle in the chimney, and coming to thetable, beside Moll, says:
"I am no witch, I say; yet I could tell you things would make you thinkI am."
"I want to know nothing further," answers she, dolefully, "save where heis."
"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 anenemy, ere she speaks before me. So, on that, I give my hand, and sheexamines 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 oneknows not that some call you Kit."
This fairly staggered me for a moment.
"How do you answer that?" she asks, observing my confusion. "Why," saysI, recovering my presence of mind, "'tis most extraordinary, to be sure,that you should read this, for save one or two familiars, none know thatmy second name is Christopher."
"A fairly honest hand," says she, looking at my hand again. "Weak insome 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 yourname writ Moll."
"YOU CALL YOURSELF JUDITH, YET HERE I SEE YOUR NAME WRITMOLL."]
Poor Moll, sick with a night of sorrow and terrified by the wise woman'sdivining powers, could make no answer; but soon Fitch, taking less heedof 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 Mollcourage, and she answered readily enough that she was called "LalaMollah"--which was true, "Lala" being the Moorish for lady, and "Mollah"the name her friends in Elche had called her as being more agreeable totheir ear than the shorter English name.
"Mollah--Moll!" says Anne Fitch, as if communing with herself. "That maywell be." Then, following a line in Moll's hand, she adds, "You willlove but once, child."
"What is my sweetheart's name?" whispers Moll, the colour springing inher face.
"You have not heard it yet," replies the other, upon which Moll pullsher hand away impatiently. "But you have seen him," continues the wisewoman, "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--offeringher hand again, and as quickly as she had before withdrawn it.
"That depends upon yourself," returns the other. "The line is a deepone. 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 strangelygentle tone. "'Tis better to love once than often; better to give yourwhole heart than part. Were I young and handsome and rich, I would givebody and soul for such a man. For he is good and generous and exceedingkind. 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 atear from her cheek, "only a crooked old woman with the gift of seeingwhat is open to all who will read, and a heart that quickens still at akind word or a gentle thought." (Moll's hand had closed upon hers atthat first sight of her grief.) "For your names," continues she,recovering her composure, "I learnt from one of your maids who camehither for news of her sweetheart, that the sea captain who was with youdid 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 tospend money.
"Aye, and a good price, too. It seems you call heavily upon him formoney, and do threaten to cut up your estate and sell the land he prizesas his life."
"That is quite true," says I.
"Moreover, he greatly fears that he will be cast from his office, whenyour title to it is made good. For that reason he would move heaven andearth to stay your succession by casting doubts upon your claim. And tothis end he has by all the means at his command tried to provoke yourcousin 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.