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."
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.