CHAPTER XXXI.
Moll’s conscience is quickened by grief and humiliation beyond the ordinary.
"Stand aside, Moll," cries Dawson, stepping to the fore, and facing Mr. Godwin. "This is my crime, and I will answer for it with my blood. Here is my breast" (tearing open his jerkin). "Strike, for I alone have done you wrong, this child of mine being but an instrument to my purpose."
Mr. Godwin's hand fell by his side, and the knife slipped from his fingers.
"Speak," says he, thickly, after a moment of horrible silence broken only by the sound of the knife striking the floor. "If this is your daughter,—if she has lied to me,—what in God's name is the truth? Who are you, I ask?"
"John Dawson, a player," answers he, seeing the time is past for lying.
Mr. Godwin makes no response, but turns his eyes upon Moll, who stands before him with bowed head and clasped hands, wrung to her innermost fibre with shame, remorse, and awful dread, and for a terrible space I heard nothing but the deep, painful breathing of this poor, overwrought man.
"You are my wife," says he, at length. "Follow me," and with that he turns about and goes from the room. Then Moll, without a look at us, without a word, her face ghastly pale and drawn with agony, with faltering steps, obeys, catching at table and chair, as she passes, for support.
259
