“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. Godwin and grip his hand.

“Oh, if he could see what a noble, 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 circumspect, 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 passion).  “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 Godwin!”

“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. Godwin would not marry you.”

“Why, then, not tell him what I am?” asks she, boldly.

“That means that you would be to-morrow what you’re not to-day.”

“If he told me he had done wrong, I could forgive him, and love him none the less.”

“Your conditions are not the same.  He is a gentleman by birth, you but a player’s daughter.  Come, child, be reasonable.  Ponder this matter but a moment justly, and you shall see that you have all to lose and nought to gain by yielding to this idle fancy.  Is he lacking in affection, that you would seek to stimulate his love by this hazardous experiment?”

“Oh, no, no, no!” cries she.

“Would he be happier knowing all?” (She shakes her head.) “Happier if you force him to give you up and seek another wife?” (She starts as if flicked with a whip.) “Would you be happier stripped of your possessions, cast out of your house, and forced to fly from justice with your father?” (She looks at me in pale terror.) “Why, then, there’s nothing to be won, and what’s to lose? the love of a noble, honest gentleman, the joy of raising him from penury.”

“Oh, say no more,” cries she, in passion.  “I know not what madness possessed me to overlook such consequences.  I kiss you for bringing me to my senses” (with that she catches up my hand and presses her lips to it again and again).  “Look in my face,” cries she, “and if you find a lurking vestige of irresolution there, I’ll tear it out.”