“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.

CHAPTER XXII.

How Moll and Mr. Godwin come together and declare their hearts’ passion, and how I carry these tidings to Dawson.

“What!” cries Moll, starting to her feet.  “He whom I have treated thus is—­” and here she checked herself, as if recoiling (and for the first time) from false pretence in a matter so near her heart.

“He is your cousin, Richard Godwin,” says the wise woman.  “Simon knew this from the first; for there were letters showing it in the pocket-book he found after the struggle in the park; but for his own ends he kept that knowledge secret, until it fitted his ends to speak.  Why your cousin did not reveal himself to you may be more readily conceived by you than ’twas by me.”

“Why, ’tis clear enough,” says Moll.  “Pressed by his necessities, he came hither to claim assistance of his kinsman; but finding he was dead and none here but me, his pride did shrink from begging of a mere maid that which he might with justice have demanded from a man.  And then, for shame at being handled like a rogue—­”

Surely there is something in the blood of a gentleman that tempers his spirit to a degree scarcely to be comprehended by men of meaner birth, thinks I.

“When did Simon urge him to dispute my rights?” asks Moll.

“On Sunday—­in the wood out there.  I knew by his look he had some treacherous business in hand, and, matching my stealth with his, I found means to overhear him, creeping from thicket to thicket, as noiseless as a snake, to where they stood; for, be assured, I should not otherwise have learnt one word of this.”

“How did he receive these hints at my ill doing?” asks Moll.