# A Set of Rogues/Chapter 29

CHAPTER XXIX.
Of the subtile means whereby Simon leads Mr. Godwin to doubt his wife.
Again must I draw upon matter of after-knowledge to show you how all things came to pass on this fatal night.
When Mr. Godwin reached London, he went to Sir Peter Lely's house in Lincoln's Inn, to know if he was still at Hatfield, and there learning he was gone hence to Hampton, and no one answering for certainty when he would return, Mr. Godwin, seeing that he might linger in London for days to no purpose, and bethinking him how pale and sorrowful his dear wife was when they parted, concludes to leave his picture at Sir Peter Lely's and post back to Chislehurst, counting to give his wife a happy surprise.
About eight o'clock he reaches the Court, to find all shut and barred by the prudent housekeeper, who, on letting him in (with many exclamations of joy and wonder), falls presently to sighing and shaking her head, as she tells how her mistress has lain abed since dinner, and is sick of the biliaries.
In great concern, Mr. Godwin takes the candle from Mrs. Butterby's hand, and hastes up to his wife's room. Opening the door softly, he enters, to find the bed tumbled, indeed, but empty. He calls her in a soft voice, going into the next room, and, getting no reply, nor finding her there, he calls again, more loudly, and there is no response. Then, as he stands irresolute and amazed, he hears a knock ​at the door below, and concluding that 'tis his wife, who has had occasion to go out, seeking fresh air for her comfort maybe, he runs swiftly down and opens, ere a servant can answer the call. And there he is faced, not by sweet Moll, but the jaundiced, wicked old Simon, gasping and panting for breath.
"Dost thee know," says he, fetching his breath at every other word, "dost thee know where the woman thy wife is?"
"Where is she?" cries Mr. Godwin, in quick alarm, thinking by this fellow's sweating haste that some accident had befallen his dear wife.
"I will show thee where she is; aye, and what she is," gasps the old man, and then, clasping his hands, he adds, "Verily, the Lord hath heard my prayers and delivered mine enemies into my hand."
Mr. Godwin, who had stepped aside to catch up his hat from the table, where he had flung it on entering, stopped short, hearing this fervent note of praise, and turning about, with misgivings of Simon's purpose, cries:
"What are your enemies to me?"
"Everything," cries Simon. "Mine enemies are thine, for as they have cheated me so have they cheated thee."
"Enough of this," cries Mr. Godwin. "Tell me where my wife is, and be done with it."
"I say I will show thee where she is and what she is."
"Tell me where she is," cries Mr. Godwin, with passion.
"That is my secret, and too precious to throw away."
"I comprehend you, now," says Mr. Godwin, bethinking him of the fellow's greed. "You shall be paid. Tell me where she is and name your price."
"The price is this," returns the other, "thy promise to ​be secret, to catch them in this trap, and give no opening for escape. Oh, I know them; they are as serpents, that slip through a man's fingers and turn to bite. They shall not serve me so again. Promise—"
"Nothing. Think you I'm of your own base kind, to deal with you in treachery? You had my answer before, when you would poison my mind, rascal. But," adds he, with fury, "you shall tell me where my wife is."
"I would tear the tongue from my throat ere it should undo the work of Providence. If they escape the present vengeance of Heaven, thee shalt answer for it, not I. Yet I will give thee a clue to find this woman who hath fooled thee. Seek her where there are thieves and drunkards to mock at thy simplicity, to jeer at their easy gull, for I say again thy wife never was in Barbary, but playing the farded, wanton—"
The patience with which Mr. Godwin had harkened to this tirade, doubting by his passion that Simon was stark mad, gave way before this vile aspersion on his wife, and clutching the old man by the throat he flung him across the threshold and shut the door upon him.
But where was his wife? That question was still uppermost in his thoughts. His sole misgiving was that accident had befallen her, and that somewhere in the house he should find her lying cold and insensible.
With this terror in his mind, he ran again upstairs. On the landing he was met by Mrs. Butterby, who (prudent soul), at the first hint of misconduct on her mistress's part, had bundled the gaping servants up to their rooms.
"Mercy on us, dear master!" says she. "Where can our dear lady be? For a surety she hath not left the house, ​for I locked all up, as she bade me when we carried up her supper, and had the key in my pocket when you knocked. 'See the house safe,' says she, poor soul, with a voice could scarce be heared, 'and let no one disturb me, for I do feel most heavy with sleep.'"
Mr. Godwin passed into his wife's room and then into the next, looking about him in distraction.
"Lord! here's the sweet thing's nightgown," exclaims Mrs. Butterby, from the next room, whither she had followed Mr. Godwin. "But dear heart o' me, where's the ham gone?"
Mr. Godwin, entering from the next room, looked at her as doubting whether he or all the world had taken leave of their wits.
"And the pigeon pasty? " added Mrs. Butterby, regarding the table laid out beside her mistress's bed.
"And the cold partridge," adds she, in redoubled astonishment. "Why, here's nought left but my pudding, and that as cold as a stone."
Mr. Godwin, with the candle flaring in his hand, passed hastily by her, too wrought by fear to regard either the ludicrous or incomprehensible side of Mrs. Butterby's consternation; and so, going down the corridor away from the stairs, he comes to the door of the little back stairs, standing wide open, and seeming to bid him descend. He goes quickly down, yet trembling with fear that he may find her at the bottom, broken by a fall; but all he discovers is the bolt drawn and the door ajar. As he pushes it open a gust of wind blows out the light, and here he stood in the darkness, eager to be doing, yet knowing not which way to turn or how to act.
​Clearly, his wife had gone out by this door, and so far this gave support to Simon's statement that he knew where she was; and with this a flame was kindled within him that seemed to sear his very soul. If Simon spoke truth in one particular, why should he lie in others? Why had his wife refused to go with him to Hatfield? Why had she bid no one come near her room? Why had she gone forth by this secret stair, alone? Then, cursing himself for the unnamed suspicion that could thus, though but for a moment, disfigure the fair image that he worshipped, he asked himself why his wife should not be free to follow a caprice. But where was she? Ever that question surged upwards in the tumult of his thoughts. Where should he seek her? Suddenly it struck him that I might help him to find her, and acting instantly upon this hope he made his way in breathless haste to the road, and so towards my lodge.
Ere he has gone a hundred yards, Simon steps out of the shadow, and stands before him like a shade in the dimness.
"I crave thy pardon, Master," says he, humbly. "I spoke like a fool in my passion."
"If you will have my pardon, tell me where to find my wife; if not, stand aside," answers Mr. Godwin.
"Wilt thee hear me speak for two minutes if I promise to tell thee where she is and suffer thee to find her how thee willst. 'Twill save thee time."
"Speak," says Mr. Godwin.
"Thy wife is there," says Simon, under his breath, pointing towards my house. "She is revelling with Hopkins and Captain Evans,—men that she did tramp the country with as vagabond players, ere the Spaniard taught them more profitable wickedness. Knock at the ​door,—which thee mayst be sure is fast,—and while one holds thee in parley the rest will set the room in order, and find a plausible tale to hoodwink thee afresh. Be guided by me, and thee shalt enter the house unknown to them, as I did an hour since, and there thee shalt know, of thine own senses, how thy wife doth profit by thy blindness. If this truth be not proved, if thee canst then say that I have lied from malice, envy, and evil purpose, this knife," says he, showing a blade in his hand, "this knife will I thrust into my own heart, though I stand the next instant before the Eternal Judge, my hands wet with my own blood, to answer for my crime."
"Have you finished?" asks Mr. Godwin.
"No, not yet; I hold thee to thy promise," returns Simon, with eager haste. "Why do men lie? for their own profit. What profit have I in lying, when I pray thee to put my word to the proof and not take it on trust, with the certainty of punishment even if the proof be doubtful. Thee believest this woman is what she pretends to be; what does that show?—your simplicity, not hers. How would women trick their husbands without such skill to blind them by a pretence of love and virtue?"
"Say no more," cries Mr. Godwin, hoarsely, "or I may strangle you before you pass trial. Go your devilish way, I'll follow."
"Now God be praised for this!" cries Simon. "Softly, softly!" adds he, creeping in the shade of the bank towards the house.
But ere he has gone a dozen paces Mr. Godwin repents him again, with shame in his heart, and stopping, says:
"I'll go no further."
​"Then thee doubtest my word no longer," whispers Simon, quickly. " 'Tis fear that makest thee halt,—the fear of finding thy wife a wanton and a trickster."
"No, no, by God!"
"If that be so, then art thee bound to prove her innocent, that I may not say to all the world, thee mightest have put her honour to the test and dared not—choosing rather to cheat thyself and be cheated by her, than know thyself dishonoured. If thee dost truly love this woman and believe her guiltless, then for her honour must thee put me—not her—to this trial."
"No madman could reason like this," says Mr. Godwin. "I accept this trial, and Heaven forgive me if I do wrong."