“What,” cries he, coming to the end, “I am to sell this land which I bought for nine hundred pounds and is now worth six thousand? I would rather my mistress had bid me have the last teeth torn from my head.”
“We must have money,” says I.
“Thee shalt have it in good time. Evans hath been paid, and thy debt shall be discharged; fear not.”
“I spoke as representing our lady; for ourselves we are content to wait her better convenience.” And I told him how his mistress would lay out her money in embellishing the Court with paintings, which put him to a new taking to think so much good money should be wasted in such vanities.
“But,” says he, “this work must take time, and one pays for nothing ere ’tis done. By quarter day our rents will be coming in again—”
“No,” says I, cutting him short, “the money must be found at once, or be assured that your lady will take the management of her affairs out of your hands.”
This raised a fresh outcry and more lamentations, but in the end he promised to procure the money by collecting his rents in advance, if his mistress would refuse Mr. Goodman’s offer and wait three weeks; and on Moll’s behalf I agreed to these terms.
A few days after this, we were called into the dining-hall to see the finished ceiling, which truly deserved all the praise we could bestow upon it, and more. For now that the sky appeared through the opening, with a little pearly cloud creeping across it, the verdure and flowers falling over the marble coping, and the sunlight falling on one side and throwing t’other into shade, the illusion was complete, so that one could scarcely have been more astonished had a leaf fallen from the hanging flowers or a face looked over the balcony. In short; ’twas prodigious.
Nevertheless, the painter, looking up at his work with half-closed, critical eyes, seemed dissatisfied, and asking us if we found nothing lacking, we (not to appear behindhand in judgment) agreed that on one side there was a vacant place which might yet be adorned to advantage.
“Yes,” says he, “I see what is wanted and will supply it. That,” adds he; gently turning to Moll, “will give me still another day.”
“Why, what charm can you add that is not there?” asks she.
“Something,” says he, in a low voice, “which I must see whenever I do cast my eyes heavenwards.”
And now Moll, big with her purpose, which she had hitherto withheld from Dario, begs him to come into her state room, and there she told how she would have this ceiling plastered over and painted, like her dining-hall, if he would undertake to do it.
Dario casts his eye round the room and over the ceiling, and then, shaking his head, says: “If I were in your place, I would alter nothing here.”
“But I will have it altered,” says she, nettled, because he did not leap at once at her offer, which was made rather to prolong their communion than to obtain a picture. “I detest these old-fashioned beams of wood.”
“They are in keeping with the character of the room. I think,” adds he, looking round him again with renewed admiration, “I think I have never seen a more perfect example of English art.”
“What of that,” cries she, “if it pleases me to have it otherwise?”
“Nothing,” returns he, calmly. “You have as just a right to stand by your opinion as I by mine.”
“And am I to understand that you will rather hold by your opinion than give me pleasure?”
“I pray you, do not press me to discourtesy,” says he.
“Nay, but I would have a plain answer to my question,” says she, haughtily.
“Then,” says he, angering in his turn, “I must tell you that I would as soon chip an antique statue to suit the taste of a French modiste as disfigure the work of him who designed this room.”
Now, whether Moll took this to be a reflection on her own figure, which had grown marvellous slim in the waist since she had her new stays from London, or not, I will not say; but certainly this response did exasperate her beyond all endurance (as we could see by her blanched cheek and flashing eye); so, dismissing him with a deep curtsey, she turns on her heel without another word.
This foolish business, which was not very creditable to our Moll’s good sense (though I think she acted no worse than other maids in her condition—for I have observed that young people do usually lose their heads at the same time that they lose their hearts), this foolish scene, I say, I would gladly omit from my history, but that it completely changed our destiny; for had these two parted with fair words, we should probably have seen no more of Dario, and Don Sanchez’s prognostic had been realised. Such trifles as these do influence our career as greatly as more serious accidents, our lives being a fabric of events that hang together by the slenderest threads.
Unmoved from his design by Moll’s displeasure, Dario replaced his scaffold before he left that day, and the next morning he came to put the last touch upon his work. Moll, being still in dudgeon, would not go near him, but sat brooding in a corner of her state room, ready, as I perceived, to fly out in passion at any one who gave her the occasion. Perceiving this, Don Sanchez prudently went forth for a walk after dinner; but I, seeing that some one must settle accounts with the painter for his work, stayed at home. And when I observed that he was collecting his materials to go, I went in to Moll.
“My dear,” says I, “I believe Dario is preparing to leave us.”
“My congratulations to him,” says she, “for ’tis evident he is weary of being here.”
“Nay, won’t you come in and see his work now ’tis finished?”
“No; I have no desire to see it. If I have lost my taste for Italian art, ’tis through no fault of his.”
“You will see him, surely, before he goes.”
“No; I will not give him another opportunity to presume upon my kindness.”
“Why, to be sure,” says I, like a fool, “you have been a little over-familiar.”
“Indeed,” says she, firing up like a cracker. “Then I think ’twould have been kinder of you to give me a hint of it beforehand. However, ’tis a very good excuse for treating him otherwise now.”
“Well, he must be paid for his work, at any rate.”
“Assuredly. If you have not money enough, I will fetch it from my closet.”
“I have it ready, and here is a purse for the purpose. The question is, how much to put in it. I should think such a perspective as that could not be handsomely paid under fifty guineas.”
“Then you will give him a hundred, and say that I am exceedingly obliged to him.”
I put this sum in the purse and went out into the hall where Dario was waiting, with his basket of brushes beside him. In a poor, bungling, stammering fashion, I delivered Moll’s message, and made the best excuse I could for delivering it in her stead.
He waited a moment or two after I had spoken, and then, says he, in a low voice:
“Is that all?”
“Nay,” says I, offering the purse, “we do beg you to take this as—”
He stopped me, pushing my hand aside.
“I have taken a purse from Don Sanchez,” says he. “There was more in it than I needed—there are still some pieces left. But as I would not affront him by offering to return them, so I beg you will equally respect my feelings. I undertook the task in gratitude, and it hath been a work of love all through, well paid for by the happiness that I have found here.”
He stood musing a little while, as if he were debating with himself whether he should seek to overcome Moll’s resentment or not. Then, raising his head quickly, he says: “’Tis best so, maybe. Farewell, sir” (giving me his hand). “Tell her,” adds he, as we stand hand in hand at the door, “that I can never forget her kindness, and will ever pray for her happiness.”
I found the door ajar and Moll pacing the room very white, when I returned. She checked me the moment I essayed to deliver Dario’s message.
“You can save your breath,” says she, passionately, “I’ve heard every word.”
“More shame for you,” says I, in a passion, casting my purse on the table. “’Tis infamous to treat an honest gentleman thus, and silly besides. Come, dear,” altering my tone, “do let me run and fetch him back.”
“You forget whom you are speaking to, Mr. Hopkins,” cries she.
I saw ’twas impossible to move her whilst she was in this mood, for she had something of her father’s obstinate, stubborn disposition, and did yet hope to bring Dario back to her feet, like a spaniel, by harsh treatment. But he came no more, though a palette he had overlooked could have given him the excuse, and for very vexation with Moll I was glad he did not.
He had not removed the scaffold, but when I went upon it to see what else he had put into his painting, the fading light only allowed me to make out a figure that seemed to be leaning over the balcony.
Moll would not go in there, though I warrant she was dying of curiosity; and soon after supper, which she could scarce force herself to touch, she went up to her own chamber, wishing us a very distant, formal good-night, and keeping her passionate, angry countenance.
But the next morning, ere I was dressed, she knocked at my door, and, opening it, I found her with swollen eyes and tears running down her cheeks.
“Come down,” says she, betwixt her sobs, and catching my hand in hers. “Come down and see.”
So we went downstairs together—I wondering what now had happened—and so into the dining-hall. And there I found the scaffold pushed aside, and the ceiling open to view. Then looking up, I perceived that the figure bending over the balcony bore Moll’s own face, with a most sweet, compassionate expression in it as she looked down, such as I had observed when she bent over Dario, having brought him back to life. And this, thinks I, remembering his words, this is what he must ever see when he looks heavenwards.
A SET OF ROGUES, by Frank Barrett (Part 2)
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.
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—”
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 34