“Han’t you got anything to say? For a dull companion there’s nothing in the world to equal your man of wit and understanding”; which, as far as my observation goes, was a very true estimation on his part.
But, indeed (since I pretend to no great degree of wit or understanding), I must say, as an excuse for my silence, that during his discourse I had been greatly occupied in observing Moll, and trying to discover what was passing in her mind. ’Twas clear this talk of Spain animated her spirit beyond ordinary measure, so that at one moment I conceived she did share her father’s fond fancy that our lost happiness might be regained by mere change of scene, and I confess I was persuaded somewhat to this opinion by reflecting how much we owe to circumstances for our varying moods, how dull, sunless days will cast a gloom upon our spirits, and how a bright, breezy day will lift them up, etc. But I presently perceived that the stream of her thoughts was divided; for though she nodded or shook her head, as occasion required, the strained, earnest expression in her tightened lips and knitted brows showed that the stronger current of her ideas flowed in another and deeper channel. Maybe she only desired her father to talk that she might be left the freer to think.
“’Twas near about this time of the year that we started on our travels,” said I, in response to Dawson’s reminder.
“Aye, I recollect ’twas mighty cold when we set sail, and the fruit trees were all bursting into bloom when we came into France. I would we were there now; eh, Moll?”
“What, dear?” asks she, rousing herself at this direct question.
“I say, would you be back there now, child?”
“Oh, will you take me there if I would go?”
“With all my heart, dear Moll. Is there anything in the world I’d not do to make you happy?”
She took his hand upon her knee, and caressing it, says:
“Let us go soon, father.”
“What, will you be dancing of fandangos again?” asks he; and she nods for reply, though I believe her thoughts had wandered again to some other matter.
“I warrant I shall fall into the step again the moment I smell garlic; but I’ll rehearse it an hour tomorrow morning, that we may lose no time. Will you have a short petticoat and a waist-cloth again, Moll?”
She, with her elbows on her knees now, and her chin in her hands, looking into the fire, nodded.
“And you, Kit,” continues he, “you’ll get a guitar and play tunes for us, as I take it you will keep us company still.”
“Yes, you may count on me for that,” says I.
“We shan’t have Don Sanchez to play the tambour for us, but I wager I shall beat it as well as he; though, seeing he owes us more than we owe him, we might in reason call upon him, and—”
“No, no; only we three,” says Moll.
“Aye, three’s enough, in all conscience, and seeing we know a bit of the language, we shall get on well enough without him. I do long, Moll, to see you a-flinging over my shoulder, with your clappers going, your pretty eye and cheek all aglow with pleasure, and a court full of señors and caballeros crying ‘Holé!’ and casting their handkerchiefs at your feet.”
Moll fetched a long, fluttering sigh, and, turning to her father, says in an absent way: “Yes, dear; yes. When shall we go?”
Then, falling to discussing particulars, Dawson, clasping his hands upon his stomach, asked with a long face if at this season we were likely to fall in with the equinoxes on our voyage, and also if we could not hit some point of Spain so as to avoid crossing the mountains of Pyranee and the possibility of falling again into the hands of brigands. To which I replied that, knowing nothing of the northern part of Spain and its people, we stood a chance of finding a rude climate, unsuitable to travelling at this time of year, and an inhospitable reception, and that, as our object was to reach, the South as quickly as possible, it would be more to our advantage to find a ship going through the straits which would carry us as far as Alicante or Valencia. And Moll supporting my argument very vigorously, Dawson gave way with much less reluctance than I expected at the outset. But, indeed, the good fellow seemed now ready to make any sacrifice of himself so that he might see his Moll joyous again.
When I entered his shop the next morning, I found him with his coat off, cutting capers, a wooden platter in his hand for a tambourine, and the sweat pouring down his face.
“I am a couple of stone or so too heavy for the boleros,” gasps he, coming to a stand, “but I doubt not, by the time we land at Alicante, there’ll not be an ounce too much of me.”
Learning that a convoy for the Levant was about to set sail with the next favourable wind from Chatham, we took horse and rode there that afternoon, and by great good luck we found the Faithful Friend, a good ship bound for Genoa in Italy, whereof Mr. Dixon, the master, having intent to enter and victual at Alicante, undertook to carry us there for ten pounds a head, so being we could get all aboard by the next evening at sundown.
Here was short grace, to be sure; but we did so despatch our affairs that we were embarked in due time, and by daybreak the following morning, were under weigh.
CHAPTER XXXV.
How we lost our poor Moll, and our long search for her.
We reached Alicante the 15th March, after a long, tedious voyage. During this time I had ample opportunity for observing Moll, but with little relief to my gloomy apprehensions. She rarely quitted her father’s side, being now as sympathetic and considerate of him in his sufferings, as before she had been thoughtless and indifferent. She had ever a gentle word of encouragement for him; she was ever kind and patient. Only once her spirit seemed to weary: that was when we had been beating about in the bay of Cadiz four days, for a favourable gale to take us through the straits. We were on deck, she and I, the sails flapping the masts idly above our heads.
“Oh,” says she, laying her hand on my shoulder, and her wasted cheek against my arm, “oh, that it were all ended!”
She was sweeter with me than ever she had been before; it seemed as if the love bred in her heart by marriage must expend itself upon some one. But though this tenderness endeared her more to me, it saddened me, and I would have had her at her tricks once more, making merry at my expense. For I began to see that our happiness comes from within and not from without, and so fell despairing that ever this poor stricken heart of hers would be healed, which set me a-repenting more sincerely than ever the mischief I had helped to do her.
Dawson also, despite his stubborn disposition to see things as he would have them, had, nevertheless, some secret perception of the incurable sorrow which she, with all her art, could scarce dissimulate. Yet he clung to that fond belief in a return of past happiness, as if ’twere his last hope on earth. When at last our wind sprang up, and we were cutting through the waters with bending masts and not a crease in the bellied sails, he came upon deck, and spreading his hands out, cries in joy:
“Oh, this blessed sunlight! There is nought in the world like it—no, not the richest wine—to swell one’s heart with content.”
And then he fell again to recalling our old adventures and mirthful escapades. He gave the rascals who fetched us ashore a piece more than they demanded, hugely delighted to find they understood his Spanish and such quips as he could call to mind. Then being landed, he falls to extolling everything he sees and hears, calling upon Moll to justify his appreciation; nay, he went so far as to pause in a narrow street where was a most unsavoury smell, to sniff the air and declare he could scent the oranges in bloom. And Lord! to hear him praise the whiteness of the linen, the excellence of the meat and drink set before us at the posada, one would have said he had never before seen clean sheets or tasted decent victuals.
Seeing that neither Moll nor I could work ourselves up (try as we might) to his high pitch of enthusiasm, he was ready with an excuse for us.
“I perceive,” says he, “you are still suffering from your voyage. Therefore, we will not quit this town before tomorrow” (otherwise I believe he would have started off
on our expedition as soon as our meal was done). “However,” adds he, “do you make enquiry, Kit, if you can get yourself understood, if there be ever a bull to be fought today or any diversion of dancing or play-acting tonight, that the time hang not too heavy on our hands.”
As no such entertainments were to be had (this being the season of Lent, which is observed very strictly in these parts), Dawson contented himself with taking Moll out to visit the shops, and here he speedily purchased a pair of clappers for her, a tambour for himself, and a guitar for me, though we were difficult to please, for no clappers pleased Moll as those she had first bought; and it did seem to me that I could strike no notes out of any instrument but they had a sad, mournful tone.
Then nothing would satisfy him but to go from one draper’s to another, seeking a short petticoat, a waist-cloth, and a round hat to Moll’s taste, which ended to his disappointment, for she could find none like the old.
“Why, don’t you like this?” he would say, holding up a gown; “to my eyes ’tis the very spit of t’other, only fresher.”
And she demurring, whispers, “Tomorrow, dear, tomorrow,” with plaintive entreaty for delay in her wistful eyes. Disheartened, but not yet at the end of his resources, her father at last proposed that she should take a turn through the town alone and choose for herself. “For,” says he, “I believe we do rather hinder than help you with our advice in such matters.”
After a moment’s reflection, Moll agreed to this, and saying she would meet us at the posada for supper, left us, and walked briskly back the way we had come.
When she was gone, Dawson had never a word to say, nor I either, for dejection, yet, had I been questioned, I could have found no better reason for my despondency than that I felt ’twas all a mistake coming here for happiness.
Strolling aimlessly through the narrow back ways, we came presently to the market that stands against the port. And here, almost at the first step, Dawson catches my arm and nods towards the opposite side of the market-place. Some Moors were seated there in their white clothes, with bundles of young palm leaves, plaited up in various forms of crowns, crosses, and the like—which the people of this country do carry to church to be blessed on Palm Sunday; and these Moors I knew came from Elche, because palms grow nowhere else in such abundance.
“Yes,” says I, thinking ’twas this queer merchandise he would point out, “I noticed these Moors and their ware when we passed here a little while back with Moll.”
“Don’t you see her there now—at the corner?” asks he.
Then, to my surprise, I perceived Moll in very earnest conversation with two Moors, who had at first screened her from my sight.
“Come away,” continues he. “She left us to go back and speak to them, and would not have us know.”
Why should she be secret about this trifling matter, I asked myself. ’Twas quite natural that, if she recognised in these Moors some old acquaintance of Elche, she should desire to speak them.
We stole away to the port; and seating ourselves upon some timber, there we looked upon the sea nigh upon half an hour without saying a word. Then turning to me, Dawson says: “Unless she speak to us upon this matter, Kit, we will say nought to her. But, if she say nothing, I shall take it for a sign her heart is set upon going back to Elche, and she would have it a secret that we may not be disheartened in our other project.”
“That is likely enough,” says I, not a little surprised by his reasoning. But love sharpens a man’s wit, be it never so dull.
“Nevertheless,” continues he, “if she can be happier at Elche than elsewhere, then must we abandon our scheme and accept hers with a good show of content. We owe her that, Kit.”
“Aye, and more,” says I.
“Then when we meet tomorrow morning, I will offer to go there, as if ’twas a happy notion that had come to me in my sleep, and do you back me up with all the spirit you can muster.”
So after some further discussion we rose, and returned to our posada, where we found Moll waiting for us. She told us she had found no clothes to her liking (which was significant), and said not a word of her speaking to the Moors in the market-place, so we held our peace on these matters.
We did not part till late that night, for Moll would sit up with us, confessing she felt too feverish for sleep; and indeed this was apparent enough by her strange humour, for she kept no constant mood for five minutes together. Now, she would sit pensive, paying no heed to us, with a dreamy look in her eyes, as if her thoughts were wandering far away—to her husband in England maybe; then she would hang her head as though she dared not look him in the face even at that distance; and anon she would recover herself with a noble exaltation, lifting her head with a fearless mien. And so presently her body drooping gradually to a reflective posture, she falls dreaming again, to rouse herself suddenly at some new prompting of her spirit, and give us all her thoughts, all eagerness for two moments, all melting sweetness the next, with her pretty manner of clinging to her father’s arm, and laying her cheek against his shoulder. And when at last we came to say good-night, she hangs about his neck as if she would fain sleep there, quitting him with a deep sigh and a passionate kiss. Also she kissed me most affectionately, but could say never a word of farewell to either of us—hurrying to her chamber to weep, as I think.
We knew not what to conclude from these symptoms, save that she might be sickening of some disorder; so we to our beds, very down in the mouth and faint at heart.
About six the next morning I was awoke by the door bursting suddenly open, and starting up in my bed, I see Dawson at my side, shaking in every limb, and his eyes wide with terror.
“Moll’s gone!” cries he, and falls a-blubbering.
“Gone!” says I, springing out of bed. “’Tis not possible.”
“She has not lain in her bed; and one saw her go forth last night as the doors were closing, knowing her for a foreigner by her hood. Come with me,” adds he, laying his hand on a chair for support. “I dare not go alone.”
“Aye, I’ll go with ye, Jack; but whither?”
“Down to the sea,” says he, hoarsely.
I stopped in the midst of dressing, overcome by this fearful hint; for, knowing Moll’s strong nature, the thought had never occurred to me that she might do away with herself. Yet now reflecting on her strange manner of late, especially her parting with us overnight, it seemed not so impossible neither. For here, seeing the folly of our coming hither, desponding of any happiness in the future, was the speediest way of ending a life that was burdensome to herself and a constant sorrow to us. Nay, with her notions of poetic justice drawn from plays, she may have regarded this as the only atonement she could make her husband; the only means of giving him back freedom to make a happier choice in marriage. With these conclusions taking shape, I shuffled on my clothes, and then, with shaking fear, we two, hanging to each other’s arms for strength, made our way through the crooked streets to the sea; and there, seeing a group of men and women gathered at the water’s edge some little distance from us, we dared not go further, conceiving ’twas a dead body they were regarding. But ’twas only a company of fishers examining their haul of fishes, as we presently perceived. So, somewhat cheered, we cast our eyes to the right and left, and, seeing nothing to justify our fears, advanced along the mole to the very end, where it juts out into the sea, with great stones around to break the surf. Here, then, with deadly apprehensions, we peered amongst the rocks, holding our breath, clutching tight hold of one another by the hand, in terror of finding that we so eagerly searched—a hood, a woman’s skirt clinging to the stones, a stiffened hand thrust up from the lapping waters. Never may I forget the sickening horror of the moment when, creeping out amidst the rocks, Dawson twitches my hand, and points down through the clear water to something lying white at the bottom. It looked for all the world like a dead face, coloured a greenish white by the water; but presently we saw, by one end curling over in the swell of a wave, that ’twas only a rag of paper.
Then I persuaded Dawson to give up this horrid search, and return to our posada, when, if we found not Moll, we might more justly conclude she had gone to Elche, than put an end to her life; and though we could learn nothing of her at our inn, more than Dawson had already told me, yet our hopes were strengthened in the probability of finding her at Elche by recollecting her earnest, secret conversation with the Moors, who might certainly have returned to Elche in the night, they preferring that time for their journey, as we knew. So, having hastily snatched a repast, whilst our landlord was procuring mules for our use, we set off across the plain, doing our best to cheer each other on the way. But I confess one thing damped my spirits exceedingly, and that was, having no hint from Moll the night before of this project, which then must have been fully matured in her mind, nor any written word of explanation and encouragement. For, thinks I, she being no longer a giddy, heedless child, ready to play any prank without regard to the consequences, but a very considerate, remorseful woman, would not put us to this anxiety without cause. Had she resolved to go to her friends at Elche, she would, at least, have comforted us with the hope of meeting her again; whereas, this utter silence did point to a knowledge on her part that we were sundered for ever, and that she could give us no hope, but such as we might glean from uncertainty.
Arriving at Elche, we made straight for the house of the merchant, Sidi ben Ahmed, with whose family Moll had been so intimate previously. Here we were met by Sidi himself, who, after laying his fingers across his lips, and setting his hand upon his heart, in token of recognition and respect, asked us very civilly our business, though without any show of surprise at seeing us. But these Moors do pride themselves upon a stoic behaviour at all times, and make it a point to conceal any emotion they may feel, so that men never can truly judge of their feelings.
Upon explaining our circumstances as well as our small knowledge of the tongue allowed us, he makes us a gesture of his open hands, as if he would have us examine his house for ourselves, to see that she was not hid away there for any reason, and then calling his servants, he bids them seek through all the town, promising them a rich reward if they bring any tidings of Lala Mollah. And while this search was being made, he entertained us at his own table, where we recounted so much of our miserable history as we thought it advisable he should know.
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 43