The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ which he had refused to force. But ere a word could leave his parted lips a deadly shade passed over his face, his knees gave under him, and staggering to save himself, he fell to the ground in a swoon.

      Then, whilst all we men stood fixed in wonderment, Moll, with the quick, helpful impulse of her womanhood, ran swiftly from her place to his side, and dropping on her knees cried for water to be brought her.

      “Dead of hunger,” says Don Sanchez, in my ear. “Fetch a flask of brandy.”

      And then, laying hold of Simon by the shoulder, he pointed significantly to the open door. This hint Simon was not slow to take, and when I returned from the buttery with a case of strong waters, I found no one in the room but Don Sanchez, and Moll with the fainting man’s head upon her lap, bathing his temples gently. Life had not come back, and the young man’s face looked very handsome in death, the curls pushed back from his brow, and his long features still and colourless like a carved marble.

      Then with a “lack-a-day” and “alas,” in bustles Mrs. Butterby with a bottle of cordial in one hand and a bunch of burning feathers in the other.

      “Fling that rubbish in the chimney,” says the Don. “I know this malady—well enough,” and pouring some hollands in a cup he put it to the dead man’s parted lips.

      In a few moments he breathed again, and hearing Moll’s cry of joy, he opened his eyes as one waking from a dream and turned his head to learn what had happened. Then finding his head in Moll’s lap and her small, soft, cool hand upon his brow, a smile played over his wasted face. And well, indeed, might he smile to see that young figure of justice turned to the living image of tender mercy.

      Perceiving him out of danger, and recovering her own wits at the same time, Mrs. Butterby cries: “Lord! Madam, do let me call a maid to take your place; for, dear heart! you have quite spoiled your new gown with this mess of water, and all for such a paltry fellow as this!”

      Truly, it must have seemed to her understanding an outrageous thing that a lady of her mistress’ degree should be nursing such a ragged rascal; but to me, knowing Moll’s helpful, impulsive disposition, ’twas no such extraordinary matter, for she at such a moment could not entertain those feelings which might have restrained a lady of more refined breeding.

      The pretty speech of Mrs. Butterby, reaching the fallen man’s ear, seemed instantly to quicken his spirits, and, casting off his lethargic humour, he quickly staggered to his feet, while we raised Moll. Then, resting one hand upon the table for support, he craved her pardon for giving so much trouble, but in a very faint, weak voice.

      “I would have done as much for a dog,” says Moll. “My friends will render you what further services are fit; and, if it appears that you have been unjustly used (as I do think you have), be sure you shall have reparation.”

      “I ask no more,” says he, “than to be treated as I may merit in your esteem.”

      “Justice shall be done,” says Don Sanchez, in his stern voice, and with that he conducts Moll to the door.

      But Moll was not content with this promise of justice. For the quality of mercy begetteth love, so that one cannot moderate one’s anger against an enemy, but it doth breed greater compassion and leniency by making one better content with oneself, and therefore more indulgent to others. And so, when she had left the room, she sends in her maid to fetch me, and taking me aside says with vivacity:

      “I will have no punishment made upon that man.”

      “Nay,” says I, “but if ’tis proved that his intent was to rob you—”

      “What then!” says she. “Hath he not as much right to this estate as we? And are we one whit the better than he, save in the more fortunate issue of our designs? Understand me,” adds she, with passion; “I will have nothing added to his unhappiness.”

      I found the young man seated at the table, and Don Sanchez gravely setting food before him. But he would take nothing but bread, and that he ate as though it were the sweetest meat in all the world. I lead the Don to the window, and there, in an undertone, told him of Moll’s decision; and, whether her tone of supreme authority amused him or not, I cannot say, because of his impassive humour, but he answered me with a serious inclination of his head, and then we fell speaking of other matters in our usual tone, until the young man, having satisfied the cravings of nature, spoke:

      “When you are at liberty, gentlemen,” says he, “to question my conduct, I will answer you.”

      CHAPTER XIX.

      Of the business appointed to the painter, and how he set about the same.

      The young man had risen and was standing by the table when we turned from the window; he seemed greatly refreshed, his face had lost its livid hue of passion and death, and looked the better for a tinge of colour. He met our regard boldly, yet with no braggart, insolent air, but the composure of a brave man facing his trial with a consciousness of right upon his side.

      “I would ask you,” says the Don, seating himself on t’other side the table, “why you refused to do that before?”

      “Sir,” answers he, “I have lost everything in the world save some small modicum of pride, which, being all I have, I do cherish, maybe, unduly. And so, when these unmannerly hinds took me by the throat, calling on me to tell my name and business, this spirit within me flaring up, I could not answer with the humility of a villain seeking to slink out of danger by submissive excuses.”

      “Be seated,” says the Don, accepting this explanation with a bow. “How may we call you?”

      “In Venice,” replies the other, with some hesitation, “I was called Dario—a name given me by my fellow-scholars because my English name was not to their taste.”

      “Enough,” says the Don. “I can understand a man of better fortune, as I perceive you have been, wishing in such a position as this to retain his incognito. There are no parks in Venice, to my knowledge, but surely, sir, you would not enter a palazzo there uninvited without some reasonable pretext.”

      “It would be sufficient that in such a house as this I thought I might find some employment for a painter.”

      “You are a painter?” says I.

      “A poor one, as you see,” replies Dario, with a significant glance at his clothes.

      Don Sanchez turned to me, hunching his shoulders.

      “’Tis clear,” says he, “that Signor Dario has been grossly abused by our lady’s over-zealous steward. You have but to tell us, sir, what reparation we can make you.”

      “I’ll not refuse it,” answers Dario, eagerly. “You shall grant me permission to prove the honesty of my story—and something more than that. Somewhere here,” adds he, glancing around him, “I’d leave a tribute to the grace of that dear lady who brought me back to life.”

      Don Sanchez assents with a bow to this proposal, but with a rueful glance at the rich panels of the wall, as fearing this painter might be as poor in talent as in his clothes—the latter reflecting discredit on the former—and would disfigure the handsome walls with some rude daub.

      “Ah!” cries Dario, casting his eye upon the ceiling, which was plastered in the Italian mode and embellished with a poor design of cherubs and clouds, “this ceiling is ill done. I could СКАЧАТЬ