The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “As assuredly he will,” says I, who knew the crafty, subtle character of old Simon full well by, this time. “A thousand objections, and not one you can pick a hole in.”

      “Then show him this and tell him I accept Mr. Goodman’s offer unless he can find more profitable means of raising money.”

      With that she puts in my hand a letter she had that morning received from one Henry Goodman, a tenant, who having heard that she had disposed of a farm to his neighbour, now humbly prayed she would do him the same good turn by selling him the land he rented, and for which he was prepared to pay down in ready money the sum of five thousand pounds.

      Armed with this letter, I sought Simon and delivered Moll’s message. As I expected, the wily old man had good excuses ready for not complying with this request, showing me the pains he had taken to get the king’s seal, his failures to move the king’s officers, and the refusal of his goldsmith to furnish further supplies before the deed of succession was passed.

      “These objections are all very just,” says I, “so I see no way of pleasing our lady but by selling Mr. Goodman’s farm, which she will have done at once if there be no alternative.” So I give him the letter, which he can scarce read for trembling with anguish.

      “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.”

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