The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

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      “Like enough, Jack,” says I. “What would you? He’s her husband, and ’tis as if he was dead to her. She cannot be a maid again. ’Tis young to be a widow, and no hope of being wife ever more.”

      “God forgive me,” says he, hanging his head.

      “We did it for the best,” says I. “We could not foresee this.”

      “’Twas so natural to think we should be happy again being all together. Howsoever,” adds he, straightening himself with a more manful vigour, “we will do something to chase these black dogs hence.”

      On his lathe was the egg cup he had been turning for Moll; he snapped it off from the chuck and flung it in the litter of chips and shavings, as if ’twere the emblem of his past folly.

      It so happened that night that Moll could eat no supper, pleading for her excuse that she felt sick.

      “What is it, chuck?” says Jack, setting down his knife and drawing his chair beside Moll’s.

      “The vapours, I think,” says she, with a faint smile.

      “Nay,” says he, slipping his arm about her waist and drawing her to him. “My Moll hath no such modish humours. ’Tis something else. I have watched ye, and do perceive you eat less and less. Tell us what ails you.”

      “Well, dear,” says she, “I do believe ’tis idleness is the root of my disorder.”

      “Idleness was never wont to have this effect on you.”

      “But it does now that I am grown older. There’s not enough to do. If I could find some occupation for my thoughts, I should not be so silly.”

      “Why, that’s a good thought. What say you, dear, shall we go a-play-acting again?”

      Moll shook her head.

      “To be sure,” says he, scratching his jaw, “we come out of that business with no great encouragement to go further in it. But times are mended since then, and I do hear the world is more mad for diversion now than ever they were before the Plague.”

      “No, dear,” says Moll, “’tis of no use to think of that I couldn’t play now.”

      After this we sat silent awhile, looking into the embers; then Jack, first to give expression to his thoughts, says:

      “I think you were never so happy in your life, Moll, as that time we were in Spain, nor can I recollect ever feeling so free from care myself—after we got out of the hands of that gentleman robber. There’s a sort of infectious brightness in the sun, and the winds, blow which way they may, do chase away dull thoughts and dispose one to jollity; eh, sweetheart? Why, we met never a tattered vagabond on the road but he was halloing of ditties, and a kinder, more hospitable set of people never lived. With a couple of rials in your pocket, you feel as rich and independent as with an hundred pounds in your hand elsewhere.”

      At this point Moll, who had hitherto listened in apathy to these eulogies, suddenly pushing back her chair, looks at us with a strange look in her eyes, and says under her breath, “Elche!”

      “Barcelony for my money,” responds Dawson, whose memories of Elche were not so cheerful as of those parts where we had led a more vagabond life.

      “Elche!” repeats Moll, twining her fingers, and with a smile gleaming in her eyes.

      “Does it please you, chuck, to talk of these matters?”

      “Yes, yes!” returns she, eagerly. “You know not the joy it gives me” (clapping her hand on her heart). “Talk on.”

      Mightily pleased with himself, her father goes over our past adventures—the tricks Moll played us, as buying of her petticoat while we were hunting for her, our excellent entertainment in the mountain villages, our lying abed all one day, and waking at sundown to think it was daybreak, our lazy days and jovial nights, etc., at great length; and when his memory began to give out, giving me a kick of the shin, he says:

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ