_Of our getting a painter into the Court, with whom our Moll falls
straightway in love._
Being somewhat of a coward, I essayed to put Moll off with a story of
her father having gone a-frolicking with Don Sanchez, leaving it to the
Don to break the truth to her on his return. And a sorry, bungling
business I made of it, to be sure. For, looking me straight in the eyes,
whenever I dared lift them, she did seem to perceive that I was lying,
from the very first, which so disconcerted me, though she interrupted me
by never a word, that I could scarce stammer to the end of my tale.
Then, without asking a single question, or once breaking her painful
silence, she laid her face in her hands, her shoulders shook, and the
tears ran out between her fingers, and fell upon her lap.
"I know, I know," says she, putting me away, when I attempted to speak.
"He has gone away for my sake, and will come back no more; and 'tis all
my fault, that I could not play my part better."
Then, what words of comfort I could find, I offered her; but she would
not be consoled, and shut herself up in her room all that morning.
Nevertheless, she ate more heartily than I at dinner, and fresh visitors
coming in the afternoon, she entertained them as though no grief lay at
her heart. Indeed, she recovered of this cruel blow much easier than I
looked for; and but that she would at times sit pensive, with
melancholy, wistful eyes, and rise from her seat with a troubled sigh,
one would have said, at the end of the week, that she had ceased to feel
for her father. But this was not so (albeit wounds heal quickly in the
young and healthful), for I believe that they who weep the least do ache
the most.
Then, for her further excuse (if it be needed), Don Sanchez brought back
good tidings of her father,--how he was neatly lodged near the Cherry
garden, where he could hear the birds all day and the fiddles all night,
with abundance of good entertainment, etc. To confirm which, she got a
letter from him, three days later, very loving and cheerful, telling
how, his landlord being a carpenter, he did amuse himself mightily at
his old trade in the workshop, and was all agog for learning to turn
wood in a lathe, promising that he would make her a set of egg-cups
against her birthday, please God. Added to this, the number of her
friends multiplying apace, every day brought some new occupation to her
thoughts; also, having now those three thousand pounds old Simon had
promised us, Moll set herself to spending of them as quickly as
possible, by furnishing herself with all sorts of rich gowns and
appointments, which is as pretty a diversion of melancholy from a young
woman's thoughts as any. And so I think I need dwell no longer on this
head.
About the beginning of October, Simon comes, cap in hand, and very
humble, to the Court to crave Moll's consent to his setting some men
with guns in her park at night, to lie in ambush for poachers, telling
how they had shot one man in the act last spring, and had hanged another
the year before for stealing of a sheep; adding that a stranger had been
seen loitering in the neighbourhood, who, he doubted not, was of their
thieving crew.
"What makes you think that?" asks Moll. "He has been seen lingering
about here these three days," answers Simon. "Yet to my knowledge he
hath not slept at either of the village inns. Moreover, he hath the look
of a desperate, starving rascal, ripe for such work."
"I will have no man killed for his misfortunes."
"Gentle mistress, suffer me to point out that if thee lets one man steal
with impunity, others, now innocent, are thereby encouraged to sin, and
thus thy mercy tends to greater cruelty."
"No man shall be killed on my land,--there is my answer," says Moll,
with passion. "If you take this poor, starved creature, it shall be
without doing him bodily hurt. You shall answer for it else."
"Not a bone shall be broken, mistress. 'Tis enough if we carry him
before Justice Martin, a godly, upright man, and a scourge to
evil-doers."
"Nay, you shall not do that, neither, till I have heard his case," says
Moll. "'Tis for me to decide whether he has injured me or not, and I'll
suffer none to take my place."
Promising obedience, Simon withdrew before any further restrictions
might be put upon him; but Moll's mind was much disturbed all day by
fear of mischief being done despite her commands, and at night she would
have me take her round the park to see all well. Maybe, she thought that
her own father, stealing hither to see her privily, might fall a victim
to Simon's ambushed hirelings. But we found no one, though Simon had
certainly hidden these fellows somewhere in the thickets.
Whilst we were at table next morning, we heard a great commotion in the
hall; and Mrs. Butterby coming in a mighty pucker, told how the robber
had been taken in the park, and how Simon had brought him to the house
in obedience to her lady's command. "But do, pray, have a care of
yourself, my dear lady," says she; "for this hardy villain hath struck
Mr. Simon in the face and made most desperate resistance; and Heaven
protect us from such wicked outlaws as have the villany to show
themselves in broad daylight!"
Moll, smiling, said she would rather face a lion in the day than a mouse
by night, and so bade the captive to be brought before her.
Then in comes Simon, with a stout band over one eye, followed by two
sturdy fellows holding their prisoner betwixt them. And this was a very
passionate man, as was evidenced by the looks of fury he cast from side
to side upon his captors as they dragged him this way and that to make a
show of their power, but not ill-looking. In his struggles he had lost
his hat, and his threadbare coat and shirt were torn open, laying bare
his neck and showing a very fair white skin and a good beard of light
curling hair. There was nought mean or vile in his face, but rather it
seemed to me a noble countenance, though woefully wasted, so that at a
glance one might perceive he was no born rascal, but likely enough some
ruined man of better sort driven to unlawful ways by his distress. He
was of a fair height, but gaunt beyond everything, and so feeble that
after one effort to free his arms his chin sank upon his breast as if
his forces were all spent.
Seeing this, Moll bade the fellows unbind him, telling them sharply they
might see there was no need of such rigour.
Being freed, our prisoner lifts his head and makes a slight reverence to
Moll, but with little gratitude in his look, and places himself at the
end of the table facing us, who are at the other end, Moll sitting
betwixt Don Sanchez and me. And there, setting his hands for support
upon the board, he holds his head up pretty proudly, waiting for what
might come.
"Who are you?" asks Moll, in a tone of authority.
He waits a moment, as if deliberating with himself whether to speak
fairly or not, then, being still sore with his ill-treatment, and
angered to be questioned thus by a mere girl (he, as I take it, being a
man of thirty or thereabouts), he answers:
"I do not choose to tell. Who I am, what I am, concerns you no more than
who and what you are concerns me, and less since I may justly demand by
what right these fellows, whom I take to be your servants, have thus
laid hands on me."
"How do you answer this?" asks Moll, turning to Simon.
Then Simon told very precisely, as if he were before a magistrate, how
this man, having been seen lingering about the Court several days, and
being without home or occupation, had been suspected of felonious
purposes; how, therefore, he had set a watch to lay wait for him; how
that morning they had entrapped him standing within a covert of the park
regarding the house; how he had refused to give his name or any excuse
for his being there, and how he had made most desperate attempt to
escape when they had lain hands on him.
"Is this true?" asks Moll of the prisoner.
"Yes," says he.
Moll regards him with incredulous eyes a moment, then, turning to Simon,
"What arms had he for this purpose that you speak of?" says she.
"None, mistress; but 'twould be a dread villain verily who would carry
the engines of his trade abroad in daylight to betray him." And then he
told how 'tis the habit of these poachers to reconnoitre their ground by
day, and keep their nets, guns, etc., concealed in some thicket or
hollow tree convenient for their purpose. "But," adds he, "we may
clearly prove a trespass against him, which is a punishable offence, and
this assault upon me, whereof I have evidence, shall also count for
something with Justice Martin, and so the wicked shall yet come by their
deserts." And with that he gives his fellows a wink with his one eye to
carry off their quarry.
"Stay," says Moll, "I would be further convinced--"
"If he be an honest man, let him show thee his hand," says Simon.
The man innocently enough stretches out his palm towards us, not
perceiving Simon's end.
"There!" cries Simon. "What said I? Is that a hand that ever did a day's
honest work?"
"'Tis no worse than mine," says Moll, regarding the hand which in truth
was exceeding smooth and well formed. "Come," adds she, still more
kindly, "you see I am no harsh judge. I would not deny a fellow-creature
the pleasure that is not grudged the coney that runs across my lawn.
Tell me you were there but to gratify a passing caprice, and I'll
forgive you as freely as I'll believe you."
This gentle appeal seemed to move the young man greatly, and he made as
if he would do more than was demanded of him, and make that free
confession 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."