_Of Moll's ill humour and what befel thereby._
Feeling, in the absence of Dawson, that I stood in the position of a
guardian to his daughter, and was responsible for her welfare, my mind
grew very uneasy about the consequences of her extravagant admiration
for the painter; and, knowing that Don Sanchez, despite his phlegmatic
humour, loved Moll very sincerely at heart, I took him aside one day,
and asked him if he had observed nothing particular in Moll's behaviour
of late.
"One would be blind," says he, "not to see that she is enamoured of
Dario, if that's what you mean."
I admitted that my suspicions inclined that way, and, explaining my
concern on her behalf, I asked him what he would do in my place.
"In my country," says he, "matters never would have been suffered to go
so far, and Mistress Judith would have been shut up a prisoner in her
room these past three weeks. But I doubt if our maidens are any the
safer or better for such treatment, and I am quite sure that such
treatment would be worse than useless for an English girl, and
especially such an one as this. For, guard her how you might, she would
assuredly find means to break her prison, and then no course is open to
her but to throw herself in the arms of the man she loves, trusting to
mere accident whether he abuses her devotion or not. You might as well
strive to catch the wind and hold it as stay and stem the course of
youthful passion."
"Aye, Señor," says I, "this may be all very true. But what should you do
in my place?"
"Nothing," says he.
This was a piece of advice which set me scratching my head in
dubitation.
"Beware," continues he, "how you suggest the thing you fear to one who
needs but a hint to act. I have great faith in the natural modesty of
women (and I do think no child more innocent than Mistress Judith),
which, though it blind them to their danger, does, at the same time,
safeguard them against secret and illicit courses of more fatal
consequences. Let her discourse with him, openly, since it pleases her.
In another fortnight or so Dario's work will be finished, he will go
away, our young lady will shed secret tears and be downcast for a week.
Then another swain will please her, and she'll smile again. That, as I
take it, will be the natural order of events, unless," adds he, "that
natural order is disturbed by some external influence."
Maugre this sage advice, my concern being unabated, I would step pretty
frequently into the room where these young people were, as if to see how
the work was going forward, and with such a quick step that had any
interchange of amorous sentiments existed, I must at one time or another
have discovered it. But I never detected any sign of this--no bashful
silence, no sudden confusion, or covert interchange of glances.
Sometimes they would be chatting lightly, at others both would be
standing silent, she, maybe, holding a bunch of leaves with untiring
steadfastness, for him to copy. But I observed that she was exceedingly
jealous of his society, and no matter how glibly she was talking when I
entered, or how indifferent the subject, she would quickly become
silent, showing me very plainly by her manner that she would vastly
prefer my room to my company.
Still, I was not displeased when I perceived this fresco drawing near to
its completion.
"You are getting on apace," says I, very cheerfully one day. "I reckon
you will soon have done."
"Yes," answers he, "in a week I shall have nought to do but to pack up
my tools and go." There was an accent of sorrow in his voice, despite
himself, which did not escape me nor Moll neither, for I saw her cast
her eyes upon his face, as if to read if there were sadness there. But
she said never a word.
However, in the afternoon she comes to me, and says she:
"I am resolved I will have all the rooms in the house plastered, if
Signor Dario will consent to paint them."
"All the rooms!" says I, in alarm. "Surely you have not counted the cost
of what you propose."
"I suppose I have enough to keep my house in suitable condition."
"Without doubt, though I expect such work as Signor Dario's must command
a high price."
"All I ask of you, then," says she, "is to bid my steward have five
thousand pounds ready for my uses, and within a week, lest I should need
it suddenly. Should he raise objections--"
"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."
"Why, to be sure," says I, like a fool, "you have been a little
over-familiar."
"Indeed," says she, firing up like a cracker. "Then I think 'twould have
been kinder of you to give me a hint of it beforehand. However, 'tis a
very good excuse for treating him otherwise now."
"Well, he must be paid for his work, at any rate."
"Assuredly. If you have not money enough, I will fetch it from my
closet."
"I have it ready, and here is a purse for the purpose. The question is,
how much to put in it. I should think such a perspective as that could
not be handsomely paid under fifty guineas."
"Then you will give him a hundred, and say that I am exceedingly obliged
to him."
I put this sum in the purse and went out into the hall where Dario was
waiting, with his basket of brushes beside him. In a poor, bungling,
stammering fashion, I delivered Moll's message, and made the best excuse
I could for delivering it in her stead.
He waited a moment or two after I had spoken, and then, says he, in a
low voice:
"Is that all?"
"Nay," says I, offering the purse, "we do beg you to take this as--"
He stopped me, pushing my hand aside.
"I have taken a purse from Don Sanchez," says he. "There was more in it
than I needed--there are still some pieces left. But as I would not
affront him by offering to return them, so I beg you will equally
respect my feelings. I undertook the task in gratitude, and it hath been
a work of love all through, well paid for by the happiness that I have
found here."
He stood musing a little while, as if he were debating with himself
whether he should seek to overcome Moll's resentment or not. Then,
raising his head quickly, he says: "'Tis best so, maybe. Farewell, sir"
(giving me his hand). "Tell her," adds he, as we stand hand in hand at
the door, "that I can never forget her kindness, and will ever pray for
her happiness."
I found the door ajar and Moll pacing the room very white, when I
returned. She checked me the moment I essayed to deliver Dario's
message.
"You can save your breath," says she, passionately, "I've heard every
word."
"More shame for you," says I, in a passion, casting my purse on the
table. "'Tis infamous to treat an honest gentleman thus, and silly
besides. Come, dear," altering my tone, "do let me run and fetch him
back."
"You forget whom you are speaking to, Mr. Hopkins," cries she.
I saw 'twas impossible to move her whilst she was in this mood, for she
had something of her father's obstinate, stubborn disposition, and did
yet hope to bring Dario back to her feet, like a spaniel, by harsh
treatment. But he came no more, though a palette he had overlooked could
have given him the excuse, and for very vexation with Moll I was glad he
did not.
He had not removed the scaffold, but when I went upon it to see what
else he had put into his painting, the fading light only allowed me to
make out a figure that seemed to be leaning over the balcony.
Moll would not go in there, though I warrant she was dying of curiosity;
and soon after supper, which she could scarce force herself to touch,
she went up to her own chamber, wishing us a very distant, formal
good-night, and keeping her passionate, angry countenance.
But the next morning, ere I was dressed, she knocked at my door, and,
opening it, I found her with swollen eyes and tears running down her
cheeks.
"Come down," says she, betwixt her sobs, and catching my hand in hers.
"Come down and see."
So we went downstairs together,--I wondering what now had happened,--and
so into the dining-hall. And there I found the scaffold pushed aside,
and the ceiling open to view. Then looking up, I perceived that the
figure bending over the balcony bore Moll's own face, with a most sweet,
compassionate expression in it as she looked down, such as I had
observed when she bent over Dario, having brought him back to life. And
this, thinks I, remembering his words, this is what he must ever see
when he looks heavenwards.