The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

is a clever woman—shrewd beyond any I have ever known; then why treat her as you would a foolish child? You must let me tell her the truth when I come back, and I warrant it will not break her heart, much as she loves you.”

      “As you will,” says t’other. “’Twill be all as one to me,” with a sigh.

      “This falls out well in all ways,” continues the Don, turning to me. “You will tell Simon, whose suspicion we have most to fear, that we have handed over four thousand of those pieces to Captain Evans as being most in need, we ourselves choosing to stay here till the rest of our claim is paid. That will account for Evans going away, and give us a pretext for staying here.”

      “I’ll visit him myself, if you will,” says Jack, “and wring his hand to show my gratitude. I warrant I’ll make him wince, such a grip will I give him. And I’ll talk of nothing else but seas and winds, and the manner of ship I’ll have for his money.”

      The following morning before Moll was stirring, Don Sanchez and Dawson set forth on their journey, and I going with them beyond the park gates to the bend of the road, we took leave of each other with a great show of cheerfulness on both sides. But Lord! my heart lay in my breast like any lump of lead, and when Jack turned his back on me, the tears sprang up in my eyes as though indeed this was my brother and I was never to see him more. And long after he was out of sight I sat on the bank by the roadside, sick with pain to think of his sorrow in going forth like this, without one last loving word of parting from his dear Moll, to find no home in London, no friend to cheer him, and he the most companionable man in the world.

      CHAPTER XVIII.

      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