The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

      “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.

      A SET OF ROGUES, by Frank Barrett (Part 2)

      CHAPTER XXI.

      Of the strange things told us by the wise woman.

      “Tell me I am wicked; tell me I’m a fool,” says Moll, clinging to my arm.

      But I had no feeling now but pity and forgiveness, and so could only try to comfort her, saying we would make amends to Dario when we saw him next.

      “I will go to him,” says she. “For nought in the world would I have him yield to such a heartless fool as I am. I know where he lodges.”

      “Well, when we have eaten—”

      “Nay; we must go this moment. I cannot be at peace till I have asked him to forgive. Come with me, or I must go alone.”

      Yielding to her desire without further ado, I fetched my hat and cloak, and, she doing likewise, we sallied out forthwith. Taking the side path by which Dario came and went habitually, we reached a little wicket gate, opening from the path upon the highway; and here, seeing a man mending the road, we asked him where we should find Anne Fitch, as she was called, with whom the painter lodged. Pointing to a neat cottage that stood by the wayside, within a stone’s throw, he told us the “wise woman” lived there. We crossed over and knocked at the door, and a voice within bidding us come in, we did so.

      There was a very sweet, pleasant smell in the room from the herbs that hung in little parcels from the beams, for this Anne Fitch was greatly skilled in the use of simples, and had no equal for curing fevers and the like in all the country round. (But, besides this, it was said she could look into the future and forecast events truer than any Egyptian.) There was a chair by the table, on which was an empty bowl and some broken bread; but the wise woman sat in the chimney corner, bending over the hearth, though the fire had burnt out, and not an ember glowed. And a strange little elf she looked, being very wizen and small, with one shoulder higher than the other, and a face full of pain.

      When I told her our business—for Moll was too greatly moved to speak—the old woman pointed to the adjoining room.

      “He is gone!” cries Moll, going to the open door, and peering within.

      “Yes,” answers Anne Fitch. “Alas!”

      “When did he go?” asks Moll.

      “An hour since,” answers the other.

      “Whither is he gone?”

      “I am no witch.”

      “At least, you know which way he went.”

      “I have not stirred from here since I gave him his last meal.”

      Moll sank into the empty chair, and bowed her head in silence.

      Anne Fitch, whose keen eyes had never strayed from Moll since she first entered the room, seeming as if they would penetrate to the most secret recesses of her heart, with that shrewd perception which is common to many whose bodily infirmity compels an extraordinary employment of their other faculties, rises from her settle in the chimney, and coming to the table, beside Moll, says:

      “I am no witch, I say; yet I could tell you things would make you think I am.”

      “I want to know nothing further,” answers she, dolefully, “save where he is.”

      “Would you not know whether you shall ever see him again, or not?”

      “Oh! If you can tell me that!” cries Moll, quickly.

      “I may.” Then, turning to me, the wise woman asks to look at my hand, and on my demurring, she says she must know whether I am a friend or an enemy, ere she speaks before me. So, on that, I give my hand, and she examines it.

      “You