The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

not that some call you Kit.”

      This fairly staggered me for a moment.

      “How do you answer that?” she asks, observing my confusion. “Why,” says I, recovering my presence of mind, “’tis most extraordinary, to be sure, that you should read this, for save one or two familiars, none know that my second name is Christopher.”

      “A fairly honest hand,” says she, looking at my hand again. “Weak in some things, but a faithful friend. You may be trusted.”

      And so she drops my hand and takes up Moll’s.

      “’Tis strange,” says she. “You call yourself Judith, yet here I see your name writ Moll.”

      Poor Moll, sick with a night of sorrow and terrified by the wise woman’s divining powers, could make no answer; but soon Fitch, taking less heed of her tremble than of mine, regards her hand again.

      “How were you called in Barbary?” asks she.

      This question betraying a flaw in the wise woman’s perception, gave Moll courage, and she answered readily enough that she was called “Lala Mollah”—which was true, “Lala” being the Moorish for lady, and “Mollah” the name her friends in Elche had called her as being more agreeable to their ear than the shorter English name.

      “Mollah—Moll!” says Anne Fitch, as if communing with herself. “That may well be.” Then, following a line in Moll’s hand, she adds, “You will love but once, child.”

      “What is my sweetheart’s name?” whispers Moll, the colour springing in her face.

      “You have not heard it yet,” replies the other, upon which Moll pulls her hand away impatiently. “But you have seen him,” continues the wise woman, “and his is the third hand in which I have read another name.”

      “Tell me now if I shall see him again,” cries Moll, eagerly—offering her hand again, and as quickly as she had before withdrawn it.

      “That depends upon yourself,” returns the other. “The line is a deep one. Would you give him all you have?”

      Moll bends her head low in silence, to conceal her hot face.

      “’Tis nothing to be ashamed of,” says the old woman, in a strangely gentle tone. “’Tis better to love once than often; better to give your whole heart than part. Were I young and handsome and rich, I would give body and soul for such a man. For he is good and generous and exceeding kind. Look you, he hath lived here but a few weeks, and I feel for him, grieve for him, like a mother. Oh, I am no witch,” adds she, wiping a tear from her cheek, “only a crooked old woman with the gift of seeing what is open to all who will read, and a heart that quickens still at a kind word or a gentle thought.” (Moll’s hand had closed upon hers at that first sight of her grief.) “For your names,” continues she, recovering her composure, “I learnt from one of your maids who came hither for news of her sweetheart, that the sea captain who was with you did sometimes let them slip. I was paid to learn this.”

      “Not by him,” says Moll.

      “No; by your steward Simon.”

      “He paid for that!” says I, incredulous, knowing Simon’s reluctance to spend money.

      “Aye, and a good price, too. It seems you call heavily upon him for money, and do threaten to cut up your estate and sell the land he prizes as his life.”

      “That is quite true,” says I.

      “Moreover, he greatly fears that he will be cast from his office, when your title to it is made good. For that reason he would move heaven and earth to stay your succession by casting doubts upon your claim. And to this end he has by all the means at his command tried to provoke your cousin to contest your right.”

      “My cousin!” cries Moll.

      “Richard Godwin.”

      “My cousin Richard—why, where is he?”

      “Gone,” says the old woman, pointing to the broken bread upon the table.

      CHAPTER XXII.

      How Moll and Mr. Godwin come together and declare their hearts’ passion, and how I carry these tidings to Dawson.

      “What!” cries Moll, starting to her feet. “He whom I have treated thus is—” and here she checked herself, as if recoiling (and for the first time) from false pretence in a matter so near her heart.

      “He is your cousin, Richard Godwin,” says the wise woman. “Simon knew this from the first; for there were letters showing it in the pocket-book he found after the struggle in the park; but for his own ends he kept that knowledge secret, until it fitted his ends to speak. Why your cousin did not reveal himself to you may be more readily conceived by you than ’twas by me.”

      “Why, ’tis clear enough,” says Moll. “Pressed by his necessities, he came hither to claim assistance of his kinsman; but finding he was dead and none here but me, his pride did shrink from begging of a mere maid that which he might with justice have demanded from a man. And then, for shame at being handled like a rogue—”

      Surely there is something in the blood of a gentleman that tempers his spirit to a degree scarcely to be comprehended by men of meaner birth, thinks I.

      “When did Simon urge him to dispute my rights?” asks Moll.

      “On Sunday—in the wood out there. I knew by his look he had some treacherous business in hand, and, matching my stealth with his, I found means to overhear him, creeping from thicket to thicket, as noiseless as a snake, to where they stood; for, be assured, I should not otherwise have learnt one word of this.”

      “How did he receive these hints at my ill doing?” asks Moll.

      “Patiently, till the tale was told; then, taking your steward by the throat with sudden passion, he cries: ‘Why should I not strangle you, rascal? ’Twould be a service to humanity. What have I done to deserve your love, or this lady your hate? Nothing. You would pit us one against the other merely to keep your hold upon these lands, and gratify your insensate love of possession. Go, get you gone, beast!’ cries he, flinging him off; ‘’tis punishment enough for you to live and know you’ve failed. For, had you proved your case to my conviction, I’d not stir a hand against this lady, be she who she may. Nay,’ adds he, with greater fury, ‘I will not stay where my loyalty and better judgment may be affected by the contagion of a vile suspicion. Away while you may; my fingers itch to be revenged on you for sundering me from one who should have been my closest, dearest friend.’”

      Moll claps her hands together with a cry of joy and pain mingled, even as the smile played upon her lips whilst tears filled her eyes.

      “Sunday!” cries she, turning to me and dashing the tears that blinded her from her eyes; “Sunday, and it ’twas o’ Monday he refused to stay. O, the brave heart!” Then, in impetuous haste, “He shall be found—we must overtake him.”

      “That may be done if you take horse,” says Anne Fitch, “for he travels afoot.”

      “But which way shall we turn?”

      “The way that any man would take, seeking to dispel a useless sorrow,” answers the wise woman; “the way to London.”

      “God bless you!” cries Moll, clasping the withered old woman to her heaving breast and kissing her. Then the next moment she would be gone, bidding me get horses for our pursuit.

      So, as quickly as I might, I procured a couple of nags, and we set out, leaving a message for Don Sanchez, who was not yet astir. And we should have gone empty, but that while the horses were a-preparing (and Moll, despite her mighty haste at this business too), I took the precaution to put some store of victuals in a saddle bag.

      Reckoning that Mr. Godwin (as I must henceforth call him) had been set out two hours or thereabouts, I considered that we might overtake him in about three at an easy amble. But Moll was in no mood