CHAPTER XX.
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 Signer 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 Signer 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.