Part 1 (2/2)
The very hint of this put us again in a quake, and now, the snow beginning to fall pretty heavily, we went into the shed to cast about as to what on earth we should do next. There we sat, glum and silent, watching idly the big flakes of snow fluttering down from the leaden sky, for not one of us could imagine a way out of this hobble.
”Holy Mother!” cries Jack at length, springing up in a pa.s.sion, ”we cannot sit here and starve of cold and hunger. Cuddle up to my arm, Moll, and do you bring your fiddle, Kit, and let us try our luck a-begging in alehouses.”
And so we trudged out into the driving snow, that blinded us as we walked, bow our heads as we might, and tried one alehouse after the other, but all to no purpose, the parlours being empty because of the early hour, and the snow keeping folks within doors; only, about midday, some carters, who had pulled up at an inn, took pity on us, and gave us a mug of penny ale and half a loaf, and that was all the food we had the whole miserable day. Then at dusk, wet-footed and f.a.gged out in mind and body, we trudged back to the Bell, thinking to get back into the loft and bury ourselves in the sweet hay for warmth and comfort. But coming hither, we found our nag turned out of the stable and the door locked, so that we were thrown quite into despair by the loss of this last poor hope, and poor Moll, turning her face away from us, burst out a-crying--she who all day had set us a brave example by her cheerful merry spirit.
CHAPTER II.
_Of our first acquaintance with the Senor Don Sanchez del Castillo de Castelana, and his brave entertaining of us._
I was taking a turn or two outside the shed,--for the sight of Jack Dawson hugging poor Moll to his breast and trying to soothe her bodily misery with gentle words was more than I could bear,--when a drawer coming across from the inn told me that a gentleman in the Cherry room would have us come to him. I gave him a civil answer and carried this message to my friends. Moll, who had staunched her tears and was smiling piteously, though her sobs, like those of a child, still shook her thin frame, and her father both looked at me in blank doubt as fearing some trap for our further discomfiture.
”Nay,” says Jack, stoutly. ”Fate can serve us no worse within doors than without, so let us in and face this gentleman, whoever he is.”
So in we go, and all sodden and bedrabbled as we were, went to follow the drawer upstairs, when the landlady cried out she would not have us go into her Cherry room in that pickle, to soil her best furniture and disgrace her house, and bade the fellow carry us into the kitchen to take off our cloaks and change our boots for slip-shoes, adding that if we had any respect for ourselves, we should trim our hair and wash the grime off our faces. So we enter the kitchen, nothing loath, where a couple of pullets browning on the spit, kettles bubbling on the fire, and a pasty drawing from the oven, filled the air with delicious odours that nearly drove us mad for envy; and to think that these good things were to tempt the appet.i.te of some one who never hungered, while we, famis.h.i.+ng for want, had not even a crust to appease our cravings! But it was some comfort to plunge our blue, numbed fingers into a tub of hot water and feel the life blood creeping back into our hearts. The paint we had put on our cheeks the night before was streaked all over our faces by the snow, so that we did look the veriest scarecrows imaginable; but after was.h.i.+ng our heads well and stroking our hair into order with a comb Mistress Cook lent us, we looked not so bad. And thus changed, and with dry shoes to our feet, we at length went upstairs, all full of wondering expectation, and were led into the Cherry room, which seemed to us a very palace, being lit with half a dozen candles (and they of wax) and filled with a warm glow by the blazing logs on the hearth reflected in the cherry hangings. And there in the midst was a table laid for supper with a wondrous white cloth, gla.s.ses to drink from, and silver forks all set out most bravely.
”His wors.h.i.+p will be down ere long,” says the drawer, and with that he makes a pretence of building up the fire, being warned thereto very like by the landlady, with an eye to the safety of her silver.
”Can you tell me his wors.h.i.+p's name, friend?” I whispered, my mind turning at once to his wors.h.i.+p of Tottenham Cross.
”Not I, were you to pay me,” says he. ”'Tis that outlandish and uncommon. But for sure he is some great foreign grandee.”
He could tell us no more, so we stood there all together, wondering, till presently the door opens, and a tall, lean gentleman enters, with a high front, very finely dressed in linen stockings, a long-waisted coat, and embroidered waistcoat, and rich lace at his cuffs and throat. He wore no peruke, but his own hair, cut quite close to his head, with a pointed beard and a pair of long moustachios twisting up almost to his ears; but his appearance was the more striking by reason of his beard and moustachios being quite black, while the hair on his head was white as silver. He had dark brows also, that overhung very rich black eyes; his nose was long and hooked, and his skin, which was of a very dark complexion, was closely lined with wrinkles about the eyes, while a deep furrow lay betwixt his brows. He carried his head very high, and was majestic and gracious in all his movements, not one of which (as it seemed to me) was made but of forethought and purpose. I should say his age was about sixty, though his step and carriage were of a younger man.
To my eyes he appeared a very handsome and a pleasing, amiable gentleman. But, Lord, what can you conclude of a man at a single glance, when every line in his face (of which he had a score and more) has each its history of varying pa.s.sions, known only to himself, and secret phases of his life!
He saluted us with a most n.o.ble bow, and dismissed the drawer with a word in an undertone. Then turning again to us, he said: ”I had the pleasure of seeing you act last night, and dance,” he adds with a slight inclination of his head to Moll. ”Naturally, I wish to be better acquainted with you. Will it please you to dine with me?”
I could not have been more dumbfounded had an angel asked me to step into heaven; but Dawson was quick enough to say something.
”That will we,” cries he, ”and G.o.d bless your wors.h.i.+p for taking pity on us, for I doubt not you have heard of our troubles.”
The other bowed his head and set a chair at the end of the table for Moll, which she took with a pretty curtsey, but saying never a word, for glee did seem to choke us all. And being seated, she cast her eyes on the bread hungrily, as if she would fain begin at once, but she had the good manners to restrain herself. Then his wors.h.i.+p (as we called him), having shown us the chairs on either side, seated himself last of all, at the head of the table, facing our Moll, whom whenever he might without discourtesy, he regarded with most scrutinising glances from first to last. Then the door flinging open, two drawers brought in those same fat pullets we had seen browning before the fire, and also the pasty, with abundance of other good cheer, at which Moll, with a little cry of delight, whispers to me:
”'Tis like a dream. Do speak to me, Kit, or I must think 'twill all fade away presently and leave us in the snow.”
Then I, finding my tongue, begged his wors.h.i.+p would pardon us if our manners were more uncouth than the society to which he was accustomed.
”Nay,” says Dawson, ”Your wors.h.i.+p will like us none the worse, I warrant, for seeing what we are and aping none.”
Finding himself thus bewors.h.i.+pped on both hands, our good friend says:
”You may call me Senor. I am a Spaniard. Don Sanchez del Castillo de Castelana.” And then to turn the subject, he adds: ”I have seen you play twice.”
”Aye, Senor, and I should have known you again if by nothing but this piece of generosity,” replies Dawson, with his cheek full of pasty, ”for I remember both times you set down a piece and would take no change.”
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