PAL1N EVANS *1? i r f x V ^^ML •> *5J, c m mm DE o jit .^^ < vW^wv LONDON &NEW YORK. GEORGE ROUTLEDGE 8c SONS- MEEVTN CLITHEROE BY WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HABLOT K. BROWNE LONDON GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, Limited BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL GLASGOW, MANCHESTER AND NEW YORK INSCRIBED MY CONTEMPORARIES MANCHESTEE SCHOOL. 450 CONTENTS- BOOK THE FIKST. CHAP PAQa I. — Showing how, although i lose my best friend just as i BEGIN LIFE, I AM FORTUNATE ENOUGH TO FIND ANOTHER FRIEND, TOGETHER WITH A GOOD HOME . .1 II. — An ACCOUNT OF MY SCHOOLDAYS, SCHOOLFELLOWS, AND SCHOOL- MASTERS — MR. ABEL CANE PROVES THAT HE IS ABLE TO CANE — DR. LONSDALE ADOPTS A DIFFERENT MODE OF TUITION— JOHN BRIDEOAKE — A BUNKER'S HILL HERO— A BOY DROWNED . . 8 III.— Containing an account of my great-uncle, john mobber- LEY, HIS OLD DAME, AND HIS FARM AT MARSTON . . 19 IY. — MALPAS AND I ATTEMPT TO CROSS MARSTON MERE DURING A HARD FROST — AN ADVENTURE ON THE ICE . • • 28 V. — Consequences of the adventure on the ice . VI. — In which i ride round marston mere ; meet with some gip- sies IN A STRANGE PLACE ; AND TAKE PART AT THE TWELFTH NIGHT MERRY-MAKING IN FARMER SHAKESHAFT's BARN . VII. — Showing now my uncle mobberley and i were very pain- fully SURPRISED ON OUR RETURN HOME 33 •11 55 VIII. — A GLANCE AT COTTONBOROUGH— APPHIA BRIDEOAKE . 60 VI CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE IX. — Introduces a benevolent physician and a decayed gentle- WOMAN • .65 X. — A VISIT TO THE BUTLER'S PANTRY — A DINNER-PARTY AT THE AN- CHORITE'S — DR. BRAY AND MR. CUTHBERT SPRING • • 73 XI.— I LOSE MY UNCLE MOBBERLEY, AND BELIEVE MYSELF HEIR TO HIS PROPERTY , . . .89 XII.— A NOCTURNAL ALARM .... 97 XIII.— IN WHICH MY UNCLE'S WILL IS READ, AND I EXPERIENCE THE TRUTH OP THE PROVERB, THAT " THERE'S MANY A SLIP 'TWIXT CUP AND LIP" • .99 XIV. — I AGAIN ENCOUNTER PENINNAH • • • 110 XV. — I MEET PHALEG AT MIDNIGHT IN MARSTON CHURCHYARD, AND MY UNCLE MOBBERLEY'S GHOST APPEARS TO US • . . 114 BOOK THE SECOND. h. — In which it is probable THAT I shall forfeit the reader's good opinion, as i display sad want of temper, and great ingratitude ; and give my enemies the advantage over me ........ 129 ii. — erom which it will appear there is some truth in the saying that the absent are always wronged . 139 HE. — Despite mr. spring's advice i make a scene, and do not im- prove MY POSITION • • • 142 IV. — Recounting my first hostile meeting, and, it is to be HOPED, MY LAST ...... 154 V.— I RENEW MY ACQUAINTANCE WITH PHALEG . . . . 161 VI.— A SUMMER MORNING IN DUNTON PARK— SAD INTELLIGENCE . 166 VII. — I AM INTRODUCED TO AN ECCENTRIC ELDERLY GENTLEMAN, FA- MILIARLY STYLED OLD HAZY; WHO, THOUGH NO CONJUROR HIMSELF, IS MUCH ADDICTED TO NECROMANTIC LORE, AND HAS A VERY ENCHANTING NIECE ... 174 CONTENTS. vii chap. PAGK VIII.— Of the mysterious bell-ringing at owlarton grange 184 IX.— How WE passed the rest of the evening at owlarton grange ] 93 X.— IN WHICH I FANCY THAT I SOLVE THE MYSTERY OF THE EXTRA- ORDINARY BELL-RINGING . 19S XL— 1 OBTAIN AN INSIGHT INTO JOHN BRIDEOAKE's HEART . 205 XII.— THE LEGEND OF OWLARTON GRANGE— MY ADVENTURE IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER . 216 XILI.— Wherein old hazy endeavours to persuade me that i have BEEN DELUDED BY AN EVIL SPIRIT . . 225 XXV .—Love in a maze 230 XV.— VYhat happened in the orchard of the mill in weverham GLEN 235 BOOK THE THIED. L — HOW THE TWO WIZARDS OF OWLARTON GRANGE RAISED A SPIRIT WHICH THEY DID NOT EXPECT 251 II. — MlSS HAZILRIGGE TAKES ME INTO HER CONFIDENCE . 257 III— Revelations . . . 2G2 IV.— I GIVE A RUSTIC FETE AT THE MILL 270 V. — IN WHICH I APPEAR IN A NEW CHARACTER . . . 2S9 VI.— Showing what success attended the stratagem . 292 VII.— I AM WORSTED, AND DRIVEN INGLORIOUSLY FROM THE FIELD 297 VIII. — Mr. comberbach has gloomy forebodings . - 300 IX. — In WHICH JOHN brideoake is made acquainted wiTn HIS FAMILY HISTORY BY DOCTOR FOAM . • • • 302 X. — John and i revisit our old school, and pass a few nouRS in THE CHETHAM LIBRARY— ILL TIDINGS • • 307 XI. — Delamere FOREST .... . 309 XII. — The turf-cutter's hut . . . • • .315 Xm. — The chase across the morass • • • • 321 XIV.— The search for the body . • 323 Vlll CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE XV. — The examination before the magistrates 329 XVI. — The thaumaturgus again appears on the scene , 339 XVII.— Fortune at last favours me . 346 XVIII.— The steeple-chase 353 XIX.— Once more at the grave . . . . . 362 XX. — A.T home at the anchorite's ..... 365 LIST OF PLATES. FRONTISPIECE PAOK VIGNETTE TITLE A BUNKER'S HILL HERO . If WHO SHOT THE CAT ? •-.... 27 MY ADVENTURE" WITH THE GIPSIES ..... 47 TWELFTH NIGHT MERRY-MAKING IN FARMER SHAKESHAFT's BARN . . 54 THE BENEVOLENT PHYSICIAN . . . . 73 THE DINNER-PARTY AT THE ANCHORITE'S . S3 A NOCTURNAL ALARM . 98 MY UNCLE MOBBERLEY'S WILL IS READ . ... 104 MY ALTERCATION WITH MALPAS SALE . . . . . . 149 THE DUEL ON CRABTREE-GREEN ... . 160 I RECEIVE SAD INTELLIGENCE FROM NED CULCHETH . . . 168 THE MYSTERIOUS BELL-RINGING AT OWLARTON GRANGE 192 THE LEGEND OF OWLARTOtf GRANGE ... . 218 MY ADVENTURE IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER .... 220 THE STRANGER AT THE* GRAVE . . . • 254 THE CONJURORS INTERRUPTED • . - 256 I FIND POWNALL IN CONFERENCE WITH THE GIPSIES . 263 THE RUSTIC FETE AT THE MILL . . • 276 THE DEED OF SETTLEMENT • . ♦ 297 THE MEETING IN DELAMERE FOREST • .... 316 THE EXAMINATION BEFORE THE MAGISTRATES . 333 DEATH OF MALPAS SALE t 359 BOOK THE FIRST LIFE AND ADVENTURES MEEYYN CLITHEROE. CHAPTEK I. SHOWING HOW, ALTHOUGH I LOSE MY BEST FRIEND JUST AS I BEGUT LIFE, I AM FORTUNATE ENOUGH TO FIND ANOTHER FRIEND, TO GETHER WITH A GOOD HOME. 1 am the only son, by liis first marriage, of Captain Charles Clitheroe, of Clitheroe, in Lancashire. My mother's maiden name was Clara Leyburne. She was an orphan, and was brought up by a benevolent lady, a near relation of her own, Mrs. Meryyn, after whom 1 was named. She was only seventeen when she was united to my father, and extremely beautiful. I have but an indistinct recollection of her, but remember she had very dark eyes and very dark hair, and an expres- sion of countenance which I thought angelic. I also remember she talked to me a great deal about my papa, and showed me his picture, telling me how tall and handsome he was, and hoping I should grow up like him. He was a long way off, fighting in India, she said, and she didn't think she should ever see him again, and the thought made her extremely unhappy. She told me I must never be a soldier, as, when I went away to the wars, I should make those who loved me unhappy. I promised I would not ; and on this she pressed me to her bosom, and wept over me ; and I wept too for company. She had always looked pale and thin, but she now began to look paler and thinner, and even I noticed the change. Sometimes, casting wistful looks at me, she would say, " What will become of you, Mervyn, if I leave you?" I told her she mustn't leave me; but she shook her head despondingly, and said, "Alas! I cannot help it." Soon after this she became very ill, and kept her bed, where 1 was often taken to see her; and very pretty she looked, though quite white, like a sheet. At such times she would kiss me, and cry over me. One day, when the nurse was carrying me out of the room, she desired her to bring me back, and, raising herself with difficulty, for she was ex- B I cl 2 LIPE AND ADVENTUBES OF tremely feeble, she placed her hands on my head, and said, " God bless you, my dear Mervyn ! Don't forget mamma when she is gone. Never desert those who love you, dear. Good-by, my dearest child." And, kissing me tenderly, she sank back on the pillow quite exhausted. So Jane, the nurse, hurried me out of the room, for I had begun to cry bitterly. On that night a circumstance took place for which I could never account, but it has remained graven on my memory, and I pledge myself as to its actual occurrence. I had been put to bed, and was very restless, for there was an unusual agitation and disturbance in the house, and I thought Jane would never come to me. I heard the clock strike several times, and at last it struck one, and soon after that she did make her appearance. I asked her what made her so late, but she didn't answer me ; and, seeing I was re- garding her inquisitively, for I thought she was crying, she bade me, in a broken voice, go to sleep. I tried to do so, but couhln't; and when Jane got into bed she felt very cold, and wept audibly. I didn't like to speak to her, and was, besides, occupied by my own thoughts, which ran involuntarily on my poor mother, and on what she said about leaving me. Just when Jane became more composed, and seemed to be dropping asleep, 1 distinctly heard three knocks 1 Yes, three dull, heavy knocks, as if struck with the poker against the back of the fireplace in my mother's room, which was next to mine. " Good gracious ! what's that ?" exclaimed Jane, starting up in bed. "Did you hear anything, Master Mervyn ?" " To be sure," I replied ; " I heard the knocks plain enough. It must be mamma — she wants something. Go to her, Jane." But, to my surprise, Jane, though ordinarily ready to obey the slightest summons from my mother, did not move, but looked petrified with terror. " What can it be?" she ejaculated, at length. " There's no one in the room." " No one !" I cried, in alarm. " Is mamma gone, then ? Has she really left me ?" "Yes — no," stammered Jane. "I'll go and see myself," I said. " I'm sure she wants something." " No, no ; you mustn't go, dear," cried Jane, detaining me. " Your aiamma is there, but she wants nothing now, poor thing' Besides, you can't get in. The door's locked. Don't you see the key there, near the lamp ?" I couldn't conceive why she had locked poor mamma in her room, and thought it very unkind of her to stay in bed when she was sum- moned, and begged hard to be allowed to go myself, though I don't think I could have unlocked the door if she had let me try. But at last I was pesuaded to be quiet, and fell asleep. My first inquiries, next morning, were after mamma, and whether the d^or was unlocked ; and I implored so earnestly to see her, that at last Jane consented. " You mustn't make a noise if you go, dear," she said. Jane opened the door of the adjoining room very softly, and entered with noiseless footsteps. MEBYYN CLITHEEOE. 3 " Is mamma asleep ?" I asked. " Yes, dear,— sound asleep," Jane replied, in a low tone. The room appeared dark, for the window-blinds were down, and there was a deathlike stillness about it that frightened me. I looked at Jane, and she seemed frightened too. The white curtains were drawn closely round the bed. I had never seen them so before. Jane opened them, and showed me mamma, apparently fast asleep, and looking paler and prettier than ever. Her dark hair was parted smoothly over her marble forehead, and an angelic smile, which has haunted me ever since, hovered about her parted lips. One arm, very white and very thin, lay out of the cover- ing. Jane held me down to kiss mamma's cheek. Its icy coldness startled me, and made me cry out. Jane snatched me away, and, as she closed the door, I said — for I was very much troubled — " I hope mamma will waken soon." " Alas ! dear," she replied, " she will never waken more." My mother was buried in the churchyard of Marston, a small vil- lage in Cheshire, where an uncle of my father's resided, and a fitter resting-place for so gentle a creature could not have been chosen. Often aad often have I lingered by that grave, and have thought of its once lovely tenant — of her brief, reproachless career — of her devotion to my father, whose long absence broke her heart — of her tenderness to me. Many a bitter tear have 1 shed there, and many a lamentation uttered ; but I never sought it without being cheered and comforted as if by a mother's love. My mother was only twenty-three when she died, and I was not five years old at the time. As yet I had never seen my father, nor did I see him for years afterwards. My mother was in an interesting condition when he quitted England with his regiment, and was to follow him; but he wrote to say she had better not come out for some months ; and when that time expired, he enjoined further delay. Eventually, he directed her to remain at home altogether, and take care of the boy she had brought him, adding, that he should soon be able to obtain a long furlough, and would join her in England. Though heartbroken at the prolonged separation, my poor mother could not disobey her husband's injunctions. Feeling she could not have acted in like manner towards him, she began to fear his affec- tions must be estranged ; and the distress occasioned by this idea ended in undermining her already delicate health. But she never complained, nor would she allow any intelligence of her illness to be conveyed to my father. Indeed, only three days after her death, and before she was laid in her grave, a letter arrived from him, stating that he had at length obtained a furlough, and trusted to be with her before the expiration of three months. He spoke in ardent terms of the rapturous delight it would afford him to clasp his darling wife again to his bosom, and behold his little boy, of whom she had written him such charming accounts. If this letter had arrived a month sooner, the physician who attended my mother in her list illness afterwards told me, her life might possibly have been saved. But hope had been utterly extinguished. B 2 4 LIFE AND ADYENTUEES OF Of course the sad tidings were immediately conveyed to my father, and, as he was totally unprepared for them, the shock must have been terrible. How severely he reproached himself, and how bitterly he lamented the loss he had sustained, was evident from his letters on this melancholy occasion. But he gave up all present idea of return- ing to England, and, making the needful remittances, willingly com- mitted me to the care of Mrs. Mervyn, who had offered to take charge of me. I was too young to feel deeply the irreparable loss I had sustained, and, as Mrs. Mervyn was very kind to me, and her house exceed- ingly comfortable, 1 soon became quite reconciled and happy. Mrs, Mervyn, for, though a spinster, she had taken brevet rank, was an elderly lady of a most charitable disposition, living at a very pretty place called the Anchorite's, about three miles from the great manufacturing town of Cottonborough, in Lancashire. She was the descendant of a stanch Jacobite family — her great-grandfather, Ambrose Mervyn, having, in November, 1715, joined the insurgent army at Penrith, and marched with it to Preston, where, on the sur- render of the town to the government generals, he was taken, and, having been particularly zealous in promoting the cause of the Chevalier Saint George, aiding it with funds and followers, was exe- cuted, and his head set upon a pike in the market-place at Cotton- borough. His son, Stuart Mervyn, who was a boy at the time of this catastrophe, came to a similar end, for in 1745 he was one of the most zealous supporters of the Young Chevalier during his progress through Lancashire, and received a French commission. The memory of these unfortunate persons was warmly cherished by Mrs. Mervyn, who regarded them as martyrs. Their portraits were placed in her bedroom, and this circumstance made me afraid to enter the chamber, thinking it impossible such troubled spirits could rest in their graves. Ambrose Mervyn in particular used to inspire me with intense awe, for he was represented as a swarthy, stern- looking fellow, with great searching black eyes, which seemed to follow me about. Mrs. Mervyn used frequently to talk to me about her Jacobite pre- decessors ; and, though ordinarily very calm in manner, grew quite excited by the theme, and launched forth into such glowing and en- thusiastic descriptions of Prince Charles Edward, that 1 almost wished he was alive still, that 1 might fight for him like the two brave Mervyns. But her account of their executions shook my desire to be a rebel. She showed me a couple of prints representing the terrible scenes; pointing out in one of them little Stuart, who appeared to be taking an eternal farewell of his father, before the latter submitted himself to the ghastly apparatus of death; and she told me how Am- brose had then enjoined his son never to forsake the good cause, which, dying command was implicitly obeyed, as 1 have related, lam afraid 1 unintentionally shocked Mrs. Mervyn's feelings a good deal, by inquiring what became of their heads, and whether she had them preserved in a box. " No, my dear Mervyn," she replied, very gravely; " they are both deposited with the mutilated trunks in our family vault in the Old Church. You may read the inscription on the monument." MEKVTN CLITHEEOE. 5 Mrs. Mervyn was always richly dressed in black, and with remark- able precision and care. She had a grave and somewhat austere aspect, which belied the extreme kindliness of her nature, and but rarely smiled. Nothing strongly excited her, except some matter connected with the bygone Jacobite cause. Her predilections were exhibited even in her household, almost every member of which came of a Jacobite stock. Her old butler, Mr. Comberbach, numbered two unfortunate adherents to the good cause in his pedigree — imprimis, a great-grandsire, a barber, whose head was barbarously cut oft" in 1716, and set upon his own pole, as an example to all his brethren of the razor and strap not to meddle with affairs of state ; and, secondly, a grandsire, who having dressed the Prince's peruke during his stay in Cottonborough, afterwards joined the regiment raised by Colonel Townley, with the intention of avenging his father's death ; but he paid the penalty of his rashness — and a second barber's head was brought to the block. This similarity of fate between their respective ancestors, formed a link between the mistress and the butler, and consequently Mr. Comber- bach was much favoured, and became a very important personage in the establishment at the Anchorite's. But he was far more blinded and intolerant than his mistress; the spirit of the old barbers burnt within his breast ; and he was sometimes rather disloyal in his ex- pressions touching the Hanoverian dynasty. Among his relics he preserved the family powder-puff which had been exercised on the princely peruke, and the basin from which the august chin had been lathered, and which I told him resembled Mambrino's helmet. A\ r hen a little exhilarated, which was not unfrequently the case, he would sing old Jacobite songs, and take off a glass to the memory of the last of the unfortunate house of Stuart. But, notwithstanding his love of good cheer, like his mistress he observed the anniversaries of certain terrible events as rigorous fast-days, and put on mourning as she did. In fact, the house was very dismal altogether on these occasions, and I was glad when they were over ; for Mrs. Mervyn moved about like a shade, and would eat nothing, and Mr. Com- berbach stalked after her like a grim attendant ghost, and would eat nothing too ; and, what was worse, would scarcely let me eat anything; while ail the rest of the servants followed, or pretended to follow, their example. It was mainly owing to the butler's ex- ert ions that Mrs. Mervyn was so well supplied with Jacobites. He found out Mrs. Chad wick, the housekeeper, — a lineal descendant of a tallow-chandler, whose zeal being inflamed, like one of his own candles, by the Young Chevalier's arrival in Cottonborough, was afterwards very suddenlv snuffed out. He likewise discovered the cook, Molly Bailey, whose great-uncle had kept the Hog Inn when Lord George Murray, the Prince's secretary, was quartered there, and who possessed some old receipts of dishes that his Highness was known to be fond of, and was, moreover, so sJtilful in her art, that she was worthy to have been his cook, if he had ever come to the throne, and she had lived in his days. He engaged Hudson, the coachman, who affirmed that his grandfather was the first person that came to the assistance of Sergeant Dickson, when he took the town of Cottcuborough, attended only by a drummer and a sutler- 6 LIFE AND ADTENTURES OF wench, and afterwards joined him as a recruit. And Mr. Comber- bach likewise unearthed Banks, the gardener, who declared he was a Jacobite every inch ; for his " f b re fay t hers" had kept the little inn at Didsbury, where the Jacobite Club used to meet, and drink the " King over the water." All the rest had some pretences or other of a like nature to Mrs. Mervyn's consideration, and she never investigated their claims too narrowly, but rested content with the butler's assurance of their eligibility. In short, we were all Jaco- bites, and the common folks nicknamed our place of abode " Jaco- bite's Hall." And in case I should appear to be a very unworthy member of a house whose party feelings were so decided, but luckily so harmless, I may mention that I had as much right as anybody to call myself a Jacobite, and could boast, like some of them, of having had an an- cestor hanged, seeing that my maternal great-grandfather, John Ley- burne, was tried at Liverpool at the sanguinary assizes held there in 1716, for his adherence to the Chevalier Saint George, aud afterwards executed at Garstang, near which place he had resided. I easily found out that my father was no great favourite with Mrs. Mervyn. She had never approved of the match, and thought his conduct towards his wife wholly inexcusable. Indeed, and with some justice, she laid my mother's early death at his door. Three years later on, when news came from India that he had married again, and, having exchanged into another regiment just sent out, did not mean to return for some time, she declared she was not at all surprised at his proceedings. " He never estimated poor Clara at her true value," she said — " never understood her quiet and deep affection. Alas ! poor girl, she is now entirely forgotten, and her place supplied by some other thoughtless young creature sent out on specu- lation for a husband. Well, whoever she may be, for I know nothing of her beyond her name, Bertha Honeywood, she has got no great prize, and it is to be hoped may be better treated than her prede- cessor. Captain Clitheroe seems not only to have forgotten his first wife, but all belonging to her," she added, looking hard at me ; " it is well that some one was attached to poor orphan Clara, and for her sake will watch over the child she has left behind her." Mrs. Mervyn had been always kind to me, but after this news she became even kinder than before. Remittances for my maintenance and education were regularly received from my father, but he ex- pressed no interest whatever concerning me, and entered into no ex- planations as to his future intentions respecting me. The Anchorite's was situated at the foot of a woody eminence overlooking the Vale of the Ater, on whose banks it stood. It derived its appellation from an old religious cell, the ruins of which could still be traced in the garden. A shady walk beneath a row of elms led to the brink of the Ater, and on the greensward and slopes were many old trees, probably contemporary with the retreat, and in especial an ancient yew, which must have numbered cen- turies when the hermit built his cell. Through openings in the grove sheltering the house might be caught glimpses, about three miles off, of the smoke-canopied town of Cottonborough, whose nulls had already invaded some of the neighbouring heiglits com- MEEYTN CLITHEROE. 7 manding the circuitous windings of the river. Though not large, the house was commodious ; comprehending a good sombre-looking dining-room, wainscoted with oak, and full of dusky oak furniture ; a fine old oak staircase, highly polished ; and an admirable library, full of old books. A deeply-embayed window, with stone mullion frames, looked from the library into the garden, and adjoining it was a small octagonal chamber, like an oratory, with windows full of stained glass, emblazoned with the arms of various Lancashire families. Mrs. Mervyn was very hospitable, but her invitations were chiefly confined to clergymen, and a day seldom passed that one or two reverend gentlemen did not dine with her; and, as these excellent members of society are not supposed to despise the good things of the world, and the dinners at the Anchorite's were unexceptionable, a refusal was seldom experienced. Mrs. Mervyn had some fine old plate, and on state occasions the sideboard and table blazed with it, but ordinarily her dinners were more comfortable than showy. A clergyman always sat at the foot of the table, and, on the high days just alluded to, perhaps a bishop, or the warden of the Collegiate Church, an archdeacon, or some eminent clerical dignitary, would sup- port her on the right and left. I have already said that she possessed a capital cook in Molly Bailey, whose Prestonpans cutlets, Hanoverian calf's head with Nonjuror sauce, baked Derwentwater pike with Brunswick pudding inside, Charles Edward's jugged hare, Earl of Mar's game pie, and Sacheverell puffs, were much enjoyed, notwith- standing their designations. Mr. Comberbach took care that the cellar should be well stocked with the finest old port and Madeira (champagne or hock were never given), and as Mrs. Mervyn never stinted her wine, while the reverend gentleman who sat at the bottom of the table was fully aware of her hospitable wishes, and carefully seconded them himself, her guests were always plentifully supplied. The Eev. Barton Lever, the divine in question, was a fellow of the Collegiate Church, and a very estimable, excellent man, a sound scholar, a lover of black-letter books, fond of antiquarian researches, and no mean poet. He officiated as Mrs. Mervyn's almoner, recom- mended worthy objects for her bounty, and distributed, unostenta- tiously, as she desired, the large sums devoted by her to charitable uses. Thus, though in effect an orphan, for my father seemed to care so little about me, that I might almost as well have been without him, I had a very kind friend and a very good home ; and I had, besides, some other kind friends and relatives, whom I shall hereafter introduce to the reader. I must postpone further description of Mrs. Mervyn till I arrive at the period of my life when I was old enough to understand more fully the excellences of her character, and was permitted to take part at her hospitable entertainments, and make acquaintance with her guests. Several years must be passed over with the mere men- tion of their flight. In a word, I may say that the days of my child- hood were happy, but dull, for I had few playmates. I was like a boy brought up in a monastery, or like Kasselas in the Happy Valley ; for, though I had the run of the house and the garden, I was not permitted to stray beyond their precincts. Thus, I envied those who had more freedom than I had, and longed for the time 8 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF «rhen I should be sent to a public school. I had excellent private instruction, but I yearned for the company of other boys ; and at jast, when I was nearly twelve years old, Mrs. Mervyn reluctantly yielded to my wishes, and sent me to the Cottonborough Free Grammar School. But, alas ! the gratification of the wish was followed by immediate repentance and regret. Hitherto, I had not been conscious of my own happiness. The knowledge came too late. I would now will- ingly have gone back to my quiet life and easy studies at the An- chorite's, but very shame prevented me. CHAPTEE II. AN ACCOUNT OF MY SCHOOLDAYS, SCHOOLFELLOWS, AND SCHOOL- MASTERS — Mil. ABEL CANE PROVES THAT HE IS ABLE TO CANE — DR. LONSDALE ADOPTS A DIFFERENT MODE OF TUITION JOHN BRIDEOAKE — A BUNKER'S HILL HERO A BOY DROWNED. Founded by a benevolent bishop, in the early part of the sixteenth century, well endow r ed, and subsequently enriched by a great number A' exhibitions and scholarships, the Cottonborough Free Grammar School has always maintained a high reputation for sound classical instruction, and though not ranking with Eton or Harrow as a fashion- able place of education, from the circumstance of its being situated in a large manufacturing town, which has deterred some persons of good family from sending their sons to it, it has turned out many ex- cellent scholars, who have cut a figure at the universities, and distin- guished themselves afterwards in the various walks of life. I cannot say much in praise of the architectural beauty of the school ; for, if truth must be spoken, it was exceedingly ugly ; and, though a very old foundation, the building was comparatively modern, and did not date back, from the period of which I write, more than twenty or thirty years. It was raised on a high sandstone bank overlooking the little river Ink, not far from its confluence with the Ater ; and viewed on this side, in connexion with the old and embrowned walls adjoining it, its appearance was not unpicturesque — certainly more pleasing than when viewed from the crowded and noisy thoroughfare by which it was approached. It was a large, dingy, and smoke- begrimed brick building, with copings of stone, and had so many windows that it looked like a lantern. In front, between the angles of the pointed roof, was placed a stone effigy of the bird of wisdom, which seemed to gaze down at us with its great goggle eyes as we passed by, as if muttering, " Enter this academic abode over which I preside, and welcome, but you'll never come out as clever as 1." "What the school wanted in antiquity was supplied by a venerable pile contiguous to it, which, in remote times, had been part of the collegiate establishment of the Old Church of Cottonborough; but r in the reign of James 1., falling into the hands of a wealthy and munificent merchant of the place, it was by him devoted to the foundation of an hospital for the maintenance and education of a MERYYN CLITHEROE. i) certain number of poor lads, and to the creation, for public use and benefit, of a large and admirable library within its walls. This was the Blue-Coat Hospital and Library, for which Cottonborough has reason to be grateful. Adjoining our modern iron rails was a venerable stone gateway r with an arched entrance opening upon the broad playground of the Blue-Coat Hospital, which as far surpassed anything we possessed, as its college-like halls and refectories exceeded our formal school in beautv ; while the blank black walls of another part of the structure, composed of a stone so soft and friable that it seemed to absorb every particle of smoke that approached it, formed a little court in front of our door of entrance, and the flight of stone steps conducting to it. The school was divided into two rooms, each occupying a whole floor, and the lower school, in those days a very confined, dirty -looking place, utterly unworthy of such an establishment, was reached by a flight of steps descending from the little court I have described. But happily I knew nothing, from personal experience, of this dark and dismal hole, being introduced at once to the upper school, which, if it had no other merit, was airy and spacious enough. There were four fire- places and four tables, those at either extremity being assigned to the head master and the second master, and the others to the two ushers. Each master had two classes, so that there were eight in all. The walls were whitewashed, and, like the flat roof, without any decora- tion whatever, unless the oak wainscoting at the back of the boys' benches, which surrounded the whole schoolroom, can be so consi- dered. These benches, the desks in front of them, and the panels behind, were of the hardest oak ; and it was well they were so, for they had to resist the ravages of a thousand knives. In some places they were further secured with clamps of iron. Everybody cut his name on the desks or wainscot, like the captives in state prisons in the olden time, and amongst these mementoes I suppose I have some- where left mine. I know that while once carving it on the leads of the Collegiate Church I nearly carved off my forefinger. The place was not so light as might be conceived from the multitude of windows, for they were never cleaned, and the panes of glass were yellow and almost tawny from the reeky atmosphere. On entering the school, the buzz of so many tongues was pro- digious, and almost took away the power of thought or study ; but after a while one got used to it, and the noise did not affect you in the least. "When the din rose to too high a pitch, loud cries ol "Silence, you bovs!" would be heard, accompanied by the rapping of a cane on the table, or the dreadful sounds of a punishment would produce a partial lull ; and then might be heard the deep sonorous voice of the archi-didascidus, Dr. Lonsdale, mouthing out a passage from _Eschylus or Aristophanes, rumbling away like distant thunder, or the sharp, high-pitched voice of the hypo-didasculus, Mr. Cane. AVe began the day's work betimes, and prayers were read both at morn and at eventide. On winter evenings, when the school was lighted up by tapers, the twinkling light of which fell upon the bovs as they'knelt at prayer, while no sound was heard but that proceeding from the reader of the devotional exercises, I used to think the scene striking enough. But it was gone in a moment. 10 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF No sooner were prayers over, than everybody seized his hat and books ; boxes were hastily clapped-to ; tapers extinguished ; the hur- ried trampling of departing footsteps succeeded — and all vanished like a dream. The Rev. Abel Cane, under whose care I was first placed, was a sound, classical scholar, but a severe disciplinarian. He was one of those who believe that a knowledge of Latin and Greek can be driven into a boy, and that his capacity may be sharpened by frequent punishment. Under this impression he was constantly thrashing us. In his drawer he had several canes of various lengths, and of various degrees of thickness, tied with tatching-end to prevent them from splitting, and for all these he found employment. While calling us round for punishment he got as red in the gills as a turkey-cock, and occasionally rose up to give greater effect to the blows. Some boys were so frightened that they couldn't learn their tasks at all, and others so reckless of the punishment which they knew must ensue, whether or not, that they inten- tionally neglected them. I have seen boys with " blood blisters," as they called them, on their hands, and others with weals on their backs, but I do not recollect that the castigation did them any good, Vut the very reverse. But our preceptor had other ingenious modes «,i torture. He would make us stand in the middle of the school for a whole day, and even longer — sometimes on one leg — and the effect of balancing in this posture, with a heavy dictionary in hand, and & Virgil under the arm, was ludicrous enough, though rather perplexing. It must not be imagined that I escaped the cane. I had enough of it, and to spare, both on shoulders and hands. Notwithstanding our dread of him, we used to play Mr. Cane a great many tricks. We notched his canes so that they split when he used them ; put gravel into the keyhole of his drawer; mingled soot with his ink; threw fulminating balls under his feet ; and even meditated blowing him up with gunpowder. An adventurous youth essayed the effect of a burning-glass on his ear, but was instantly detected, and called round for punishment. Another tried to throw the rays from a bit of look- ing-glass into his eye, and shared the same fate. With all his disci- pline, if our dreaded master were called out of school for a few minutes, the greatest row would commence. The boys sitting at either end of the form would place their feet against the edge of the desks, and squeeze up those between them so unmercifully that they roared again. Books, volleys of peas from tin cases, and other missiles, were dis- charged at the occupants of the opposite forms ; and the miserable fellows in the middle of the school became marks for their comrades, and returned the aggression in the best way they could. These disturbances were, of course, witnessed by the ushers, but they rarely mentioned them ; and Dr. Lonsdale was too far oil' to hear what was going on, and I don't think he altogether approved of the second master's severity. To a new r boy, it was dreadful to hear Mr. Cane cry out to some offender, " Come round, yon stoo-oo-pid ass-s-s!" hissing like a serpent as he uttered the final word of scorn; dreadful to witness the writhings of the victim as he underwent castigation ; still more dreadful to hear the words addressed to him- self, intensified as they were by the furious looks that accompanied MERTTN CLITHEKOK. 11 them. In some cases, Mr. Cane drove all the capacity they possessed out of the boys' heads. There was one poor little fellow, Devereux Frogg, whose wits could never be stimulated. Poor Devereux ! how I pitied him, and tried to help him, and cram him — but it was of no use. When we went up he was so frightened that all went out of his head, and the daily drubbing ensued. And there were others like him. Mr. Cane was a fresh-complexioned man, with good fea- tures, and a handsome aquiline nose ; he was scrupulously neat in his attire, and wore a long gold watch-chain, which he twirled about when walking, or when excited ; and he had a habit of thinking aloud. "What strange contradictions of character some persons offer. Out of school, Mr. Cane was very amiable and good-tempered, fond of music, and cultivated a taste for poetry. I hated him cordially then ; but 1 learnt to like him afterwards, and now I lament in him the lost friend. Dr. Lonsdale's plan of tuition was very different from that of Mr. Cane. His was the suaviter in modo, rather than t\\efortiter in re. He aspired to make his pupils gentlemen as well as good scholars. He never used the cane, but his rebuke was greatly dreaded, and his quiet, sarcastic remarks on a mispronunciation or a vulgarism effectually prevented their repetition. Dignified in manner and deportment, and ever preserving an air of grave courtesy, it would have been impos- sible to take a liberty with him, and it was never attempted. Dr. Lonsdale was a spare man, with large thoughtful features, and a fine expansive forehead, powdered at the top. He looked like a bishop, and ought to have been one. His voice was peculiarly solemn, and it was quite a treat to hear him read prayers. Under him the boys began to give themselves the airs of young men, wore well-cut coats and well-fitting boots, were very particular about their neck- cloths and about the fashion of their hair, and, above all, wore gloves — refinements never dreamed of in the lower forms, where, sooth to say, we were sad slovens. But I must return there for the present, for I am not yet out of Mr. Cane's clutches. Of course, in a Free School like ours, there were boys of all sorts and all grades, and we got on together pretty well, some herding with one set, some with another ; but there was one poor lad, named John Brideoake, with whom, when he first came, none would associate. He was so shabbily attired that we considered ourselves disgraced by his companionship, and made him sit outside the desk amongst the boxes. He was very timid and humble, and submitted to our ill-usage without a murmur. He was rather a small boy, apparently stunted in his growth, and looked very thin and emaciated, as if, in addition to being poorly clad, he was half starved. I am sorry to say we jeered him both about his shabby clothes and his hungry looks, and would not let him rest even when driven from us, but tormented him in various ways, plucking his hair, and fastening him to the seat with cobbler's wax. We wouldn't lend him a book if he wanted it ; nor answer him if he ventured to speak to us ; nor let him come near the fire, though he was perishing of cold ; and, of course, he wouldn't have been allowed to play with us, if he had desired to do so ; but this he never attempted, but went 12 LIFE AND ADYENTTJEES OP straight home to his mother, who, we were informed, was in very poor circumstances indeed. He worked hard at his lessons, and, though when he first came he was somewhat behindhand, he soon bid fair to outstrip us all. I must say this for Mr. Cane, that he behaved kindly to the poor fellow ; took his part against us, re- buked us for our pride, and punished us severely whenever he per- ceived us tormenting him. This, however, did not serve the lad, but made us use him still more unmercifully. But he never told of us, and for this we secretly respected him. In spite of all these distrac- tions, John Brideoake made great progress, and rose in the class, so that we were obliged to admit him amongst us. Still, he was not of us. He was now just below me, but of course I did not notice him, for, indeed, I was one of the most determined of his opponents. One day, while up before Mr. Cane, I was construing some lines out of Terence, and was at fault for a word, when Brideoake whispered it to me, though he could have taken me down if he had spoken aloud. This I thought great presumption on his part, and, as soon as the lesson was over, I said to him, angrily, " Take care you never presume to prompt me again, Brideoake. I won't stand it." " Very well," he replied, meekly. In spite of this, he tried again the next day, but I would not attend to him, and he went above me. In a week from that time he was at the head of the class. Now we hated him worse than ever, and formed all sorts of combinations against him ; but his mild- ness of manner defeated them all. He would not quarrel with us; but his superior ability was so evident, that Mr. Cane recommended him for promotion to the class above us. We pretended to be glad, and complimented him ironically ; but he bore his triumph very meekly, and I think, after all, was sorry to leave us. His example did me some good. Not liking to be outdone, I worked so hard that in six weeks I was promoted too, and got away from Mr. Cane and his cane. During this interval a change had taken place in my opinions respecting John Brideoake. I felt I had ill-used him, and done him injustice, and I determined to make an apology. At first my pride revolted against the step, but I soon conquered the feeling. When I found myself again beside Brideoake he looked quite pleased to see me, but he didn't venture to congratulate me. Quite touched by his manner, I held out my hand to him, and he took it very warmly and gratefully. The tears were in his eyes, for he was soft- hearted as a girl, and extremely susceptible of kindness, of which he had experienced so little ; for the boys in the new class were just as haughty and reserved towards him as we had been. " Brideoake," 1 said, " I have behaved very ill to you, but I am heartily ashamed of myself, and beg you to forgive me. You never resented my conduct, as you might have done; and I'm very glad of it now, because I hope we may be good friends in future." " 1 don't require any apology, Clitheroe," he answered ; " you have only to say we are friends, to efface ali recollection of past unkind- ness from my mind. Before this, I could not tell you how much ME11VYN CLITHEROE. 13 I regarded you, nor how grieved I was that you disliked me, or 1 am sure you would not have acted so. I have borne all annoyances — ■ though some have been hard enough to bear — without repining, and, indeed, have felt endurance to be part of my lot ; but I hoped one day to gain the good opinion of my schoolfellows, and chiefly yours, Cli- theroe. The day has arrived. You have held out your hand to me, and promised me your friendship. I am quite happy." These words of his cut me to the heart. I wondered how I could have behaved so unkindly to him, and I replied, with much emotion, " You may not blame me, Brideoake, but I severely blame myself. I ought to have known better, and to have recognised in you the merits you really possess, which are far greater than those of any other boy with whom I am acquainted. I shall always respect you, and others shall learn to respect you as I do. If any one attempts to molest you, he shall quarrel with me." "Nay, nay, Clitheroe," he said; "that would distress me. Be my friend, but do not espouse my quarrels. I could not bear you to be involved in disputes on my account. My wish is to offend no one. Say what you please of me to the others, but let them act as they think proper." " They shall learn what a generous-hearted, good fellow you are, Brideoake, and then not one of them but will be as proud of your friendship as I am." And so it proved- I spoke of him in such enthusiastic terms, that instead of shunning him, the boys made up to him, and his gentle and unoffending manners caused him to be beloved by everybody. Besides, he was such an uncommonly clever fellow, that we began to regard him as a prodigy. He made nothing of the most difficult passages in Lucretius or Juvenal ; wrote Latin verses with great facility; and his English compositions were much lauded. He was so good-natured and obliging, that we all applied to hi in when in dif- ficulties ; and he would at any time write a theme, or throw off a copy of Latin verses for an idle fellow, during breakfast time. As we were now constantly together, John Brideoake acquainted me with his history — at least, with as much of it as he himself knew, for he was not very accurately informed on the subject. His father was a gentleman's son, who had resided somewhere in Northum- berland, but having married against the consent of his family, had been disowned by them, and, after struggling ineffectually against a series of calamities, had died, leaving a widow almost penniless, and burdened with two children — himself and a daughter named Apphia. His mother, he said, was the best of women, but exceed- ingly proud, and, notwithstanding the extremities to which she had been reduced, would neither apply for assistance to her husband's relatives, nor to her own, with whom she had also quarrelled. She had determined to bring up her son as a gentleman, no matter what privations she underwent for the purpose, and designed him for the Church. Her straitened means forbade the accomplishment of the scheme in any other way except the one she had adopted. John Bride- oake hoped to gain one of the best exhibitions connected with the school, which would help to defray his expenses at Cambridge, whither he meant to go. 14 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF I was so much interested in the description of his mother and hia little sister Apphia, that I begged him to introduce me to them. He coloured up when I made the request, and said he must first ask his mother's consent. The next day he told me she was very much obliged, but she was unable to receive me. " You will excuse her, Clitheroe," he said ; " but I have told you she is extremely proud, and, to speak truth, she is ashamed of our lodgings. We are too poor to receive visitors. Better days may come, when we shall be delighted to welcome you." I pressed him no further. Opposite the school was a shop much frequented by us all. Its owner was an odd character, by name John Leigh. He had served in the early American war, and had lost his right arm at the famous battle of Bunker's Hill. John was a gruff old fellow, not over civil or obliging, but there were peculiarities about him that made us like him, in spite of his crustiness. He had large, heavy features, and a bulky person. He dressed in a pepper-and-salt coat, of an- cient make, which looked as if there were more salt than pepper in the mixture, knee-breeches, not unfrequently besprinkled with flour, and wore buckles in his shoes. His right sleeve was fastened to his breast. His grey hair was taken back from his face, and tied in a thick, clubbed pigtail behind. John Leigh knew his customers well : to some boys he would give unlimited credit, to others none at all. Indeed, it was a matter of boast with many a lad, and argued well for his resources, if "he had good tick at John's." John's sweet- meats were excellent ; at least we thought so, and we devoured far too many of his macaroons, queen's cakes, and jumbals, to say nothing of tarts, when fruit was in season, and the daily consump- tion of hot rolls and butter. John Leigh's shop was our constant resort. We lounged about it, sat upon the counter or the potato- bins (for John was a general dealer), or the corner of the flour or meal-chests, or in the great pair of scales, or wherever we could find a seat, and discussed the politics of the school, and other mat- ters. Even during school-hours we w r ould run across there, and rumours of our goings-on would reach the masters' ears, and search would occasionally be made for us. I recollect an incident of this sort, which occurred while I was under Mr. Cane. Some half- dozen of us were comfortably seated on John's counter, munching away at a pound of macaroons before us, when we perceived Cane issue from the gate, evidently marching in the direction of the shop. In an instant we all disappeared; some of us diving under the coun- ter, and others hiding where they could. Shortly after, when Cane entered, no one was to be seen except John, close beside whose bulky legs I and two others were lying perdus. "I thought some of the boys were here, John?" said Mr. Cane, sharply, and glancing round the place. " I see none on 'em, sir," replied John, in a somewhat surly tone. " That's not a direct answer, John," rejoined the pedagogue, peremptorily. " There are six of my boys out of school — Lathom, Hilton, Frogg, Simpson, Hyde, and Clitheroe. Has any one of them, or have all, been here ?" MERTYN CL1THEKOE. 15 " I never answers no questions about the young gentlemen as frequents my shop," said John, doggedly. " Then I conclude they have been here," observed Mr. Cane. Upon this, we pinched John's fat legs rather severely, for we thought he might have done something better than this to get us out of the scrape. The pain made him roar out most lustily. " What's the matter, John ?" asked Mr. Cane, who was going out of the shop. "A sudden seizure, sir, that's all," returned John; "but you mustn't go for to imagine, from anything I've said, that the young gentlemen has been here, sir. It's my rule never to speak about 'em, and I should have given you the same answer whether or no." " Equivocation, you fancy, is not falsehood, I see, John ; but give me leave to observe that your standard of morality is rather low. I shall draw my own conclusions," said Mr. Cane, turning away, and muttering to himself, " I'm sure they have been here." Upon which we pinched John's great calves again, and the veteran angrily ejaculated, " Come, I shan't stand this any longer." " Ha ! What's that ? Did I hear aright ?" demanded Mr. Cane, stopping short. " The man has been drinking," he muttered. " Be quiet, I say, or I'll bundle you out o' th' shop," roared John. "You'll do what?" almost screamed Mr. Cane, coming up to him, with a countenance full of fury, and twirling his watch-chain as if he would fling it at John's head. " Did you address those dis- respectful — those impertinent observations to me, man?" We were so delighted at this mistake, that we nearly betrayed ourselves, and with difficulty stifled our laughter. " They warn't addressed to you, sir," returned John. " Then to whom were they addressed ?" pursued Mr. Cane. " Tou affirm no one else is here. I see no one. John — John, I am afraid you are fuddled." "Fuddled— I fuddled? I'd have you to know, Mr. Cane, that I never touches a drop in the morning ; and the young gentlemen will bear witness to my sobriety." "What young gentlemen?" demanded Cane. Here we slightly admonished John again. " The young rascals, I mean," lie roared, stamping with rage and pain. " I wish they were all at the devil, — and you at their back," he added, to Mr. Cane, forgetting himself in the blindness of his wrath. " It is evident you are not yourself, John," said the preceptor ; " that is the only excuse I can make for you. At some more fitting moment I shall endeavour to reason you out of the sinful and perni- cious course you are pursuing. Drink in the morning. Faugh ! John." With this he departed, muttering to himself, and was scarcely out t'f hearing than we jumped up, and saluted John with a roar of laughter worthy of Homer's heroes. But the hero of Bunker's Hill did not join in the Homeric merriment. His legs had been pinched black and blue, as if by wicked elves; and he had been told he was fuddled! Fuddled, forsooth! He who had never iG LIFE AND ADVENTUltES OF drunk anything to speak of since he left Boston. He wished he had never taken the shop, never seen the school, never dealt with any of us. He would go away, that he would. His exas- peration rose to the highest pitch when he discovered that Hyde, w T ho was a very mischievous lad, while lying behind the counter, had taken the opportunity of rubbing out the scores chalked upon a board placed there. On making this discovery, John seized the offender, held him between his legs, pummelled him soundly with his one arm, and only released him on his promise to pay the whole score, which was pretty heavy in amount. We then ran back to school, and our morning's amusement was concluded with a sound caning. Notwithstanding John's indignant declaration, he showed no dis- position to abandon his shop, and no particular objection to the continuance of our custom. He soon forgot his grievances, or rather they were effaced by new ones, for we were perpetually playing him tricks. We wanted him to tell us how he lost his arm ; but he always seemed shy of the subject, till one afternoon, when he was in good humour, and a good lot of us were assembled together, helping ourselves to cakes and confectionary, we thought we might get it out of him, and made the attempt accordingly. "You'll be a soldier like your father, I suppose, Clitheroe ?" ob- served Simpson. " No, I won't," I replied. " You're afraid of losing an arm, like John Leigh ?" remarked Hyde. " Perhaps I am," I answered. " But John seems scarcely to miss his limb. Hand me some figs, old fellow. And now, suppose you tell us how you got rid of your fin ?" "Ay, ay, tell us all about it, John," the others chorused. " Well," he replied, " it's a long story altogether, but I'll cut it as short as I can." (AVe signified our approval, and he went on.) "The Battle of Bunker's Hill, you must know, was fought many years ago, almost afore your fathers was thought of, young gentlemen, on the 17th of June, 1775; and though 1 oughtn't to speak dis- respectfully of my commanding officers, yet I must say it was their fault entirely that we didn't give them Yankees twice the drubbing we did give 'em, as you shall hear. Well, the troubles had just begun in Amerieav, which ended in the great war, and a large body of troops had been collected by the Provincial Congress of Massachusetts ; British blood had been spilt by the colonists at the fight of Lexington ; and Boston, of which General Gage was governor, was blockaded; and a pity it was we hadn't some one more competent and determined than Gage for a governor, as the first outbreak might have been cheeked, and no more mischief done. Well, war to extremities was resolved on by our government, and more troops was sent over under the command of Major-General Howe, including some companies of grenadiers, amongst whom 1 was, and we landed at Boston towards the end of May. The time was now come when we might have read them saucv Yankees a lesson, and given them such a dressing, as Mr. Cane sometimes gives you misbehaved boys " "Don^t be personal, John," Simpson cried. ^-y- ,f • ~"s^~- ■ -'_ / //) '. JY/y?7A'r4'/J\ ''"fr-A MEfiVYN CLITHEROE. 17 " Howsomever, our generals took it mighty easy, and seemed re- solved to let 'em go any lengths afore they'd fire a gun to stop 'em. "Well, you must know, Boston's a very fine city, and is built on a peninsula connected with the mainland by a narrow neck, which was strongly fortified by old Gage. Opposite Boston, and only separated from it by a narrow channel, called Charles Kiver, about as wide as the Thames at Lunnun, and now crossed, I believe, by a bridge, but quite open in my time, is another peninsula, on which stands the suburb of Charlestown, and at the back of it there rises a command- ing height, completely overlooking Boston, called Bunker's Hill." And thinking his description might be rendered more intelligible by some illustration, John took up a board, and rearing it against the counter, drew a few sketches upon it with a piece of chalk. This he performed very dexterously, considering he had to do it with his left hand. "This here's Boston, you see, young gentlemen, and that there's Boston Neck, where we was stationed, and where our officers did nothing, as somebody said, ' but twist their tails and powder their heads ;' and here's Boston Bay, where our men-of-war and transports was lying ; and here's all the little islands — Noddle Island, and Hog Island, and Spectacle Island, and a great many more, where we used to have skirmishes with the Yankees ; and now, look you, here's Charlestown, and Bunker's Hill above it. Well, these heights, Bun- ker's Hill and Breed's Hill, could be easily approached at the back by Charlestown Neck ; and though, as I've said, they completely commanded Boston, they were wholly neglected by our generals ; but they warn't neglected by our sharp-witted foes, for, early one fine summer morning — it were the 17th of June afore-mentioned — we was wakened out of our slumbers by a brisk cannonading from the Lively ship of war, and, rubbing our eyes, we seed that the Yankees, during the night, had contrived to throw up a redoubt on Bunker's Hill, and complete a breastwork nearly to its foot." "And did no one discover or disturb their operations ?" I inquired. " Not a soul," John replied, " though the bay was full of shipping, and our fortifications was close at hand. Well, this was too much even for old Gage to stand ; so he opens upon 'em a battery from Copp's Hill, in Boston, and finding this do little or no good, he despatches Howe and Pigot, with ten companies of light infantry, and the like number of grenadiers, to try and dislodge the stubborn Yankees. We landed at Moreton's Point, which lies at the foot of Bunker's Hill, and right in front of the entrenchments, though we might just as easily, and far more safely, have taken the enemy in the rear, and gone up by Charlestown Neck. Howsomever, our generals judged other- wise, and it was our business to go where they led. But somehow they didn't like the look of things, so we waited for further rein- forcements, and the delay gave the enemy an opportunity of improv- ing his defensive operations, while he also received considerable re- inforcements. It was a sweltering hot day, and we was almost ready to sink under the weight we carried, for, besides our knapsacks, car- touche-boxes, and firelocks, we was encumbered with three days' provision. Well, at last the word was given, and severe work it was to climb the hill-sides, under that blazing sun, and to scale the walls and fences bv which it was intersected. We was formed in two lines, 18 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF ene light infantry on the right, being led by Howe, and the grenadiers on the left, by Pigot. Our wing was first assailed by a body of militiamen, who had posted themselves in some adjoining houses, but we soon put a stop to this by setting fire to their places of shelter, and, as the habitations was altogether of wood, the con- flagration spread with wonderful rapidity, and the whole of Charles- town was soon in flames. It was an awful sight, and the smoke of the burning buildings added to our annoyances. Well, we continued to toil up the hill, till we got close up to their entrenchments, when the Yankees, who had let us approach almost undisturbed, opened upon us a most dreadful and destructive fire. Our line was broken in several places, and for some moments Howe was left almost alone. It seemed as if we should have the worst of it, when, luckily, General Clinton crosses Charles River, rallies the flying men, charges the Yankees at the point of the bayonet, forces 'em from their works, and drives 'em down Charlestown Neck. Ah ! well, it was a hard- fought fight, and a badly-fought fight, too ; for if we had been pro- perly led, we should have licked 'em in no time." " But you've told us nothing about your arm, John ?" I said. " Haven't I ?" he rejoined ; " well, I left it on Bunker's Hill any- how, for it was carried off close to the showldher in the first attack, and though thus disabled I didn't leave the ranks, but got the stump bandaged up, and made shift to hold my firelock in my left hand, until, as we gained the redoubt, I received a blow on the head from a Yankee, who fought with a clubbed musket, which stretched me on the ground, and left me for dead on the field. Howsomever, here I am, hale and hearty, though minus an arm. And that's all about it." " And here come Mr. Cane and the Doctor," I cried, " so we must be off to school. Thank you, John, for the story." But we were not John's only customers, though his best. He also had dealings, in a small way, with the Bluecoat boys, and when they couldn't get out, they would summon him by thumping against their iron-studded doors, and screaming out, " John Leigh ! a penn'orth o' barley-sugar!" until the article required was put under the gate to them. With these lads we had repeated quarrels, and they would sometimes issue forth in a swarm from the wicket in their gateway, and take by surprise a party of our lesser boys, who were playing at marbles or other games, and give them a drubbing before they could be rescued by their bigger and stronger comrades. On the approach of danger, the Bluecoat boys would retreat through the sallyport, and close it against the superior force. Well was it, on these occasions, for our little fellows, if there were any loungers in John Leigh's to respond to their cries for aid. Now and then, we prevented the wicket from being closed, and, pursuing the invaders into their own territories, a general conflict would take place upon the broad playground, reinforcements continually arriving on both sides, until the battle was decided, which it generally was in our fa- vour. These fights presented a curious spectacle, owing to the strange costume of our antagonists, who were sturdy little rogues, and exhibited a good deal of pluck. Towards the end of that half year, a gloom was thrown upon the 5^ WM-/7YM''£s//t6Zfs //ftM Me (ed to address some menaces to the gipsy-woman, but ler looks apparently checked him, and he cried out to me, " Well, •ve've wasted time enough here. Come along, Mervyn." He then went oif, and, nodding to Peninnah, to whom I felt very grateful for having rescued me from her husband's clutches, I contrived to scale the bank without dismounting. Ned, who was not very gracious in his adieux, brought up the rear with Gaunt and Lupus. On gaining the road, we found Malpas unfastening his horse, and he said to me, " I've a good mind to ask those gipsy folk to Tom Shakeshaft's hopping to-night ; it would be rare fun." MERVYN CLITI1ER0E. 49 " But Shakeshaft mayn't like it," I said. " What does that signify ? Simon Pownall will manage it. I'll do it, by Jove ! Take care of my tit for a moment till I come back." And, throwing the bridle to me, he disappeared down the brake. But he didn't return quite so soon as I expected ; and thinking I heard voices in dispute below, I asked Ned if we should go down and see what was the matter. " Na, na," he replied, with a peculiar smile ; " dunna yo' be afeard — he'll come to no hurt. He's among friends. Didna it strike yo' that he seemed to know them warmint, Master Mervyn ?" "It did, Ned." " Weel, he's a queer chap, and I hope he may come to good." At this moment Malpas reappeared, and, springing on his horse, ex- claimed, with a laugh, " Well, I've settled it all. They're coming.'' " A nice party we shall have," I thought, echoing my previous rumination. " Comin', be they!" growled Ned. "We shan see what Master Shakeshaft win say to it. I know what I would." Malpas let the remark pass without notice, and we soon afterwards quitted the keeper, and rode on quickly towards Marston. When we came to where the little lane turned off to Ned's dwell- ing, Malpas apparently found the attraction irresistible, and pro- posed that we should call on Sissy. I assented. Apprised of our approach by the sound of our horses' feet, Sissy came to the door, and greeted us in her clear musical voice. To be sure, how pretty she looked in her broad-brimmed hat, and how well it contrasted with her bloom- ing cheeks, and light sunny tresses with a golden glint in them, braided in front, and gathered in a large roll behind. And then what a trim waist she had, and how well her blue tight-fitting bodice set it off'; and what small hands and feet! Sissy was certainly a little in- clined to coquetry, probably because she had had so many admirers before Ned won her from them. With an arch smile she told us that if we wanted her " husbants" he was from home, and mightn't return for an hour. Malpas said he knew that, but he had called to see her, and her alone ; and then he laughed and paid her some highflown compliments, which heightened the roses in her cheeks. "If you want to please me, Sissy," I said, "you'll go in that be- coming hat to the merry-making to-night." " You're f'ery easily pleased, then, Master Mirfyn, look you. Put since you wish it, I will wear the hats. What a peautiful poni. •■* you've got." " I'm glad you like him, Sissy," I rejoined ; " but it's no wondri for he's from your own country." " You ton't say he's Wales'?" she replied, putting her arms roui Taffy's neck, and patting his shaggy head. " There are no ponies li our Welsh ponies, look you." " And no peauties like your Welsh peauties, look you," Malpas joined, mimicking her tones, and glancing at her with so much arde that Sissy hastily retreated, and closed the door in our faces. I told him he had offended her, but he laughed and said no worn was ever offended by a compliment. E 50 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF So we rode off; when, just as we got to the end of the lane, who should we meet but Rufus, as Malpas called him, striding along at a great pace, with Gaunt and Lupus at his heels. On beholding us, the keeper knew where we had been, and looked " so confoundedly glum," as Malpas observed, that we thought it advisable to hurry on without a word ; nor did we again draw the rein till we reached the barber- surgeon's shop, where I left my companion, who wanted to speak to Simon about the gipsies, and made the best of my way to iNethercrofts. The day seemed unusually long to others as well as to me, but night arrived at last, and about eight o'clock — for we kept better hours in Marston than they do at some places — a large party of us prepared to set out. My aunt had been unusually cheerful that day, and when my uncle displayed some wavering in his purpose of going, she confirmed it, by saying it would be better for him than a night at the Nag's Head. As all the household were invited, Susan Sparkes, a decent old body, was engaged to attend upon my aunt, and a near neighbour, Dame Hutchinson, whose rheumatism prevented her from taking any part in the village festivities, came to spend the evening with her. A fire was therefore lighted in the little parlour, the curtains were closely drawn to keep out the cold, the best china tea- things were brought out, and everything was made nice and comfort- able for the good old gossips. " Well, good night, and God bless thee, John," my aunt said to my uncle, as I helped him on with his great-coat, preparatory to start- ing. " I wish I were young enough to go wi' thee, as I did fifty-five year ago, to some such hopping, before thou and I wert man and wife. Good lack-a-day ! we were a bonny couple then, and could dance, too, with the best of 'em. 'Odds life! neighbour Hutchi'son, you wouldn't know Phoebe Massey in the poor withered thing before you. Would she, John ?" "I shouldn't," he replied, gruffly. " Well, that's plain-spoken, man, I must say. It's odd how my thoughts are running on the days of my youth. Dost remember when we first met near Marston Mere, John ? — and how thou didst use to come courting me o' nights ? — and how I let thee in at the dairy ? Ah ! those were happy days. But I see Mervyn wants to be oft', and I won't detain him with these dreams of past times, though my head's full of 'em, and I could ramble on for an hour. There, give me a kiss, my own old man, for the sake of bygone times." My uncle seemed pleased at the request, and complied ; and, put- ting my arms round my aunt's neck, I said I must have a kiss too ; after which we quitted the room, the good old dame bestowing another blessing on us both. So we set out in very good spirits. My uncle and I, and Sam Massey, on whose arm the old man leant, led the way ; Hannah and William Weever, dressed out in their best, came a few paces behind ; and Martha and Peter brought up the rear. We did not require a lantern, for the moon shone so brightly that it was almost as light as day. On reaching the village, we found ad the folks coming forth, bent on the same errand as ourselves, and most of them very merry. My uncle complained bitterly of the cold, though he was well wrapped up, and would fain have entered the MERVrN ^LiTHElfOE, 51 Nag's Head, but Simon Pownall, who came up as he paused, told him the house was shut up for the night ; for the host and hostess were among Tom Shakeshaft's guests ; so he went on, rather grumblingly. Quitting the road for a short distance, we approached the dwelling of our entertainer, and while crossing the large farmyard, at the end of which stood the barn, were greeted by the enlivening strains of a fiddle issuing from it. Considerable preparations had been made for the entertainment, which was of a thoroughly rural character, and there was plenty of amusement, though of a rather boisterous kind. The place of recep- tion was capable of accommodating a large crowd ; and a large crowd was already assembled in it. It was not very brilliantly lighted up, to be sure, and the floor was of hard clay ; but what did that matter. I have since seen many a splendid ball-room with chalked floors, and blazing with wax-lights, where there was not half so much real enjoyment. Of course, everything had been cleared away for the company ; and wooden benches and stools were ranged round the space. A few chairs were set apart for the great folks. Light was afforded from two old copper branches suspended from the great cross rafters,, and from tin sconces stuck against the walls. Atone end was a table, where spiced elder wine and hot ale and cakes were served, — and where there was a large twelfth-cake. The sides of the barn and even the rafters were plentifully decorated with evergreens, and from the central beam hung a large bough of mistletoe, and constant laughter was going on as some swain dragged his blushing sweetheart beneath it, and snatched a kiss from her rosy lips. A fiddle, a fife, and a bassoon constituted the band. I looked about for Sissy Culcheth, and was not long in discovering her. She wore her hat, as she had promised. Ned was with her, and though he seemed very proud of her, it was easy to perceive, by his quick glances, that he did not like too much attention to be shown her ; while poor Sissy, from natural gaiety and liveliness, not to say coquettishness, was constantly attracting it. This became evident to all when Malpas made his appearance. Comporting himself with considerable insolence to the hinds around, Malpas marched up to Sissy, and, taking her from her husband, ordered the musicians to strike up a jig, and whisked her about in a way that was highly dis- pleasing to Ned, who watched them with great impatience. Aware that the keeper could put little constraint upon himself, and fearful lest some mischief might ensue, I went up to him ; and it was well 1 did, for at this moment the whirl of the jig brought his wife and Malpas under the mistletoe-bough, when the latter very imprudently snatched a kiss from her cherry lips. Ned would certainly have done him some hurt, if I and Pownall, who happened to be near, had not restrained him. Sissy, who was a good deal embarrassed, almost im- mediately afterwards quitted Malpas, and came up to her husband ; but he turned sullenly away, and there was a good deal of tittering among the bystanders, and some not very complimentary remarks among the female portion of them, who disliked Sissy for her good looks. I came to her rescue, and following Ned she soon succeeded, by her coaxing ways, in restoring him to good humour. e2 52 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF By this time, Dr. and Mrs. Sale, and Mr. Vawdrey, had joined the assemblage, and seemed much amused with what was going forward. The vicar was unwontedly condescending, and his lady affable as usual. They were accommodated with chairs, raised a little from the ground, so that they could command the whole scene; and my uncle Mobberley was placed on Mrs. Sale's right, and Mr. Vawdrey near the vicar. I also noticed Phaleg the gipsy, and Peninnah, and little Rue among the throng. Peninnah had a yellow handkerchief bound over her raven hair, and was otherwise rather gaudily dressed, as was Rue ; and Phaleg had donned his holiday clothes, and did not appear quite so ruffian-like as in the morning. Their appearance amid the crowd was picturesque enough, but they were generally looked upon as black sheep, and avoided. Just then Simon Povvnall, mounting on a bench, announced that the twelfth-cake was about to be divided, and invited all to come to the table for a slice. And he repeated the lines : " Now, now, the mirth comes, With the cake full of plums, Where Bean is King of the sport here. Beside, you must know, The Pea also Must revel as Queen of the court here." The order was eagerly obeyed, and great was the pressure that ensued. The arrangements were entrusted to Simon, who, assisted by Chetham Quick, distributed the cake ; and by some accident the Bean fell to me, and the Pea to Sissy ; consequently, we were Queen and King, and were hailed as such amid the shouts and laughter of the company. Ned looked pleased enough, for somehow he didn't ap- pear to be jealous of me ; but now Malpas became angry in his turn, and I heard him swear at Pownall for not giving him the bean. The barber- surgeon shrugged his shoulders, and declared he meant to do so, but it was all the fault of that stupid Chetham, to whom he had entrusted the distribution of the cake. And, indeed, the surmise proved to be correct, for Chetham presently nudged me, and, with a sniggering laugh, whispered in my ear, " You owe all this to me. I knew what master was after, so I changed the slices of plum-cake, and gave yours to Malpas. He ! he ! he !" My first business was to present my queen to the state party, and they all looked very much pleased with her, Mrs. Sale complimenting her on her good looks, and congratulating me on my good fortune. I then ordered the musicians to strike up a country-dance, and taking our places at the head of it, we were soon actively engaged. My pretty little partner danced uncommonly well, and with so much spirit, that I was quite sorry to find myself at the bottom of the dance. But the life and soul of it was Simon Pownall. He had a jest for everybody, and made everybody do his or her best. When he got to the top it was quite wonderful to see the capers he cut — how he cantered down the middle, and galloped back again. And but little inferior to him was Chetham Quick, whose lithe limbs were thrown about in a surprising manner. He was quite his master's double, and imitated all his flourishes. In the course of the dance MERYYN CLITIIEROE. 53 I found myself under the mistletoe with Sissy, but I did not dare to repeat Malpas's experiment, more especially as the jealous Kufus was standing by, when to my great surprise he said, with a laugh, " Dunna be bashful. Kings is privileged. To'n more right than the jacka- napes who tuk the liberty afore you." " Eight, Ned," cried Chetham Quick, who was skipping by at th« moment, and overheard him. " It's part of the royal prerogative — he ! he ! Suitable to the occasion — Twelfth Night, or What you Will — Shakspeare — ahem !" So I readily took advantage of the suggestion, and gave her a hearty kiss ; and if Ned had wanted to annoy Malpas, who witnessed the proceeding, he could not have adopted a better expedient, as the looks of the latter showed plainly enough. As Malpas seemed inclined to interrupt the mirth of the evening by ill-humour, I determined to plague him. So I caused it to be an- nounced, through the medium of Simon Pownall, that I should assigr partners to all the women for the next dance, and I gave Malpas to Peninnah. He was obliged to obey the mandate, though he did so w r ith a very ill grace. In the dance after that, the queen chose partners for the men, and then Malpas made sure she would select him ; but no such thing, she gave her hand to Chetham Quick, and assigned little Rue to her disappointed admirer, who, however, flatly refused compliance, and for this act of lese majeste I adjudged that he should salute the oldest and ugliest woman present. But this he also refused. Ned and Chetham now disappeared to prepare for the Plough Dance. After partaking of some refreshments, of which, after our violent exercise, we stood in need, our master of the ceremonies, Simon Pow- nall, now called out to us to make way for the Pool Plough ; where- upon the whole of the company drew up in lines, and the barn- doors being thrown wide open, a dozen men entered, clothed in clean white woollen shirts, ornamented with ribands, tied in roses, on the sleeve and breast, and with caps decked with tinsel on their heads, and tin swords by their sides. These mummers were yoked to a plough, likewise decked with ribands, which they dragged into the middle of the barn. They were attended by an old woman with a tall sugar-loaf hat, and an immense nose and chin, like those of Mother Goose in the pantomime. The old beldame supported her apparently tottering limbs with a crutch-handled staff, with which she dealt about blows, right and left, hitting the toes of the specta- tors, and poking their ribs. This character was sustained by Chetham Quick, and very well he played it, to judge by the shouts of laughter he elicited. By the side of Old Bessie was an equally grotesque figure, clothed in a dress partly composed of a cow r 's hide, and partly of the skins of various animals, with a long tail dangling behind, and a fox-skin cap, with lappets, on the head. This was the Pool. Over his shoulder he carried a ploughman's whip, with which he urged on the team, and a cow's horn served him for a bugle, from which he ever and anon produced unearthly sounds. Notwithstanding the disguise, there was no difficulty in recognising Ned Culcheth as the wearer of it. The entrance of the mummers was welcomed by shouts of laugh- ter from the whole assemblage, and the hilarious plaudits increased as 54 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF they drew up in the middle of the barn, and, unyoking themselves from the plough, prepared for the dance. The spectators then formed a ring round them. Chairs, on an elevated position, had been provided for Sissy and myself, who, as king and queen, were entitled to supe« rior accommodation, and we therefore looked on at our ease. The musicians now struck up a lively air, and the dance began, the mum- mers first forming two lines, then advancing towards each other, rattling their swords together, as if in mimic warfare ; retreating ; ad- vancing again, and placing all their points upon the plough ; forming a rose ; next a four-square rose ; then bounding over each other's heads, laying down their swords, joining hands, and dancing round Old Bessie and the Fool, who remained near the plough, dancing very funnily by themselves. A general clapping of hands showed how well this dance was liked by the company, and the mummers were brought by Simon Pownall to be presented to the king and queen. All went on very well till it came to the turn of the Fool. Just as he made his obeisance, which Simon took care should be low enough, Malpas suddenly leaped upon his back, and throwing him on the ground, set his foot on his neck, while the prostrate man was pre- vented from rising by Phaleg, who held him by the shoulders. Malpas then seized the Fool by the tail, and tugged so lustily at it, that it came off altogether ; and then, and not till then, did Ned disengage himself from the gipsy's gripe. Exasperated by the laughter and shouts of the assemblage, Ned seized the ploughman's whip, and be- fore he could be prevented, laid it soundly across Phaleg's shoulders, ending with a severe cut at Malpas. Phaleg was not a man to put up calmly with the treatment he had experienced, and in his turn he assailed Ned ; but he was put out of the way in a trice by a stunning blow from the huge fist of the keeper. Malpas was furious, as he might well be, and vowed he would be revenged, and, though Sissy herself entreated him to stay, he quitted the party in high dudgeon. Luckily, before this incident, Dr. and Mrs. Saie had re- tired, for I should have been really sorry if the latter had witnessed it. When his passion had subsided, Ned seemed heartily ashamed of himself, and scarcely dared to face his wife, w T ho was as cross with him as such a pretty creature could be. However, I contrived to make peace between them. Good humour being once more restored, we had some merry gambols, and then another country- dance, and with this the entertainment concluded, for it was eleven o'clock, and, as I have previously observed, we kept good hours at Marston. My uncle Mobberley remained to the last, and would have stayed longer, if there had been any excuse for doing so, for he was very well amused. Early in the evening a bowl of gin-punch had been made for him by Tom Shakeshaft, and it proved to be so good that even the vicar and the curate condescended to share it with him. When they departed, which they did with Mrs. Sale at ten o'clock, pipes were produced, the bowl was replenished, and a party of my uncle's old Nag's Head cronies collected round him, to help him to discuss it. Very merry they all were, as merry as us younger folk, and when the party broke up they had got through a third bowl. Tou may be sure that when eleven o'clock struck, which w r as pro- MERVYN CLITHEROE. 55 claimed to us by the inexorable Pownall, the usual valedictory cere- monies observed on such occasions were not neglected. There were a great many tender last words, a great deal of kissing under the misletoe, a great deal of squeezing of hands, a great deal of whisper- ing, and a great many arrangements made about seeing young dam- sels safely home across the fields. And Simon Pownall afterwards informed me that some half a dozen happy marriages were the resuli of Tom Shakeshaft's Twelfth night merry-making. "Well, at length we all separated, some going one way, and some another, while we shaped our course towards Nethercrofts, my uncle, who was in a high state of elevation, marching between Sam Massey and Pownall, the latter having volunteered to go home with him. I ought to have mentioned that, just as I had quitted the barn, Peninnah passed me and whispered, in a boding tone: '•' Eecollect what I said this morning." CHAPTER VII. SHOWING HOW MY UNCLE MOBBERLEY AXD I WERE VERY PAINFULLY SURPRISED ON OUR RETURN HOME. A deep, prolonged howl startled us as we entered the little orchard. " What's that ?" my uncle cried, stopping. " It's Talbot !" I exclaimed. " He has got shut out, and is howl- ing to be let in." " Don't like it," Pownall observed to me, in an under tone — " bodes no good." The shadow of a large bird flitted past, and a hoarse croak was heard overhead. " "Worse and worse," the barber-surgeon muttered. " Xight-crow. A death will soon follow." I shuddered at these prognostications, for the dismal sounds, I confess, awakened a superstitious feeling of dread in my own breast. And I likewise thought of the gipsy's boding words. Otherwise there seemed nothing to fear. The night was spiritually beautiful and tranquil, with myriads of stars paving the deep vault above. The farmhouse glittered in its case of snow, and the hoar plum-trees around us looked as if laden with diamonds, like the gardens in some Arabian story of enchantment. Talbot now came up to us with his tail between his legs, looking at us with wistful eyes, howling mourn- fully. I tried to silence him, but ineffectually. "'He would tell us something, if he could, poor fellow," I thought. A tap at the back door near the dairy procured us admittance, and we entered the house-plaee. A good fire was blazing on the hearth, and a table was set before it, on which were some cold viands and bread. All looked snug and comfortable— but my aunt was not to be seen. " Phoebe — where art thou, Phoebe ?" my uncle cried out. " Gone to bed — eh ? I never knew her do so before." **6 LIFE A2sD ADYENTUEES OF " Nab — Bah —mester, boo wouldna go to bed, and yo' out," old Susan replied. " Dame Hutchi'son went whoam at ten o'clock, that's two hours ago, for it's just on the stroke of twalve now. Yo' be'nlate whoam to-neet, mester, boh I reckon yo'n been enjoying yoursel', and when folks does that, time flees without their knowin' it." " Oh ! ay, I recollect, she's in the parlour," said my uncle, taking off his great-coat. And he called out, " Phoebe ! Phoebe ! I'm come home." '• Maybe hoo's asleep," the old woman remarked. " I hanna been near her sin Dame Hutchi'son went, for hoo took up her Bible, and towd me to leave her, and set out supper; and when I'd done that I set me down i' your chair, mester, and took a nap mysel', an' I didna waken up till I heerd yo' at th' dooer — that's the truth. Boh I'll go an' see efter her." " No, I'll go and see myself," my uncle said, staggering towards the door, and opening it. Pownall and I followed him, and it was well we did so. "Well, Phoebe, lass," he cried, "I'm late home to-night, but it's Christmas time, and Twelfth Night, and we've had a rare merry- making at Tom Shakeshaft's. I wish thou hadst been there, to see the fun, old lass, that I do. It put me in mind of the old times thou wert talking about. And I thought of thee, old woman, when I saw that young thing, Sissy Culcheth, skipping about. She's a bonny lass that ; but, bless thy old heart, thou Avert once as bonny thyself, and turned all the lads' heads, and mine among 'em — ha! ha! Come, now I'm in the humour to talk of our young days, when I went to court thee, and brought thee to Nethercrofts, and thou won't give me a word in answer. What's the matter wi' thee ? Art asleep — eh ?" And then, as if he had all at once become sensible of some terrible calamity, he uttered a loud cry, that alarmed the whole house. Pownall caught the old man in his arms, or he must otherwise have fallen to the ground. My poor aunt was gone. Her end must have been easy indeed, for she was leaning back in the chair as if asleep, and nothing indicated that the parting of the spirit from its earthly tenement had been attended even with a strug- gle. Her life had been breathed out like a sigh. The Bible was open before her, as if she had leaned back to meditate on what she hud read, and so expired. A candle, long unsnuffed, stood upon the table. She must have been dead more than an hour, Pownall said. I was greatly shocked, and felt stunned, as if by a violent blow. The shock completely sobered my uncle ; and as he was now fully sensible of the loss he had sustained, it was piteous to witness his dis- tress and hear ins self-reproaches. We all stood by mournfully and in silence, for we respected his grief. After awhile he arose from the seat in which Pownall had placed him, and, taking the cold hand of his wife, pressed it to his lips. " How little did I think when 1 left thee, my poor Phoebe," he ejacu- lated, " that I should never see thee more alive — thou that hast been my partner for more than fifty years ! — and better partner man never MERVYN CLITIIEBOE. 07 had, truer wife, or worthier woman. I knew it must come to this at last,— that we must separate; but I hoped to have gone before thee; for what shall I do without thee ? Thou didst always guide me right ; didst always speak truth to me ; wert always what a wife should be. And I have been revelling while thou wert dying." A convulsive sob heaved his breast and choked his utterance ; but, recovering him- self, he added, " Well, thou art only gone before me, fori know I shall soon follow thee. Farewell ! true heart and virtuous woman ; thou hast been, indeed, to me a jewel above all price." Having said thus much, he sat down, and covering his face with his hands, wept aloud. It was a deeply- affecting scene. I believe no eye was dry, and I am sure mine were not, for I cried bitterly. At length my uncle recovered himself sufficiently to give directions to those about him relative to the removal of the body. He spoke very kindly to me, and said : " Ah ! Mervyn, thou hast lost a good friend in thy poor aunt. But comfort thyself, lad. Thou hadst her last blessing as well as I ; and it will profit thee, as the blessings of the righteous ever do." After this, Simon Pownall prevailed upon him to retire, undertaking to see all his directions fully carried out, and promising to stay till morning. And very well it was that lie did so, for without his aid I believe my uncle would have died that night. His moans could be heard throughout the house. The poor old man was terribly prostrated, and when he appeared next day a great change was visible in him. But he now bore the weight of his grief with manly resignation. There were no more outbursts of sorrow. The flood-gates had been opened ; the torrent had gushed forth ; nothing but the deep, black void was left. The vicar and his wife came early to condole with him, and from Mrs. Sale he really did seem to derive comfort. His tears again flowed as she spoke of his wife, but they were not tears of anguish and reproach, such as he had shed the night before. Malpas also presented himself, and so overacted his feigned grief, that I am sure my uncle saw through it. Some old customs were observed, such as watching by the body, and placing a pewter plate upon it, filled with salt ; and, on the day of the funeral, arvil-bread and burnt wine were distributed amongst the mourners. My uncle attended the sad ceremonial, and supported himself well through it. The burial service was read by Dr. Sale, and a large crowd of the villagers was assembled on the occasion, and one might read the esteem in which my aunt had been held in their dejected countenances. Snow was falling thickly at the time, and the pall of the coffin was white with it. To me the scene was doubly sad, for the grave adjoined my mother's, and my thoughts were running upon her as well as upon the kind relative I had lost. The coffin was lowered down; and as I looked at my uncle, with his venerable head bowed upon his breast, and his scanty locks exposed to the snow, I thought there was warrant for what he said to the sexton and his assistant — " Ye need scarcely trouble yourselves to fill up that grave, lads, for ye'll soon have another to put into it." But my uncle was a strong-minded man, and though he felt my 58 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP aunt's loss keenly — perhaps more keenly than he showed it — he would not give way to grief, but bore up against it resolutely, and after a week's struggle, during which it appeared doubtful whether he would ever be himself again, obtained the mastery, and resumed his former habits. But he missed his old partner at every turn ; and when any question of household concern was put to him which she would have answered, he looked well-nigh bewildered. Sometimes he would glance towards the sofa on which she had sat, as if about to address her, and then, turning back quickly, would mutter, " Oh ! I forgot — she's gone." He never again entered the room where she died. But he thought he might be suddenly taken off, and displayed great anxiety as to the settlement of his worldly affairs, frequently talking them over with Simon Pownall, who, since my aunt's death, became his sole adviser. He sent for Mr. Gripper, of Knutsford, an attorney, and made a new will ; and whether Pownall was aware or not of the disposition he had made of his property, and that it was in my favour, I cannot say, but he now treated me with great obse- quiousness. On the day after Mr. Gripper's visit, my uncle called me into his bedroom, where he now sometimes sat, and pointing out a drawer in an old bureau near the bed, said : " Thou'lt find my will there, Mervyn. I'm glad thou hadst thy aunt's blessing, my dear. It strengthend me in my purpose. A good woman, my dear, — a truly good woman, who never did wrong in her life. There are few such left behind her. The best thing I can wish for thee is, that thou mayest meet with some one like her ; and that thou mayst live as happily with thy wife as I have done with mine. Ah ! but it's hard to part with a friend of five-and-fifty years' standing. My will is there, I say. Thou'lt know all about its con- tents one of these days,— mayhap, sooner than thou think'st for." And, as if afraid of exhibiting any further emotion, he signed to me to leave him. Of course, an end was put to all our Christmas festivities, and to amusement of every kind, and the house was for a time so changed that I would fain have returned to the Anchorite's, but I could not leave my uncle in his affliction. However, he got better, as I have related ; and as the time for my departure was close at hand, 1 an- nounced it to him. He seemed loath to part with me, but did not remonstrate, as he knew I must go back to school. I went over to take leave of Ned Culcheth and his pretty wife, and only found the latter at home. I learnt from her that they had been waylaid and attacked by Phaleg, on their way home from the merry- making, but that her husband had beaten off his assailant; and that since then many depredations had been committed upon their out- door property, and Ned suspected the gipsy, but had not been able, as yet, to bring any of the offences home to him, for he and his family had left their haunt in the ravine and disappeared, though Ned was convinced they were still in the neighbourhood, and was active in his search for them. I asked her if she had seen much of Malpas of late, and she blushed and said : " A great teal too much, look you, Master Mirfyn. He quite haunts the place." MEKVYN CLITHEROE. 59 " Well, take care of yourself, Sissy," I replied. "You've got a good husband. Don't throw him away." '• Ton give me fery coot atfices, Master Mirfyn. Put ton' t be afraid. I love my lmsbants tearly." " But you don't dislike other people's admiration, Sissy. "Well, good-by ! I hope to find you looking prettier than ever when I come back."' I had seen little of Malpas. Since Mr. Gripper's visit, he had scarcely been once at Nethercroft's ; and probably, having received some information from Simon Pownall, which had dispelled his hopes, he thought it needless longer to play the hypocrite. My uncle did not miss him, and rarely inquired after him. I called at the vicarage on my way home, and here also found only the lady within. She spoke to me much about my uncle ; said she tli ought him declining fast ; and was very sorry I was obliged to leave him. Though she had too much delicacy to allude to my pro- spect of inheriting his property, I could plainly see she had heard the report. I was sorry to hear from her that Malpas was not to go to Eton that half year. He did not feel very strong, she said, but was to read at home with Mr. Vawdrey. As I rose to depart, she desired her love to Mrs. Mervyu, whom she often visited; and bade me a very kindly adieu, hoping to see much of me hereafter. Malpas came next morning to say good-by — most likely at the instance of his mother — and Simon Pownall came with him. I was very much depressed in spirits towards the last, and began to think I ought not to leave my uncle ; and if lie had asked me to stay then, I should have complied. But lie did not. My things had been sent off" the night before by the carrier, and Taffy was saddled and waiting for me at the door. I had bidden farewell to Hannah and Martha, and was in tears when I came to my uncle, who shook me very kindly by the hand, and said : " Whether I shall be spared till thou com'st back at Easter, Mervyn, or whether thou'lt be sent for sooner, Heaven only knows ; but if I'm gone, thou'lt be master here — that's all." My uncle had never announced his intentions so openly before, and the effect on the auditor was somewhat curious. Malpas bit his quivering lips till the blood sprang from them, and glanced angrily askance at Simon Pownall, who made me a cringing bow ; while those of the household who were present appeared to be pleased, though most of them were interested parties. But my uncle didn't give them time to make any observations, for lie hurried me off, saying : ' ; And now, good-by, and Grod bless thee, Mervvn. Be a good lad." Malpas never offered to shake hands with me, but went out at the back door, with a countenance of unconcealed rage and mortification. The rest followed me, vieing with each other in attentions ; and the sycophantic Simon even held my stirrup, wished me a pleasant journey, and with a significant look, for which I longed to lay the whip across his shoulders, whispered : " Hope you may be soon ' sent for,' as the old man said — knew all about it — but mum's the word wit"- ae." 60 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OS CHAPTEE VIII. A GLANCE AT COITONBOItOUGH APPIIIA BKIDEOAKE. A wondrous town is Cottonborough ! Yast — populous — ugly — sombre. Full of toiling slaves, pallid from close confinement and heated air. Full of squalor, vice, misery : yet also full of wealth and all its concomitants — luxury, splendour, enjoyment. A city of coal and iron — a city of the factory and the forge — a city where greater fortunes are amassed, and more quickly, than in any other in the wide world. But how — and at what expense ? Ask yon crew of careworn men, wan women, and sickly children, and they will tell you. Look at yon mighty structure, many-windowed, tall-chimneyed, vomiting forth clouds of smoke, to darken and poison the wholesome air. Listen to the clangor and the whirl of the stupendous and complicated machinery w r ithin. Count the hundreds of pale creatures that issue forth from it at meal-times. Mark them well, and say if such em- ployment be healthy. Yet these poor souls earn thrice the wages of the labourer at the plough, and therefore they eagerly pursue their baneful task-work. Night comes ; the mighty mill is brilliantly lighted up, and the gleam from its countless windows is seen afar, looking like an illuminated palace. Come nearer, and you may hear the clangour and the whirl still going on, and note the steady beat of the huge en- gine, that, like the heart of a giant, puts all in motion ; and you may see the white faces flitting past, and young girls and boys still toiling on, sweltering beneath the glaring gas that consumes the vital air. The owner of that mill, and the worker of that vast machinery of flesh and blood, iron and steam — for all are mere machines with him— is rich, and will soon be richer — richer than many a prince. And he will strain the money-getting principle to the utmost, for the power has been given him. And there are a thousand such in Cottonborough. There Mammon has set up his altars : there his ardent votaries are surest of reward. Ugly and black is Cottonborough, shrouded by smoke, tasteless in architecture, boasting little antiquity, and less of picturesque situation ; yet not devoid of a character strongly impres- sive, arising from magnitude, dense population, thronged streets, where the heavy waggon with its bales of goods takes place of the carriage, vast warehouses, and a spacious and busy 'Change — the re- sort of the wealthiest merchants of the realm. Active and energetic are its inhabitants, enterprising, spirited, with but one thought — one motive — one aim, and one end — Money. Prosperous is Cotton- borough — prosperous beyond all other cities — and long may it con- tinue so ; for, with all its ugliness, and all its faults — and they are many — I love it well. Some such thoughts crossed me as I approached the large and smoky town, though, doubtless, as I now record them, they have got MEKVYN CLITHEROE. 61 mixed up with impressions subsequently received. And it is only right to add, that, of late years, considerable ameliorations have been made by the millowners, and the hours of labour limited, from which causes the health, condition, and morals of the persons employed, espe- cially the girls and children, have been materially improved. But I could not then help contrasting the careworn countenances and ema- ciated frames of the fustian-jackets I now encountered, with the cheerful, ruddy visages, and hardy limbs of the country people I had left ; and I thought how infinitely preferable was the condition of the latter. The women, too, and the young girls — how different were those sallow faces, bleached like their own calico, from the rosy- cheeked, brown-armed damsels of Marston ! 1 passed through the far-spreading suburbs, consisting for the most part of long rows of mean-looking habitations of red brick, with occa- sional bare spaces, which had once been fields, and still retaining a few consumptive bushes of thorn to show where hedges had grown, but otherwise caked over with cinders, or receptacles for rubbish ; I passed by many public-houses ; several Methodist chapels ; an ugly, formal church, part brick, part stone — (a magnificent Eoman Catholic temple has since been erected in the same neighbourhood) ; more rows of red brick houses, but of a better description, and neater, with low iron rails in front to fence them from the road, and bright brass plates on the doors ; huge mills, whose smoke was blackening the air, and blotting out the sun ; little streams that ran like frothing ink, and into which the mills and dye-works discharged their steaming and livid waters ; and, crossing a bridge over a river, into which all these inky currents poured, I entered the town. All looked dark, dirty, and disagreeable. When I left Marston — and even a few miles off— the sun was shining brightly ; but now, imperfectly distinguished through the canopy of smoke, the luminary looked like a great red ball, — as it does through a London November fog. The streets were almost ankle-deep in black sludge, and where the frost had maintained its power, the snow had become the colour of soot. The very houses seemed to wear an unusually dingy aspect, as if the black snow had melted into them, and stained them of its own hue. The fog and smoke appeared to have got down every- body's throat, for almost all the people I met were coughing, and I myself felt affected by the reeky atmosphere, to an extent that made my eyes smart with water. I would have got on faster if I could, but my course was impeded by ponderous waggons laden with heavy bales of cotton, carts, hand-carts, and numerous other vehicles, and I was compelled to proceed at a slow pace through the long thorough- fare, intersecting the town from south to north. The eye found little pleasurable to rest on, but much that was disagreeable and even distressing ; and the ear constantly caught the sharp click of the patten, and the clamp of the wooden clog : clogs are much worn in Cottonborough. Amid the crowd, which was constantly increasing, as the tide poured in towards the centre of the town, there were many haggard faces that told of want and disease, many miserable, famished chil- dren, without shoes and stockings, trampling through the mire. Then 62 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF there were the sots at the doors of the public^ houses, with the recruit- ing-sergeant amongst them, holding out his lures, by which some of them were sure to be caught. Then came another wide thorough- fare, leading to the quays along the banks of the Ater, and to a bridge connecting Cottonborough with its sister town of Spinnyford ; but my way not being along it, I passed by a large butcher's shambles, held under a low roof, approached by low brick archways, and delight- fully inconvenient ; by a great coaching-house, with several stage- coaches before it ; by a long range of warehouses, with here and there an old black and white chequered house among them (mementoes of other days, and looking quite beautiful amid so much architectural uniformity, not to say deformity) ; by another bridge leading to Spin- nyford ; and leaving the Square and the Exchange, and several other public places unvisited, I descended the eminence on which the fine old Collegiate Church is situated, crossed the Ink, and was right glad some quarter of an hour afterwards to find myself under the roof of the sequestered Anchorite's. How glad Mrs. Mervyn was to see me ! and how much I had to tell her about my poor aunt Mobberley, and about Mrs. Sale, and about everything ! And how well she thought my mourning fitted me ! And when she had clone with me, what a deal Mr. Comberbach and Mrs. Chad wick made of me ! And what a nice little dinner Molly Bailey gave us ! — how T pleasantly Mr. Barton Lever talked ! — how well the old Madeira tasted — Mr. Lever made me take a second glass — and how glad I was to get back to my own bed at night ! I quite hugged the pilknv with delight. But not quite so pleasant was my return to school, for I had been so used to freedom of late, that I felt the restraint rather irksome at first. But I was delighted to meet my old schoolfellows again, and had plenty to tell them, while on their part they had much to relate to me. We had long confabs at John Leigh's, wdiich might be called the school-club ; and the consumption of cakes, and tarts, and " pop," as the ginger-beer was called, went on as swimmingly as our Bunker's Hill hero could desire. I have not yet mentioned John Brideoake, though he was more pleased to see me than any of the others, and though he was foremost in my own regard, but for that very reason have left him apart, for I shall now have a good deal to say about him. John continued to work as hard as ever, but he looked so ill that I was sure the mind was preying upon the body, and I also felt sure he had not nourishment enough, and some- times suspected, from his faintness, that he went without breakfast alto- gether, though he said he took his morning's meal before he left home at six o'clock ; but this I accidentally found out was rarely more than a crust of bread and a cup of water. On making this discovery, I de- vised a sheme for helping him which should not wound his feelings. Not having time to return to the Anchorite's during the hour allowed for breakfast, I used to have a basin of milk and a hot roll or two in a little parlour at the back of John Leigh's shop, and I asked Bride- oake to share the meal with me, assuring him there was enough for both of us. He was very diffident, but I overcame his modest scruples. and nothing could exceed the heartfelt satisfaction 1 experienced at MEEVYN CLITHEROE. 63 his enjoyment of the meal, and the good it evidently did him. He thanked me again and again, and apologised for eating too much ; but his hunger was too real and unmistakable not to show how much pri- vation he endured. Bridecake repaired daily to the public library, attached to the Blue- Coat Hospital, to read during the intervals of school hours. The reading-room was most congenial to study. Antique, with a coved and groined ceiling, deeply-embayed windows filled with painted glass, which threw a mellow and subdued light around, walls wainscoted with black oak, a high, carved mantelpiece, above which hung the portrait of the munificent founder, an austere-looking man, k ' frosty but kindly, like a lusty winter," chairs of ancient make, with leathern seats and backs, old oak tables, and quaint old reading-desks in nooks — such was the room, and such its furniture. In the deep recess of an oriel window projecting from the centre of the chamber sat the pale young student, working with intensity of zeal. Having in a short space mastered the task-work of the day, he would plunge into writers with whom we had no concern ; would ac- quaint himself with the natural history of Pliny, or take up the Annals of Tacitus, the Institutes of Quintilian, or the Offices of Cicero ; would dip into the Thebaid and Achilleid of the wordy and turgid Statius, or test the pure latinity of the later poets, Ausonius and Claudian, by the Mosella and other idylls of the one, and the Pro- serpina of the other. Neither did he neglect the Greek historians, dramatists, and philosophers, and meditated often upon the precepts of the divine Plato. Sometimes he would consult the Fathers, and pore over Origen, Lactantius, and Chrysostom. The only apprehen- sion was, lest he should sink under his labours — his slight and deli- cate frame seeming wholly inadequate to sustain the spirit burning within it, while neither due rest nor support were afforded. But no persona] consideration could check his ardour, and he worked on like one determined to win the race or perish in the effort. I have sat for hours with him in the college library, and have been surprised at his zeal, and the extent of information he acquired. He read with great rapidity, and his memory was so extraordinarily retentive, that he never forgot what he read, however hastily. Convinced from his appearance that his health was giving way, I spoke to him earnestly on the subject, but remonstrances were in vain. I was therefore scarcely surprised, though deeply distressed, when he did not make his appearance as usual, and was fully prepared for the intelligence which was brought to Dr. Lonsdale two days afterwards, that he was very ill, and unable to attend school. On receiving this message, which appeared to make him uneasy, the doctor called to me, and bade me make further inquiries of the messenger, who was at the door. I went there, and found a little girl outside, whom I knew at once must be Brideoake's sister, Apphia. She was a child of extraordinary beauty. Her features were of the most pefect regularity, lighted up by eyes of the tenderest blue, and her complexion was as soft as the tint of an opening damask-rose ; her limbs were slight, but very gracefully formed ; and long fair ringlets hung about her shoulders. But there was a canker in the rose — the Gl LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP worm was there — and the bloom, now so delicate and fugitive, would soon, I feared, be altogether effaced by sadness and want. " I presume you are Apphia Brideoake ?" I said. " I am very sorry to hear your brother is unwell. I hope it is nothing serious ?" " I hope not," she replied, heaving a deep sigh, while tears filled her eyes. " I hope not — for he is everything to us. We don't know what is the matter with him, but he is so faint and weak that he can't get up ; and his mind slightly wanders at times. He complains that he can't read ; for when he takes up a book the letters dance and skip before him, and he can't make out a word." " Who attends him ?" I inquired, anxiously. " Only mamma," she replied. "We can't afford a doctor. Besides, he says he wouldn't take anything if it were given him. A little cup of broth was all that passed his lips yesterday. He had a very rest- less night, mamma says, for she sat up with him ; and I don't think he is any better to-day." " He must have advice without delay," I said. " Where do you live, Apphia ? for although John Brideoake is my intimate friend, whom I love as a brother, I have never been made acquainted with his dwelling. But now I must know it." "You are his friend, Mervyn Clitheroe, I suppose?" she inquired, fixing her eyes full upon me. And, on my replying in the affirmative, she blushed slightly, and continued : " I thought so the moment I saw you. John described you exactly. But I must go. Mamma will wonder why I stayed so long." " Not before you have answered my question, Apphia," I rejoined. " Nay, do not hesitate. Under any other circumstances I would not intrude, but now your brother's life may be at stake." " Well, I will tell you," she replied ; "for I am sure you mean so kindly that mamma cannot be offended, and even if she is, I must bear her displeasure. Our lodgings are in Preston-court, in Friar's- gate — the last house on the right; and the upper story," she added, blushing deeply. " Don't be ashamed, Apphia," I said, taking her hand. " Poverty is no crime, and if John is spared he will make a good home for you ; of that I'm certain. And now good-by. Try to cheer your mamma, and tell her I will obtain medical advice for your brother in the course of the morning." And the little child, looking gratefully at me, hastened away. On re-entering the school I told Dr. Lonsdale what I had heard, and I saw he shared in my apprehensions as to the dangerous condi- tion of John Brideoake, in whom, as being one of the most promising of his pupils, he took a warm interest. He immediately wrote a note, and told me to take it at once to Dr. Foam, his particular friend, who, besides being the most eminent physician in the town, was a very humane man, and would attend to the case without fee or reward. I had intended mentioning the matter to Mrs. Mervyn, but this did just as well, and I accordingly repaired to the residence of the physician, which was in one of the principal streets of Cottonborough. MEEYTN CLITHEROE. 65 CHAPTER IX. INTRODUCES A BENEVOLENT PHYSICIAN AND A DECATED GENTLEWOMAN. Dr. Foam was a stout little man, with a head like an ol'd piece of polished ivory — so perfectly bald, that I do not think there was a single hair upon it. His eyes were deeply sunk in their sockets, and his chin almost buried in the ample folds of a cravat. He wore a black coat, drab knee-breeches, and brown top-boots. The room smelt terribly of tobacco, as if he had just been smoking. His voice was extraordinarily husky, and he wheezed very much as he spoke ; but his manner was affable, and he made me feel easy with him directly. Inquiring after Mrs. Mervyn, he launched out into praises of her, and spoke of her admirable library. I thought he had a good library of his own, as I glanced round the walls, which were covered with well-filled book-shelves ; and, noticing the glance, he told me every room in the house was equally full of books, but still he was always adding to the collection ; " though where I'm to put them all I don't know," he continued, with a smile, " and that reminds me that I've a sale to attend at Tom- linson's to-day. There are several works I have marked (putting a catalogue into his pocket) which I mean to purchase if I can, for there are other collectors besides myself in Cottonborough, and I am often outbidden now. Tell Mrs. Mervyn, with my compliments, that I shall avail myself one of these days of her obliging offer to show me some of her manuscript treasures — her Jacobite memorials. And now as to this poor lad — this John Brideoake. Brideoake," he re- peated — " a north country name. I'm a Northumbrian myself. You've written down the address, my young friend — ay, Preston-court, Priar's- gate — sad hole it must be. Wretchedly poor you say, and the lad a good scholar. Dr. Lonsdale says his best pupil — a hard student — a second Picus de Mirandola. Ah ! we must preserve him. A miracle of erudition must not be nipped in the bud. I will be there in an hour, and will see what can be done for him. Don't forget my message to Mrs. Mervyn." I promised him I would not ; thanked him for his kind intentions towards John Brideoake ; and left him with a lightened heart. I next flew to my poor friend's abode, and soon reached the narrow court where it was situated. I went straight to the house, and having passed through the lower rooms, tenanted by two different families, ascended a narrow, steep staircase, and reached a door, against which I tapped. It was instantly opened for me by Apphia, who greeted me sadly, and said, " John is worse." I cast my eyes round the room, and saw that the walls were almost bare, and that it was nearly destitute of the needful articles of furni- ture, two or three rickety chairs and a deal table forming the sum total, while a small shelf contained a scanty supply of crockery. The 66 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF whole place bore marks of extreme poverty, even to the miserable fire, on which a small pan was set. Some of John's school-books were lying on the mantelshelf, near a tin candlestick. Apphia was employed at some needlework, and had a basket before her. I had scarcely completed my survey, when an inner door opened, and Mrs. Bride- oake came forth. I was greatly surprised by her appearance, for, though worn and sorrow-stricken, there were still traces of great beauty in her counte- nance, coupled with an expression of pride wholly unsubdued, while her deportment was almost commanding. She was dressed in faded black ; but, in spite of her poor attire, it was perceptible at once that she was a lady. There was none of the gentleness about her that cha- racterised both her children. She was made of sterner stuff. In her looks and in her manner it could be seen that all she had endured had not crushed her spirit, and that, probably, she would see her children perish from want, and perish likewise herself, rather than abate a jot of her independence. So, at least, I thought when I beheld her. She thanked me for the interest I had taken in her son ; but when I mentioned that Dr. Foam was coming in a short time to pay him a visit professionally, she appeared much annoyed and dis- concerted, and a slight flush, almost of shame, overspread her pale features. " .Dr. Foam ! I had rather it had been any one else," she ex- claimed. " He is a very kind, humane man, ma'am," I observed. " So the world reputes him, and, no doubt, with justice ; for it does not speak too favourably of any one," she rejoined. " I have known the doctor under different circumstances, and at a time when I did not anticipate the sad reverses I have since experienced, and then liked him greatly. It will be a trial to me to see him now ; but it cannot be helped, and I must submit. I will go and prepare my son." " May I not see him ?" I inquired, hastily. " jNot.yet," she answered, in a tone that did not admit oi' dispute. " Xot till Dr. Foam has been here. If lie permits it, you shall." AjkI she returned to the room whence she had come, and 1 presently leard John's feeble accents, as if in expostulation with her. Suddenly a sharp cry pierced our ears, and Mrs. Brideoake, in a voice of great alarm, called to Apphia to bring a cup of water quickly. I could not restrain myself, but rushed into the room likewise, and beheld John, stretched on a miserable pallet. I thought him dead; and his mother thought so too, for she was kneeling beside him, clasping her hands in bitterest anguish. " He is gone !" she ejaculated, despairingly. " 1 have lost him — ■ my only hope — my only support ! He who was so good, so per- severing, so clever, so wise — he who could have repaired our fallen .brtuues, and reinstated me in my lost position — he is gone — gone for ever ! Heaven, in its mercy, take me too, for I have nothing left to live for." MERTYN CLITHEUOE. 07 As she uttered this outburst of selfish sorrow, my heart bled for poor little Apphia, who was weeping mid trembling; beside her. Meanwhile, I had taken John's arm, and feeling the returning pul- sation, calmed Mrs. Brideoake's frantic transports, by assuring her that her son was not yet lost to her. I sprinkled his face with water, and in a few moments he opened his eyes. Their gaze alighted on me. " Ah !" he murmured, faintly. " Dear Mervyn here ! I have seen him — I shall die content." "You are not going to die yet, John," I replied. "Be of good heart. You have many years in store for you. You must live for your mother and sister." He looked at them ruefully. " I have prayed fervently to Heaven to spare me for them," he said. " And the prayer will be granted, rest assured," I replied. " Doctor Foam is coming to see you. He will be here presently. But your mother thinks it may do you harm to talk to me. So I will go into the next room to await the doctor's arrival." Pressing his hand, I withdrew, and, at a sign from her mother, Apphia followed me. The poor child appeared almost broken-hearted ; and I was so much touched by her looks, that I took her little hand in mine, and tried to cheer her. " You must not dwell upon what escaped your mother in her afflic- tion, Apphia," I said. " She scarcely knew what she uttered." " I suppose not," she replied; "but she loves John better than me, because he is to make us rich again, if he lives, poor fellow. Have you any brothers and sisters ; and does your mamma make any dis- tinction between them and you ? Does she love you as well as the others?" "Alas! Apphia,"* I said, scarcely able to repress my emotion, " 1 have no mamma ; she died when I was a little child ; but I remember she was very fond of me. I have some half-brothers and sisters, fir my papa has married again, but I have never seen them — nor, indeed, him. They are in India," " Pray forgive me for asking the question. I fear I have occasioned you pain," she said. "]N"o, Apphia ; I always like to think and talk of my dear mother," I rejoined. " Some day I will tell you all I know about her, and you will be pleased to hear how good and beautiful she was. And now dry your eyes, and don't imagine yourself friendless, for even if you were to lose John, I will be a brother to you." Apphia then sat down, and attempted to resume her needlework, but in vain. The tears coursed down her pretty cheeks. I would have cheered her if I could, but I had exhausted all my stock of com- fort, and now felt inclined to weep with her, for my sympathies were powerfully awakened in her behalf. At length a 'knock was heard at the door, and Dr. Foam was ad- mitted. He was puffing and blowing from the exertion of mounting the steep stairs, when Mrs. Brideoake came from the inner room. On f2 68 LIFE AND AOVENTUltES OF seeing her, he gave a start, and looked as if he could scarcely believe his eyes. " Bless my soul ! Can it be ?" he exclaimed. " It is the person you suppose, Dr. Foam," she replied, receiving him with as much stiffness and dignity as if she herself had sent for him, and intended to fee him handsomely. " You perceive to what I am reduced. I must beg you to consider me as what I am — Mrs. Brideoake, a poor widow — not what I was — nor what I may be," she added, with a sigh. " I will observe your instructions, madam," replied the doctor, with a deferential bow. " I ought to apologise for being the means of bringing you to such a wretched place, Dr. Foam," she said, offering him a rickety chair, on which he seemed unwilling to trust his bulky person. " I wonder you, who have all the wealthy families in Cottonborough as patients, would condescend to visit such poor people as we are." " Tut, tut, madam !" the doctor cried. " I came to visit your son, because I was asked to do so by Dr. Lonsdale ; but I would have come just as readily — nay, far more readily — if you had sent for me your- self. I have many poor patients as well as many rich ones ; and as I take more from some than I ought, I balance the account by attend- ing the others gratis. I care nothing about the apartments, except that I lament you should be obliged to occupy them. But I must say I take it unkindly in you, madam, not to send forme, — if only for the sake of former times." " I entreat you not to refer to those times, doctor," Mrs. Brideoake said, coldly. " I only did so to show the claim you had upon my services," the physician rejoined. " But come, madam," he added, rising, " 1 have now recovered the breath I had lost in mounting your staircase. Show me to your son." " I must again apologise for the room, doctor " " Pooh ! pooh ! no more apologies, madam," cried the physician, impatiently. "Let's see the lad." And they entered the room, closing the door after them, and leaving Apphia and me in a state of breathless anxiety as to the result of the examination. Some time elapsed, which seemed much longer to us than it was really, before they came forth again ; and when they did so, I augured well from the physician's cheerful looks. Doctor Foam seized a chair, and popping down in it rather hastily, it gave way beneath him, and he was prostrated on the floor. I flew to his assistance, and as he got up he laughed very heartily at the accident, checking Mrs. Bride- oake's apologies, and telling her there was no harm done except to the chair, which he would mend with a new one. Not liking to trust himself to another equally crazy concern, he continued standing, and Apphia went up to him timidly, and asked him how he found her brother. " 1 am glad I can relieve your mind respecting him, my dear," he replied, patting her head. " And yours too, youngster. John will get better, but time will be required for his entire recovery. H« MERYYN CL1THKHOB. 69 has greatly overworked himself, and his frame is m a most debilitated condition. If he had been allowed to go on as he is now, fever would have supervened, and have speedily taken him off. But there are no really dangerous symptoms about him; and what I most feared, consumption, has not declared itself; and I trust, under Provi- dence, to be able to ward off its insidious attacks. As I have inti- mated, two or three months of repose of mind and body, of entire cessation from study, of freedom from all anxiety, will be required to reinstate him completely. He must have better air, better diet, and better rooms." " But, my good sir, where is the money for these things to come from ?" Mrs. Brideoake exclaimed. " Out of my pocket, madam." " I am equally indebted to you, doctor, but I cannot accept your assistance." " Cannot ! But, madam, I tell you, you must. Without the aids I have mentioned I won't undertake to cure your son. If he remains here another week he will die, madam. D'ye understand me now ?" " I must submit to the will of Providence," Mrs. Brideoake replied. " Your professional aid I am willing to receive, doctor, but not your moDey. That I must positively decline. As you well know, I need not be here now if I w T ould bow my neck." " Much better if you would bow it," I heard Doctor Foam mutter. He looked hard at her, but he saw no further arguments would pre- vail. It was an anxious moment both to me and Apphia ; and I was very indignant with Mrs. Brideoake, for I feared she would sacrifice her son to her false notions of pride. At last the doctor's countenance brightened up. "I have hit upon a plan which I think will overcome all your scruples, madam," he said. "I can appreciate, though I cannot ap- prove of, your motives for declining pecuniary assistance from me, which, after all, would have been no obligation on your part whatever, because your son could repay me when he becomes a rich man ; and he will assuredly be rich one of these days, if he lives. But, as I was saying, my plan will obviate every difficulty. I am acquainted with an excellent lady, whose whim — and a most amiable whim it is — is to render help without being cognisant of the names of those she assists , while the persons aided are kept in equal ignorance of their benefac- tress. "Will you consent to be indebted to her for a time — only for a time, madam ?" Mrs. Brideoake appeared to hesitate. Little Apphia approached her, and taking her hand, looked up in her face in a manner so earnest and supplicating, that it could not be resisted. " Well, for John's sake, and his sake only, I consent," Mrs. Bride- oake said ; " for I would not willingly be indebted to any human being, and that you may believe, doctor. But you are not deceiving me about the lady — indeed, I am sure you are not — you are too much of a gentleman for that, and have shown that you understand my feel- ings too well. I leave all in your hands." " Delighted to hear it, madam," returned Doctor Foam, gleefully, " You will attend strictly to my directions respecting your son. Give 70 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF him the medicine, which will be sent in by the apothecary, and a glass of the wine, which will be sent in by myself, and which you'll find the best medicine after all. Don't stint it, madam, for I shall send you a good supply, and some good wholesome nutritious food, which will be equally efficacious. I wish you good morning, Mrs. — ah ! let me see— Brideoake, Yes, that's it, I shall see you again in the course of the day, Mrs. Brideoake, and trust to find John improved. Come, young sir," he added to me. I was much surprised that Dr. Foam, who appeared so well ac- quainted with the lady, should hesitate about her name, and I reflected upon the matter as I followed him out of the room. A small, old-fashioned yellow chariot, like a post-chaise, with a pair of old horses attached to it, and an old coachman on the box, was waiting at the entrance of the court, and the doctor begged me to get into it, telling the man to drive home. During the ride thither, he questioned me particularly as to Mrs. Brideoake's circumstances. I told him all I knew, and he said, " It is a sad case. The poor lady has borne up with great fortitude ; and so, indeed, have they all. But she is most to be pitied, for she is as proud as Lucifer ; and what humiliation and misery must she not have endured ! Hers has been mental torture, while the poor young things have only been half- starved. However, that's bad enough." I thought so too, and by no means agreed witli him that they were less to be pitied than their mother, whose inordinate pride appeared to be the sole cause of their misery. And as I felt sure there was some mystery in the case, which the doctor could unravel if he liked, I tried to bring him to the point. " You have asked me a good many questions, doctor, — will you allow me to ask you one in return ? 1 observed, when you were taking leave of Mrs. Brideoake, that you hesitated about her name, as if it did not come naturally to you. Is it assumed ? If so, I* do not believe her son can be aware of the circumstance," Doctor Foam looked a little puzzled, but at length said, " Do not ask me that question, my young friend, for I am not at liberty to answer it. And as to John, I must beg of you not to mention to him any suspicions which my inadvertence may have roused in your mind, They would only disturb him, and do no good whatever. You are his friend, I know, and will attend to my caution." I assured him I would, and soon after this we reached his house, and alighted. 1 went with him into the study, where he wrote out a prescription, and, ringing the bell, gave orders to the servant to get it made up, and take it, without loss of time, as directed, with a basket of provisions, which he specified, and another oi' wine, to the same address. "And here," he added, " let this easy-chair be taken to the same place, and one of my flannel dressing-gowns. D'ye hear?" The servant having departed to execute his behests, lie turned to me- and said, " I must now tell you to whom 1 mean to apply f\n- the velief of this poor lady. It is, as you see, a case of peculiar delicacy and difficulty, in which I am not allowed to interfere personally. \ r our relative Mrs. Mervyn's purse is always open, while her eyes are MERVYN CLIT11EH0E. 71 closed towards the object of her bounty. The channels in which her benevolence flows are only known to those who claim it. 1 shall apply to her; and I hope there will be no impropriety in the step." " I guessed whom you referred to, doctor, when you proposed your plan to Mrs. Brideoake," I replied, " and I felt sure no one could be found more willing to assist her than Mrs. Mervyn, while neither the poor lady nor her children need ever be made aware to whom they are indebted." "Well, then, since you agree with me in opinion, my young friend, we will go to the Anchorite's at once. I am not fond of begging — and wish I had been allowed to have my own way— but there is no help for it in this case." We then got into the old chariot again, and, having stopped for a few minutes at the auction-rooms in the Exchange, where the doctor handed in the catalogue, with the books marked in it which-he wished to purchase, we drove to the Anchorite's. Mrs. Mervyn was at home, and received the doctor very courteously, and he immediately entered upon the object of his visit, concluding by stating, that he had been emboldened to make the request, not only by his knowledge of her most charitable disposition, but because he was aware of her strong feelings towards the Jacobite cause. " I am not permitted to disclose the name of the lady for whom I venture to solicit your assistance, madam," he said; "neither, per- haps, would you desire to know it ; but when I tell you that she belongs to one of those unfortunate families in the north of England, who suffered in the Eising of '15, I am sure I have said enough to enlist your strongest sympathies in her behalf." " You have, indeed, doctor," Mrs. Mervyn replied, the tears spring- ing to her eyes ; " and I shall be indeed happy if you will point out a way in which I can be useful to her — not now, but hereafter." As she said this, she unlocked a coffer, and, taking out a roll of bank- notes, gave them to the physician, adding, " I very rarely wishtojuiow whom 1 am fortunate enough to be able to serve, but in this instance I must say my curiosity is aroused, and, if not disagreeable to her, I should be truly happy to make the lady's acquaintance." I was so delighted that I felt disposed to tell her at once, but the doctor checked me by a look. " I am truly grieved that 1 cannot comply with your request, madam," he replied; "but the lady is singularly proud, and if she discovered " " She would discover nothing from me," Mrs Mervyn interrupted. " 1 do not for a moment imagine it, madam. But I fear it must be delayed — there are reasons " " Very well, doctor, I shall urge you no further. But I must repeat the hope that you will not hesitate to apply to me again. J urn always ready in such cases, and more particularly in one where my feelings are deeply interested, like the present." "The sum you have given is more than ample to meet any present emergency," said the doctor, who had glanced at the amount el' the notes. " And now, like all solicitants who have obtained their suit, I 72 LIFE AND AUVENTUltES OF must make my bow. On some future occasion I will crave permission to examine your library and its manuscript treasures." " Come and examine it to-morrow, and dine with me afterwards," said Mrs. Mervyn. " I happen to have a little dinner party, to which you will be a great acquisition." " I see only one objection to the arrangement, madam — I expect Dr. Bray on a visit to me — and he arrives to-day." "Pray bring him with you," Mrs. Mervyn said; "I shall be de- lighted to see Dr. Bray, of whom I have heard so much." " You will find him a little eccentric in manners, and perhaps rather too Johnsonian in his talk, madam," Dr. Foam said. " Never mind that," she replied. " Mervyn will like to see so celebrated a person, so he shall dine with us too. I shall expect you and your learned friend, doctor." The physician bowed. " I think I must take this young gentleman back with me," he said ; " he will like to see a family, in which he is interested, made happy." " As you please, Dr. Foam," she replied ; " and though I am not permitted to know who my Jacobite friends are, I am glad Mervyn is more fortunate." " You will know them some day, I am sure, my dear Mrs. Mervyn, and like them as I do," I replied, for I was overjoyed at her conduct, and not only loved her dearly, but felt quite proud of her. The doctor walked through the garden, on the w T ay to the carriage, and promised himself a great treat, on some occasion, in examining Mrs. Mervyn's hothouses and greenhouses. As we drove back again to town, I told him that I thought good accommodation for the family might be obtained at Marston, and added, that I knew of a cottage (I w r as thinking of Ned Culcheth's) which I was sure would suit them exactly. The doctor said a better spot could not be selected. Marston was remarkably salubrious, and he would recommend it to Mrs. Brideoake. It was then agreed that I should ride over on the day but one following, as I could not miss the dinner on the morrow, and engage the lodgings. Arrived once more at Preston-court, we climbed the steep stair- case, and were speedily admitted by little Apphia, who smiled as she beheld us, and we saw at once the change that had been effected. The provisions supplied by the doctor's care w r ere spread on the table, and had evidently been partaken of by mother and daughter ; perhaps the first hearty meal they had enjoyed for months. A bottle of old Madeira was opened, and its fragrance perfumed the apartment. But the chief object of attraction was the invalid himself, who was seated in the easy-chair sent by the doctor, and wrapped in the worthy man's flannel dressing-gown. He looked very wan and feeble, but his eye dwelt with gratitude on Dr. Foam and on me. The physician felt his pulse, and said he was going on capitally. " He will be none the worse for another glass of Madeira," he added, pouring it out, and handing it to him. As John, with trembling hand, conveyed the generous wine to his MEKVYN CLITHEKOE. 73 lips, Dr. Foam turned to Mrs. Brideoake, and, taking the bank-notes from his pocket-book, placed them in her hands. " The lady I mentioned to you, madam," he said, " has commis- sioned me to present you with this sum of money. It will, I hope, fully meet the present exigency, and be the means of restoring your son to you in health. A cottage at Marston, in Cheshire, will be en- gaged for you, and in a few days John will be strong enough, I trust, to be conveyed thither." For the first time Mrs. Brideoake's pride was shaken, and she seemed completely overcome by emotion. " Oh, sir !" she ejaculated, " I cannot thank you as I ought." " You must not thank me, madam," he replied ; " you must thank your own unknown friend." " I do — I do," she rejoined ; " but you have been the instrument, doctor. The blessings of a poor widow will requite you !" " What, you want to thank me too, eh ?" said the doctor, turning to little Apphia, who had crept up to him. " You must let me see the roses which you will pick up at Marston." " That I will, sir, — I will bring you plenty," replied Apphia, taking the words literally. Meanwhile, I had approached John, and said a few words to him, when the doctor, who had now discharged his commission, fearing the invalid might be over-excited, put a stop to our further conver- sation, and, beckoning me to follow him, I was obliged to obey the summons. CHAPTEE X. A VISIT TO THE BUTLER'S PANTRY A DINNER PARTY AT THB ANCHORITE'S DR. BRAY AND MR. CUTHBERT SPRING. "When any secret information is required, servants are sure to furnish it, and what Mrs. Mervyn could not have learnt from me respect- ing the objects of her bounty, she had already obtained from Mr. Comberbac'h, as I discovered on my return home in the evening. Our butler was in the pantry cleaning plate, preparatory to the dinner on the following day, and as I chanced to pass the door he re- quested me to step in for a moment. The pantry was quite a chamber of horrors, the walls being covered with prints representing the tragical fate of the persons composing our butler's martyrology. Nowhere else could be seen such a direful collection of hangings and decapitations ; and I wondered what plea- sure Mr. Comberbach could have in contemplating them. The scaf- fold on Tower Hill was repeated at least a dozen times, the prominent figures being Kilmarnock, Balmerino, Lovat, and Charles Eatcliffe, 74 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OE Lord Derwent water's brother. There was the execution on Ken- nington Common of the unfortunate Jemmy Dawson, whose fate S hen- stone has so pathetically bew r ailed, and the Carlisle and Cottonborough tragedies. Interspersed among these were several broadside ballads, or "Laments," headed with cuts as appalling as the prints. On the mantelshelf were a couple of skulls, looking very yellow and grim, and asserted by our butler to be those of his luckless progenitors. A waggish friend" told him he must have lost his own head when lie put the others there. Then there were the powder-puff and brass basin belonging to the owners of the skulls ; and the comfortable arm-chair now occupied by our butler had once stood, he affirmed, in the shop of the valorous shavers, who went before him, in Old Mill Gate. Our butler was a very respectable looking man, fat and florid, but not unwieldy ; and he not only knew how to decant a bottle of old port, but to discuss it too, if opportunity offered. In age, he was hard upon sixty, and was very particular as to his dress. Indeed, when fully rigged out, he looked as grand as a lord, for he wore a sky-blue coat with gilt buttons, a white waistcoat, with a satin under- waistcoat of the royal Stuart tartan (so arranged as to look like the riband of an order of knighthood), knee-breeches, and black silk stockings of a very fine w r eb. Our butler was not a little vain of his large calves and small feet ; and, as became the descendant of a line of barbers, he wore powder in his hair. Fastened to his under- waistcoat, and so placed as to have the appearance of a decoration, was an immense brooch, surrounded by mock brilliants, containing a miniature of Prince Charles Edward. " Pray, Master Mervyn," Mr. Comberbach said, as he rubbed away at a large two-handled silver cup, " may I inquire after Master John Brideoake?" And seeing me stare at the question, he winked knowingly, and continued : " Nay, you needn't make no secret of it with us, sir. We knows it all." (Our butler had a way of mixing himself up with his mistress in his observations.) " We knows whom you and Dr. Foam wisited to-day ; and I'll tell you how we comes for to know it. The doctor's coachman, old Andrew Beatson, is a crony of mine ; so, says I to him, as I takes him a pot of our mild October to the garden gate, where the carriage was a-standing, ' So, Andrew,' says I, ' you've brought home Master Mervyn — from school, eh ?' Says he to me, a-blowin' off the froth, ' My sarvice to you, Mr. Cummerbaych.' (Thus our butler pronounced Ids own name.) ' Xo, sir, w r e comes from Preston - court, i' Friar's - gate.' ' Preston- court !' says I. ' That's a queer place, Andrew ! What could young master be doing there ?' ' Why, a poor lad is ill, as lives there,' says he; 'one John Brideoake — a schoolfellow of hisn — and he got the doctor to wisit him — that's it.' ' Oh ! that's it ?' says I ; ' thank you, Andrew.' ' Nay, thank you, Mr. Cummerbaych,' says he ; ' you've a worry good tap here. I don't cart. 1 how often I tries it.' So, hoping to see him soon again, I wishes him good day, and when missis arterwards inquires whether I knows if you havi any friend at school as is unwell, and as comes of a Jackoybite fam'ly 1 sees it all at once, and, says I, ' Yes, mem ; John Brideoake, whom MERVYN CLITHKEOE. 75 he and the doctor have been to wisit this morning, afore they corned here. His fam'ly is Jackeybite, mem.' " " How do you know that, Mr. Comberbach ?" I asked. " How do I know it ?" our butler replied, with a cunning smile. "Never you mind that, sir." And, putting the cover on the silver cup, and holding it aloft by both handles, he exclaimed, " Historikil plate this, sir — the werry flagon out of which the young Prince drank when he brexfarsted here, on his inarch to Cottonborough, as you've oftentimes heerd missis relate. I reverences this cup, and could kiss it, only I should spile its polish. Ah ! Master Mervyn, what a pity them good old times can't come over again ! How I should like to have waited at table at that 'ere famous brexfarst ; I'd have played my grandfather's part, and shouted, — ' Live Charles Ed'ard, and down with the 'Lector of Hanover !' " And in his excitement he knocked off the cover of the cup, which, in its fall, upset the box of red plate powder, scattering its contents over his apron and lower garments. As soon as matters were put to rights, and I had done laughing, I asked him what Mrs. Mervyn said when he told her about John Brideoake. " Why, let me see. She said, says she, ' I'm almost sorry I axed you the question, Mr. Cummerbaych ; for, to tell you the truth, I scarcely expected an answer.' Then, says I, ' Ma'am, if you had only given me a hint, I wouldn't have answered it.' But I seed she wanted to hear more, so I tells her all I knew — and that wasn't much. And now, Master Mervyn, may I ask you who these Brideoakes is ? "We don't recollect the name, — and we knows all the old Jackeybite fam'lies. We knows the Tyldesleys, the Daltons, the Hiltons, the Sandersons, the Heskeths, the Standishes, and the Shuttleworths ; but we never heerd tell of the Brideoakes — never." " I can give you no information, Mr. Comberbach." " You're a werry discreet young gentleman, I must say," he rejoined, with a look of some annoyance ; " but allow me to obsar\ r e, in my missis's name, that there is no occasion for myst'ry in this case, our object being to sarve the fam'ly. * You're aware of our attachment to the Good Cause, and how ready we are to aid those who suffered for it P" " Oli, yes, I'm aware of all that, Mr. Comberbach ; but I really know no more than you do yourself." Our butler shook his head, and smiled incredulously. Taking another piece of plate out of the great chest which was standing open before him, he fell vigorously to work upon it with the polishing leather, chanting the while an old Jacobite ballad : " Macintosh is a soldier brave. And of his friends he took his leave, Unto Northumberland he drew, And marched along with a jovial crew. With a fa la la ra da ra da. " My Lord Derwentwater he did say Five hundred guineas he would lay, To fight the Militia, if they would stay, But they all proved cowards, and ran away. With a fa la, &c. 76 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP " The Earl of Mar did vow and swear, If that proud Preston he came near, Before the Right should starve, and the Wrong should stand, He would drive them into some foreign land. With a fa la, &c. " Macintosh is a valiant soldier, He carried a musket on his shoulder. ' Cock your pistols, draw your rapper, Damn you, Forster, for you're a traitor.' With a fa la," &c. Leaving him singing, I went up-stairs to Mrs. Mervyn ; and though, after what I had heard in the pantry, I expected to be questioned by her, she made no allusion whatever to the Brideoak.es. On returning from school next day, in anticipation of the dinner party at which I was allowed to assist, I found our butler and two hired waiters in the hall. Mr. Comberbach was arrayed in all his finery, with his plaid satin under-waistcoat very skilfully displayed, and his large brooch glittering like a star upon his breast. "Well, sir," he said, with a smirk, "they're come, sir." "Who're come?" I exclaimed, almost expecting him to mention the Brideoakes, upon whom my own thoughts were running. " Dr. Foam and his friend, Dr. Bray, sir. Lor' bless us, Master Mervyn, it's a parfit pleasure to see a man like that. He's none of your e very-day humdrum parsons, as wears a black coat and white choker like other folks — not he ! He's full dress, band and cassock, shorts and silks, and a wig, sir, — ay, sir, sicJi a wig ! I tuk him for a bishop when I sees his full-bob, and he tuk me for a lord when he beholds my brooch. And werry respectful bows w^e makes each other, till at last Dr. Foam kindly undeceives us. I warn't displeased at the mistake a bit, nor were Dr. Bray ; for, says he, ' Tou are pre- mature, my good friend — whatever I may be when the Whigs comes in, I'm not a bishop yet.' ' You'll be a bishop afore I'm helewated to the peerage, doctor,' says I ; ' but I thought the Wigs must be corned in,' I adds, eyeing his bob-major. ' Aha !' cries he, laughing, 'you can joke, eh? jackanapes!' * Jackeybite, sir,' says I — 'we're all Jackeybites here.' And he laughs ready to split his fat sides and walks off, for he sees he's no match for me at a rippertee." And our butler grinned and winked at the two waiters, who nodded their heads and grinned in return, as much as to say they entirely agreed in the estimate he formed of his own powers. " They're up-stairs in the library," Mr. Comberbach said. On this hint I went thither, and found Dr. Foam examining some thick folio volumes of manuscript Jacobite correspondence, which were generally locked up in the bookcase, but had no doubt been laid out for him by Mrs. Mervyn. He was so deeply engaged, that he did not remark my entrance, but continued reading letter after letter. At last he closed the volume, exclaiming, " Very strange ! very strange indeed!" And then observing me, he added, "Ah! my young friend, I didn't know you were here. My exclamation w r as occasioned by a very curious discovery which I have just made in glancing through this Jacobite correspondence. I have chanced upon MEltVTN CL1THER0E. 77 some letters which show that a friendly intercourse subsisted between the main branch of the family which your worthy relative so kindly aided, and the unfortunate Ambrose Mervyn. Not having yet had time to go through the whole of the correspondence, I cannot say precisely how it ended. But I must borrow the volume from Mrs. Mervyn, to examine the letters at my leisure. I dare say she will trust me with it. And now I see you fancy you will be able to make out the secret ; but though I have furnished you with a clue to it, you will not ; for the real names are not given, and portions of the correspondence being in cypher, you won't be a bit the wiser if you search. Thus much I may tell you. The people you are interested in come of a very good family, and have more title to your regard than I was aware of. If upon investigating the matter I find my conjectures correct, I may perhaps consider it my duty to acquaint Mrs. Mervyn with my accidental discovery. But I shall say nothing at present. A propos of the Brideoakes, I am glad to be able to report to you that John is decidedly better. I have now no fears of him. Of course, you go to Marston to arrange about the lodgings to-morrow ? And now let me present you to Dr. Bray." A feeling of awe came over me as we approached the formidable personage in question. Dr. Bray was seated in an arm-chair, in the little octagonal room opening out of the library, and was poring over a volume, which I knew to be Salmasius's Commentary on the Hellenic language. He was short and corpulent, with rather hard features, charged with a sort of bull-dog expression, and, though Mr. Comberbach had prepared me for his full clerical suit of black, his band and cassock, my ideas had not come up to his full-blown cauli- flower wig. It was portentous. I did not wonder that our butler had taken him for a bishop, for he certainly had the air of one ; but I did wonder that the rascal ventured to treat him with familiarity. I could never have done so. Dr. Bray looked up at me from beneath his shaggy grey eyebrows, and grunted out, " Salve, puer !" " Salve, doctor eruditissime," I replied, bowing respectfully. " Humph ! Well, boy, so you are at the Cottonborough grammar- school, I understand, and a fairly reputed school it is, though Dr. Lonsdale spoils you all because he does not flog you. * Lumbos dolare virgis,' is my maxim. I always use the birch freely, and find it of wonderful efficacy. It quickens the circulation, and sharpens the intellect. No boy can get on well unless he is well birched." " Mr. Cane is apparently of your opinion, sir," I replied, timidly. " And, sir, let me tell you, Mr. Cane is right, and Dr. Lonsdale wrong. Severity is wholesome — wholesome as a bitter potion. In- fantiam delitiis solvimus. Dr. Lonsdale is all honey — and I tell you it won't do, sir. If you have any classical knowledge at all, you owe it to Mr. Cane." " He certainly did not spare me, sir," I answered, quaking. " And quite right, I say again. Whatever punishment you received must have been richly deserved. Sir, I honour Mr. Cane. A good flogging is like exercise to the body, it gives you an appetite for study." As he said this, he put on such a terrible countenance, that I 78 LIFE AND ADVENTUltES OF hastily retired into the library, almost apprehensive lest he should try whether a good flogging would give me an appetite for dinner. Probably he was only jesting though ; for I noticed a smile cross his cynical features as he glanced at Dr. Foam, who appeared greatly amused. Whether jesting or not, I was glad when the first dinner- bell rang, giving me an excuse for beating a retreat, and I left the two classical seniors talking about Vossius and Scaliger, Bellendenus and Warburton, Bentley and Porson. About half an hour afterwards, on coming down stairs, I met Mr. Barton Lever, and was glad of his support as I entered the drawing- room. Dr. Bray was seated in an easy-chair next to Mrs. Mervyn, and I suppose they had been discussing the lady's favourite topic, for Dr. Foam observed to her, " I begin to think, madam, that you will make Dr. Bray a convert to your Jacobite opinions." "Nay, sir, I am of Mrs. Mervyn's opinions already; for though I will not say what I might have felt, or how I might have acted at the time of the Risings of '15 or '45, my sympathies are always for the unfortunate, and I now therefore lean towards the Jacobites." " I scarcely expected so much from you, Dr. Bray," Mrs. Mervyn said, looking much gratified. " He must have little bravery in his nature, madam, who could triumph over a fallen cause ; and I am not so prejudiced as to be incapable of admiring loyalty and devotion, even when employed against my own party. Many pleasing portraits adorn your walls, madam. Probably, they are those of your ancestry." " They are so, Dr. Bray," she replied. " This martial figure, in the steel breastplate and plumed cap, and leaning on his cane, with the war-horse behind him, is Montacute Mervyn, a staunch cavalier, who fought at Edge-hill, Marston Moor, and iNaseby. On either side are his two sons, one of whom was a judge, and the other a general. I descend from the soldier, Pierrepoint Mervyn, who served under James II., and attended him during his exile at St. Germains. Some of the ladies of our line were much admired as beauties in their days. My great-grandmother, whom you see there, was considered to be very lovely." " The wife of Ambrose Mervyn, I suppose. She was a Widdrington, I think ?" Dr. Foam remarked. Mrs. Mervyn replied in the affirmative, and, as the doctor went up to examine the portrait, which was that of a very beautiful woman, in the costume of Queen Anne's day, I looked at it too, and was then struck by a certain resemblance which it seemed to bear to Mrs. Bridecake ; so much so, that I almost expected to hear Dr. Foam make a remark to that effect; but whatever he might think, lie kept his opinion to himself. " But, my dear lady," Dr. Bray observed, "there are two other portraits which you have omitted to particularise, though they strike me more* than all the rest. They are likenesses, I should say, of a father and sou — homines spectatissimae fidei — very loyal-hearted, de- termined men." " You have judged correctly, and characterised them justly, Dr. Bray," Mrs. Mervyn replied, with some emotion. " l$ot\\ were dis- MERVIN CLITHKROE. 79 tinguislied for the qualities you mention, and were, in the words of the poet, ' True as the dial to the sun, Although it be not shone upon.' Both suffered for their loyalty." These were the portraits of Ambrose and Stuart Mervyn, which had been recently removed to the place they now occupied. Very opportunely, at this moment, some arrivals took place, the first of which were Colonel and Mrs. Harbottle. The colonel was a very stout, short man, with a face quite as red as his coat, and snow-white hair. He commanded a regiment of heavy dragoons then quartered at Cottonborough. His lady was a little inclined to embonpoint, but rs till verv handsome, with a brilliant complexion, remarkably fine eyes, and a casket of pearls in her mouth which were constantly offered to general inspection. She was twenty years at least younger than the colonel, and they formed a curious contrast, for she was the taller of the two by the head. Mrs. Harbottle was related, though not very nearly, to Mrs. Mervyn, and they were great friends. On the present occasion the colonel's lady was dressed in black velvet, which suited her full, stately figure exactly, and set off her white arms and beautifully rounded shoulders to admiration. The Harbottles were accompanied by their eldest daughter, Eosetta — a good-humoured, lively girl of eighteen, who had neither mamma's figure nor mamma's features, being round- faced, fat, and dumpy ; but she had a fresh complexion, and good eyes, which did some execution, though, as she disliked boys, they rarely strayed towards me. AVhen Mrs. Harbottle was presented to Dr. Bray, he seemed greatly struck by her, for I heard him observe in a loud whisper to Dr. Foam: "Sir, — a gorgeous woman — domina venustate'eximia — quite a Juno, sir." Though very com- plaisant to her, the doctor was distant and dignified with the colonel, who seemed as glad to get away from him as I had been ; making way for two new comers, whose reception by the great man was no less frigid and ceremonious. The first of these, the Eev. Mr. D'Ewes, was tall and thin, and distinguishable for a claret-coloured com- plexion, an aquiline nose, and a very well made light-brown wig. His thumbs were generally stuck in the arm-holes of his waistcoat, and he moved about his fingers as a seal uses its flappers, otten whistling as he talked. The next was the Eev. Hardicanute Freckle- ton, a large man, rather pompous, inclined to grandiloquence, and fond of a quotation. Mr. D'Ewes and Mr. Freckleton, having made their bows to the "lion," stepped aside, when another lady was pre- sented — Mrs. Addington, a young and handsome widow, with raven hair, and eyes of oriental size and splendour ; and, lastly, a gentle- man was introduced, whose appearance I hailed with the greatest satisfaction. A more agreeable person than Cuthbert Spring could not easily be found. What Mr. Freckleton applied to him, during his presentation to Dr. Bray, was richly deserved : " A merrier man Within the limits of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal." 80 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF He had great vivacity of manner, unflagging spirits, perfect good humour ; was as ready to take a joke as to make one ; and his droll stories were inexhaustible. I was much attached to him, and he took an interest in me, for he had been my father's schoolfellow and intimate friend, and was chosen groomsman on the occasion of my father's marriage. Mr. Spring had some reason to recollect the circumstance, for in riding home from the wedding he broke his arm. But Cuthbert was no less remarkable for soundness of judgment than for good spirits. He was always ready to advise or to serve a friend, and, as he had more friends than any man in Cottonborough, this was no joke. Sometimes his counting-house was besieged, and it was with difficulty that admission could be obtained to him. What with public meetings, and private business, scarcely a moment of his time was unemployed. He had all sorts of charities connected with the town to dispense ; widows without end to advise about their jointures ; and spinsters to counsel as to their marriage settlements. In the highest circles it has been said that a matrimonial alliance cannot take place without a certain great duke being consulted ; and in Cot- tonborough, on these occasions, Cuthbert Spring played the part of the great duke. He was sometimes referred to before the family solicitor. A young gentleman about to propose was sure to apply to Cuthbert ; while ten to one but the papa would repair to the same quarter to inquire into the said young gentleman's eligibility. Thus, in many cases, Cuthbert was consulted by both parties, and always gave his advice so judiciously and dexterously, that he accomplished the most difficult of all tasks, offending neither if he did not please both. He was everybody's trustee ; everybody's executor; everybody's friend; and nobody's enemy — not even his own. Cuthbert was a confirmed old bachelor, of good fortune and good family — hospitable, but unostentatious. Bather under than above the ordinary height, he had large handsome features, so mobile that they took any expression he chose while relating a story ; and as he abominated the modern practice of clothing the cheeks with whisker and beard, there was nothing to interfere with their effect. His brow was lofty and ample, and his bright, merry blue eye " begot occasion for his wit." His manner was singularly prepossessing, and he had much of the courtesy of the old school, without its formality, as in his attire he was precise, without foppery. He lost nothing of his stature, but stood remarkably upright. The ordeal of presentation over, Cuthbert Spring shook me very cor- dially by the hand, and set off at score as usual : " There ought to be a great deal of wisdom under that wig ; though on the principle of good wine needing no bush, a man should hardly hang out a sign to let us know how learned he is. But some folks judge by the outside merely. "Well, thank Heaven ! pigtails, powder, and periwigs are gone out. I once wore a pigtail myself, but never could manage a wig. Did I ever tell you about Dr. Peacock's wig ? No. I will then. Dr. Peacock was very particular — particular about his dress — particular about his eating — particular about his acquaintance — and particularly particular about his wigs, for he had two, one of which was daily powdered and dressed for Mm by Stoby, the perruquier. You should have seen him strut ME11VVN CLLTIIEROE 83 about with his wig and cane. Well, there were two maiden ladies — sisters — young I won't call them, for they weren't so exactly — but they had charms enough for the doctor, whose wig they very much admired. He was supposed to be paying his addresses to one of them, though which was not exactly settled, for both claimed him. Exactly opposite their residence was a shop kept by a widow, who ivas young, and extremely lively and captivating ; and for these reasons, I sup- pose, and because she attracted the young sparks of the town, the two old maids disliked her. Amongst the pretty widow's admirers was my friend Pilcher Phipps, who, being fond of a practical joke, de- termined to play off one at Dr. Peacock's expense. So being aware of the arrangement with the hairdresser, he goes there one evening, just before dusk, and hires the doctor's full-bottomed wig, and clap- ping it on, and wrapping himself in a cloak, pretends to sneak into the pretty widow's shop, taking care that the two old maids, who were generally on the watch at that hour, should see him. This trick he repeated on three occasions, and always with success, for the lively little widow good-naturedly favoured the joke. Perhaps she bore no great good-will towards her opposite neighbours, and thought them prudish and envious. After the third evening, the two old maids could stand it no longer, and when the doctor presented himself, in happy unconsciousness, and in the offending wig, they burst like furies upon him, wondering how he dared to show himself in a re- spectable house, after his improper conduct. He besought an ex- planation, but they would give him none ; till at last they cried, looking daggers, ' Your wig, doctor ! We blush to name it — but it has be- trayed your proceedings.' ' My proceedings, ladies !' he exclaimed, in utter astonishment at the charge. ' Dear me ! is there anything wroDg about my wig? It was only dressed last night.' 'We know that, doctor ;' and they added, with fearful emphasis, ' and ive also know who dressed it.' ' Really, ladies, I can't see any harm in that.' ' You can't see any harm in it,' they both screamed — 'and you have the effrontery to tell us so to our faces. Leave the house instantly, sir, and never let us see either your face or your wig again.' So the doctor was summarily dismissed, and after this mishap, which caused much laughter at his expense, he very wisely took to the covering with which nature had provided his head." During the narration of this story, a group had gathered round Cuthbert Spring, all of whom laughed heartily at its close, and I have no doubt he would have followed it with another equally diverting, if dinner had not been announced ; on which lie offered his arm to Mrs. Addington, who was standing near him, and we all went down stairs, Mr. Barton Lever taking Mrs. Harbottle, Mr. D'Ewes Eosetta, and Mrs. Mervyn, of course, consigning herself to the care of Dr. Bray, while I brought up the rear. We were just a dozen — a number which the room could comfortably accommodate. Dr. Bray was placed on Mrs. Mervyn's right hand, and the colonel on her left ; but the arrangements of the table were somewhat disturbed by the doctor, who insisted upon Mrs. Harbottle sitting beside him. This being accomplished to his satisfaction, he said grace in a very sono- rous voice, and we all took our seats, mine being between Cuthbert Spring and Mr. Ereckleton. S2 LiEE AND ADVENTUKES OF " A very comfortable dining-room, madam," Dr. Bray observed to Mrs. Mervyn, looking round with satisfaction. " I like your old oak panels, I like your carved sideboard, and I like your old plate. Nothing like an old house. I am reminded of one of our ancient collegiate halls." " Eoyal Stuart turtle, or Hanoverian mock ?" Mr. Comberbach in- terposed, offering a choice of soup to Dr. Bray. " Give me the first, if it be real turtle, sirrah," the doctor rejoined. And speedily emptying his plate, he added : " Nay, it is so good, that I care not if I pay coui;t a second time to the Stuart." " Very glad to hear it, doctor," Mrs. Mervyn said. "Allow me to recommend a glass of cold punch." " Made after Lord Widdrington's receipt," our butler said, handing a glass. "What! the nobleman who was attainted in 171G ?" Dr. Bray exclaimed. " I remember he was fond of good living, and carried a bottle of strong soup with him in his march. His punch, therefore, may be better than his politics. Let me taste it. In good truth, it has merit." And, turning to Mrs. Harbottle, he added : " You should not omit to taste this Jacobite mixture, madam." " I'm afraid it would be too potent for me, doctor." " Nay, madam ; we must strive against our enemies to overcome them. Taste it. Another glass, Mr. Comberbach, and one for Mrs. Harbottle." " It is a pity you did not bring Mrs. Bray with you to Cotton- borough, doctor," Mrs. Mervyn remarked. " In a forced march, madam, I always leave the heavy baggage behind," the doctor returned. " Are we to infer that you have run away from your wife, doctor ?" Mrs. Harbottle asked, with a laugh. "Not exactly, madam," he replied, with a glance at her. "But there are occasions when one's wife is quite as well out of the way." " Indeed, doctor, I don't understand you." Some fine Bibble salmon, with Townley sauce, was now handed round, and met with universal commendation; and Dr. Bray thought it so good, that he said to Mrs. Mervyn: "Madam, I never expected to admire anything that originated with the crack-brained gentleman, qui temere et saepe dejeravit, after whom this sauce is called, but I suppose he picked up the receipt when he served under Louis XIV., and fought under the Duke of Berwick, at Philipsburg." " It may be so, doctor; but in any case, L am glad you like it," Mrs. Mervyn replied. At our part of the table w r e were merry enough, thanks to Cuth- bert Spring, who, during the interval of the courses, related another anecdote of his friend Pilcher Phipps, and gave us, this time, an excel- lent idea of the original of the story, who, from his representation, must have been a little, weasen-faced, high-shouldered man, with a very odd squeaking voice. " Pilcher," Cuthbert commenced, " had a great horror of dentists — most of us have — but as he was tormented by a raging tooth, it became absolutely necessary to call one in, so, after many qualms, he decided upon undergoing the operation in his own counting-house. But when the tooth-drawer came — from fright, I MKltVYN CLLTHEROE. 83 suppose — the pain entirely subsided. What was to be done ? lie couldn't send back the man empty-handed. He must pay him his guinea. Luckily, Pilcher had a ready wit, and luckily also for the expedient that occurred to him he had a partner, a good, simple, easy, unsuspecting soul, named Sutton, upon whom it was easy to play a trick. Mr. Sutton was immediately summoned, and, on his appear- ance, Pilcher said, in a whining, hypocritical tone, 'Oh ! Mr. Sutton, here's Mr. Faulkner come to extract youf tooth.' ' My tooth !' cried the poor man, staring in alarm at the dentist, who was getting his implements ready. ' But it doesn't ache. It's as sound as a rock, and as fast as a church. "Who sent for him ?' 'I did, Mr. Sutton, be- cause I was sure you'd never have courage to do so yourself. I did it from the best of motives, and entirely out of regard for your conve- nience, for I knew your tooth had been aching, and was sure to ache again, very likely at a time that would be particularly inconvenient to you. The races are coming on, you know, and you've many other en- gagements besides— so I felt I shouldn't be acting the part of a friend, if I allowed you to run the risk of such an annoyance. But sit down without more ado. It'll be over in a second.' There was no help for it, so poor Sutton resigned himself to his fate, while the crafty Pilcher hurried out of the room, laughing in his sleeve at the success of his stratagem." An awkward interruption here took place. Our butler, somehow or other in passing, contrived to hook the large button at his wrist into the curls of Mr. D'Ewes's wig; and, in plucking his hand away too hastily, he laid bare the poor gentleman's naked poll. What Mr D'Ewes's feelings must have been I do not pretend to say. But Mr. Comberbach made matters worse ; for, in his fright and confusion, espying Dr. Foam's bald head, and imagining it to be the one he had robbed of its covering, he clapped the hot wig upon it, and pulled it carefully down, before he found out his mistake. Up started the doctor, swearing lustily. Up started, also, Mr. D'Ewes, not swearing, but tremendously wroth ; and several minutes elapsed before all could be put to rights. Our butler's apologies and regrets were then ac- cepted, and the dinner was allowed to proceed. As dish after dish was handed round, and loudly named by Mr. Comberbach, Dr. Bray, who was not prepared for such a strange nomenclature, pricked up his ears. The Gladsmuir cutlets seemed to tickle his fancy, and also to tickle his palate, for lie asked for a second supply ; and the fillets of rabbits, a la Chevalier tie Johnstone, did not displease him ; but when at length a large raised pie was placed before him, he thought fit to feign great displeasure. "Madam," he said to Mrs. Mervyn, in a solemn tone, and with great apparent gravity, " I have partaken of many dishes, the names of which were obnoxious to my ears, but I have tolerated them, — nay, more, I have eaten them with relish. I have no! raised the voice of reproof against calf's head with Nonjuror Sauce, because L must admit the sauce so named to be meritorious ; but X decidedly object, madam, to the Cardinal of York's pie. P. C. may be marked on it, as the girls used to mark their pincushions in the Pretender's times, but that does not appease me. Mr. Comberbach, take away this pie." o2 84 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF " Take it away, sir ?" our butler inquired in astonishment. " You are not aware how good it is, sir. It's our cook's shay doover." " That may be," the doctor sternly rejoined, " but 1 cannot allow it to remain. There are limits even to toleration, Uemove it, I say." " When you goes to Hum, you should do as the Kummuns does, sir ; and when you dines with a Jackeybite lady, you should make up vour mouth to Jackeybite fare," our butler observed, with more than his customary assurance, for he was highly offended. Dr. Bray had some ado to preserve his countenance at this sally, but he managed to repeat his injunction with some semblance of gravity. But when Mr. Comberbach took up the silver dish on which the pie was placed, such an outcry arose from the other guests, that he held it suspended over the head of his mistress. " Is it really going ?" I said to Cuthbert Spring. "Upon my soul I don't know !" he replied, rising from his seat. "Come, come, this is carrying the joke too far. I meant to have some of that pie myself." " And so did I," M v. D'Ewes cried. " I know its excellence of old." " So did we all," Mr. Freckleton added : The pie — the pie's the thing, Wherein we'll catch the conscience of the king." "And upon my conscience, ladies and gentlemen, it's a pie worthy of a king — and of the right line too," our butler exclaimed. On this there was a loud laugh, during which Mrs. Mervyn inter- posed. " Reallv, Dr. Bray, I must insist upon being mistress in my own house. Some of my guests wish to taste that pie, and I beg it may be replaced on the table." " On the condition only that its heterodox designation be dropped, will I consent, madam," the apparently inflexible doctor replied. "If the letters P. C. be reversed, they may signify Cold Pie. Call it by that name, and my objections vanish." " What's in a name ?" cried Mr. Freckleton : " That which we call a rose, By any other name would smell as sweet." " Thank vou, Mr. Freckleton," Mrs. Mervyn said. " Put the cold pie on the table, Mr. Comberbach. I dare say it will eat just as well under its new name." " It ought to do, ma'am, for it has been well doctor 'd,'' our facetious butler remarked. Instead of being offended by this piece of impertinence, Dr. Bray laughed heartily, making it evident he had been merely jesting through- out. The pie was set down, but before he could remove the crust, and plunge his spoon into its savoury contents, Cuthbert Spring called out in a loud voice, " Mr. Comberbach, be so good as to hand the obnoxious pasty round. We won't trouble Dr. Bray to help us to it." Our butler did not require a second order, but carried off the dish to Mr. Spring, who, putting a large portion on his plate, whispered MERVYN CLITHEUOE. 85 to his neighbours to do the like. We obeyed, and the rest of the party, divining his intentions, followed his example, so that when the pie came back to Dr. Bray, "who had watched its progress with some anxiety, it was entirely empty. " P. C. stands for pie-crust, as well as cold pie, sir," our butler said; "there's plenty of that left, though not much of the Cardinal Prince's good stuff." Dr. Bray had the good sense not to be offended ; and he invited Cuthbert Spring to take a glass of Madeira with him, saying : " And be sure that, the next time I meet with the Cardinal of York's pasty — I mean cold pie — I shan't send it to you till I've helped myself." " Sorry you should have been disappointed on the present occasion, doctor. Allow me to send you some of this hare, which is roasted to perfection. You never tasted a boiled hare, perhaps? Nor I. But I'll tell you a story of one. Counsellor Leech was a large man, with an appetite in proportion — a great ton vivant, who liked a bit of the best, especially if it could be had at a friend's ex- pense ; but of all good things lie preferred a roast hare. And he liked it done to a hair — well basted, and well froth'd. ' When a man sends one a hare,' he would say, in his big, round voice, ' he ought always to send with it a pound of butter and a quart of cream, or the present is no present at all.' So well known among his circle of acquaintance were his tastes in this respect, that it became a matter of course with them to ask a friend to eat a hare and meet Counsellor Leech. And few could escape the infliction, for he invariably con- trived to find out when and where a hare was sent ; and on making the discovery, never failed to invite himself to uartake of it. Among his acquaintance was Mr. Oldcastle, who determined to put a stop to the practice so far as he himself was concerned; and having received a hamper of game, he thought the opportunity had ar- rived, for he made sure Leech would hear of its arrival. And so it turned out, for three days afterwards the counsellor popped upon him as he was coming from 'Change, crying out, 'Well, Oldcastle — when do you mean to cook that hare ?' ' To-day.' ' Oh, then I'll come and dine with you. Make no stranger of me. Only the hare, mind.' ' You won't object to a woodcock afterwards ?' ' Why, no, provided it ouly flies through the kitchen. Mind that. But give strict orders about the hare. Your cook dresses it well, I know. Bid her not spare the cream and butter — baste it well — froth it well — that's the grand secret. A sharp six, eh ? I'll be punctual.' And as the clock struck the hour he knocked at Mr. Oldcastle's door. He was in high glee, and rubbed his hands in ecstatic anticipation of the feast. Presently dinner was announced. A plain boiled sole to begin with. He could trifle with that till better things came. But why not fry the sole? His pa- tience was rewarded at last. The principal dish was put upon the table ; the cover was raised ; when — oh ! horror of horrors ! in place of the richly-embrowned, well-dressed dish he expected, lie beheld a ragged, scraggy, unsightly, utterly uneatable object. The hare was trussed for roasting, but it was boilkd. : Boiled hare ! Who ever heard of such a barbarous proceeding ? The cook must be mad, or drunk.' 86 life and adventures of 1 1 ordered it so,' Mr. Oldcastle calmly replied. ' Let me help you?' ' No, thank you. I'll wait for the woodcock.' And he fumed and fretted till the new dish appeared. ' What's this ?' he cried, as the servant un- covered it. ' Boiled woodcock ! You must have taken leave of your senses, Oldcastle.' ' A mistake, certainly,' the host replied ; ' I told the cook to let the bird merely fly through the kitchen, in compliance with your request ; but I suppose it must have dropped into the pot by the way. Try it.' But the counsellor declined, and making an excuse, got away as soon as he could ; nor did he ever afterwards volunteer to eat roast hare with his friends. And now, Dr. Bray, let me recommend you a glass of port wine. Counsellor Leech declared it was the correct thing, and he was a judge. Red wine with red meat." " "Well, madam," Dr. Bray observed, after grace had been said and the cloth removed (for Mrs. Mervyn was too proud of her darkly- polished table to keep it covered), "whatever other merits the Jaco- bites may have possessed — and I will deny them none here — they must have had excellent cookery, and that is much to say for them." " Much, sir !" Doctor Eoam rejoined. " It is everything. I should always be of High-Church and Tory principles in the matter of good living." "No one but a Tory deserves port like this," Colonel Harbottle cried, smacking his lips. "Admirable indeed! — bright as a ruby. And look at the bee's-wing ! You beat us hollow, Mrs. Mervyn. "We have no such wine at our mess. Would we had fifty dozen of it." " It is, indeed, superlatively good — ' vinum vetustate edentulum,' " Dr. Bray said, emptying his glass. " I never drank better — perhaps not so good. This increases my respect for the Jacobites ; and I am clearly of opinion that, out of compliment to our hostess, of whose hospitality we have partaken, and whose feelings we appreciate, though we may not share them, we ought to drink to the memory of the unfortunate house of Stuart." And he filled a brimmer. Mrs. Mervyn looked much gratified as the toast was drunk, and so did Mr. Comberbach, who now appeared to regard the doctor as a convert to his own opinions. " You have many family recollections, no doubt, madam, connected with the Young Pretender's — I beg pardon, the young Prince's — visit to Cottonborough ?" Dr. Bray observed. " A great many," Mrs. Mervyn replied. " The Prince breakfasted in this very room !" " Indeed, madam !" Dr. Bray exclaimed. " I was not aware of it." " Yes, indeed, doctor. I have often heard my father relate the circumstance; for, though a mere child at the time, he recollected it perfectly. It was on the 29th of November, 1715 ; and the main body of the Prince's forces had maroJied from Wiganto Cottonborough, where preparations we're made for his reception. My grandfather placed his house at tin? Prince's disposal, but it was thought advisable that he should be in the town; and, therefore, Mr. Dickenson's house, in Market-street-lane, was chosen. My grandfather had joined the Prince on the inarch into England; and when a halt was made at Preston, he rode on to procure all the aid he could. About ten •MERVYN CLITIIEROE. 87 o'clock in the morning, Prince Charles Edward, accompanied by M. d'Eguilles, and attended by a body of Highlanders, arrived here, and was received by my grandfather at the gates with as much ceremony as if he had been crowned monarch of the realms. The Prince was very affable, and said, with a most engaging smile, ' I wish, Mr. Mervyn, that we had many such loyal servants as you in this county. In that case my father would soon be master of his dominions again.' ' Fear nothing, Prince,' my grandfather replied ; ' Lancashire is full of loyal men.' And taking my father by the hand, who, as I have said, was but a child then, he continued : ' I devote this boy to your restoration. If I fall he will supply my place.' On this the child kissed the Prince's hand, which was graciously ex- tended to him ; while the latter said, ' I trust I shall be able to requite your devotion, sir. The Mervyn s have always been a loyal race ; and, if I ever mount the throne, your son shall find I have not forgotten his father's devotion, nor that of his grandfather, which was sealed with his blood.' The Prince then entered the house with M. d'Eguilles, and was ushered into this very room, where a substantial repast was prepared for them, and where my grandfather waited upon his Highness. While that was going forward, Colonel Townley and Lord George Murray arrived. The colonel came in booted and spurred, and, dashing his hat upon the table, swore — for, I am sorry to say, he generally swore very profanely — that the Cottonborough folks had deceived him, — and that many of them were rank Hanoverians. ' But we'll send all the wrongheads to the devil !' he cried. Seeing the Prince look a little downcast at what Colonel Townley had said, my father observed, that ' his Highness had only to show himself in the town, and thousands would flock round his standard.' On this the colonel laughed, and, swearing a great oath, hoped it might prove true. The Prince then filled a flagon with wine, and, putting it to his lips, drank to my grandfather, and told him to pledge him ; and as my father had come into the room at the time, his Highness said the boy must pledge him too. And he did so. You may be quite sure I set great store on the cup which has been so honoured, Dr. Bray." " Here it is, sir," our butler interposed, bringing forward the two- handled drinking-cup for the doctor's inspection. " And how did the Prince look on the occasion ?" Mrs. Addington inquired. " Remarkably well, my father said," Mrs. Mervyn replied. "" He wore a Highland dress and sash, and a blue bonnet with a white rose in it." '• And a grey peruke which my grandfather dressed," Mr. Comber- bach added. "Very true," Mrs. Mervyn replied; "but I fear I have wearied you with my Jacobite recollections, Dr. Bray. Do me the favour to pass the wine." " Perhaps you may have heard, madam," the doctor said, " that it is my custom to smoke a pipe: after dinner. You look shocked — but it is so — and wherever I go, I am indulged. The finest ladies vi' my acquaintance, and the most delicate, permit it. Even royalty respects 88 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF my weakness, and the Duke of Wessex himself not only tolerates my pipe, but smokes with me. I see I have your consent, and, having obtained it, I care not who else may object. He who desiderates the society of Dr. Bray must take him as he is. Mr. Comberbach, bring me a pipe and tobacco." Though greatly scandalised, our butler went out, and soon after- wards returned with the articles in question. "And now, madam," said the doctor to Mrs. Harbottle, when he had filled his pipe, " you shall light it for me. It is a favour I always accord to the handsomest woman in the room." " Well, doctor, after the pretty compliment you have paid me, I shall not disoblige you," Mrs. Harbottle rejoined, applying the match. And seeing Dr. Bray preparing to exhale a volume of smoke, she got up hastily, crying, " Mrs. Mervyn, I really must make my escape, for I cannot bear the smell of that dreadful weed." "Nor I," Mrs. Addington cried. And all the ladies got up and hurried out of the room as fast as they could, followed by the laughter of Dr. Bray. An inveterate smoker like his friend, Dr. Foam took a pipe, and so did Colonel Harbottle, and all three puffed away so lustily, that the room was presently in a state of semi-obscurity Dr. Bray seemed in elysium, and though he presented a very odd and incongruous ap- pearance in his canonicals while thus employed, his conversation was 50 amusing, and he started so many subjects, displaying such ingenuity of argument, such wit, and such learning, that all were entertained by him. The fine old port contented the non-smokers, and the smokers were supplied by Mr. Comberbach with a bowl of cold Widdrington punch, which seemed to give them great satisfaction. I went up-stairs long before the rest, and all the ladies declared I smelt ,so dreadfully of smoke, that they couldn't endure me. " What will it be, my dear Mrs. Mervyn, when the rest come up- stairs," Mrs. Addington observed. " Really this is an odious practice in Dr. Bray. I wonder people can endure him." " I wonder so, too," Mrs. Mervyn replied ; " and I have bought my experience rather dearly. Our old Jacobite gentlemen would never have been guilty of such conduct in a lady's house." And when the gentlemen did make their appearance, they brought with them an atmosphere of tobacco so dreadfully pungent, that it gave Mrs. Addington and Mrs. Harbottle a violent fit of coughing. "This is really too bad of you, Harbottle," the latter said. " My dear, what would you have me do ?" the colonel replied, upon whom the combined influences of the punch and tobacco had made some impression. " Consider the great Dr. Bray." " Consider a fiddlestick. The great Dr. Bray is no excuse for your making yourself disagreeable. Don't approach me. Mervyn, give me that bottle of eau de Cologne" And, after sprinkling some over her husband, she scattered the rest about the room. It was a great relief to Mrs. Mervyn when, on the departure of her guests, the windows could be thrown open, and a purer air admitted. I must not omit to mention that Dr. Foam carried off with him the volume of Jacobite correspondence. MERYYN CLITIIEROE. 89 CHAPTER XT. I LOSE MY UNCLE MOBBERLEY, AND BELIEVE MYSELF HEIR TO HIS PROPERTY. I rose betimes next morning, and, mounting Taffy, set out for Marston. On reaching the heights of Dunton I first caugthsight of the mere, gleaming in the valley. Even at that distance I could detect a boat, like a speck, on its smooth surface. I tried to make out Ne- thercrofts, but though I knew where it lay, it was hidden from me by intervening objects. Biding on through the park, I passed the edge of the ravine where my adventure with the gipsies had occurred, and this set my thoughts running upon Phaleg, when just as I approached a high bank overlooking the road, I chanced to raise my eyes, and detected a black, hairy visage protruded over the edge of the bank. It was instantly withdrawn, but I knew it to be that of the gipsy, and was sorry to find he w T as still prowling about the country. My chief business being at the keeper's cottage, I went there first, and, tying Taffy to the gate, entered the dwelling. Sissy was busy about some household employment at the back of the premises, but, hearing me, she came out, and bade me heartily welcome. Having explained my errand to her, she said : " "Why, look you, Master Mirfyn, I shall be fery glad to accommo- date your friends, and to nurse the poor sick young gentlemans — pro- fided my husbants has no objections. There are three of them, you say, — a laty, and her daughters, and sons — that's three. "Well, we can put the two laties into our own rooms — that's the best — and give the poor sick young gentlemans the other beds, and Ned and I can make shift somewheres. Ay, that'll do. And then there's the little parlours for the laties, where they'll be all alone by themselves." " Yes, that'll do nicely, Sissy, if Ned approves of the plan, for, as you say, he must be consulted before anything is decided on. But 1 don't think he'll have any objection, for they are nice, quiet people ; and I'm sure you'll like my poor friend John Brideoake, and take as much care of him as you did of Malpas — perhaps more." As I said this, not without intention, Sissy blushed very deeply, and hung down her head. " I wish you wouldn't mention him, Master Mirfyn," she said, at length. " He has been the cause of much troubles to me and my husbants." " I'm sorry to hear it, Sissy ; but you may remember my caution at parting. It was in reference to him that I gave it." " Pless my 'eart, here comes Ned," Sissy cried, opening the win- dow, and pointing out a boat, which was rapidly Hearing the shore. "We went out to meet the keeper, and almost as soon as we reached the landing-place he leaped ashore, and squeezed my hand with 90 LIFE A^D ADVEKTUKES OF his horny fist. Graunt and Lupus, and the rest of his four-footed companions, scrambled out of the boat after him. Ned had got plenty offish, and offered me a fine jack, if I liked to take it to Nethercrofts. I then explained the object of my visit, and was particularly careful to describe the family to him. When he had heard me out, he ex- claimed, " Weel, an' what does Sissy say to it ?" She told him she was quite agreeable. " If that's the case, so am I," he replied ; " though we want no com- pany to make our house merry. Dun us, lass ?" " But this is a charity, and we may do coot, Ned." "True," he rejoined; "and therefore I say 'Yea,' wi' a' my heart. An' we'n get a' ready for 'em." So the thing was fully settled to my great delight. Ned appeared so glad to see me, that I stayed with him longer than I intended, and even partook of some of the newly-caught fish, which Sissy would in- sist upon broiling for me, and which proved excellent. Thinking the keeper should be made acquainted with Phaleg's propinquity, I told him that I had certainly seen the gipsy that morning. " Then the rascal's corned back again," Ned cried, " for I scoured the whole country round after him, and made sure I had driven him away. I know the spot reet weel where yo' seed him. It's just above the Clay lands, and there's a thick copse behind it. I'll hunt him up this very day ; and woe betide him if I catch him." Soon after this I took my leave, and Ned walked by my side down the lane. Just as we were parting, he said : " Duuna yo' leave your uncle o'ermuch. He's gettin' owd an' dotin'. There's folk as would gladly stand i' your shoon, and wudna care what they did to get into 'em. Tak' a friend's advice, and keep near him. He's weel worth tenting." Before I got to Nethercrofts I received a second caution. While mounting the ascent leading to the village, I thought Tally went a little lame, and on examination, finding he had lost a shoe, I stopped at the smithy to get him another. Amongst the odd charac- ters of Marston was the smith, Job Greaseby, a big brawny old fellow, between sixty and seventy, who had once possessed prodigious strength. Of an afternoon Job was a constant visitant at the Nag's Head, but in the morning he might be seen with a leathern apron on, his shirt unfastened so as to expose his ruddy chest, covered with a grizzly pile, and muscular arms bared to the shoulder, directing his men, and sometimes lending them assistance. The smithy was full of cart-horses, and all the hands employed, so that I should have tarried for some time if Job himself had not un- dertaken the task. " I'll make a shoe for your pony, Master Mervyn," he said, " and that's more nor I would do for one of Squire Vernon's hunters. Well, I'm glad to see you, young gentleman. Tour uncle has been fretting about you, and fancies you don't want to come near him. 1 hope you mean to stay now. It were only last night he were talking of you at the Nag." " Then my uncle goes to the public-house as much as usual, eh, Job?" MERVYN CLITHEROE. 91 '• He goes theere more nor usual, an' drinks more nor's good tor him. He says he does it to drive away care ; but that's not th' way, for though drink may make a mon merry for t' moment, he's worse than ever next day. That's my maxim. Ah ! he's never been reetly hissel' sin' tli' poor owd ooman's death," Job cried, taking the iron from the fire, and beating it on the anvil ; " ' as sparks fly uppard, so mon is born to misery,' as t' preacher says, and then he's quenched like this," plunging the hissing iron into the water. Having nailed the slice on, he put his large hand on the pommel of my saddle, and, leaning towards me, said, in a low tone, " Simon Pownall's a great deal at Nethercrofts now. He alius taks t' owd mon whoam fro' t' Nag, when he's not able to tak' care o' hissel' ; and there's no owd missus to look after him. Now, we a' -know what t' owd mon intends, and who's to be his heir, for he makes no secret on it ; but there's no saying what he may be got to do when he's i' licker." I told Job I was much obliged to him, and would certainly come over and stay at Nethercrofts very shortly. " Weel, dunna delay it too long," Job said ; " and I tell ye what I'll do meantime. I'll go whoam wi' t' owd chap mysel', to prevent mischief." On arriving at Nethercrofts, my uncle was delighted to see me, but I noticed a great change in him ; he was much more infirm than before, and more querulous. He had just been shaved and put to rights by Simon Pownall, who was present at our meeting, and was as fawning and servile to me as ever, though he evidently wished me far enough. The old gentleman inquired whether I was going to stay, and seemed much pleased when I told him I should certainly return for that purpose in a few days ; but my reply did not appear to give equal satisfaction to Simon Pownall. In the course of the afternoon, while taking a survey of the premises, and strolling through the croft, Simon Pownall came after me, and entered into conversation. " Nice farm, Nethercrofts, eh ?" he observed, with a disagreeable grin. " AVell stocked. What do you think your uncle will leave ? Upwards of two thousand a vear in land and money. Good sum —eh?" There was a familiarity in his tone that I didn't like, and I showed it by not answering the remark. " Two thousand a year is no bad thing, and he who gets it may think himself well off." •' What do you mean, Pownall?" The barber-surgeon tapped his long sharp nose significantly. " The old man has made two wills already, but he may make a third. Old folks are whimsical. Understand. ' Mum' 's the word with me." " What are you driving at ?" I said, sharply. " Come to the point." Pownall again tapped his beak. '• The old man is a mere child in my hands. Does as I bid him. It rests with me, therefore, whether he makes a new will or nut. Understand now — eh ?" " Perfectly — I perfectly understand you, Pownall. You mean to 92 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF insinuate that you can induce my uncle to leave you his property, if you choose." " Oh, no! that wouldn't be honest," he cried. "Honest!" I exclaimed, contemptuously. "That consideration isn't likely to deter you." Pownall did not seem offended, but sniggered as if I had said a good thing. After glancing round to ascertain that he could not be over- heard, he said : " It must be worth something to be quite sure of two thousand a year. How much should you say, sir ? w " I haven't given it a thought." " Then do, and let me know. Only think if it all went to some one else whom you don't like. How mortifying if all these broad acres— that snug farm-house — and all the money snugly lodged in the Cottonborough banks and in the funds, were to slip through your fingers, and go elsewhere. Think of that, and consider what it would be worth to secure the whole. Another person would give a good sum, but ' mum' 's the word with me." He paused for a mo- ment, and then added, " Make me your friend, and the whole's yours." " Never," I replied. " I reject your dishonourable proposal. Not to purchase thrice Nethercrofts would I consent to anything so base. I have listened to you only for the purpose of fathoming your black designs ; but my uncle shall know the rascal he has to deal with." Still Pownall remained unmoved. " Try him," he cried, with a smile. " See what you can do with him. And when you fail, as you will — when you understand my power — come back to me. Always open to an offer, Bather serve you than another. But must knock down to the best bidder." And he went away laughing, leaving me almost petrified at his assurance, and not a little uneasy, for I was convinced his influence over my uncle must be immense, or he would not venture to act thus. And so I found it ; for the old man turned a deaf ear to my hints, and said, " A very good man, Simon. Since I lost thy poor aunt, I can't do without him. He's my right hand." " But are you sure, uncle, that he always advises you rightly ?" " Quite sure on't, lad. What sillv notions hast thou got into thy head?" Finding him in no humour to listen to me, I thought it better to postpone my disclosures to a more favourable opportunity, and soon afterwards took my departure. In passing through Cottonborough I called at Preston-court to acquaint Mrs. Brideoake with the arrangements I had made for the accommodation of herself and her family at the keeper's cottage at Marston, with which she was extremely well satisfied. I did not see John, but she told me lie was improving gradually, and Dr. Foam thought lie might be moved in a couple of days, and had engaged a carriage for their conveyance. This visit paid, I went home. During the evening I explained to Mrs. Mervyn the necessity that existed of my going over to Nethercrofts, telling her 1 feared my uncle was in the hands of a very designing person. She approved of my resolu- tion, though she almost feared, shesaid "that my youth and inexperience MERVTN CLITHEROE. 93 would not be of much avail against such cunning and roguery. How- ever, yon are a quick boy, my dear," she added, " and it is much better to be on the spot, for there is no saying what a person of your uncle's age and habits may do. It is very unfortunate that he is in the hands of such a knave as you describe Pownall to be, especially as the old gentleman has so much to leave ; and it is, indeed, melancholy to think, that as age and infirmities creep upon us, and we are less able to protect ourselves, we become a prey to such wretches. 1 wish [ could be of any service to you, but that is out of the question ; and I cannot very well write to Mrs. Sale, for it is a delicate matter, though I am sure she would prevent any improper conduct. She wrote in the highest terms of you to me, and I am sure has your real interest at heart. You may perfectly trust her, though it may appear against her own interest. Heaven bless you ! my dear bo} r This is a very important matter to you ; but you must not be too sanguine, in case of disappointment. I will write to Dr. Lonsdale to explain your absence from school." Owing to some arrangements I had to make, I did not start until late next day, and it was quite dark when I entered Marston. As I passed the smithy, which cast a ruddy and pleasant glow across the road, I saw Job standing near the forge, and hailed him. He told me he was just going over to the Nag's Head, where my uncle had been for the last two hours, and I begged him not to say he had seen me, as I did not want Simon Pownall to be made aware of my return. He promised me he wouldn't, and I then rode on to the farm-house. About two hours after my arrival, I heard a noise in the orchard, occasioned by my uncle and his attendants, and could tell from the scuffling and the tones of his voice that the old man was very tipsy. He was accompanied by Simon Pownall and Chetham Quick, and, practised dissembler as he was, the barber-surgeon could not conceal his vexation at finding me there to receive them. I am sure, from his manner, that he intended to put his plan into execution that night, but my presence deterred him. My uncle ordered some hot water and spirits, but Hannah and I told him he had had enough, and be- tween us we persuaded him to go to bed, while the baffled Pownall was compelled to take his departure empty-handed. Next day the poor old man was very ill, and could only take a little gruel. He got up, but didn't leave his own room, and, what was very unusual with him, had a fire lighted in it. I meant to remonstrate with him, for it was evident he was abridging the little left to him of life. Simon Pownall made his appearance in the course of the morn- ing, and was going at once into my uncle's room ; but Hannah stopped him, saying the old gentleman must not be disturbed. So Simon went out, but his manner awakening my suspicions, I kept watch upon him, and found he had gone into the little garden, and placed himself in such a position as to overlook my uncle's pro- ceedings, which could be easily done, the room being on the ground floor. He continued in this* attitude for some minutes, intently observing what was going forward, and unconscious that he was watched in his turn. But I was called away from my post of observation by my uncle, 1J4 LIFE A^D ADVENTURES OF and promptly obeying the summons, I found him seated by the fire, on which some half-consumed parchments were hissing and crackling. He bade me push them further into the flames, and as I obeyed him, I perceived that one of them was a bond from Dr. Wrigley Sale for 4000Z. There were other securities, the destruction of which the old man seemed to watch, with satisfaction. " I don't want anybody to be plagued after my death," he said, " and when I am gone, thou'lt tell Dr. Sale thou didst see his bonds destroyed. There are more papers," he continued, pointing to a heap on the bed, — " put them in the fire too, — not too many at a time, — not too many." They were old memoranda, faded and discoloured by age ; but at last I came to something of more modern appearance. It was a packet tied with a piece of black tape, sealed, and endorsed thus : " ©fjc Hast aatil nnti Testament of Sofjn JHooforkg." I took it up, but immediately laid it down again, saying to my uncle : "I suppose I mustn't burn that?" The old man, who had been very much abstracted during this opera- tion, with his eye fixed on a note in his poor wife's writing, looked at me, and, hastily snatching the packet from me, exclaimed : " No, no ; thou mustn't burn that, lad ; that's my will." But after examining it for a moment, he added : " No ; it's not my last will. I forgot. But my memory's so bad I can recollect nothing now. There's the right Will." And he pointed to another packet, exactly similar to the one I had taken up, and similarly endorsed, lying on the shelf of the open bureau. But, as if to satisfy himself, he got up and examined it, and then muttering, " Ay, ay, it's all right," carefully locked the bureau, adding to me : " Now all's safe, and there can be no mistake ; put t'other will down. We'll burn it presently. There, lay it on the bed witli the other papers." The bureau, I may remark, stood in a corner of the fireplace, and the room being small, the bed was not far from the window, which was partly open. The note which my uncle had been examining related to the sale of some cheeses, and thinking it of importance, he desired me to take it to Hannah, and I left the room for that purpose, shutting the door after me. She was in the dairy, and kept me a few minutes to clean her hands before she would touch the paper, but when she had examined it, she said it was of no consequence — " she knew all about it — it had been settled long ago." As I passed through the house- place on my return, Simcn Pownall came in from the door leading from the garden. He looked rather confused, but I took no notice of him, and went to my uncle. The old man had thrown a great heap of papers on the fire, which were burning slowly. Not seeing the will whore I had left it, I asked him if he had destroyed it, and he said he supposed he had, with the other papers. He then inquired whether Simon Pownall was in tin; house, and, on my replying in the affirmative, he desired me to call him. MEUVYN CL1T1IER0E. 95 The barber-surgeon glanced at # the grate as be came in, and said: " Making a clearance — eh, sir ? Somebody'll be the better for it." " You'll be the better for it yourself, Simon, for now you owe me nothing. There's your quittance in full." " Much obleeged to you, sir," Simon replied, obsequiously. " But I've not forgotten you besides, as you'll find. I've left you a hundred pounds. My will is there, Simon, locked up in that bureau. You know what I mean to do with my money." " Pretty nearly, sir," Simon replied, looking hard at me. My uncle then took up the poker to raise the smouldering heap of papers, and let the air in among them. As the pile blazed up, and the ashes flew up the chimney, he laughed childishly. This business got through, the old man tottered into the house- place, and sat down in his accustomed chair. A weight appeared to be taken from his mind. Pownall gave him a mixture for his cough, which was so troublesome at times that I thought he would be suffocated. He retired early that night, but would not let any- body sit up with him ; and about four o'clock in the morning Hannah was aroused by a noise in his chamber, and hastening thither found him in the last struggles. He expired with his wife's name on his lips. Hannah took possession of his keys, and when Simon Pownall came, and seemed disposed to assume the management of the house, she let him know pretty sharply he should do no such thing ; so, after fidget- ing about for some time, the barber-surgeon w r ent away, saying he should despatch his apprentice to Knutsford to let Mr. Gripper know that the old man was dead, with a request to him to come over on the morrow to read the will. Here, then, was a novel situation in which to be placed. My uncle was dead. Was I really his heir ? — master of the house — and owner of 2000/. a year? Everybody seemed to consider me so — and I con- sidered myself so. I did my best to repress them, but I hope I may be pardoned if I confess that, in spite of myself, feelings of exultation would arise in my breast, and I indulged in a thousand extravagant fancies natural to a boy of my age, who finds himself, as he supposes, master of a large fortune. I resolved to live at Nethercrofts, but to enlarge and improve the house, keep hounds and hunters, shoot and fish, and, in short, lead the life of a country gentleman. JS r ed Culcheth should be my head keeper, and I would double his present wages, whatever they were. Every one of my dependents should experience my bounty, and there should be no stint to my hospitality. I couldn't make up my mind as to what I would do for John Brideoake ; but as to Apphia, when she should be old enough, I was quite deter- mined to marry her. At one time I resolved to leave school directly ; but, on second thoughts, I decided on going there again, jus*; to let the boys see what a fine fellow I had become ; and I pictured myself walking into John Leigh's shop, telling him how rich I was, and treating the whole school. My head was quite turned, and I am sorry to say I thought but little of my poor uncle. Later in the day I received a very kind note from Mrs. Sale, con- 9(5 LIFE AND ADVENTUBES OF doling with me on the sad event which had just occurred, begging me to make the vicarage my home, and to come to them as soon as I liked. I thankfully acknowledged the invitation, but declined it. A strange world we live in. In the evening, preparations were made for a supper — a " lyke wake" Hannah called it — and several neighbours and gossips dropped in. There was old Mrs. Hutchinson, old Susan Sparkes, Tom Travice, the undertaker (on the look-out for the job), Job Greaseby, Dick Dobson, the parish clerk, Simon Pow- nall, and Chetham Quick. The latter having just returned from Knutsford, brought word that Mr. Gripper would come over next morning at eleven o'clock to read the will. Simon Pownall also in- formed us that he had left a message to that effect at the vicarage, and had caused notice to be sent to all parties supposed to be inte- rested, so that he had no doubt everybody would be assembled at the hour appointed. We all sat down to supper, and no one would have taken us for a set of mourners. At first I felt very sad ; but mirth is contagious, and by-and-by, as the cans of ale went round, I became as merry and uproarious as the rest. They called me the "Young Squire," placed me at the head of the table, in my uncle's chair, said they were right glad the old man's money had been so well bestowed, and drank my health with a shout. And then I thought of him whose place I was usurping, and bitterly reproached myself. However, the feeling quickly passed away. Our mirth was somewhat dashed by Simon Pownall, who, when supper was over, and spirits and water were introduced, related a terrific ghost story. He alarmed us all so much, that Sam Massey and William Weever, who had intended watching by my uncle during the night, immediately declared they wouldn't do it—" not that they were afraid — only they wouldn't " "And quite right too," said Pownall, chuckling. "I don't approve of 'watching;' it's a Popish practice, and incon- sistent with our Church," the parish clerk observed, gravely. " Bank Popery," Pownall rejoined. " Glad to hear you say so, Mr. Dobson. /wouldn't do it." " Nor I," Tom Travice, the undertaker, said. " And I speaks from experience." Pownall then told us another ghost story, more dreadful than the first, and seemed to take a malicious pleasure in the terror he inspired. For my part, I began to fear my uncle would walk in amongst us. Even old Talbot seemed affected, for he refused the drumstick of a fowl which I offered him, though I had seen him take a piece of cheese from Pownall just before the latter began the story, and, creeping under the sofa, the poor old dog remained there during the rest of the evening. Soon after this the party broke up, everybody, except Pownall, renewing their congratulations to me as they went away MEKVYN CLITHEROE. 97 CHAPTEE XII. A NOCTURNAL ALARM. It had been arranged that I should henceforth occupy the room above that where my poor uocle was lying, and a bed in it had been pre- pared for my reception ; but I confess the barber-surgeon's ghost stories had produced such an effect upon me, that I decided on retain- ing my old quarters until after the funeral. When we retired to rest, the men, who had drunk pretty freely, were soon locked in slumber ; but feeling no disposition to sleep, I did not even take off my clothes, and sitting down on the edge of the bed, gave free course to my reflections, which were painful enough, for I now severely blamed myself for my levity and folly, and felt utterly unworthy of my uncle's kindness. In such ruminations hour after hour passed by, and the clock below had just struck one, when I heard a strange kind of noise, apparently proceeding from below, and, being greatly startled, listened for its recurrence with a palpitating heart. But the men snored loudly, and not being able to make out anything clearly, I crept cautiously down stairs, and peeped into the house-place. There were no shutters to the windows, and, the curtains being partially drawn aside, the moonlight streamed in, shining upon the table, which was still stand- ing in the middle of the room, covered with the remains of the supper. But I could see nothing to occasion alarm, and only heard the chirp- ing of the crickets on the hearth and the ticking of the old clock. Thinking I had been deceived, I was preparing to return, when I distinctly heard footsteps in my uncle's room. It was a dead, dull sound, as if some one were walking about without shoes, or in list slippers. My first impulse was to try and rouse Talbot, who was now sleeping on the hearth, but though I shook him he would not move. Meantime, my ears were strained to catch the slightest repetition of the sound. For a few seconds all had been still. Then I heard the footsteps again, followed by a noise like the falling of a hammer, or some implement. On this I called out loudly, but the men were too sound asleep to hear me. Hannah, however, whose bedroom ad- joined that of my uncle, opened her door, and asked what was the matter. I told her that robbers were in the house; whereupon she hastilv retreated and bolted her door, while I ran up-stairs, and with some difficulty aroused the men, who were all very much astonished and alarmed. During the time occupied by them in huddling on their clothes, I got my gun, which was reared in a corner near my bed, and, loading it, put in a good charge of swan shot. We then went down stairs H 98 LJ*E AJNTD ADVENTUBES OF together, but when I explained to the men that the noise proceeded from my uncle's room, they shook their heads mysteriously, aud de- clined entering it. " We shan see nowt there belongin' to this warld," Will Weever said. " Weil, I'll go in, if no one else will," I cried, cocking my gun. On this, Sam plucked up his courage, and, taking down his yeomanry sword, drew it from the scabbard, while Will Weever armed himself with the disabled duck gun, and Peter, unhooking the horse-pistols, grasped the barrel of one in either hand, holding up its brass-mounted butt-end in readiness for action. In this state we advanced to the door. After a moment's breathless pause, during which Hannah's head was again popped out, the door was thrown open by Will Weever, and Sam, with the drawn sabre in his hand, sprang into the room. I was close at his heels, and the others followed us. We expected something dreadful, but the only dreadful thing we beheld was the dead man, upon whose rigid features the wan moonlight fell, through the small panes of the uncurtained window r . Sam looked at me, and shook his head ; but I declared, whatever he might think, that I had heard footsteps and other noises in the room, and nothing would convince me to the contrary. On this, care- ful search was made throughout the chamber, and also in the room above, but no one was found, nor was anything discovered to indicate that a robber had been there, for all appeared to be in the precise state in which it was left in the evening. The window was next exa- mined. There were no shutters to it, and though there were iron bars outside, they afforded little protection, being so wide apart, that n slight person might easily get between them. However, there was nothing to prove that such had been the case. Still, I was not satisfied, and insisted upon the men going with me round the premises, to ascertain that no one was lurking about. Before doing so, I again endeavoured to rouse Talbot ; but though I pushed him with my foot, he neither growled nor stirred. "What can be the matter with the dog?" I cried. "He seems quite stupified." " He's afeard — that's it," Will Weever replied, shaking his head. " Them dumb creeturs sometimes knows more nor a Christin ; an' Talbot may see t' owd mon walking about, or mayhap sittin' in his arm-cheer, though we cannot." Though this explanation was not entirely satisfactory to me, I ac- cepted it, and we went forth. Our search was fruitless until we came to the garden, where I detected the figure of a man hiding behind a wall, and recognised it at once as that of Phaleg. Levelling my gun, I called to him to surrender. To our surprise, the gipsy came forward, saying lie had something worth knowing to tell us, but I must lower my gun, and promise not to harm him. I replied I would make no terms with him, but if he attempted to run away, or offered any resistance, I would certainly shoot him. He laughed, and said : " Yo'n repent it, when it's too late." MEEVYN CLITHEROE. 99 And, without another word, he sprang back, and cleared the wall at a bound. The movement was so sudden, and took me so much by surprise, that he was gone before I could pull the trigger ; but I instantly ran up to the wall, and, descrying him running across the croft, fired at him. I had not taken any precise aim, but I am sure I hit him, for he uttered a loud cry, and we afterwards found traces of blood near the spot ; while such was the gipsy's fright that he ac- tually knocked down a gate in his haste. Being now satisfied that I had discovered the cause of the alarm, I returned with my companions to the house, and watch was kept till daylight ; but nothing more occurred. Phaleg, it appeared, had visited the hen-roosts, but we could not discover that he had carried oft' anything. ]N"o footmarks could be traced on the gravel walk under the garden window, nor on the little flower-beds adjoining it, and all the household still continued to regard the noises I had heard as supernatural. CHAPTER XIII. IN WHICH MY UNCLE'S WILL IS READ, AND I EXPERIENCE THE TRUTH OF THE PROVERB, THAT " THERE'S MANY A SLIP 'TWIXT CUP AND LIP." Simon Pownall came early in the morning, and when told of the nocturnal disturbances, he shook his head gravely, and said he knew what they were. The old man couldn't rest till his will was read. But when Pownall heard about the gipsy, his countenance changed, and he wished I had shot the villain dead. "What could bring him there, and a corpse lying in the house ? Had the reprobate no con- science ? He hoped to see him hanged, and speedily too. ]STot having had a wink of sleep during the night, I felt greatly fa- tigued, as well as harassed in mind, but endeavoured to prepare myself for the important business of the day. At ten o'clock precisely Mr. Gripper rode into the yard, and dis- mounted at the door. In outward appearance he resembled a farmer more than a man of law, for he had a broad ruddy face, and a large person ; and though, out of respect for the occasion, he had substi- tuted black upper garments for the green riding-coat and striped waist- coat which he usually wore, he still retained his corduroy knees and buff gaiters. He had a nose shaped like the ace of clubs, on which rested a pair of heavy plated spectacles. He was attended by his clerk, a seedy- looking personage, with a pasty face and a snub nose. Mr. Gripper did not think it necessary to assume even a show of grief. On the contrary, he was particularly cheerful, shook me warmly by the hand, and con- gratulated me very heartily. His shabby-looking clerk, whose name was Elkanah Catchpool, did not presume to shake hands, still less h2 100 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP congratulate me, but he made me several ducks with his bullet head as his master introduced me in the following terms : "In this young gentleman, Elkanah, you behold Mr. Mobberley's heir. This is Master, I should say Mister Mervyn Clitheroe, Elka- nah — a very good-looking young gentleman, as you perceive, Elkanah, and worthy of his good fortune." Then, turning to me, he added, " Ah ! we are not all equally fortunate, my dear young sir. We haven't all rich uncles to provide for us." "JSo, sir; indeed I wish we had," Elkanah said, again ducking his bullet head. And he looked so miserably poor, that thinking a guinea would do him good, I resolved to give him one before he went away. "We all three sat down to breakfast, and Elkanah ate voraciously, bolting huge mouthfuls in such away that I expected he would choke himself. Indeed, he did once get black in the face, and I had to thump his back to set him right. During the repast, Mr. Gripper was continually turning to me, talking about my property, offering various suggestions for its improvement, and at last he told me in plain terms he would find me a steward if I desired it, and the executors con- sented. I said I was very much obliged to him for the offer, but I had made up my mind to employ William Weever in that capacity, and to keep the whole household just as my uncle had left it. He said my determination showed great good feeling, and had no doubt my suggestions would be attended to, but all arrangements must be referred to Mr. Evan Evans, of the firm of Evans, Owen, and Jones, bankers of Cottonborough, and Mr. Cuthbert Spring, of the same place, merchant, who were appointed trustees and executors under my uncle's will ; and he added, that having sent over a messenger expressly the night before to these two gentlemen, stating the object for which they were required, he expected their attendance that morning. This intelligence was satisfactory to me, though I was quite un- prepared for it. I was aware that my uncle knew Cuthbert Spring, and esteemed him highly. I was not surprised, therefore, at the trust reposed in that gentleman ; and, on my own part, I was w r ell pleased to have the advantage of such able and friendly advice in the manage- ment of the property. Of Mr. Evans I knew nothing except by re- port. The banking-house to which he belonged was one of the first in Cottonborough. Breakfast over, Mr. Gripper got up and said, " Now, Elkanah, we'll proceed to business. Be so good as to step with me, Mr. Mervyn. You know where the will is placed." The keys being brought by Hannah, we went to my uncle's room. The bureau was unlocked, and the will found lying just where I had seen it. Mr. Gripper took it up, and glanced at the indorsement. " Halloa ! how's this ?" he cried. And opening all the drawers, he peered into them, but without dis- covering what he sought. " Zounds ! this cannot be it, surely." " That is my uncle's will, sir, if you are looking for it," I observed. XIERVYN CLITHEltOE. 101 "He showed it to me himself the day before he died, when he de- stroyed his papers." " Oh ! — papers, eh ? Did he destroy many ?" " Oh ! yes, sir ; a great many — all his bonds and securities, for he said no one should be troubled after his death ; and he particularly charged me to tell Dr. Sale that I had seen his bonds destroyed. I believe my uncle burnt one of his wills." " Whew !" Mr. Gripper whistled. " That explains it. Changed his mind at the last, I suppose. You say you believe lie burnt his will. Are you quite sure of it? Mind what you say. It concerns you." " I didn't see him actually throw it on the fire," I replied, "but I believe I saw it partly consumed. And he told me himself he had destroyed it." " That's enough," Mr. Gripper said, rather shortly. For some time after we returned to the house-place Mr. Gripper seemed lost in reflection. His manner towards me became quite altered, and Elkanah, who took his cue from his master, was so far from being humble or obsequious, or even civil, that I determined to withhold the guinea I had designed for him. By-and-by the expectant legatees began to assemble. There was Harry Heygate, an old farmer, and his two sons. Roger and Ralph, relatives of my aunt's, who had walked over from Dunton ; and Adam Worthington and his wife and daughter from Knutsford, likewise re- latives on Mrs. Mobberley's side, and some other folks with whom I was wholly unacquainted. Besides these there was Tom Shakeshaft, Simon Pownall, and Chetham Quick, Job Greaseby, Dick Dobson, the parish clerk, and Grimes Earthy, the sexton ; and lastly came Dr. and Mrs. Sale, with Malpas. Dr. Sale looked very serious, but he was uncommonly affable to me, almost treating me with respect; Mrs. Sale was kind and considerate as usual, and shed tears as she spoke of my uncle ; but as to Malpas, he made it apparent that he came solely on compulsion. I was so disgusted by his unfeeling behaviour, that I would not notice him. Mr. Gripper, I observed, was extraordinarily civil to the Sales, particularly to Malpas, who, however, made a very poor return indeed for his attentions, snubbing him rudely, and turn- ing off as if he would go away. " You had better stay, my dear young gentleman, indeed you had," Mr. Gripper remarked, with some significance, "Do. You won't re- gret it." " Oh ! very well, if you wish it, certainly," replied Malpas, shrug- ging his shoulders. " But what the devil are you waiting for ? Why can't you read the will without more ado ?" " We are waiting for the executors, Mr. Evan Evans and Mr. Cuthbert Spring," the attorney replied. "I expect them here every moment, for I appointed eleven o'clock, and it's now a quarter past," he added, consulting his watch. " We cannot open the will till they arrive. A little patience, my good young sir. We have the whole day before us." " AYelL, it's a great bore," Malpas cried. 102 LIFE AND ADVENTUBES OF " I'm sorry you find it so, but it cannot be helped," Mr. Gripper replied. Another quarter of an hour elapsed, and still no executors arrived. Mr. Gripper looked at his watch every five minutes, and began to grow fidgety. I heard him ask Elkanah, in a whisper, if he was sure the messenger had started overnight for Cottonborough, and the clerk replied that he was quite sure of it. The interval was certainly very tedious, for no one knew what to talk about. Outside there was a considerable hubbub, for the farm-yard was full of inquisitive folks from Marston and the neighbourhood, and they were talking and laughing loudly. The cows were lowing in the shippons, and old Talbot, who was now quite lively, was barking loudly at the straugers. In doors we were quiet enough. The poor relatives endeavoured to appear unconcerned, but could not conceal their anxiety. They gathered together in little groups, and I could tell from their glances, which were frequently directed towards me, and with no friendly ex- pression, that I was the chief object of their conversation ; and that they regarded me as an interloper, who had no business there, but had artfully contrived to rob them of their rights. Indeed, I was the centre of general observation and remark, and felt so uncomfortable in consequence, that I would willingly have retired, if I could have done so without impropriety. Keeping aloof from the rest, Malpas flung himself upon the sofa, where he sat, looking the picture of insolent impatience, tapping his neat little boots with a cane, and grumbling audibly. At last, unable to stand it longer, he got up with a gesture of ennui, and was really about to withdraw, when Simon Pownall, who had been hanging about the sofa for some time, stopped him. My attention was attracted, and I caught what passed. " Heard what Mr. Gripper said, sir. Better stay," the barber- surgeon observed. "What for?" Malpas demanded, with a sneer. " Only to learn how much that upstart fool has got. " No, thankee — I'm off." " Wait five minutes. Only five. Can't give my reasons now for asking you. Find 'em out in time. ' Mum' 's the word with me." " You know it's all up with me, and only want to keep me here to have a laugh at my expense, you mischievous rascal. But I'll disap- point you." And he tried to tear himself away, but Pownall detained him by the button. " Sit down, my dear — pray," Mrs. Sale interposed. And as Malpas reluctantly complied, I heard Pownall say to him, * Must have a word with you, after the will is read." "Must! indeed!" Malpas exclaimed — "suppose I won't." " Yes, you will," Pownall rejoined, with his abominable cunning grin. "'Cos why? It'll be to your own advantage. Understand. 'Mum' 's the word with me." At this moment great excitement was occasioned among the assem- blage, by the announcement that a post-chaise had driven up to the MEltVYN CLITHEltOE. 103 garden-gate, bringing the long-looked-for executors. Mr. Gripper went to meet them, and in a minute or two afterwards ushered them into the house. Mr. Evan Evans was a middle-aged man, with pleasing features, and his bald head glistened like a piece of marble. He was very deaf and carried an ear-trumpet. Cuthbert Spring looked grave, as befitted the occasion, but I could detect a merry twinkle in the corner of his eye, as he shook hands with me, and said, in an under tone, — " Well, young squire, your fortune's made, I'm told. I didn't expect we should meet again so soon, and under such circumstances. I hope you'll do credit to your good uncle'h preference." " I hope I shall," I replied. And as my conduct on the previous night flashed across my recollection, I thought I had begun but badly. However, I resolved to act very differently in future, and neither to countenance nor permit such proceedings as had then taken place. Mr. Evan Evans likewise shook hands with me, and after he had apologised to the assembly generally for being so much behind his time, alleging that he had been detained by unavoidable engagements, we all adjourned to the little parlour, where chairs had been placed; and while the principals ranged themselves round the table, Mr. Gripper took his seat, and proceeded to open the will. Next to him sat his clerk Elkanah. Deeply interested as I was, I could not help scrutinising the countenances of the assemblage. Some of the poorer relatives, who stood humbly in the doorway, mixed with the house- hold, looked painfully anxious ; indeed, almost everybody had a se- rious air except Malpas, who was leaning with his back against the mantelpiece, and Simon Pownall, who stood close beside him. Mr. Gripper adjusted his spectacles, and giving a preliminary cough, all eyes were immediately fixed upon him, except those of Simon Pownall, which I felt were maliciously riveted on me. " Before I commence," Mr. Gripper sententiously observed, " I may remark that my late respected friend and client, Mr. Mobberley, whose will I am about to read, considerately — very considerately I may say — thought proper to destroy several bonds and securities which he held for various sums lent by him to different parties, most of whom being here present, may consider themselves thereby fully released from their liabilities ; but I think it right to observe that such discharges must be considered in the light of legacies." Mr. Evan Evans, who had held his trumpet to his ear to catch the purport of this speech, exchanged glances with his co-executor. I took advantage of the pause to whisper to Dr. Sale that I had seen his bonds destroyed by my uncle. The doctor looked considerably relieved, and said, " Yery kind in the old gentleman, indeed." Some of the other interested parties did not express equal satisfac- tion, but, on the contrary, groaned audibly. Mr. Gripper proceeded : " With regard to what I have to lay before you, I may observe, in 104 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF limine, that, m the course of my practice, I have prepared two wills for my late respected friend and client ; one during the lifetime of his excellent wife, and about the time when she had the misfortune to lose a favourite cat (glancing at me), disposing of his property in a particular manner (glancing at Malpas, who returned a look of angry impatience) ; and another immediately after Mrs. Mobberley's death, entirely altering the disposition of his property (another glance at me) — as regards the person chiefly concerned, though, in other respects, the second will was a mere transcript of the first. One of these wills Mr. Mobberley destroyed on the day preceding his death. It is not forme to remark upon the conduct of my respected friend and client, which an interested party might no doubt consider to be the caprice of old age. It is sufficient for me to state the fact. Without further preamble, I shall therefore proceed to read the will, which, as the only one left, is necessarily the only one that can be acted upon." Unfolding the document, he then began to read it. But just at this moment there was some confusion at the door, which caused him to stop. Silence being restored, Mr. Gripper went on. Slowly and calmly he read the will, as if it was no matter to anybody. Every countenance, however, changed, and looks and gestures of the utmost surprise were interchanged, as it was announced that the person nominated by the testator as his heir, and to whom the bulk of his property was left, was no other than — Malpas Sale. Scarcely able to believe what I heard, I interrupted Mr. Gripper, exclaiming : " Have you read the name aright, sir ?" I saw Pownall's malicious eyes fixed on me, enjoying my confusion. Malpas, if possible, was still more surprised than myself. He en- deavoured to maintain a semblance of composure, and to appear un- concerned, but his flushed cheek and nervously-excited frame betrayed his extraordinary agitation. In a voice of forced calmness, he in- quired : " Are you in earnest, sir ?" " Mr. Malpas Sale," Mr. Gripper replied, with great gravity, but, at the same time, extreme suavity of manner, " I announced to you, and to every one present, that one of your uncle's wills was destroyed. That was the later will, by which Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe was declared to be his heir. But the instrument I hold in my hand must now be acted upon, and by it you take the property." " Huzza!" Malpas shouted, unable to conceal his satisfaction. " Malpas, my boy, I sincerely congratulate you," Dr. Sale cried, getting up and shaking his son's hand. " You are a lucky fellow. This is more than I expected." " Dr. Sale, I entreat ; consider who is present, and his disappoint- ment," Mrs. Sale- interposed. " True, my dear," the doctor replied. " Such expressions of satis- faction are unbefitting a serious occasion like the present. I feel it. However, there's some excuse, you must own." By this time I had in some degree recovered from the confusion MEEVYN CLITHEROE. 105 into which I had been thrown, and dashing aside the tears, which, in spite of my efforts to repress them, started to my eyes, I addressed myself to the executors, both of whom appeared perfectly astounded at the unexpected turn that affairs had taken. Cuthbert Spring looked much concerned. " It is impossible this can be right, gentlemen," I said. " There must be some trickery or fraud, by which my uncle's intentions in regard to me are frustrated. As far as I can, I protest against the will now brought forward, and call upon you, and upon every one here present, to bear witness that I do so. It is not my uncle's last will ; nor ought it to be considered as his will at all, for it is totally at variance with his own expressed declarations to me, made within a few hours of his death." There were confused murmurs among the assemblage at this speech ; some of the speakers being for me, but the majority were against me. Mr. Gripper took upon him to reply : " What you assert, young gentleman, may very well be," he said, gravely. " Tour uncle possibly intended to leave you the property, but unluckily for you he destroyed the instrument by which his intentions might have been carried out." " But I do not believe that he did destroy it," I rejoined. " State your grounds for that opinion," said Mr. Evan Evans, who had listened to me through his ear-trumpet. " Can you produce the other will, or tell us where to find it ?" " I am sorry I cannot," I replied. " But my reasons for believing the will is not destroyed are these : on the day before his death I assisted my uncle to burn a quantity of old papers, amongst which was the document now brought forward by Mr. Gripper." " Do you mean to tell us that you saw your uncle burn the identical instrument which I hold in my hands ?" the attorney re- marked, jocosely. " If so, how came it to be restored, in its present uninjured state, to the bureau, where I found it ?" " That I cannot tell," I replied. " I only know it was placed on the bed, ready to be destroyed, while the right will was deposited in the bureau. Of that I am quite sure." " Well, gentlemen," Mr. Gripper said, with a half-smile, " shall we proceed — or have these observations any weight with you ?" " A moment, if you please, sir," Cuthbert Spring cried. " You say, Mervyn, that one will was laid upon the bed, with other papers, for the purpose of being destroyed. How do you know it was the first will, and not the last ?" " Because my attention was called to the circumstance by my uncle. He told me it was the first will." " And you afterwards saw that will — whichever it might be — burnt ?" " No ; I was sent out of the room for a few minutes, and on my return my uncle told me he had destroyed it." " Then you did not see it thrown on the fire ?" " I did not." 106 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF " Nor partly consumed?" " I am not sure. I had left it on the bed, as I have stated, and when I came back it was gone. There were several papers burning on the fire, and my uncle said it was among them." " The matter is easily explained, gentlemen," Mr. Gripper inter- posed ; " one will has been mistaken for the other ; and the last has been accidentally destroyed. That is quite clear." " I fear so," Mr. Evan Evans said, laying down his ear-trumpet. " No such thing," I cried. " I am positive of the correctness of what I have stated. My uncle examined the packet in the bureau, and convinced himself that it contained his last will, before he decided on committing the other to the flames. He was extremely particular in what he did, and apprehensive lest a mistake should occur." " This is certainly singular," Cuthbert Spring said. " Shall we postpone the reading of this document till further investigations can be made ?" " I scarcely see the necessity of doing so," Mr. Evan Evans x-cplied. " The matter seems clear to me." " It may be made still clearer, if you choose, gentlemen," Simon Pownall said, stepping forward. " How so ?" Cuthbert Spring asked. " What do you know about it, friend ?" Mr. Evan Evans inquired, again putting his trumpet to his ear. " A great deal. Saw him burn it." " What ! were you in the room, man ?" Cuthbert Spring cried, sharply. " No ; in the garden. Could see him quite plainly, though. Knew what lie was about. When Master Mervyn left the room, the old man got up, unlocked his bureau, took out a packet, and tossed it into th' fire, putting t'other, which was lying on the bed, in its place." " Impossible !" I exclaimed. " Oh ! no, it's quite possible," the barber- surgeon rejoined, with a grin, — " for there it is." There was no denying that ; and as everything seemed against me, I was obliged to sit down. " What took you to the garden, man ?" Cuthbert Spring in- quired. " Curiosity," Pownall replied. " Always like to know what's going on. Took a peep, that was all, sir." "Are you satisfied now, gentlemen ?" Mr. Gripper asked. Cuthbert Spring had nothing more to say, and Mr. Evan Evans replied, " We are." Upon this the attorney proceeded with the reading of the will. With the exception of some legacies, the entire property was left to Malpas, in trust, to be paid over to him when he came of age ; but this event was deferred until his twenty-fifth birthday — an ar- rangement which somewhat damped his previous satisfaction, though his spirits again rose when he heard that 5001. per annum was to be allowed him in the interim. MEEVYN CLITUEItOE. 107 My uncle had not quite forgotten me. He bequeathed me 1000Z., coupled with an injunction against killing cats, which showed under what feeling the legacy was left. Eive hundred pounds were also left to Hannah Massey, provided she married William Weever, and 500/. each to the executors. Simon Pownall and Job Greaseby, likewise, came in for 100Z. each. I forget the rest of the legacies, but they were not much. AVhen he had done reading the will, Mr. Gripper arose, and, walk- ing into the house-place, the rest followed him there, with the excep- tion of Cuthbert Spring, who remained behind with me. " I am very sorry for you, my dear boy," Cuthbert said. " It is a bitter pill, but it must be swallowed. And, after all, it is, perhaps, just as well that this fortune should not have come to you, for you will now be compelled to work, and may in the end be better off in all respects than you would have been otherwise. Depend upon it, what a man gains by his own exertions has a twofold value." " I should not care for what has occurred, if I did not feel that I have been defrauded of my rights — most likely by the contrivance of Simon Pownall. He is a designing knave, and I am sure the state- ment he made was utterly false." " Yet it appears to be borne out," Cuthbert Spring replied ; " and I fear the real explanation of the fatal mistake is, that poor Mr. Mobberley did not know what he was about. Such is my conviction. "Was Pownall trusted by your uncle ?" "So much so, unluckily, that the rascal tried to induce the old gentleman to make a will in his own favour ; and failing in that, he has resorted to other underhand measures, of which the result is now apparent. Why, there he is !" "What! your uncle ?" Cuthbert exclaimed. " No — Pownall," I replied, pointing to the window, close to which was the malicious countenance of the barber-surgeon. On seeing he was observed, he retreated. " I hope he has overheard what I said of him," I remarked. " Listeners never hear any good of themselves, that's certain ; and he is a strangely prying fellow," Cuthbert rejoined. " Come, let us go into the other room. Don't be cast down. There are always people malicious enough to rejoice in the mortifications of others. Don't gratify them." " I won't," I replied, firmly. And we went into the house-place, where the party were partaking of biscuit and wine, and I heard much coarse jesting at my expense, which even my presence did not restrain. It was a relief to me to find that Mrs. Sale was gone. After a little private conference with Mr. Gripper, to whom they gave certain instructions, the two execu- tors departed ; Cuthbert Spring telling me he would watch strictly over my interests, and if anything came to light which might benefit me, he would not fail to take instanr advantage of it. As soon as the executors were gone, Simon Pownall, who had kept out of the way till then, reappeared, and approaching Malpas, who 108 LIFE A]SD ADVE^TUEES OF was chatting and laughing with his father, signified that he wanted a word in private with him. On this Malpas went with him into the little parlour, where they were closeted together for some time. When Malpas came out lie looked so much perturbed, that his father asked him what was the matter. " Oh, nothing," he replied. I could not resist the impulse that prompted me to go up to him, and say, " So, Pownall has told you how he managed it, — and has bargained for his reward, eh ?" Malpas stared at me, quite confounded, and turned excessively pale. " I don't understand what you mean," he stammered out. " Yes, you do," I replied, speaking with great vehemence ; " you understand me well enough, for I can read in your looks what has passed between you and that villain. He has changed the wills — I know he has. What do you give him for the job ?" " Really, Mervyn," Dr. Sale interposed, "I cannot allow this in- temperate, this improper language to be addressed to my son. I can make every allowance for your disappointment, and the bitter feelings it must naturally engender ; but your passion carries you too far, and you must not bring serious charges like these against a respectable man — a highly respectable man — like Simon Pownall — a man whom I myself have known for many years, and who, during the whole of that long period, has conducted himself with the utmost propriety, and borne a character above reproach or suspicion." " Entirely above suspicion, Dr. Sale," the barber-surgeon cried, advancing. " Hold my head as high as any man. What has Master Mervyn to say against me ?" " Better leave him alone, Simon," Dr. Sale said, with bland dignity. " Oh! let the fool go on," added Malpas, who had now recovered his audacity, "he'll only get deeper in the mire." I was so enraged, that I felt inclined to knock him down, but my loss of temper had already given my opponents such evident advan- tage over me, that I tried to calm myself; but it was no easy task. "Let me ask Simon Pownall one question?" I cried. " Twenty, if you please, sir," the barber-surgeon replied, readily, and with a self-satisfied grin, as much as to say, " You'll find yourself no match for me." " Did you not offer to make all sure for me with my uncle if I would pay you a large sum of money ?" " Decidedly not. No motive for doing so. Believed you his heir." " Of course you did, Simon," Dr. Sale observed; "so did we all." " Ay, we all believed it," the assemblage chorused. " Any more questions P" Pownall said. " Clever young man, Mr. Gripper ?" winking at that gentleman. " Remarkably clever," the attorney replied, with a smile. " Ought to go to the bar." ".Will go to the bar, perhaps," Simon said, facetiously MEEVTN CLTTHEHOE. 109 " It was foolish in me to put any questions to you at all, Pownall," I cried, " for I might have known that a man who would make such a nefarious proposal as you did to me, would not hesitate to deny it. What I intend to ask shall be asked elsewhere, and in a different manner." " Look to yourself, Master Pownall," the attorney observed, jocosely. " Mr. Mervyn decidedly means to prosecute you." " Quite welcome," the barber-surgeon replied. " Meantime, — let me ask him a question. It shall be a poser." " Does it relate to the will?" Mr. Gripper said. "It does," Pownall rejoined. " Attention, gentlemen. Si — lence! Now, sir," addressing me, "no equivocation — direct answer — Who SHOT THE CAT ?" "Ay, ay — who shot the cat?" several voices repeated, amid the general laughter of the party. Stung by this insult, I seized hold of Pownall' s long nose, and tweaked it so severely that I speedily changed his note ; but when Malpas advanced to the rescue, I quitted my hold of the barber- surgeon's proboscis, and dealt my younger opponent a blow, which drove him with considerable force against his father's fat paunch, and caused him to trample on the reverend gentleman's gouty toes, elicit- ing as many oaths from the doctor as he had breath left to utter. In the scuffle that ensued, old Talbot came to my assistance, and, snap- ping right and left, cleared a passage for me to the door, where Elkanah Catchpool attempted to oppose my egress, but seeing the dog approach open-mouthed, the scoundrelly clerk turned tail and fled, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him chased round the farm- yard, and finally deposited in the black pool near the pigsties, into which he soused in his efforts to escape. How I got there I scarcely know, but I found myself beside my mother's grave. There I burst into tears — there, after a while, I found consolation. A gentle voice seemed to whisper peace to my troubled breast. I no longer burnt with anger, nor meditated revenge. The last twenty-four hours had wrought a great change in my charac- ter, and had given me thoughts beyond my years. I had imagined myself possessed of a large fortune, which, suddenly as it came, was wrested from me. I had indulged in dreams of the future, which had vanished as quickly as they rose. My momentary elation had been followed by bitter disappointment. I hoped what I had gone through might be a wholesome lesson to me, and, as I stood there, I felt it would be so. " Perhaps it is for the best," I cried. And a voice from the grave seemed to repeat my words — "Yes, it is for the best. This is but a trial." But the trial was severe ; and how much I regretted that I had no mother's tender bosom whereon to repose my throbbing head after the conflict. 110 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CHAPTEE XIV. I AGAIN ENCOUNTER PENINNAH. I stated by the grave more than an hour, when I heard the gate opened, and distinguished the voices of Dr. Sale and Simon Pownall, and not wishing to be discovered by them, I leaped the low wall that bounded the churchyard on the side of the mere, and making my way down the steep descent, and through the narrow copse skirting the water, sat down on the stump of an old tree to meditate. While thus musing, I perceived Ned Culcheth rowing his boat, in a very leisurely manner, across the mere, and remarking also that a little girl was seated near him, it struck me that the latter must be Apphia Brideoake. And so it turned out; for, as Ned drew nearer, I could distinguish her features distinctly. And she also caught sight of me at the same moment, and stood up in the boat, waving her hand to me in recognition. On this, Ned pulled vigorously towards me, and in a few minutes afterwards I had sprung on board, and was seated by Apphia's side, making inquiries about John and her mother. She told me they had arrived on the previous night, and were quite delighted with the cottage I had chosen for them. It was so clean and comfortable, and airy — so unlike the lodgings they had quitted. John was better — much better — but, being fatigued with the journey, he had not yet left his room. Apphia was in raptures with Sissy, and spoke of her good looks and good-nature with childish admiration ; while Sissy, from JN"ed's account, was equally charmed with her, and couldn't make enough of her. " Hoo would ha'e me tak little miss out i' my boat when I coined back fro' Nethercrofts," he said. " And if he hadn't done so I shouldn't have met you, dear Mervyn," Apphia, cried. This was unanswerable, and I could only say how much obliged 1 felt to Sissy for her attention ; but I added, to the keeper : " You've heard what has happened, then ?" " I tarried i' th' farm-yard till a' were known, and then I corned away," he replied. "There's been foul play somewhere." " Little doubt of it, Ned. But what can't be cured must be endured." " True. But, mayhap, this can be cured. However, we munnot talk on't now. There's little missy wonderin' what we mean." " What is it, dear Mervyn ?" Apphia asked, fixing her large blue eves inquiringly upon me. " I have been building castles in the air, and they have melted away," 1 replied. " That's rather above my comprehension," she rejoined ; " but I MERVYN CLITHEEOE. 11.1 can see it is something that distresses you, and therefore I'm sorry for it," " Land us for a moment near Throstlenest-laue, Ned," I cried, anxious to change the subject ; " there's a bank in it which is gene- rally covered with primroses and violets at this time of year, and I should like to send a nosegay to the invalid. You will take it to him, Apphia?" " Oh ! that I will," she answered, joyously. The keeper readily complied, and we soon stepped ashore. As I expected, we found plenty of violets, and the banks were literally starred with primroses. How full of delight was Apphia as she culled a little nosegay for her brother ! How like a sylph she looked as she flew from spot to spot, or paused in her task to listen, enraptured, to the songs of the birds from the adjoining copses ! "When 1 had first beheld her I thought her an exquisitely beautiful child, but her beauty inspired uneasiness, for it appeared transient as a fitful bloom upon the cheek. Now health seemed reviving, and strong hope was held out that her nascent charms would be brought to maturity. I watched her with the greatest interest. What witchery was there in her every look and every movement ! What transports of delight she exhibited when the thrilling notes of the throstle reached her ear ! How she clapped her little hands, and ran herself out of breath, in mounting the steep acclivity ! " Where did the lane lead to ?" she inquired. I told her to Nether- crofts. " Oh ! how much she should like to see the farm-house ! — Was it far off?" And then, seeing me look grave at the inquiry, she begged pardon for making it. " Apphia," I said, "you shall now hear what has happened. My uncle is dead, and Nethercrofts and the lands belonging to it, which I expected would be mine, have gone to another. I have reason to think I have not been fairly dealt with, and shall make every effort to obtain my rights, but I doubt whether I shall succeed." " That depends upon yourself, my pretty little gentleman," a voice cried. " If you go the right way to work, you will — not otherwise." " Who spoke ?" Apphia said, in a low tone, with a look of surprise mixed with alarm. " I see no one." " Neither do I," I answered, gazing round ; " but I know the voice. It is that of Peninnah, the gipsy-woman." " You're right, my pretty gentleman — it is," Peninnah cried, coming from behind some bushes, which had screened her from our view. Apphia clung to me with alarm as the gipsy-woman advanced to- wards us. " Don't be frightened," I said; "she shan't injure you." " I don't wish to injure her," Peninnah rejoined, " and I don't wish to injure you, my pretty gentleman, though you've hurt my husband, and tried to take his life. I bear you no malice. If I wanted to do you a mischief," she added, with a look that made Apphia tremble in my arms, " you would soon find out whether I had the power or not. But I don't — and I don't blame you for shooting 112 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP at Phaleg, though he was going to do you a good turn at the time. But how should you know that ? You weren't likely to trust him." " No, indeed," I replied. " And I scarcely know whether I ought to trust you. But I will. What have you got to say ?" " I can't tell it now," she rejoined ; " neither can I tell it without Phaleg's consent, and I'm not sure he'll give it. Indeed, I'm certain he won't, unless you make it worth his while." " "What will make it worth his while ?" I asked. " That's for him to settle — not me," she answered. " He hears you no love, you may be sure, my pretty gentleman, and wouldn't let me make terms with you, nor even speak with you, if he could help it. However, I don't mind him." " What am I to do, then ? What do you recommend ?" I asked. Peninnah cast down her eyes to reflect. And during the momen- tary pause, Apphia whispered something to me, but I did not catch its import. " A month hence you shall know," the gipsy-woman said, at length. " A month hence ! that's a long time," I exclaimed. " Tou may thank yourself for the delay," she rejoined ; " you've wounded Phaleg, and he won't be quite well till that time." " Oh ! then, I'm to have an interview with him, eh ? Where is he ?" " Tou don't expect me to tell you that ? But I'll tell you where to find him. In a month's time he'll be all right, as I've said. This is Priday. On Priday month, at midnight, be in Marston Church- yard, at the back of the church, near the mere. You shall meet him there. I'll answer for your safety." " Why appoint such an hour and place ?" I asked, feeling Apphia shudder, while a tremor ran through my own frame. " Because it will suit Phaleg. I've no other reason. You'll come ?" " I don't know," I replied, hesitating. " Oh, no, don't promise — don't go, dear Mervyn," Apphia entreated. The gipsy-woman looked hard at her. " You're very fond of him," she said, with a cunning smile. " Are you his sister? You're pretty — but you're not like him." " I'm not his sister," Apphia answered, with a slight blush ; " but I don't want him to run into danger." " Oh, bless your tender little heart ! he won't do that," Peninnah rejoined. "He'll come; for I've seen him in real danger afore now, and I know he's one as isn't easily frightened. He'll run no risk now ; and, as I said afore, if he goes the right way to work, he'll larn summat to his advantage — ay, greatly to his advantage." " Well, I'll keep the appointment," I said. " But you must tell me which is the 'right way' you speak of." " You'll easily find that out. Mind, you must come alone ; and mustn't mention the meeting to a single soul. Can you keep a secret, my pretty miss ? You look as if you could." "I can, if I choose," Apphia replied. " Then you must choose and do so now, for it consarns him more MEKYYN CLIT1IER0E. 113 than it does me or mine. Let me look at your hand, my little dear." Apphia, however, was very unwilling to comply, but at last, at my request, she held it out. " Are you going to tell her her fortune ?" I asked, after the gipsy had attentively studied the lines on the small palm for some minutes. " I want to satisfy myself on some points," Peninnah answered. " She ought to be born to good luck and high places, but misfort'n and poverty have been her portion hitherto. That I can see. You may fancy I'm deceivin' of you in what I'm agoin' to say, but I'm bless' d if I am. Her future happiness will mainly depend on what takes place on that Friday night I've mentioned." " Ah ! you want to induce me to go," I cri«d. " If I do, it's for your own good — as well as for hers," she rejoined. " And now I've done. Recollect my caution. Alone, and at mid- night, in the churchyard." " On this day four weeks. I will be there," I returned. And Peninnah stepped behind the bushes, while Apphia and I re- traced our steps towards the boat. As we went on, the little girl re- marked : " You did not take any notice when I whispered to you that some one was watching us." " I did not — because I did not hear what you said," I replied. " Was it her husband — Phaleg ? But why do I ask, when you don't know him." " The man didn't look like a gipsy. I could only see him indis- tinctly, for he tried to conceal himself behind the hedge." " Should you know him if you saw him again, Apphia?" " I think so, but am not quite sure." As we were speaking, Ned Culcheth, who I thought had been in the boat, jumped down the bank and joined us. " Have you seen any one about, Ned ?" I asked. " Only Ninnah, the gipsy," he replied ; " I seed her talkin' wi' you; an' I heerd what she said, too. I mean to be i' th' churchyard that neet os weel os you." " Then it was Ned you saw, Apphia ?" I cried. " No, it wasn't," she answered; "it was a much shorter man, and much older ; a man with a very long nose." " Then it was Simon Pownall, I'll be bound," I cried; " he must have seen me leave the churchyard, and has kept me in view, and dogged me about, ever since. It's just like him. The rascal has the longest nose in Marston, and pokes it into everything — but I gave it good pulling this morning." I was not sorry that Ned had overheard what had passed between me and the gipsy-woman, because I could now talk the matter over with him without any breach of confidence ; but I was very much vexed that Pownall (if it indeed were he, as I could scarcely doubt) should have been a listener likewise ; and I determined to concert 114 LIFE AND ADYENTUEES OF measures with Ned, between this and the appointed meeting, to de- feat any mischievous designs the prying rascal might form. I did not embark again, but took leave of Apphia, promising to call and see them all at the cottage next day ; and having watched the boat pursue its course across the mere, I turned back, and proceeded slowly to Nethercrofts. CHAPTEB XV. I MEET PHALEG AT MIDNIGHT IN MAKSTON CHUBCHYAED, AND MY UNCLE MOBBEELEY'S GHOST APPEAES TO US. A month had passed by, and the Friday had arrived on the night of which I was to meet Phaleg. I was all anxiety for the interview, as I felt it might be of importance to me, and had fully prepared for it ; but, before detailing the strange events of that night, I must briefly relate what had occurred in the interval. I was still staying at ]S"ethercrofts, for, in compliance with the directions of the executors, no change whatever had been made in the establishment ; and William Weever and his wife (for he and Hannah were already united), to whom the management of the house and farm was entrusted, were very kind to me, and expressed great concern at my disappointment. I believed them to be sincere, and felt their kindness much. Malpas had not been near the place since the day on which the will was read, and I had only seen him once — at the funeral, on which occasion he acted as chief mourner. Acted, I may say, in every sense; for his pretended grief was disgusting, not only to me, but to the greater part of the numerous assemblage of mourners. He carried a fine cambric pocket-handkerchief in his hand, which he constantly applied to his eyes, and when the coffin was lowered into the earth, and the poor old man was once more laid beside his wife — from whom he had only been a few months separated — he gave utterance to a loud groan. I could hardly restrain myself; but I did. When all was over, we confronted each other, and I gave him a look which told him plainly what I thought of him. He turned away, pretending to wipe the tears from his eyes, and again groaned loudly. Unable to stand it longer, I snatched the handkerchief from him, and threw it into the grave, crying out, " Away with this mockery of sorrow ! Tou shall not insult the dead longer." Malpas made no reply, but retreated a step or two, while his lather advanced towards me, with a countenance charged with frowns. The thunder burst in this way : " Sir, your behaviour is scandalous. Talk about insulting the dead, indeed ! I should like to know who has exhibited most indecorum — ■ MERVYN CLITIIEROE. 1 15 most insensibility on this sad and solemn occasion — you or my son ? If you felt as you ought, you would blush for what you have done ; but I fear there is little shame in your composition. But though you have disgraced yourself by your conduct, sir, you have unintentionally done my son a service. You have shown how unworthy you are to be your uncle's heir. Tou have proved how rightly and wisely the excellent old man acted in cutting you off from his property at the last moment. It is well that his money has gone from you, sir, for you would have made bad use of it. This is the second occasion on which you have shown how ungovernable is your temper, and how little regard you have for the decencies of life, or the duties of a Christian. Nothing appears to restrain you. But be warned in time, or you will bring disgrace on all connected with you. You will come to be hanged, sir. That you may amend your ways is the worst I de- sire for you. Go home, sir, and reflect on what you have done." So saying, and leaving me a good deal abashed by his reprimand, which I felt to be, in some degree, deserved, the doctor withdrew with his son. He was right in stating that I had done myself an in- jury by yielding to the impulse of passion, though I had some cause for it ; for my conduct operated greatly to my disadvantage in the opinion of the b^ystanders. Amongst those who were loudest in censuring me was Simon Pownall, and he found many to agree with laim. I went home in no enviable frame of mind. After this, I should certainly have returned to the Anchorite's,, but I had two inducements to remain at JNethercrofts which overcame all my objections to continue in the neighbourhood of the Sales: one was my desire to meet Phaleg, and learn what he had to disclose, and the other was the propinquity of the Brideoakes, with whom I passed the greater part of each day. I had written to Mrs. Mervyn, telling her how unluckily for me things had turned out, and had received a very kind and consolatory letter from her in return. She told me that Cuthbert Spring had called upon her, and acquainted her with all the circumstances of the case. She offered no opinion of her own as to the possibility of fraud being practised in regard to the will, but said that Cuthbert Spring had expressed his conviction, in which his co-executor concurred, that the destruction of the document which would have been advantageous to me was purely accidental. " Under these circumstances, my dear Mervyn," she wrote, "there is nothing for it but submission. Your loss is to be regretted, certainly, as every loss must be, but I shall be sorry if it occasions bad feeling between you and Malpas. Had you been the gainer by the accident, for such, in compliance with Mr. Cuthbert Spring's opinion, I must call it, 1 believe — nay, I am sure — you would have acted very differently towards him from what he is likely to act to you. But that is no reason why you should display resentment. You are not without friends, and you do not want a home, so, though you have not gained what you expected, and no doubt feel some annoyance in consequence, you will soon get over it, and are not, indeed, much to be pitied. I suppose you will come home after the funeral." i2 L16 LIFE AND ADYENTUKES OE Such were the terms of her letter. Not wishing to return for the reasons I have stated, I therefore wrote to beg she would allow me to remain a month where I w r as, and she kindly complied wdth the request. I have said that I spent the greater part of my time with the Brideoakes, and I had now not only the companionship of little Apphia, but of John, who had become so much stronger that he was able to take short walks with us, and, if the days were fine, to pass a few hours upon the mere. Ned's occupations did not allow him always to go with us, but he let us have his boat when we pleased, and as I could manage the oars pretty nearly as well as himself, I used to row the two young folks about. There w r as» scarcely a nook of the lake that we did not visit ; and wherever there was anything to be seen on the banks, Apphia and I landed, leaving the invalid on board. Three weeks had transformed the little girl into a new creature. She was now full of health and spirits, and blithe as a bird on a spring morning. Her brother's recovery was much slower in progress, but he gradually and surely made way, and towards the end of the month 1 no longer entertained any apprehensions for him. All his ardour and thirst for knowledge returned, and, if he had been allowed his own way, he would have resumed his studies as unremittingly as ever. But this being entirely counter to Dr. Foam's orders, all books were kept out of his w r ay by his mother. He was a strange boy, John Brideoake ; and I now became confirmed in my opinion that he would become a remarkable man. He would sit for an hour together in the back of the boat, completely abstracted from the scene around him, undisturbed by the lively chattering of his sister, and almost unconscious that he was alone, if w r e left him when we landed. At such times he w r as taxing his memory to the utmost, recalling passages in the books that w r ere denied him, and forcing his brain to work, though such toil was strictly interdicted. When this process of study was over, his countenance would light up, and he would become as gleeful as Apphia herself — would watch the shadow of the boat as it cleaved the water — would pluck a bulrush in the reedy shallows, and use it as a fairy lance against some imaginary opponent — would expatiate in rapturous and eloquent terms on the beauty of all around him, viewing the scene as a painter might have viewed it, and describing it like a poet. I listened to him, on these occasions, with wonder ; and even Apphia hung mute upon his words. Neither of us had ever heard him talk so before, for he some- times spoke as one inspired. I have not mentioned Mrs. Brideoake hitherto, though I saw her daily, of course, for I cannot say that I liked her, nor that she im- proved upon acquaintance. I began to feel the same awe for her that her children entertained. She was the haughtiest woman, and the most absolute, I ever met with. John and Apphia were accustomed to obey her implicitly in everything, and she exer- cised complete tyranny over them. Even John's strong mind was subdued by her And now that I was so much with them, and, as MERVTN CLITHEROE. 117 it were, a member of the family, she treated me in the same manner. I had naturally acquainted her with the disappointment I had ex- perienced, and, instead of sympathising with me, she blamed me for allowing myself to be outmanoeuvred. Malpas, she said, had shown himself the cleverer of the two. Success, with her, however obtained, always commanded applause ; failure found no excuse, and only met with contempt. I wondered she maintained such opinions, considering the reverses which she herself had experienced ; but so it was ; and argument with her was out of the question, for she never allowed the slightest contradiction. To Ned Culcheth and his wife she was extremely condescending, and they thought her a perfect lady, as indeed she was, though a very proud and disagreeable one ; but with her children and with me she was imperious and exacting. She frequently questioned me about the Sales — particularly Mrs. Sale — of whom I was glad to be able to speak in high terms. The warmth of my praises excited Mrs. Brideoake's derision, and I could see I had sunk in her estimation as a poor-spirited fellow. It so happened that Mrs. Sale heard that a family was staying at the keeper's cottage — indeed, she saw them all at church — and, making inquiries about them from Sissy, she intimated her intention of calling upon Mrs. Brideoake. "When this was communicated to the proud lady, she said, " I hope she won't give herself the trouble. I won't receive her. No one shall intrude on me." Poor Sissy did not dare to remonstrate, but she thought it better to make some excuse to Mrs. Sale, and consequently the visit was not paid. In justice to this excellent lady, I am bound to say that she did her best to bring about a reconciliation between me and Malpas, but I declined all overtures, and on two or three occasions when she came over to Nethercrofts expressly to see me, I am ashamed to say I kept out of her way. But, as I have said, the long-expected Friday had arrived, and even the very night was come, on which I was to have the mysterious in- terview with Phaleg. Apphia had often tried, in her childish way, to dissuade me from keeping the appointment, by representing the danger I should incur ; but I was proof against her remonstrances. In- dependently of all other considerations, there was a romantic charac- ter about the affair, exactly in accordance with my own notions of an adventure. AVhatever the risk might be, I was resolved to run it. Xot a word relative to the meeting had been mentioned to John either by myself or Apphia, for we would not violate the confidence reposed in our secrecy. But, as Ned Culcheth had become aware of the circumstance, the case was different with him. My only real ap- prehension was in regard to Simon Pownall, and if I had encountered Peninnah in the interim, I would have got her to change the place of rendezvous, so as to thwart any designs the rascal might have formed ; but she had either left the neighbourhood, or kept out of my way, for I saw nothing of her. The only plan to be adopted under the circum- stances was the one suggested by Ned, to the effect that he, Cul- 118 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF cheth, should keep watch over the barber-surgeon's dwelling during the whole of the evening, and if he perceived him come forth, should follow him, and prevent any interruption on his part. After due consideration this was agreed to. It might appear that I should have some difficulty in leaving Nethercrofts late at night without explaining my errand ; but I gave myself little concern on this point. I had known the men slip out too often during my poor uncle's lifetime, not to feel quite sure I could manage matters in the same way. Oh ! how slowly — how very slowly time passed that evening. I could settle to nothing — could think of nothing but the meeting. At nine o'clock the men went to bed, but pretending to be deeply interested in a book, I remained down stairs. After a while, when all was quiet, I extinguished my light, and threw myself on the sofa, in anxious ex- pectation of the hour for starting. I did not dare to sleep, nor, indeed, do I think I could have slept, even if certain of awakening at the right moment. I counted the minutes by the ticking of the old clock, and thought it went slower than usual. At last, to my great relief, it struck eleven. Then I arose and moved noiselessly across the house-place. But, quietly as I proceeded, I roused Talbot, who had been slumbering, as usual, on the hearth. I had taken off my shoes, and left them near the back door with my gun, which was loaded. The bolt was gently withdrawn, the latch raised, and I stood in the farm-yard. Talbot had come out, too ; for though I would rather have been without him, I could not send him back without making a noise, which would have betrayed me. Having carefully closed the door, and put on my shoes, I shouldered my gun, and set off with the old dog at my heels, congratulating myselt upon the success which had hitherto attended my movements. The moon was in her last quarter, and every now and then was visible through drifting clouds, shedding a ghostly glimmer around ; but generally speaking it was profoundly dark. It was also extremely cold, and I walked fast to keep my blood in circulation. My way lay across the fields, and for some distance the path skirted a hedge, in which grew many large trees. "While speeding along, I fancied I heard footsteps behind me, and looked back in some trepidation ; but though my eyes were by this time accustomed to the gloom, I could discern nothing except a pollard elm a few yards off. I then stopped for a moment, but as no one came on, I proceeded in my course, and as I did so I again heard the footsteps. They might be merely echoes of my own, for as I once more halted the sound suddenly ceased. Still I felt uneasy, and an undofinable terror began to steal over me. There was a sense of loneliness in those fields at that hour such as I had never before experienced, and I was now glad of the companionship of old Talbot, who kept very close to me. If any one wore following me, I thought it must be Phaleg, who might have watched me come out ; but if so, why did he not declare himself? The cold had become excessive, in consequence of the mists arising from the marshy grounds adjoining MERVYtf CL1T1IE110E. 119 the mere, and these vapours added to the obscurity. I was often in danger of falling into a ditch ; and, in spite of all my efforts, I could not keep my teeth from chattering. While getting over a stile, I fancied I perceived a shadowy figure behind me, and strained my eyes to penetrate the gloom that shrouded it. All at once, the moon burst from behind a rack of clouds, and the figure seemed to take the form of my uncle Mobberley, but the next moment the moon was again hidden, and it melted from view. I was dreadfully frightened, I must confess, as any one else, I suppose, would have been in my situation, and for some minutes remained fixed where I was, gazing into the vacancy, and resolved to address the spirit if it appeared again. But it declined to gratify me in this respect; and, somewhat reassured, I proceeded on my way. Had I received a warning from the grave ? Did my dead uncle intend to take part in the interview ? I asked myself these questions, but felt unable to answer them. Again, had not my own distempered imagination conjured up the phantom ? I inclined to the latter opi- nion, but the evidence of my senses was against it. I had certainly seen a figure in all respects resembling my uncle, and fancy could not have cheated me into the belief. Old Talbot seemed to have no doubts on the subject, for he had slunk off to a distance, and trembled and whined as I approached him. I would have turned back, but it was now too late ; and, moreover, I did not like passing the spot where the phantom had appeared. The churchyard was close at hand, and I felt impelled to enter it. It may seem strange that I had scarcely set foot within the hallowed precincts than my courage returned. Though I was now disturbing the repose of those who lay beneath the flags and rounded hillocks, and at an hour " "When churchyards yawn, and graves give up their dead," I felt none of the superstitious fears which had beset me in the lone- some fields. I stood still, and listened. As I did so, the butt-end of my gun came in contact with a large stone, covering the entrance to a vault, and a hollow clangour was returned. There was no other sound. All was hushed as death itself. Yes, after a while there was a cry from the church tower, and a great white, ghostly object flitted pasi me ; but it caused me no alarm, for I knew it was only an owl. The church itself, though close at hand, showed like a huge, heavy black mass : buttress, window, and porch were undistinguishable. The dusky outline of roof and tower was alone preserved. It required some knowledge of the gloomy locality to shape my course towards the back of the church ; but possessing this, I moved on without hesitation. More than once I stumbled over a low head- stone, and on each occasion I fancied that mocking laughter succeeded my fall. But it might be only the echoes of the spot. Presently a black jagged object appeared before rae. f It was a yew-tree, and I then knew precisely where I was, for this tree grew at the back of the 120 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF church, and close to my uncle's grave. I again came to a pause, and awaited some signal to announce Phaleg's approach. But I was before my time, and at least a quarter of an hour elapsed before the church clock struck twelve. The solemn sounds had scarcely ceased vibrating through the air, when a figure emerged from the gloom, and a voice, which I recognised as that of Phaleg, exclaimed, " Hist! where are you ?" " Here," I replied, stepping towards him. " I see you now. How infernally dark it is. Are you alone ?" " I am." " That's right ; for, if not, you'd have heerd nothing from me. But how's this ? You've got a gun with you, and a dog." " The gun is only to protect myself, and the dog won't harm you unless you molest me. You needn't be afraid of either." " Afeared !" he echoed, with a fierce laugh. " Afeared of a stripling like you ! No, I'm not much afeared, my joker. And if it warn't that I've promised my wife not to harm you, and that I expects to make a good sum by you, I'd pay you off for the mischief you did me a month ago, in spite of dog and gun." " I suppose you didn't come here merely to threaten me," I re- joined. " What have you got to disclose ?" " Come nearer," he returned ; " I don't like talkin' too loud. Them folks below might overhear us," he added, with a chuckle that made me shudder. " No ; keep off!" I cried, presenting my gun. " I won't trust you." On this the gipsy swore a great oath, and he brandished a tre- mendous bludgeon with which he was armed ; so I kept my finger on the trigger, ready to pull it if he made any attack upon me. Talbot barked at him furiously. " Keep the dog quiet, curse you !" he cried ; " you'll rouse the neighbourhood. Well, then, to make short work of it, I've a secret to sell you." " I imagined so," I replied. " What do you want for it ?" " A thousand pounds — not a farden less. It would be cheap to you at two thousand, but I won't drive a hard bargain. I'm tired of this wagabond life, and that sum would set me up respectable." " How do I know your secret is worth it ?" "I'll soon make it plain to you," he replied, in a cunning tone. " You know the valley of your uncle Mobberley's property. You know you've lost it as things now stand. S'pose I finds the miasm' will, and puts you in possession ?" " If you do, the money's yours," I replied. "Is it a bargain?" " It is." As I was trembling with anxiety for the revelations that were to ensue, a hollow groan, apparently issuing from the depths of an ad- joining grave, broke on our startled hearing, and Talbot, who was Btanding near me, howled and ran off. " What the devil's that ?" my companion ejaculated, in tones that bespoke his terror. MERYTN CLITHEROE. 121 Another hollow groan responded to the exclamation, and the moon bursting forth at the same moment, revealed the ghostly figure of my nncle Mobberley beneath the yew-tree. He appeared to be standing near the edge of an open grave, into which it was fortunate I had not tumbled, for I had not hitherto observed it. His habiliments were those he had worn in life ; and he was lean- ing upon his crutch-handled stick, with the black patch drawn over his death-like features. "We both gazed at the apparition in mute terror. I would have spoken, but my tongue refused its office. But the ghost did not require to be addressed first. Contrary to the usage of spirits, it spoke, after shaking its shadowy arm me- nacingly at Phaleg. The voice seemed changed, and was deeper than my uncle's, before he shuffled off his mortal coil. '""What are you doing here?" he cried, with ghostly gruffness, " abusing the lad's patience with idle tales. Am I to be disturbed in my grave by a gipsy rascal like you ? I have disinherited him, and he knows it. I have burnt my will, and given my property to one who'll take care of it." "That's a lie, old chap," replied Phaleg, who had regained his con- fidence, having probably begun to smell a rat. " I can tell a very different tale." "You may tell it where you please," the ghost rejoined, "but no one will believe you. You'll be hanged, rascal." " Not afore I brings a greater rogue than myself to the gallows." " The world is come to a pretty pass, when honest men's characters can be sworn away," the ghost said. " I'm well out of it." " Ay, that you are ; and I advise you to go back to your coffin. It's the fittest place for you," the gipsy returned, with a brutal laugh. The ghost groaned dismally. " Groan away," Phaleg continued ; " you won't frighten me. The devil, your master, couldn't. Change your tone, Mister Ghost." Apparently, the ghost thought the suggestion worth attending to. for it replied, rather more mildly, " You've come here on a fool's errand." " I don't think so," Phaleg returned, in a jeering voice. " I can do business here quite as well as elsewhere — mayhap better. I didn't expect the pleasure o' your company ; but I'm glad to see you, nevertheless, an' quite prepared for you. Ghosts seems to have bad mem'ries — no wonder, all things considered — an' yours want's jogging. You made a slight mistake just now, when you towd your nevvey you'd burnt your will. I can prove the contrairy. But I don't want to lake you unawares. Have you any objections to my tellin' him where to find it ?" " Let him go home," the ghost rejoined, significantly. "Kay— nay, that'll never do," Phaleg said. "I cannot take all this trouble for nuffiu." " Nor I," I cried, having drawn my own conclusions from their 122 LIFE AND ADVENTUEES OF discourse. " I don't mean to stir hence ; and I'll take good care that you, Phaleg, don't stir either, till I've obtained the information you promised me." " You hear how the little bantam-cock crows ?" Phaleg exclaimed, with a laugh ; " there'll be a reg'lar fight for it, that's sartin, if I dis- appoints him." " That there will," I said, resolutely ; " and I'm armed, as you know." "Now, Mister Ghost," the gipsy said, "you see how matters stands. Shall I stick to him, or come over to you? You'll rest more comfortabler in your grave, I dare say, if I keeps your secret ; but if I does, I must have better terms than he offers. So make up your mind quick." " You shall have anything you please, — only get rid of him," the ghost cried. " Now, young gen'l'man," Phaleg said, " you perceives as how your uncle an' me has come to an understandin' ? The best thing you can do, therefore, is to make yourself scarce as quickly as you can. No talkin' — mind." " ' Mum' must be the word," the ghost cried. "You have betrayed yourself, Pownall," I rejoined. " I suspected who it was from the first. You are a couple of precious rascals ; but you'll find that, boy as I am, I'm a match for both of you. Phaleg, you are my prisoner." " Your prisoner — ho ! ho ! Come, I likes that." " Yes, my prisoner — unless you do as I bid you. And first, I order you to seize and secure Simon Pownall." " Why, look you, my lad, I could easily do what you tells me, but I don't see how it would answer my purpose." " It wouldn't," the barber-surgeon cried. " Stand by me, and we'L soon dispose of him." Notwithstanding my bravado, I was much alarmed, for I felt I was in the power of these miscreants ; and though I might shoot one of them, I should probably be mastered by the other. Having selected Phaleg, as the most dangerous of the two, I determined to make him my mark ; but little time was allowed me for consideration, for almost before I could raise my gun, which I had previously lowered, the gipsy hurled his bludgeon with tremendous force at my head. Luckily, I avoided the blow by stooping, and I heard the missile take effect upon Simon Pownall, who was in a line with me, and who, giving vent to a groan very different from those he had uttered before, fell backwards f into the grave ; at least, I judged so by the sound. However, I was in great confusion, for unfortunately as I thought, but fortunately as it turned out, my gun went off as I stooped down. With a fearful oath Phaleg rushed upon me, threatening to finish me ; and probably he might have done so, but at that moment the deep baying of a bloodhound was heard, accompanied by the voice of Ned Culcheth, cheering him on. In spite of the threats of the gipsy, I shouted for aid at the top of MERV1N CLITHEROE. 123 my voice, and was instantly answered by the keeper. Phaleg bad caught me by the throat, as the only means of silencing me, but he was now obliged to leave go, and dashing me, half-strangled, upon the ground, he leaped the churchyard wall, and disappeared. He had not been gone more than a second, when Gaunt and Lupus pounced upon me, setting their heavy paws on my prostrate body, and growling horribly. Though I felt their dreadful jaws close to my face, I managed to cry out, and the keeper coming up at the same time, and quickly comprehending my situation, called them off before any harm could be done to me. As soon as I could find breath, I explained to him what had occurred. In return, he told me he had watched by Pownall's house throughout the whole evening, but, not seeing the barber-surgeon go out, he concluded all was right so far as he was concerned. Still, he had not quitted his post until some ten minutes after midnight, when he proceeded towards the churchyard, to see whether 1 required any assistance, and on hearing the discharge of the gun, he had hastened in the direction of the sound. As we both of us agreed that Simon Pownall was safe enough in the grave into which he had fallen, we determined to pursue th? gipsy without further delay ; on which Ned immediately put his bloodhounds on the scent, and as they leaped the churchyard wall, we followed on their track. Down the declivity we dashed, led on by the voices of the hounds, for it was too dark to keep them in view. Through the thick copse skirting the mere — along its reedy marge — we ran at a headlong pace, until we came to the little boat-house. Here the hounds were at fault, and bayed angrily. " Can he have taken a boat ?" Ned cried. " Dang him, he has. He has broken the chain, and got off." " But we can follow him ; there's another boat/' I exclaimed. " Ay, ay," Ned replied; " an' we shan catch him, for we ban got the swifter craft of the two." " Lose no time, then," I cried, unable to control my impatience, and helping him to unfasten the boat. In another instant we were ready ; the hounds were on board, and Ned grasped the oars. Before plunging the latter into the water, he paused to listen for some sounds to guide him in the direction of the fugitive. "We could hear nothing, owing to the mutterings of the dogs, and could see nothing upon the darkling surface of the mere, which seemed to blend insensibly with the gloom ; and if we struck out in the wrong direction, we should probably lose him altogether, when fortunately, a momentary burst of moonlight pointed the gipsy out to us, a good way off, pulling right across the mere. " Hurrah ! now then we have him, to a dead sartinty," Ned cried, giving way instantly, and plying his oars with the utmost vigour. I didn't feel quite so certain that we should come up with him, notwithstanding the keeper's exertions ; but if we saw where he landed, we could not fail to run him down with the hounds. To keep 12-i LIFE AND ADTENTUEES OF him in view, however, was no easy matter, for, the gleam of light having been instantly withdrawn, it was now dark as pitch. In spite of all our efforts to silence them, the hounds would not cease bay- ing; and, consequently, though we could hear nothing of him, our movements must be made known to the fugitive, and help him to avoid us. Of this we were fully aware ; and though I steered the boat as well as I could, I was in great uncertainty. How anxiously I watched for another gleam ! At last it came, and then we found that, instead of being ahead, as we supposed, the gipsy bad doubled upon us, and was rowing back towards the point from which he had started. The head of our boat was instantly turned, and we gave him chase. " "We must mind what we're about, Ned, or he'll give us the slip yet," I cried, " and I wouldn't lose him — no, not for a thousand pounds." " Never fear, sir," the keeper replied, pulling away with lusty strokes. Again, all was darkness and uncertainty. My eyes were strained to catch the slightest glimpse of the other boat, and my ears open for any sound, however faint. " I think he has turned again, Ned," I exclaimed. " Rest on your oars for a moment, and listen." The keeper complied, and the next instant got up, and, seizing the two hounds by the throat, so tightly as almost to throttle them, he said in a whisper to me : " He's comin' direct towards us. Howd your tongues, wun ye — ■ ye dang'd tell-tale brutes." Ned was right. In his attempt to escape, the cunning fox had run right into our jaws. The darkness which had hitherto favoured him, now helped us in our turn, and he did not descry us till he was within twenty yards of our boat. Uttering a fearful oath, he made an effort to turn; but it was now too late. On seeing his prey within reach, Ned instantly set free the hounds, snatched up the oars, and, with a loud shout, in which I joined, dashed at him. Phaleg, I suppose, finding he could not escape, awaited us, and in a minute we were beside him. I thought we should have overset his boat, for we struck against it with great force. " Wun yo' yield quietly?" Ned thundered. "You'd best let me alone," the gipsy rejoined, fiercely. " Take care o' the oars," Ned cried to me. " Here, Lupus — here, Gaunt — at him, lads!" The savage hounds were as fully prepared for the attack as their master, and sprang after him into the other boat, yelling dreadfully. The contest was unequal, but Phaleg was desperate, and not disposed to yield tamely. He had unshipped an oar, and before Ned could seize him, he struck the keeper such a violent blow on the head, that I thought he had killed him. The poor fellow lost his footing, and fell overboard. But though lie had thus liberated himself from one foe, Phaleg had two others, yet more formidable, to contend with. It MERYTN CLITHEEOE. 125 was terrific to hear the yells of the bloodhounds, and the cries and im- precations of the gipsy. I thought they would tear him in pieces. He shouted to me to keep them off, promising to tell me all if I did so, but I had not the power of compliance. Besides, my attention was engrossed by poor Ned, who had just strength left to keep himself afloat in the water, and I tried to get him into the boat before he should sink altogether from exhaustion, for a stream of blood was running down his face from the wound in his head. In this I suc- ceeded, and was just in time, for no sooner had I managed to help him on board, than with a loud groan he fell back insensible. Almost at the same moment the struggle between the gipsy and the bloodhounds ceased. I thought they had got him down, but breaking from them at the expense of his skin, as was afterwards shown by the blood-stained condition of his assailants' jaws, he sprang over the side of the boat, and swam off. I called to him, but he dis- regarded my cries ; and as we were almost in the middle of the mere, I thought it impossible he could reach the shore, and therefore gave him up for lost. My attention was now directed to Ned. He had begun to breathe again, and in a few minutes, recovering speech, begged me to take him home, as he thought he must be severely injured. I examined his wound as well as I could, and finding the blood had ceased to flow, I bade him not be afraid, for I thought he was more stunned than really hurt, his skull being a pretty hard one ; and after tying a handkerchief round his head, and placing him in the stern of the boat, I took up the oars and rowed in what I supposed to be the direction of his cottage. Of course, Gaunt and Lupus were with us, for when their prey had escaped from them, after exhibiting their vexation in a long howl, they returned to me, and were now crouching at their master's feet. As I could not shape my course very accurately, owing to the darknesi, nearly an hour elapsed before I reached Ned's dwelling, and by that time my predictions in regard to the nature of the injury he had received were fully verified, for he was able to step ashore without assistance ; and he declared he should not say a word about it to Sissy till the morning, as he made no doubt he should be all right then. Unfastening the door, he begged me to come in with him, and stay till daylight. I acceded to the proposal ; and Ned having thrown off some of his wet garments, and wrapped himself in an old great-coat, we seated ourselves by the fireside, with the dogs at our feet, and were soon fast asleep. The bright sunshine awoke me, and, rubbing my eyes, I beheld a ghastly object. It was Ned, whose red locks were matted with coagu- lated blood. Sissy came down at the same moment, and screamed at the sight of her husband. The cry roused him, and, perceiving his wife, he became conscious of his 'condition, and dispelled her terrors by a hearty laugh. Telling her he would soon clear off the bloody stains, he proceeded to the pump, while I related to her what had occurred. The instant he came back they were folded in each 126 LIFE AND ADYENTUEES OE MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. other's arms, and I left them together, and proceeded to STether- crofts. On the way thither I passed through the churchyard, and examined the grave into which Simon Pownall had fallen, in the hope of finding him there still ; but he was gone. The events of that night did not tend to elucidate the mystery of my uncle Mobberley's will, nor help me to its discovery. Simon Pownall denied all knowledge of the cir- cumstances, protesting that he had never left his home that night, as he could prove on the testimony of his apprentice, Chetham Quick. But I was quite certain it was he who had played the ghost, for I ascertained that he had contrived to possess himself of my uncle's wearing apparel, together with his hat and stick. Nothing was heard of Phaleg ; and his body not being found in the mere, the probability was, that, notwithstanding his lacerations from the bloodhounds, he had managed to swim ashore. A few davs afterwards I returned to the Anchorite's. BOOK THE SECOND. BOOK THE SECOND. CHAPTER I. EN WHICH IT IS PROBABLE THAT I SHALL FORFEIT THE READER'S GOOD OPINION, AS I DISPLAY SAD WANT OF TEMPER, AND GREAT INGRATITUDE ; AND GIVE MY ENEMIES THE ADVANTAGE OVER ME. I shall now resume the story of my life at an epoch of its greatest interest to myself, namely, when I had just turned Twenty-One. Though I had entered upon man's estate, I still possessed a very youthful appearance, and I have seen the upper lip of many a bewitch- ing Andalusian dame more darkly feathered than mine was at the period in question. Some people told me I was handsome, and my tailor (excellent authority, it must be admitted) extolled the sym- metry of my figure, and urged me to go into the Life Guards. But these flattering comments did not turn m}' head. Thus much I may say for myself, and I hope without vanity : I excelled in all manly exercises ; I could run, swim, or leap as well as most young men of my day ; and I had never met with a horse that I should have hesitated to mount. My habits were so active, and I was endowed with a frame so vigorous, that I scarcely knew what it was to feel fatigue. I was a hard rider, fond of shooting, and of all field sports, and had stalked deer in the Highlands, and speared the wild-boar in the woods of Germany. No one could enjoy better health than I did, and the only time I was ever laid up was owing to an acci- dent, as I shall presently relate. To complete my personal descrip- tion, I may refer to the passport which I obtained on going abroad, and where I find the following items in my signalement : — " Hair, dark brown, and w T orn long ; eyebrows, arched ; eyes, blue ; forehead, open ; nose, straight ; mouth, small ; chin, round ; visage, oval ; com- plexion, rosy ; beard, none ; height, five feet eleven inches." As these particulars were meant to convey some idea of me to foreign autho- rities, they may possibly serve the same purpose to the reader. It may seem, from what I have just stated, that I was more sedulous in cultivating the body than the mind. But such was not altogether the case. It is true that I did not work so hard as I might have done while I was at Cambridge, but I gained the Seatonian 130 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF prize and Sir William Browne's medal, and these distinctions were enough for my then ambition. Had I been less fond of boating, riding, and other sports, and # had not idled away so much time, 1 might have won honours. As it was, I took a respectable degree. On quitting Cambridge, I spent a few weeks at the Anchorite's, and then set out on a lengthened continental tour. I remained abroad more than a year, and during the time visited several of the principal cities of Europe. While I was absent, some circumstances occurred which exercised a considerable influence over my future career ; but, before I proceed to recount them, let me show how I stood in reference to Mrs. Mervyn. In a previous portion of my history I have mentioned that my kind relative took charge of my education, sending me to college, pay- ing all my expenses there, and when I left Cambridge, making me a handsome allowance. It had been her wisli that I should go into the Church, but feeling no special vocation for the holy office, I could not with propriety accede to her wishes. My own predilections were for the army ; but here Mrs. Mervyn was strenuously opposed to me, declaring that my poor mother had expressed a hope on her death-bed that her boy might never be a soldier. This I could not contradict, as I full well remembered that she had said the same thing to myself, and had even made me promise never to follow in my father's footsteps. So medicine and law alone were left, and as I was averse to both, it seemed not improbable that I should have no profession at all. However, my prospects, on entering life, seemed fair enough. It is true that I did not derive much assistance from my father, who was still in India ; but I had every reason to suppose that Mrs. Mervyn would continue to befriend me. The thousand pounds bequeathed me by my uncle Mobberley was untouched. And here, having al- luded to my father, let me mention that he was now Colonel of the 1st Regiment of Bombay Light Cavalry, stationed at Neemuch ; and held, besides, some other appointments. But his second wife was a very extravagant woman, and having a large family by her, and fancy- ing I was provided for, he did not trouble himself much about me. He had wished me to enter the army, and to join some regiment going out to India ; but understanding that Mrs. Mervyn was op- posed to the step, he no longer pressed it. " Tou have experienced such, unbounded liberality and kindness from your excellent relative," he wrote to me, " that her wishes must be law to you. I have never seen you, my dear boy, and should like to look upon your face — your portrait tells me it is like your mother's — before I close my eyes. But as good Mrs. Mervyn has an ob- jection to our noble service, and desires to retain you near her, by all means stay. I will never interfere with her. Whatever pro- fession you may choose, if you take after your father, you will always be a soldier at heart. So, receive my blessing, and may you prosper !" And now a word as to some others of the reader's acquaintance. And first of John Brideoake. When mention was last made of him, MERVYN 0L1THEKOE. 131 John was staying, for the recovery of his health, at Ned Culcheth's cottage, at Marston Mere, in Cheshire. The poor boy got better, and returned to the Cottonborough Free Grammar School, but having overtasked his brain, he was never able to work so hard as he had previously done. He obtained a Somerset scholarship from our J . Gr. S., and matriculated at Cambridge at the same time as myself. "We were botb at St. John's College, but lie was only a sizer. No doubt, if John had been able to study hard, he would have greatly distinguished himself, but severe application was strictly prohibited by Dr. Foam. He made a final effort, but was nearly sinking under it, and had a renewal of the attack under which he had laboured at an earlier period, only recovering sufficiently to take his degree. This bitter disappointment cast a deep gloom over him. He became melancholy and despondent, and seemed to have lost all relish for life. Another unhappy consequence attended his want of success. His mother, who had built her hopes upon him, and had fully persuaded herself that he would be a senior wrangler, Avas astounded and angry at his failure, and never forgave him. He ought to have died rather than give in, she said ; and he would have died most assuredly, Dr. Foam declared, if he had persisted in his efforts. His mind was incapable of further strain. John Brideoake took holy orders, and became curate to the Rev. Dr. Foljambe, vicar of Wever- ham, near Delamere Forest, in Cheshire. A tranquil life, well suited to his tastes, here awaited him, but he saw little of his mother and sister. Mrs. Brideoake appeared to have lost all affection for him, and besides, she had other schemes in view, with which he might have interfered. But of these anon. Before proceeding, I must remind the reader, who may, perhaps, have forgotten the circumstance, that Dr. Foam, when dining with Mrs. Mervyn, borrowed a volume of Jacobite correspondence from her. The correspondence related chiefly to the Rising of '15, and most of the letters were in cypher ; but the doctor, being familiar with the characters, was able to make out their import. While examining these documents he made some discoveries relative to Mrs. Bride- oake's family, which he thought it necessary to communicate to Mrs. Mervyn, and thenceforward the kind-hearted lady took an extraor- dinary interest in the widow and her children. But Mrs. Brideoake's pride presented for some time an obstacle to the full development of my relative's generous intentions towards her. By Mrs. Mervyn's instrumentality, and at her cost, Apphia was sent to an excellent school at Dunton, in Cheshire — a pretty vil- lage, which I have heretofore described as about three miles north of Marston Mere. A cottage near the school was also taken for Mrs. Brideoake. It may almost seem incredible, after such favours had been showered upon her, that Mrs. Brideoake should be loth to make the personav acquaintance of her benefactress ; but nearly three years elapsed before they met, and during the whole of this time Mrs. Mervyn never ceased to extend her bounty both to mother and daughter.* K 2 132 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF At last, the way was paved to an intimacy by Apphia. The now blooming girl of sixteen was taken by Dr. Foam to call on Mrs. Mervyn, and the latter was so pleased with her, that she insisted upon yier passing a few weeks at the Anchorite's. Mrs. Brideoake reluc- Tantly assented to this arrangement ; but she might not have displayed so much hesitation if she could have foreseen its results. Apphia's amiable disposition and winning manners produced such a favourable impression upon her kind hostess, that the latter declared she could never part with her. So she sent for Dr. Foam, and telling him it was indispensable to her happiness that mother and daughter should live with her, charged him with a message to that effect to Mrs. Brideoake. The worthy doctor seemed apprehensive that he should not discharge his mission very satisfactorily, but he succeeded beyond his expectations. Whatever arguments he employed with Mrs. Brideoake, they prevailed. She consented to become Mrs. Mer- vyn' s guest for an indefinite period ; and thenceforth she and her daughter were regularly installed at the Anchorite's. Every consideration was shown them. They had their own apart- ments, and Mrs. Brideoake was not expected to appear, unless she chose to do so, when there was company in the house. The influence of her strong mind over Mrs. Mervyn's gentler nature soon became apparent. Whether this influence was for good or ill, will be seen hereafter. Suffice it that ere a year was over Mrs. Brideoake had acquired a complete ascendancy over her protectress. As to Apphia, Mrs. Mervyn became more and more strongly at- tached to her, and her affection in this instance was fully requited. Ever since she had come to reside at the Anchorite's, Apphia had the advantage of a daily governess, and of the best instructors that Cot- tonborough could provide. At eighteen her education was pronounced complete, and it would have been difficult to meet with a more accom- plished girl. The promise of beauty held out by the child was more than fulfilled by the young woman. Her figure w r as tall and slight, and her features were of the rarest order of beauty, but their pre- vailing expression was pensive rather than gay, probably the result of early anxiety. The candour, simplicity, and sweetness of her character might be read in her open countenance ; and her smile evidently came from the heart. Her eyes were of a clear, tender blue, and serene as a summer sky; her complexion exquisitely delicate ; and her fair hair was braided over a brow as white as marble. Such was Apphia Brideoake at eighteen. Those who w r ere fond of meddling with other people's concerns began to talk of Mrs. Mervyn's great attachment to her, and some of them even went so far as to say that it was quite certain the old lady would leave all her property to her new favourite. So she might, for anything I should urge to the contrary. Apphia and I were like brother and sister, and I think she was quite as fond of me as of her own brother John. I am quite sure if 1 had had a sister I could not have loved her better than I loved Apphia. The innocent intercourse of young persons of opposite sexes has a delight that no other commerce of friendship can bestow ; and the MERVTN CLITHEBOE. 133 happiest moments of my early life were those spent in this sweet girl's society. I even derived improvement from it ; for, though younger than myself, she was wise beyond her years, and capable of giving me good counsel ; while the evenness of her temper frequently offered a wholesome check to my headstrong impetuosity. A hasty temper, indeed, was my failing ; as the reader will find out as I proceed, if he has not found it out already. Apphia soon discovered this fault in me, and tried to correct it. Knowing that I was quick to ac- knowledge an error, she did not despair of my amendment. Her nature was the kindliest imaginable. Considerate to all ; utterly free from selfishness ; she had not a particle of the pride that beset her mother. Humility rather was her attribute. I used often to go over to Dunton to call on Mrs. Brideoake at her cottage, and I must confess that my chief inducement for these visits was the hope of meeting my charming little playmate. Many a stroll have we taken in the adjacent park, with John for a companion, and we have even rambled on as far as Marston Mere. Ah ! those were blissful hours ! — not to be recalled without a sigh. Apphia was no longer a child when she came to reside at the Anchorite's, and some little change, as might naturally be expected, took place in her manner towards me. Amiable and obliging as ever, she was rather more distant. No longer did we run Jiand-in-hand together as we had been wont to run in Dunton Park. l$o longer had we any little confidences. Our feelings, I dare say, were just the same, but we put more constraint upon them. Each time that I returned from Cambridge during the vacations, I remarked that Apphia's reserve towards me increased. I once questioned her about it, and she replied that she had as much regard for me as ever, but we were no longer children. So I was bound to be satisfied. Whether any feeling, warmer than friendship, had sprung up in our breasts, I cannot positively assert ; but perhaps the conviction of a secret sentiment of the kind may have produced the growing restraint I have noticed on Apphia's part. That I looked upon her in the light of a future wife is certain, though I never consulted her on the sub- ject ; but I fully determined, when I returned from my continental tour, to propose to her in form. Our parting, on the occasion of my setting out on this tour, served to precipitate matters. While exchanging our adieux, she exhibited such unwonted tenderness, and seemed so sorry to lose me, that I do not think I could have torn myself away at all, if her mother had not cut short the interview. But before we were thus separated, I had extorted from her the con- fession that she loved me, with a pledge that she would be mine ; while I, in my turn, vowed to wed no other. But I must leave this pleasant theme, and turn to one who was a good deal mixed up with my early history, and with whom I was fated frequently to come in contact — I mean, Malpas Sale. I could never do away with the conviction that Malpas had de- frauded me of the property I ought to have inherited from my uncle Mobberley, and though he made many friendly overtures to me, I 134 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF always rejected them. He had now grown into a remarkably hand- some young man. His features were finely chiselled ; his com- plexion of almost feminine delicacy ; and he wore a superabundance of black curling hair. I have elsewhere mentioned that he was three years older than myself— being now twenty-four. It might be pre- judice on nry part, but I thought, notwithstanding his good looks, that he had a sinister expression. There is no denying, however, that he had easy, prepossessing manners, and an air of good breeding and distinction. Perhaps, he might be a little of a coxcomb — at least, I thought him so. He had been a fellow-commoner at Trinity College, Cambridge, where, during his residence, he lived like the young no- blemen and other youths of large expectations with whom he con- sorted ; kept several horses, gave expensive entertainments, and spent a great deal of money — much more than the five hundred a year allowed him by our uncle Mobberley's will. It will be remembered that he was not to come into the whole of that property, which was estimated at 2000/. per annum, until he attained the age of twenty- five. Malpas used to grumble a good deal about this arrangement, and wondered what the old man could have been thinking of to keep him so long out of his money. Malpas was my senior by about two years at Cambridge, so that when I became a member of the University, he belonged to another set , who looked down upon us freshmen. Moreover, as a fellow-com- moner, he had better society than I could expect to obtain ; but, on my arrival, he called upon me, and proffered me all sorts of atten- tions ; but, as I have said, I declined them. I distrusted even his civilities. Strange to say, he would not be offended by my rudeness. Though I avoided him as much as possible, we not unfrequently met ; for, being of the same college, we had necessarily some mutual ac- quaintances, and rather than make a row, I endeavoured to control my dislike. It was difficult, too, to quarrel with him ; he was so con- foundedly civil and obliging. How he obtained his degree was matter of surprise to every one who knew the sort of life he led ; but he had excellent abilities, and was re- markably quick when he chose to apply, so that in an inconceivably short space of time he mastered what it took others months to learn. Besides, he was well crammed. He told his friends afterwards that he expected to be plucked, and he found that such a result had been anticipated by them. This made his triumph the greater. He left the University deeply in debt ; but what of that ? His creditors felt secure. In four years (he was then twenty-one) he would come of age, and they would be paid in full. Meanwhile, they received full interest on their claims. Malpas gave himself little concern about them. His business was pleasure ; and as reflection on the state of his affairs would have interfered with his amusements, he took care not to trouble himself on that score. Malpas's next step was to purchase a commission in the Second Life Guards. As may be supposed, what with his present position, his 2000/. per annum in expectancy, his good manners, and his hand- MEEVYN CLITHEROE. 135 some person, he was very popular, and was invited everywhere. This sort of life lasted for two or three years, during which he launched into all sorts of fashionable extravagances ; but at the end of that time supplies were not to be so easily obtained, and he became what is vulgarly styled rather "hard up." Still, as in fifteen months he would come into his property, he thought the executors would readily make him an advance. With this design he came down to Cottonborough, and had an in- terview with the two trustees under our uncle Mobberley's will — Mr. Evan Evans, and Cuthbert Spring. He wanted 10,000/., but finding them disinclined to accede to the request, he lowered his demands, and said he would be content with half the amount. This was like- wise refused. Cuthbert Spring, who subsequently gave me full parti- culars of the interview, told me that when Malpas pressed them still further, he said to him, very decidedly, " We are interdicted by the will from making you any advance at all, Mr. Sale, and we grieve that you have exceeded your annual allowance of 500Z., which we think amply sufficient for your require- ments. We sincerely trust that you will not seek to raise money on the property you expect to acquire, as you can only do so at great disadvantage, since the lenders of the money will incur considerable risk." " How so ?" Malpas demanded. "In little more than a twelve- month the property must be mine, and I can then deal with it as I please. It is not a very long minority." " Granted," Cuthbert Spring replied ; " but life is uncertain, and it is possible you may never attain the age of twenty-five, as required by your uncle's will. It is also just possible — I do not say probable — that the other will may turn up during the interval." On hearing this remark. Cuthbert Spring told me that Malpas be- came excessively pale, but, quickly recovering himself, he forced a laugh, and said, " I do not think that very likely, Mr. Spring." "Neither do I," the other rejoined; "but the fear of such an occurrence may deter a money-lender, or make him very extortionate in his demands." Malpas was not put out of countenance by the remark. As- suming an air of indifference, he said, " Well, gentlemen, if such is your decision, I must bow to it. I shall do the best I can elsewhere, for money I must have." And so he left them. Failing in this quarter, Malpas had recourse to his father; but he could not help him. Dr. Sale had provided him with funds to pur base his commission, and had no more money to spare, for though he had a living of twelve hundred a year, he saved nothing out of >t. However, since his son's necessities were urgent, he bestirred himself, and thinking Mrs. Mervyn likely to aid him in the emer- gency, applied to her. He made out the best case he could for Malpas, glossed over all his indiscretions and extravagances, said that he had 136 LIFE AND ADVENTUBES OE been led into expenses by keeping high company, and, in a word, made every excuse he could devise for the dashing young Guardsman. Malpas, he said, in conclusion, was now fully sensible of his folly, and determined to turn over a new leaf. Mrs. Sale, who accompanied her husband, spoke to the same effect, and her genuine maternal pleading had more weight with Mrs. Mervyn than the doctor's plau- sible arguments. The good lady would not give an immediate answer, but required a day or two for consideration. Her manner, however, convinced Dr. Sale that he had gained his point. And he was right in the conclusion. "When he again waited upon her, Mrs. Mervyn informed him that she was willing to lend his son 2000Z. till such time as he should come of age : only stipulating that he, Dr. Sale, should become security for the repayment of the amount. Of course no objection could be made to this proposal by the vicar, and he joyfully acceded to it. I was abroad when the arrangement took place, but Mrs. Mervyii communicated it to me, and I confess I felt greatly displeased by the intelligence. All the animosity which had continued to rankle in my breast against Malpas was revived, and, while in this state of irrita- tion, I wrote a letter to my benefactress, which I have since felt to be highly improper, and which I had soon good reason to regret. I told her she had a perfect right to do as she pleased with her money, but I thought she might have employed it more profitably than by throwing it away upon a reckless prodigal like Malpas Sale. My surprise may be conceived when, about a month afterwards, I received a letter from Mrs. Mervyn, informing me that she was perfectly satisfied that in lending money to Malpas Sale she was dealing with a man of honour, and consequently she had not the slightest feeling of insecurity as to the repayment of the 2000Z. More than this, the loan was only for one year. She added, that I seemed to have formed a very unjust opinion of Malpas, and she could not subscribe to it. What made this letter more galling was, that it was enclosed in another from Malpas himself, couched in terms of most pro- voking civility, and complaining that I had done him great injustice, but he forgave me, as I had some grounds for my enmity towards him ; but he advised me, if I regarded my own interest, not to attempt to dictate to Mrs. Mervyn in future. My first impulse on receiving these letters was to hurry back to England — T was then sojourning at Borne — and it would have been well if I had done so. But I contented myself with writing — and I am sorry to say more intemperately than before. In fact, I could not control my feelings. To this fresh ebullition of anger, Mrs. Mervyn sent a very short reply, stating that she was not very well, and as she did not like a correspondence of this kind, she had deputed Dr. Sale to write to me. Accordingly, the next post brought me a stiff, formal letter from the vicar, reminding me of the obligations I was under to my bene- factress, and hinting (as I have since learnt he had no authority for MEliVYN CL1THEROE. 137 doing), that if I did not lay aside the tone I had adopted, my allow- ance would be discontinued. I was never, as the reader knows, of a very patient turn, and this was too much for my endurance. I did not perceive the snare set for me, but at once fell into it. Acting again on the impulse of the moment, I despatched an angry missive to Mrs. Mervyn, saying that as she had found new friends whom she preferred to one who had hitherto held the chief place in her regards, it was natural she should wish to get rid of the latter ; and that with the deepest sense of gratitude for past favours, I must decline to accept more for the future. In sending off this most injudicious, and I will now say (for I cannot attempt to exculpate myself), most ungrateful letter, I could not have taken a step more serviceable to my enemies. It gave them an advantage over me of which they were not slow to profit. Prudence would have counselled very different measures, to say nothing of better motives. Want of temper was the cause of all this mischief. An opportunity of setting myself right was afforded me by Mrs. Mervyn herself; but I neglected it. She wrote to say that I had quite misunderstood her, that her sentiments of affection for me were entirely unchanged, and she hoped I should think better of the determination which I seemed to have formed. To this I replied, that I was glad to receive the assurance of her unabated regard, but after what had passed, I could no longer con- sent to be a dependent upon her bounty. Again want of temper. But I fancied it a mere display of independence. This unpleasant correspondence was closed by a brief note from Mrs. Mervyn. It was to this effect : " You have been hasty, but I excuse you. It is the fault of the temperament you have inherited from your father. You will think differently ere long. No more till I see you." My vexation was not lessened when I learnt, as I did from Cuth- bert Spring, to whom I wrote, that Malpas had obtained a foot- ing at the Anchorite's, which for some reason or other he seemed most anxious to maintain. " Perhaps I may be able to throw some light upon his motives," Cuthbert wrote. " We shall see. But remember, it will be merely conjecture. You are aware of the loan which Mrs. M., at the pressing instance of Dr. and Mrs. S., has been induced to make him. If I had been consulted, she should never have complied with their solicitations; but let this pass. I cannot be always at her elbow, and the wisest and best of women will sometimes err. I suspect — mind, this is only suspicion — that Mrs. B. advised her to lend the money. Mrs. B., you know, is now omnipotent at the A 's, and she seems to have taken a great fancy to M. S. Whether the wily lady may have any ulterior views in respect to him, I cannot say. But this is anticipating. Let me go on. Right or wrong, the loan was accorded, and a few days after the money was advanced, M. S. called to thank Mrs. M. for the favour done him. You know lo8 LIFE ANU ADVENTURES OF he can be most agreeable — indeed, I may use a stronger term, and say, fascinating — when he chooses ; and on this occasion he exerted himself to the utmost to please. It was very well you were not there, or your ire would infallibly have been excited. Mrs. M. was delighted with him — and not she alone, but Mrs. B., who rarely finds visitors to her taste, honoured him with her approval. He was asked to come again, and eagerly availed himself of the invitation. So well did he play his cards, that in less than a week he had got the run of the house, and is now always a welcome guest — welcome, as I have said, to the hostess, welcome to the hostess's right hand, welcome — no, perhaps it would be too much to say he is welcome to the young lady. So, you see, you have a rival. But, to be serious. Shall I tell you what I think ? I am of opinion, then, that Mrs. B. would not dislike to have M. S. for a son-in-law. "What qualities she can dis- cern in him to make such a connexion desirable, I cannot guess ; but, in hazarding the assertion, I do not believe I am far wide of the truth. M. S. may be a suitor to A. B. She is certainly a girl well calculated to inspire a great passion. He pays her marked attention ; but I won't say that his attentions are agreeable to her — indeed, I even fancy the contrary. A report has been spread about here of late, that A. B. is to be Mrs. M.'s heiress. Well founded or not, this report may have had some influence on the suitor, and it would not surprise me to hear that he had pro- posed for her hand. Thus I have endeavoured to give you an idea as to how matters stand at the A 's, and you will judge whether you ought to expedite your return." Here was matter, indeed, to make me pause and reflect. New gall was added to my bitterness, and pangs of jealousy heightened my rage. I could not believe for a moment that Apphia, whom I regarded as my affianced bride, would listen to the addresses of this coxcomb ; but her mother might interpose her authority. Mrs. Brideoake's will was law with her children — that I knew. There was the danger. And Malpas ! how I execrated him. Ever in my path ! — not con- tent with robbing me of my inheritance, the villain was now endea- vouring to deprive me of one dearer to me than any earthly treasure. And I — fool that I was! — had left the stage clear to him and his machinations. Nay, I had played into his hands. But 1 must repair the error I had committed without delay. I must drive the enemy from the vantage-ground which 1 had foolishly allowed him to occupy. I must return at once. This resolve taken, my preparations were quickly made, and I set oft' from Home, burning with anxiety to reach England. But all my impatience, all my exertions, availed me little. I experienced a sad check. The carriage in which I travelled was upset, and the injuries I received by the accident detained me a month on the journey. What was passing, meantime, at the Anchorite's ? MERYYN CL1T1IER0E. 139 CHAPTER II. FROM WHICH IT WILL APPEAR THERE IS SOME TRUTH IN THE SATING, THAT THE ABSENT ARE ALWAYS WRONGED. The unlucky accident I have mentioned, occurred between Martigny and St. Maurice ; but after a detention of some hours at a small inn at the latter place, where my bruises were examined, and such remedies as were at hand applied, I was transported to Yilleneuve on Lake Leman, and thence by steamer to Geneva. ]N"o bones were broken, but I had received many severe contusions about the head and body, and it was at first feared there might be internal injury, but luckily this did not prove to be the case. How- ever, I was so much shaken, that nearly three weeks elapsed before I could leave my room at the Hotel de l'Ecu, and another week was required for my complete reinstatement. I then set off for Paris. Day and night I travelled on. How I counted the hours, and flew on faster than the horses that bore me. Apphia's image was with me during the whole journey — sometimes cheering me, but more frequently filling me with uneasiness. I dreaded losing her more than life itself. Since I left Rome, now more than a month ago, I had heard nothing from the Anchorite's. How, indeed, could I have heard, since I had written to no one ! Xone of my friends knew where I was, or what had befallen me. For nearly a fortnight after my accideut I was in- capable of holding a pen, and as I got better I felt disinclined to write. Anything I might address to Mrs. Mervyn I feared would be misinterpreted ; and what could I say to Apphia ? How could I put her upon her guard against Malpas ? To suppose she would lend a favourable ear to his suit would be to insult her. Time enough to set matters right on my return. After a brief halt at Paris, I started for London ; and from London I set off, on the night of my arrival, on the box of the fastest coach running to Cotton borough. The journey was quickly made, but not half quickly enough for my impatience. Evening was approaching as we came in sight of the huge manufacturing town, distant about six miles, and distinguishable by its numberless mills, with their tall chimneys darkening the air with clouds of smoke. Before we reached the town, rain came on ; not a smart shower, but a sort of Scotch mist, which, mingling with the murky atmosphere, threatened to choke me. Everything wore a cheerless air ; and a sense of comiug ill filled me with despondency. After some delays, the coach drove up to the Palace Inn. I descended, got out my luggage, secured a bedroom, and having despatched a note to Mrs. Mervyn to announce my arrival and 140 LIFE ANJJ ADVENTUKES OF say I would present myself to her at noon next day, I set out to call on my friend, Cuthbert Spring. I found him at home, and alone. He appeared very glad to see me, but not a little surprised, and inquired where in the world I sprang from ? I answered that the last place I had sprung from was a coach- box, and proceeded to give him a hasty account of what had befallen me. I saw he looked rather grave and perplexed, and conjectured that he had some disagreeable intelligence to communicate ; but whatever it might be, he seemed anxious to postpone it, and telling me he was just going to sit down to dinner, begged I would join him at the repast. I willingly assented, and, during the meal, he confined himself to general topics, talking chiefly of my travels. He rallied me upon my foreign appearance, and jestingly declared that I must have stolen my moustache from some Spanish senorita ; inquired what were the last fashions in Rome and Naples ? — where I had seen the prettiest girls ? — and so forth ; but, on the whole, I thought him less lively than usual, and it was a relief to me when the servant withdrew, and we were left alone. He then unburdened himself in this wise : " I wish, my dear fellow, from the bottom of my heart, that you had returned a month ago. That accident near Martigny was most un- toward. Your enemies must have bribed the postilion to upset you. Great changes, as you are aware, have occurred at the Anchorite's, and I grieve to have to tell you that good Mrs. Mervyn's health is very much on the decline. Dr. Foam gives very poor accounts of her. I am afraid you have caused her considerable anxiety. She was much hurt by your letters, and there were those at hand to heighten the annoyance, and keep it alive." " I confess I have been greatly to blame," I exclaimed, full of self- reproach. " But I will atone for my error. Mrs. Mervyn, I am sure, will forgive me." " Perhaps she may. But I cannot disguise from you that there are difficulties in the way of a reconciliation with her — great diffi- culties, as you will find. Mrs. Brideoake is not very favourably dis- posed towards you." " There you surprise me. Mrs. Brideoake is the last person who ought to be unfriendly to me." " Granted — but so it is. Then there are the Sales. You cannot expect them to study your interests." " Hang the Sales !" I exclaimed. " I should like to kick the vicar and his son out of the house." " I dare say you would," he replied, with a half smile ; " but I advise you not to try the experiment, or you won't mend your posi- tion. Why, my good fellow, you are as hot-headed as your father, and he was the most irascible man I ever knew. Your sole chance of setting yourself right with Mrs. Mervyn depends upon prudence. Make a scene, and all will be up with you." MEJ1VYN CLITHEEOE. 141 " You give me very good advice, and I hope I may be able to follow it," I replied. " But now, Mr. Spring, let me ask you a question?" And I looked hard at him, hoping he would understand my meaning. He evidently did so, for he slightly coughed, rubbed his chin, and begged me to nil my glass. I complied, and, after raising it to my lips, summoned up reso- lution to remark • " You have spoken of Mrs. Brideoake ; but you have said nothing about her daughter?" "Ah! I see now what you would be at. Well, it's all settled." " Settled !" I exclaimed, starting. " What do you mean ? What is settled ?" " Why the marriage, to be sure. I told you in my letter that Malpas Sale was a suitor to the young lady, and he ended, as I anti- cipated, by proposing to her." " But she refused him ?" He shook his head, and looked grave. " I am sorry to sav she did nothing of the kind. She accepted him." I sprang to my feet, with an explosion of rage. " If what you tell me is true, my hopes are blasted, my happiness destroyed for ever," I cried. " Come, come, my young friend," lie said, kindly, "I understand your feelings, and sincerely sympathise with you in your disappoint- ment. The blow is sharp ; but you must bear it like a man." " I will — I will," I replied, in a broken voice. " But the shock is so unexpected that it quite overcomes me. There is no doubt as to the correctness of your information?" " None whatever. I won't give you any false hopes. The affair was only arranged three days ago, so if your return had not been delayed by that unlucky accident, you would have been in time to prevent it. The marriage, however, will not take place immediately, but is to be deferred till MaJpas comes of age. I hope it may not take place at all." Having said thus much, he tried to offer me some further consola- tion ; but, finding his efforts unavailing, he desisted, and we both re- mained silent for some minutes. As I could not master my emotion, I felt I ought no longer to trespass upon his patience, " Excuse me, my good friend, if I quit you abruptly," I said ; " but in my present frame of mind I should only distress you by remaining. I will call upon you to-morrow, after I have been to the Anchorite's — after I have seen her. I shall then be more composed." " I trust so," he rejoined, in a tone of sincere commiseration. " The meeting will be painful, but get it over as soon as you can. Above all, as I said before, don't make a scene — it will do no good, and may cause you further mischief." I made no answer, but wrung his hand ; and rushing out of the room m a state bordering on distraction, made my way to the inn. 142 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CHAPTEB III. DESPITE ME. SPRING'S ADVICE I MAKE A SCENE, AND DO NOT IMPROVE MY POSITION. I passed a sleepless night, and arose jaded and greatly depressed. If I had been enduring bodily torture instead of mental anguish, I could not have suffered more acutely. I felt so supremely miserable, that my worst enemies might have pitied me. My haggard looks quite startled me, as I regarded myself in the glass. This nervous pros- tration, which threatened wholly to unfit me for the ordeal I had to undergo, must be overcome ; so I went forth to try the effect of air and exercise. It was early morning, and the bustle of the day had not begun, but the pavements were thronged by troops of pale-faced men, young women, and sickly-looking children of both sexes, flocking to their unwholesome employment in the cotton-mills. The thunder of the engine announced that work had already commenced — if, indeed, it had ever ceased — in these enormous structures ; and jets of gas lighting up the interior, showed the rollers, cylinders, and flying wheels of the spinning machines pursuing their course. The sight had no attractions for me, and hurrying on, I soon found myself in the country. Though Cottonborough is an ugly town, black as smoke can make it, and with scarcely a picturesque feature about it, except in its ancient houses, its environs are agreeable and diversified, and the direction I had taken led me towards a range of hills of no great height, but commanding pleasant prospects. My object, how- ever, was not to contemplate scenery, but to regain my composure. The morning was fine, with a keen, invigorating air, which served to refresh me; and persevering in violent exercise till I had suc- ceeded in shaking off all feeling of depression, I returned with nerves firmly braced. In my anticipated interview with Apphia, I was resolved to exhibit no outward trace of emotion, however my heart might be wrung, but to maintain throughout it a cold and im- passive demeanour. Noon was at hand, and I drove out to the house I had always hitherto regarded as a home. Would it be a home to me any longer ? That was a question which would be speedily decided ; but so doubtful was I of the reception I should meet with, that I did not take my luggage with me. My heart throbbed violently as I approached the familiar dwelling. Little did I think, on quitting it a year ago, how r I should return. But brief space was allowed me for the indulgence of such sentimental MERVYN CLITHEROE. 143 reflections, for a circumstance occurred that completely changed my train of thought. A carriage passed me, which I at once recognised as belonging to Dr. Sale, and I thought the coachman grinned impu- dently as lie perceived me. The saucy rascal knew me well enough, but did not think fit to touch his hat. The vicar — and probably his son — had evidently just been set down at the Anchorite's. Perhaps they had been summoned by tidings of my return. So much the better. I felt eager to confront them. If I had experienced any renewal of my late nervous sensations, this would have effectually cured me. I descended at the garden gate, and rang the bell. No one came. After a little while, I rang again, more loudly than before. Pre- sently the door was opened by a strange man-ser\ T ant, with a surly expression of countenance, and he seemed disinclined to admit me ; but, without waiting for his permission, I passed him haughtily by, and marched towards the house, on the steps of which I encountered Mr. Comberbach. The portly butler appeared stouter and redder than usual, but I could easily perceive that the extra ruddiness of his countenance proceeded from embarrassment at my presence. He was, indeed, greatly confused, and stammered and hesitated in a very unusual manner as he spoke to me. He glanced at the surly-looking man- servant, who had followed me, as if rebuking him for letting me in, and the other muttered something about not being able to help it. Mr. Comberbach, I saw, did not mean to admit me, but being resolved to go in. I pushed him by as I had done the other servant, and entered the hall. " Stay a moment, sir — stay a moment, if you please !" he exclaimed, stepping after me. " Tou mustn't go in. It's against orders." " Against whose orders ?" I demanded, sternly. " Mrs. Mervyn's ?" " No, no," he faltered ; " not hers — Mrs. Brideoake's." " Mrs. Brideoake !" I exclaimed. " Is she mistress of the house ?" " Something like it, sir," he replied, glancing uneasily round, as if afraid of being overheard. " But pray don't put any more questions to me, for all conversation with you is interdicted." " Again by Mrs. Brideoake ?" I demanded. " By that lady," he answered. " Tell your new mistress then," I said, raising my voice, in the hope that it might catch the ear of a listener, if there should be one nigh, " that I have no intention of going till I have seen Mrs. Mervyn." " Impossible, sir — you can't do it — upon my honour you can't. Now, do obleege me, sir, by retiring, or I shall be under the very disagreeable necessity of — of " My fierce looks, I suppose, alarmed him, for the rest of the sentence expired upon his lips. " Show me to Mrs. Mervyn at once," I cried, authoritatively. " I daren't do it, sir — it's as much as my place is worth." " Then I will go to her room," I rejoined, proceeding towards 144 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF the staircase. " Mrs. Brideoake shall not prevent me from seeing her." " You mustn't do it, sir," the butler cried, rushing after me in a state of great excitement. " Missis is dangerously ill, I assure you, sir. Any agitation might be the death of her." " But I shall not agitate her," I replied ; " I only desire to offer her some explanation, which she will be pleased to receive." " Do it by letter, sir — do it by letter— that'll be the best way. I'll take care she gets it," he said, in a low tone, and winking signi- ficantly. "Address it to me. You understand." " Yes, I understand," I rejoined, " but I don't choose to adopt such an expedient. Now answer me without equivocation. Has Mrs. Mervyn received my letter acquainting her with my intention of presenting myself this morning ? Your tell-tale looks show that my suspicions are correct. She has not. Gro to her at once, and an- nounce my arrival. Say I entreat permission to see her." " But Dr. Sale is with her, sir." " What does that signify ? Do as I bid you. Yet stay. Is Miss Brideoake within?" " Yes, sir, she is within ; but you can't see her. Against orders, as I observed before. Possibly you may not be aware " " Peace, fellow!" I cried, cutting him short. " Let Miss Bride- oake know I am here. If she refuses to see me, well and good. When you have delivered my message to both ladies, you will find me in the library." And disregarding his opposition, I marched up-stairs, and entered the room I had mentioned. It was empty, and I fluug myself into a chair. While I was thus seated, wondering what would happen, but de- termined not to be baffled in my object, an inner door opened, and Apphia Brideoake stood before me. I instantly arose, and should have sprung towards her, but deep sense of wrong withheld me. She looked exceedingly pale and anxious, and as I regarded her fixedly, I thought her countenance bore traces of suffering. As she advanced towards me, I made her a cold salutation, but did not put out my hand. She was the first to speak, and there was an indescribable sadness in her accents, as well as in her regards. " Are we indeed strangers, Mervyn," she said, " that you greet me thus ? Then pausing for a moment, but receiving no answer, she continued, with a sigh, " Well, I suppose it must be so. I saw you approach the house — I heard your voice — and could not resist the impulse that prompted me to come to you ; though now I feel I was wrong in doing so. I ought not to have disobeyed my mother's in- junctions." " I am glad you have given me an opportunity of offering you my congratulations, Miss Brideoake," I rejoined, bitterly. " May you be happy in the union you are about to form !" " You do not wish me happiness, Mervyn. You cannot wish it MEKVTN CLITHEROE. 145 me. I neither expect it, nor deserve it. I only desire your pity and forgiveness." Her words, and the tone in which they were pronounced, touched me to the heart. I felt my courage fast deserting me. But I tried hard not to give way. " You should have both, if you stood in need of them," I rejoined, with somewhat less bitterness than before ; " but 1 cannot see that either are called for. I will not affront you by supposing you would wed without affection ; and, if you love, what occasion can there be for " Oh, Mervyn !" she exclaimed, in a supplicating voice that quite overcame me, " do not taunt me thus ! It is ungenerous of you. You have occasioned xie so much misery, that you ought to compas- sionate rather thar* reproach me. If I have broken faith with you, it is your own fault." My courage vanished in an instant, and I trembled to learn what would be laid to my charge. " My fault ?" I ejaculated, gazing at her as if my soul was in the inquiry. "Mine!" " Listen to me, Mervyn, — dear Mervyn, — calmly, if you can, — and you shall know all. Then blame me if you choose ; but I think you will not. I now feel I was in error in regard to you, and the sad consequences of the pledge I have given are before me. But it can- not be recalled." After pausing for a moment, as if overpowered by emotion, she went on : " The hurried promises of unchangeable affection that passed between us on the eve of your departure are fresh as ever in my memory, and can never be effaced from it; — but I thought you no longer loved me." " Oh, Apphia !" I exclaimed, reproachfully, but yet tenderly, for my heart was now quite melted. " How could you think so ?" " You never wrote to me ; and after a while I began to conclude that other objects had banished me from your recollection." " You were never absent from my thoughts!" I cried. " Y~ou are connected with every place I have visited. I never beheld a beau- tiful scene without thinking of you, and wishing we could have viewed it together. With what impatience and delight did I look forward to a meeting after our long separation! But if I dwell upon these thoughts I shall go mad. You sav vou never heard from me. How can that be — if wrong has not been done us r I wrote you several letters, to which I received no reply. Your silence was strange — but I had no misgiving. My letters must have been intercepted — I can easily guess by whom " " They never reached me," she replied, sadly. " Hence this unhappy misunderstanding. But I did not know how serious it would prove. Attentions were paid me by Malpas Sale — marked attentions. I discouraged him as much as possible, and when he appealed to my mother, I acquainted her with my promise to you, and told her my affections were engaged. She was very angry, chided me, and said it L 146 LIFE AND ADVENTUT1ES OF was a silly promise and could not be kept — you had evidently forgotten me. And so, indeed, it seemed, since you never answered the two letters I addressed to you at Eome, and which I am sure were sent, for I took the precaution to post them myself." " When were those letters sent?" I cried, almost breathless with emotion. " More than a month ago. I told you how I was circumstanced. I implored you, if you still loved me, and held to your promise, to return at once — or at all events, to write. But as you came not, and no answer arrived, I could not gainsay what was told me — that you no longer cared for me. But I held out till hope entirely forsook me, — and then — only then— yielded to my mother's commands." I felt stunned as by a heavy blow, and some time elapsed before 1 could find utterance. " A cruel hand has been at work here, Apphia," I said ; " but I forbear to point it out. Fate also has been against us. Tour letters missed me. Before they could arrive at Eome I had started for England. Ill luck pursued me on my journey ; and a severe accident detained me for three weeks at Geneva. More than once I was on the point of writing to you, but my evil genius prevented me. Little did I think how much unhappiness a few words of explanation would have saved us !" I stopped in alarm at Apphia's looks. She became deathly pale, and would have fallen, if I had not caught her in my arms. Ere long she recovered, and gently disengaged herself from my hold. " This must not be," she said, gently. " You have spoken truly, Mervyn. Eate is against us, and it is useless to struggle against its decrees." " Oh! say not so, Apphia," I cried. "Do not condemn me to despair. You are not bound by a pledge given in error. My claims are prior to those of any other. Our engagement has never been cancelled. Your mother has no right to compel you to a marriage which must be fraught with misery. I know her imperious nature. I know she has ever exacted strictest obedience to her behests from you and from your brother. But parental authority has its limits, and she has overstepped them. Besides," and I hesitated, though I felt I must speak out plainly, " she has not dealt fairly with you — nor with me. You are justified in resisting her commands." " Hush!" Apphia whispered, in affright — " she is here." I turned and saw who was beside us. A great change had taken place in Mrs. Brideoake's appearance since I last described her. There was no emaciation in figure or fea- tures now. On the contrary, she could boast a certain fulness of person deemed indispensable to majesty. And majestic she was beyond a doubt. She looked younger than she did in the days of her misfortune ; and might well have been termed handsome, for her lineaments were noble, but arrogant and imperious in expression. Her hair was still black as jet ; and her attire rich, though of sombre colour. MERVl'N CLITHEltOE. 147 There she stood, close beside us ; with her brow charged with frowns, and her eagle eye fixed upon me. "So, Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe," she said, sternly — " so, sir, you are traducing me to my daughter, and trying to make her disobedient. Luckily, she knows her duty better. But how comes it," she added, in a strange, low, impressive tone to Apphia, " that I find you here ?" And then, without waiting for an answer, she raised her arm impe- riously, and pointed to the door. " A moment, mother," Apphia said, with an imploring look. But Mrs. Brideoake was inexorable, and the poor girl, casting a piteous glance at me, withdrew. My blood boiled in my veins, and I could not help telling Mrs. Brideoake that her treatment of her daughter was unwarrantable. " I am the best judge of what is fitting for my daughter, sir," she replied, disdainfully, " and rest assured that I, at least, will not submit to your dictation. All intimacy between you and Apphia is at an end. Rely upon it, she will not disobey me a second time. And now, Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe," she continued, in a sarcastic tone, '' you who are so ready to censure others — what have you to say in defence of your own conduct ? Are you acting like a high-spirited gentleman ? I scarcely think so. You force yourself into a house, where you are aware you are no longer welcome, in spite of the efforts of the servants to prevent you. Tou attempt to prejudice my daughter against me, and to alienate her affections from one to whom she has plighted her faith. Tou will fail, sir, I tell you — you will fail. Nor, so far as Mrs. Mervyn is concerned, will you gain anything by the intrusion. She will not see you. She is deeply offended with you — and, according to my view of the.,tase, justly offended." " Are you sure, madam, that Mrs. Mervyn knows I am here ?" I ob- served, haughtily, for her taunts stung me to the quick. " I will never believe she will refuse me an opportunity of exculpating myself." " Believe, or not, as you please," she replied, indifferently. " Mrs. Mervyn is acting uuder my advice, and as I have the care of her, I shall not permit an interview which might be attended with mischief. Her medical advisers enjoin the strictest quietude. But you may say anything you please to me, and I will take a fitting op- portunity of repeating your explanations to her." " No doubt, madam," I replied, "and with such additions or sup- pressions as you may deem desirable. Tell Mrs. Mervyn, then, since 1 am not allowed to see her, that I have never swerved from my devo- tion to her, and shall never cease to feel unbounded gratitude for her kindnesses. My indignation was roused because I felt she was duped by a trickster, and I wrote in stronger terms than I ought, perhaps, to have employed. But no disrespect was intended to her. I am incapable of any other feelings towards Mrs. Mervyn except those of attachment and respect. My anger was directed against Malpas Sale, of whose arts you yourself are the dupe." " Mr. Malpas Sale is just in time to thank you for the character l 2 148 LIFE AND ADTENTUKES 03 1 you give him," Mrs. Brideoake replied, with a contemptuous smile at me, as the door opened, and Malpas entered the room. He was attired in a dark-blue military-looking surtout, braided and frogged, and had a cap and a silver-handled whip in his hand. The only recognition he condescended to bestow upon me was a su- percilious look, which added fuel to my wrath. " And pray what has Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe been good enough to say of me?" he remarked, addressing Mrs. Brideoake, and displaying his white teeth. " He says that Mrs. Mervyn and I are the dupes of a trickster. Tou will readily guess to whom he makes allusion." " I will use a stronger term, if necessary," I observed. "Ha! ha!" Malpas replied, laughing scornfully. "No wonder Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe should say malicious things of me, since he finds himself completely cut o;*t. If I do not notice his contemptible insinuations now," he added, with a glance at me, " it is because this is not precisely the moment to do so. He need not fear they will be forgotten. But how is our dear invalid? Is she visible ?" "To yew — yes," Mrs. Brideoake answered, with marked emphasis. "Tou will find Mrs. Mervyn in her room. Tour father is with her." This insult was more than I could bear. My blood mounted to my temples, and a mist gathered before my eyes. Malpas admitted, and I denied the privilege ! He was stepping lightly and gaily to- wards the inner door, with a smile on his curling lip and a glance of triumph in his eye, when I sprang suddenly forward, and checked his progress. " Tou shall not pass this way. Tou shall not enter her room," I cried. " Tou imagine you can prevent me, do you, sir ?" he said, deri- sively. "I do." " A word, Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe. Let me appeal to your sense of decorum. One would think you must see the gross impropriety of making a disturbance in a sick lady's house. Mrs. Mervyn is in a highly nervous state. Excitement may be fatal to her." " So I have already told him," Mrs. Brideoake remarked. I might have listened to what they said, but there was something in Malpas' s manner that added to my provocation. " Nobody can grieve for Mrs. Mervyn's condition more than I do," I said to him ; " but you shall not pass." "Tou see how obstinate he is, Mrs. Brideoake," Malpas observed, shrugging his shoulders. " Nothing will serve his turn but a scene. I take you to witness that I have shown him every possible forbear- ance." " More than he deserves, I must say," she rejoined. " If he hopti to gain anything by this unseemly conduct he will find himself mis- taken. The servants shall show him to the door." And she approached the bell and rang it violently. *'. >,^\Mj\ff /v MEltVYN CLLT1IER0E. 149 " Now, sir," Malpas said, laying aside bis mocking air, and as- suming an insolent tone of authority, " stand aside!" I laughed contemptuously. " Then, by Heaven ! I will make you." He raised the whip, but in an instant I had snatched it from his grasp, while with the other hand I seized him by the collar of his braided coat. " It is not the first time I have chastised you," I cried, furiously. And I was about to apply the whip, when the inner door suddenly opened, and Mrs. Mervyn, supported by Dr. Sale, and followed by Apphia, tottered into the room. At the same time Mr. Comber- bach and the surly-looking man-servant, summoned in all haste by Mrs. Brideoake' s vigorous application to the bell, rushed in from the opposite door, and stood staring at us in astonishment. On seeing me thus engaged with Malpas, Mrs. Mervyn uttered a feeble cry, and Dr. Sale, surrendering her to Apphia, hurried forward to separate us, discharging a volley of angry exclamations against me. Poor Apphia, who was quite as much agitated as Mrs. Mervyn, could only render her very indifferent assistance. The sight of my offended relative restored me to reason, and I re- linquished my hold of Malpas, who lost not a moment in turning the occurrence to my disadvantage ; and indeed it must be owned that I had given him ample opportunity of damaging me without any de- parture from the truth. I saw by his gestures to Mrs. Mervyn that he was throwing the whole blame upon me. She was greatly aged — more than I should have thought it pos- sible she could be in a year's time ; — her once upright figure was bowed; and her movements betokened extreme debility. I could not notice these sad changes in one so dear to me, and to whom I owed so much, without infinite concern ; and if Cuthbert Spring's supposition proved to be correct, and my conduct had caused her anxiety enough to undermine her health, I ought never to be free from self-reproach. She was wrapped in a loose dressing-gown ; a carelessness of attire, in itself indicative of change, for she had here- tofore been remarkably precise in point of dress. Apphia and Malpas led her to an easy-chair, into which she sank as if the exertion had been too much for her. I should have ten- dered my assistance, but Dr. Sale interposed and waved me off, and I could not approach her without creating fresh confusion. She re- garded me, I thought, more in sorrow than in anger, but did not ad- dress me ; and indeed her feeble accents could scarcely have been heard above the din caused by Dr. Sale. After gazing at me for a short time, she covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud. Oh, Heavens ! what I endured at that moment. All at once, Dr. Sale's torrent of objurgations ceased. Not from any want of supply ; but a glance from Mrs. Brideoake told him he was rather overdoing it. He contented himself, therefore, with glaring furiously at me, and seemed inclined to order the servants to turn me out. Mrs. Brideoake however, conceiving the presence of 150 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF the menials to be no longer necessary, signed to them to leave the room ; whereupon Mr. Comberbach and his companion rather reluctantly departed — possibly to solace themselves by listening at the door. " If you have a spark of good feeling left, you will instantly with- draw," Mrs. Brideoake said to me. " You see how you distress her." So completely was I subdued and self-abased, that I should have obeyed, if, at the moment, Mrs. Mervyn had not uncovered her face, and turned her tear-dimmed eyes towards me. I thought she was relenting, but I could not be sure, for she presently fell to sobbing again. Still the look was sufficient to rivet me to the spot. Dr. Sale now thought it behoved him to interfere. " I really cannot permit this," he said to me. " Tou must go, sir — you must. I never witnessed such total want of decency in the whole course of my life." " I will go at once, if Mrs. Mervyn desires it," I replied, hoping to obtain a word from her. " Very artfully observed, sir, but it will not serve your turn. Mrs. Mervyn will not be entrapped into conversation with you," Mrs. Brideoake sharply remarked. " Tou may gather from her silence what her wishes must be." " Let her intimate as much by a sign, and I will no longer trouble her with my presence," I said. I saw Apphia bend towards Mrs. Mervyn. I could not catch her words, but I felt sure she was pleading for me. And so it proved. " Yes, yes, you are quite right, my child," Mrs. Mervyn said to her. " He must not go without a word from me, though it will cost me much to utter it. Mervyn Clitheroe," she continued, re- garding me steadfastly, and addressing me in a voice with nothing harsh in it, but which yet sounded in my ears like a death -sentence, " you were once very dear to me — very dear indeed — as well for your poor mother's sake as for your own. That I can no longer regard you with the same affection as heretofore is no fault of mine. The change in me has been occasioned by your own conduct. I will not reproach you ; but it is due to myself to tell you that you have caused me much unhappiness — far more than I have experienced at any previous period of my life. Those who have been with me know how greatly I have suffered." " We do, indeed, my dear madam," Mrs. Brideoake observed, in a tone of well-feigned sympathy ; " and our hearts have bled for you. Ingratitude is hard to endure, and you have felt all the sharpness of its sting." " Not all its sharpness, madam," I said, looking at her. " But a balm may be found for the wound," Apphia murmured, heedless of her mother's menacing glance. " The wound is nearly healed, my child," Mrs. Mervyn remarked. " I must not open it anew." " Of course not, dear madam," Dr. Sale cried. " You would do wrong to expose yourself to like danger again." MEI1YYN OLITHEROE. lol A retort rose to my lips, but T checked it, and looked earnestly at Mrs. Mervyn, as if awaiting the close of my sentence. It came. " I will not say what 1 have looked forward to from you," the good lady pursued, sorrowfully rather than reproachfull}-. " All that is past and gone. But you may believe that I have been grievously disappointed." " Will you not give him a further trial, dear Mrs. Mervyn ?" Apphia implored. " Look how repentant — how sorrowful he ap- pears. I am sure he will never offend you again." " How do you know that ?" Malpas cried, sharply. " Has he not just shown that his temper is utterly uncontrollable ? He thought he was to have his own way entirely here, and gave himself the airs of lord and master; but finding it won't do, he now alters his tone." " It is false," I cried ; " I have had no such thought." " Did I not say so ?" Malpas cried, jeeringly. " You see he cannot control his temper now." " I will not allow false statements respecting me to be uttered, without giving them instant contradiction," I said. " Oh, madam !" I cried to Mrs. Mervyn, " you cannot believe me the iugrate I am represented ? You, who have always treated me kindly, will not be unjust to me now? Grant me a few moments in private? What I have to say is for your ear alone." " Oh, yes, dear Mrs. Mervyn, do grant his request ?" Apphia im- plored. As she spoke, she sedulously avoided her mother's ireful glance. " On no account, madam," Mrs. Brideoake said, advancing towards her, and pushing her daughter aside. " Your feelings must not be worked upon thus. Pray let me put an end to this painful inter- view ? It would be a relief if this intemperate young man would take his departure — never to return." " Oh, mother, you are too harsh — far too harsh !" Apphia ejacu- lated, bursting into tears. " Come to me, my child," Mrs. Mervyn cried, embracing her ten- derly as she obeyed. " I cannot do as you would have me, for I am not equal to further excitement. But let me finish what I have begun. Mervyn Clitheroe, I am of opinion — an opinion delibe- rately formed, and supported by those on whose judgment I rely — that we should not meet again — until certain impressions are en- tirely effaced. But though I shall not see you," she continued, in a voice in which rising tenderness struggled against the attempt at firm- ness, " I shall always feel the warmest interest in your welfare, and rejoice in your success. Your friend, Mr. Cuthbert Spring, will inform you that arrangements have been made for the continuance of your allowance, and will explain to you how it is to be paid. If at any time you require more, you have only to apply to me through him." " Nobly done, and like yourself, I must say, Mrs. Mervyn," Dr. exclaimed. " You are acting in a spirit of forgiveness and ge- 152 LIFE AM) ADVJEKTUBES OF nerosity almost without parallel. Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe ought to uxA deeply beholden to you." I took no notice of the vicar's remark, but addressed myself, with such composure as I could command, to Mrs. Mervyn. " I hope you will not think me insensible to your great kindness, dear Mrs. Mervyn," I said, " nor impute it to unwillingness on my part to accept a favour from you — I have accepted far too many to have any such scruples — if I, in all thankfulness, decline your proffered bounty. All I desire is to be reconciled to you, and to atone for the errors I have inadvertently committed." She was evidently mucli moved. After looking wistfully at me for a moment, she held out her hand. I sprang forward and pressed it eagerly to my lips. " You forgive me, dear Mrs. Mervyn — you forgive me ?" I ex- claimed, passionately. Before she could answer, Mrs. Brideoake had interposed. "Do not give way to this weakness, madam," she said, "or the peace of mind you have just regained will be jeopardised. You have done all that kindness, generosity, and good feeling can prompt ; and if Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe declines your offer, it cannot be helped. Perhaps a little reflection may make him change his mind." I let the insinuation pass without remark. " In any emergency, you have me to apply to ; and do not hesi- tate, dear Mervyn. Let that be understood," my relative said, kindly, and pressing my hand as she spoke. " And now, my dear, I think you had better go. Take my forgiveness ! — take my blessing !" I could only reply by a few exclamations of liveliest gratitude. " No more, my dear — no more," Mrs. Mervyn rejoined. " You shall hear from me, and perhaps But I will not raise expecta- tions that I may not be able to fulfil. For the present, farewell." " Farewell, my best and dearest friend !" I cried. " You send me away comparatively happy." As I slowly drew back, Mrs. Mervyn again put her handkerchief to her eyes. At the same time, I saw a look pass between Mrs. Brideoake and Dr. Sale, which, if I interpreted it aright, meant that I should never set foot in the house again. They both saluted me coldly as I passed them. I had not ventured to glance at Apphia, but before I left the room my eyes sought her out. She was standing as if transfixed ; but perceiving me halt, she flew towards me, before any one could prevent her. " Farewell ! for ever, dear Mervyn !" she cried, clasping my hand almost convulsively. " We shall meet no more." " Farewell !" I rejoined. " Since you discard me, we must hence- forth be strangers. I resign you to him you have preferred." And I relinquished her to Malpas, who had flown to ring the bell, and now came quickly up, with ill-disguised rage in his looks. He took her away, but his glances proclaimed he had an account to settle MEJiVTN CLITHEROE. 153 witli me. I was glad of it ; and I let him understand by a look that I was as eager for a meeting as he could be. While this w r as passing, Mrs. Mervyn, alarmed by the slight cry which Apphia had uttered, was anxiously inquiring what was the matter ? But Mrs. Brideoake appeased her by saying it was only the silly child bidding me adieu. 1 heard nothing more, for the door was suddenly thrown open by Mr. Comberbach, and I went out. as I descended the stairs, the butler thought fit to apologise for his reception of me, and hoped I clearly understood that it was not his fault. He had received positive orders (he did not venture to say by whom) not to admit me. " I made a decent show of resistance," he said, with a half smile, " but I'm glad you didn't take me at my w r ord, but would come in. It's a blessed piece of luck that you saw the dear old lady, for if you'd gone away without doing so, you'd never have had another chance. Miss Apphia managed it, I'll be bound. Ah ! Mr. Mervyn, things are strangely altered here since you went abroad. It's not like the same house. But I'm sure our good old lady still loves you dearly at the bottom of her heart. Molly Bailey thinks so too. Old Molly is now more of a nurse than cook, and constantly with our missis. Mind what I say, Mr. Mervyn, if you can get an opportunity of seein' the old lady now and then, all will come round again. You may count upon my sarvices. A letter addressed to me, as I said before, will be sure to reach — Molly Bailey will give it to her — you un- derstand. But don't trust that crusty-faced chap, Fabyan Lowe. He'll play double, and report all you do to a certain lady — you under- stand." " I am much obliged to you, Mr. Comberbach," I replied. " I began to fear the whole house had turned against me, but I am glad to find I have some friends left in it. Do me this favour. Tell Mr. Malpas Sale, if he has any communication to make to me, that I am staying at the Palace Inn." " I won't fail to deliver the message to him," the butler replied ; " and 1 beg you to believe that you have a trusty friend in your humble servant, Tobias Cummerbaych." I again thanked him, and passed quickly through the hall, where I found the sour-looking Fabyan Lowe in attendance. He eyed me, I thought, rather malignantly. Mr. Comberbach accompanied me to the garden gate, and made me an obsequious bow as he put up the steps for me and closed the coach door, bidding the driver be re- markably careful how he took me to the Palace Inn. 154 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CHAPTER IV. RECOUNTING MY FIRST HOSTILE MEETING, AND, IT IS TO BE HOPED, MY LAST. My first business, on arriving at the inn, was to engage a private room, and as I could not go out, for I felt certain I should soon receive a hostile message from Malpas, I despatched a note to Cuthbert Spring, acquainting him with my quarrel, and begging him to act as my second in case I should require his aid. An answer came from him almost immediately, expressing his great regret that his services should be needed in such an affair, but adding, that of course I might depend upon him. By-and-by, the waiter entered to inform me that Colonel Harbottle was without, and begged to speak with me. I desired the man to show him in, and the next moment the fat little colonel made his appear- ance. His round, rosy, good-humoured features wore a rather serious expression, which I was at no loss to interpret ; but while the waiter was present nothing but common civilities passed between us. I offered him a chair, and he sat down. " Tou will guess the object of my visit," Colonel Harbottle said, as soon as we were alone, " and I need scarcely assure you that the office I have undertaken is anything but agreeable to me. Indeed, I would have refused it, if I had not hoped to be able to bring the quarrel to a pacific termination. With this motive in view, I hope, my dear Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe, that you will excuse me, as an old acquaintance, for saying that I think an apology is due from you to Mr. Malpas Sale — and furthermore, that it will not discredit you to offer him one. The expression employed by you towards him was highly opprobrious and offensive, and such as no man of honour could pass unnoticed. It must be retracted. This done, I am per- suaded " " Tour efforts are well meant, Colonel Harbottle," I interrupted, somewhat haughtily, " and I fully appreciate them. But they are quite thrown away. I will not retract a word I have said in reference to Mr. Malpas Sale, neither will I offer him the slightest apology. That is my answer." " I am afraid a meeting must take place, then, sir," the colonel rejoined, rising from his seat ; " but it is a pity — a great pity !" " There is no possibility of settling the matter otherwise, colonel," I said, in a tone calculated to put an end to discussion. " I must refer you for all arrangements to my friend, Mr. Cuthbert Spring." " Yery well, sir — very well," the colonel rejoined, blowing his nose MERYVN CLITHEROE. 135 witli a sound like a trumpet. " You could not be in better hands than in those of Mr. Spring. I will go to him at once ; and as, unfor- tunately, the affair cannot be accommodated, I may as well mention that my principal would desire the meeting to take place with as little delay as possible." " The sooner the better," I replied. " This evening, if you will. I have no desire to let the quarrel grow cold by sleeping upon it." " To-morrow morning would be better, and more en regie" Colonel Harbottle said. " But since you are both impatient, I will not balk your humour, unless Mr. Cuthbert Spring sees objections to the ar- rangement which do not occur to me. Let us consult the almanack, as the man says in the play. Ay, here it is. The moon is nearly at the full, and rises at ten o'clock, so there will be light enough after that hour, if the weather holds fine." " Oh, we shall see each other plainly enough for our purpose, I make no doubt, colonel," I replied, with a grim smile. " Let the appointment be for eleven o'clock. The ground you will choose." " Give yourself no concern about that, sir," Colonel Harbottle re- joined. " Tou may trust Mr. Spring and myself to find a convenient spot. He is an old hand at these affairs, as well as myself." And with a military salute he took his departure. I was now left alone to my reflections, and they were agitating enough, as may be supposed. But I had no uneasiness. Intense hatred of Malpas, and thirst for vengeance, overwhelmed every other consideration, and I felt a savage satisfaction in dwelling upon the approaching combat. I would not spare my foe. Still, fortune might decide against me ; so, after pacing to and fro within the room for some time, I sat down to write two letters, which were only to be delivered in the event of my falling in the duel. The first was addressed to my father, and in it I took a solemn farewell of him. We should never meet on earth, but I trusted we might meet in heaven. I had never tarnished his name, but should die as became a soldier's son. The second letter was to Mrs. Mervyn. It was longer than the one to my father, for I had more to say to her. I spoke of the love and reverence I had ever borne her, and of my gratitude, which would never cease but with life. I entreated her always to think kindly of me, and to put the best construction she could upon my failings. As there was no one to whom I was so largely indebted as to her, so no one was so fully entitled to the little I could leave as herself. I therefore drew a draft in her favour upon my bankers for the 1000Z. left me by my uncle Mobberley, and which constituted my sole property, and enclosed it in my letter. Just as I had sealed my second letter, Cuthbert Spring was ushered into the room. He regarded me with a serio-comical expression of countenance peculiar to him, and gave utterance to a low whistle. " Here's a pretty kettle of fish !" he exclaimed, as he took a seat ; "but it's just what might be expected. The peace wasn't likely to 156 LIFE AND ADVENTUKES OF be kept if two such fire-eaters as you and Malpas chanced to meet. I ought to take you to task severely for not attending to my counsel ; but you wouldn't listen to me if I did, so I'll confine myself to the matter in hand. To begin then : all preliminaries have been settled between Colonel Harbottle and myself. You are to meet an hour before midnight at Crabtree-green, near the Eaven's Clough." "I know the place well," -I observed; "it lies between Dunton Park and the river Rollin, a little to the right of the Chester road. A retired spot, and suitable for the purpose ; but why need we go so far?" " For a very good reason," he replied. " Tour adversary is obliged to return to the vicarage at Marston with his father, and cannot make any excuses for absenting himself without awakening Dr. Sale's sus- picions. Indeed, the doctor is exceedingly distrustful as it is, and in- sists on his son accompanying him. Under these circumstances I could not offer any objection to the arrangement." " Certainly not," I cried, in a tone that almost startled him. "I would not have any obstacles thrown in the way of the encounter." " You are bent on mischief, I perceive," he remarked, drily, "and mean to kill your man. Humph ! I have been engaged as second — never as principal, I am happy to say — in half a dozen duels, and have arranged double that number of quarrels, but not one out of the six combatants killed his adversary, though they all came well out of the field." " That was lucky for both sides," I rejoined, perceiving the drift of his remark. " But tell me, Mr. Spring — Malpas is considered a good shot, is he not?" " A dead shot," he answered. " But you are not much his in- ferior in point of skill, I fancy." " Not much, I flatter myself. I am not in practice just now-, but I used to be able to split a bullet on the edge of a kiiife at twenty paces— or hit a Spanish dollar at double the distance." " Egad, there'll be sanguinary work, then, if you don't cool down. Of course such a fiery spark as you are must be provided with duel- ling pistols. If not, I can furnish you with a pair." I thanked him, and told him I had a case of pistols. "I could have sworn it," he replied, with a droll look. "You wouldn't be Charles Clitheroe's son if you travelled without them I don't mean to set up your gallant father as an example to you in this particular, but he was one of the six combatants I have alluded to. In fact, he was the first person I had the honour to take into the field." "And possibly I may be the last," I observed, in a nonchalant tone. " That you undoubtedly will be if any mishap befals you. And this brings me to another point," he said, glancing at the letters on the table. " Have you any instructions to give me in regard to these letters?" " I have only to beg you to take charge of them," I replied. " If I fall, you will kindly cause them to be sent as addressed." MEItVYN CLITIIEROE. 157 And placing them in his hands, I explained their purport to him. He seemed at first disposed to oiler some objections to the draft I had enclosed to Mrs. Mervyn ; but he presently altered his opinion, and expressed approval of the step. It would, at all events, put the sincerity of my gratitude beyond question, he said. " As to the letters," he continued, putting them by carefully, "you may rest easy they shall be delivered, if circumstances require it ; but I trust I shall have to return them to you." Saying which, he warmly squeezed my hand. " I don't like to ask any questions of a painful nature," he ob- served, after a pause ; " but I suppose you saw Apphia Brideoake this morning ?" I told him I had done so, and had ascertained that my letters written to her from the Continent had been kept back. He looked very grave on receiving this piece of information, but made no com- ment upon it, simply saying we must talk it over hereafter. Hereafter ! I could not help echoing with a sigh. " I will not charge you with any message to Apphia," I said, in a melancholv tone, "but if I fall, my last thoughts are sure to be of her." "Pshaw! you mustn't be despondent," Cuthbert Spring cried, put- ting on a more lively air. " You are not the first man who has lost his lady-love — I was jilted myself in my younger days — and if you come out of this duel with the credit I anticipate, you will find no difficulty in filling up the void in your heart. Plenty of pretty girls are to be found. But I must now leave you for a short time, as I have some arrangements of my own to make. I will take care that Mr. Eushton, the surgeon, is in attendance. A post-chaise shall be in readiness in an hour. We will drive to Dunton, and dine quietly at the Stamford Arms. This will be better for you than re- maining in this noisy inn, and we shall only have a mile or two to go to the place of rendezvous." I quite approved of the plan he proposed, and he took his de- parture. I occupied the interval of his absence in making such further preparations as I deemed necessary. At the time appointed, Cuthbert Spring returned, and informed me that the chaise was at the door ; whereupon I took up my cloak, in which I had enveloped the green baize bag containing my pistol- case, and declining the waiter's offer of assistance, marched forth with my friend. We were soon rattling over the granite-paved streets of Cotton- borough, and forcing our way through the strings of w r aggons and carts, all laden with bales of the staple merchandise of the place. Ere long, we gained the Chester road. Not that we were even then in the open country, for rows of low brick habitations, with little gardens in front, lined the way for miles. At last, we came upon well-cultivated fields, skirted by tall poplars, but I took little note of any object we passed, being absorbed in reflection, and my companion, reading, perhaps, what was passing in my breast, 158 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF did not disturb me. Suddenly, I was aroused, as from a troubled dream, by finding we had arrived at Dunton. The Stamford Arms, where we alighted, was a comfortable coun- try inn of the good old kind — now sadly too rare — and noted for its excellent cookery, its old port wine, and its well-kept bowling-green. It had been much frequented in former days by rollicking Cheshire squires. We were shown into a pleasant room on the ground floor, with windows looking upon the bowling-green, and walls adorned with pictures of hunters celebrated in the county. In due time a nice little dinner was served. My companion did full justice to the good cheer, and, all things considered, seemed in excellent spirits. I am convinced he did not dislike the excitement of the aifair. For my own part, whatever my secret sensations might be, I managed to preserve a tolerably cheerful exterior. After dinner, our host brought us a bottle of the famous old port, and appeared very proud of its brilliancy and bee's-wing. I contented myself with a single glass, which I took to please the landlord ; but Cuthbert Spring, who smacked his lips over the wine, and declared it to be in superb condition, would have had me drink a pint to steady my nerves. It was a delicious evening, with a clear atmosphere and cloudless sky, that gave us assurance of a fine night. We sat with the windows wide open, and enticed forth by the beauty of the evening, I left my friend to enjoy his wine alone ; continuing to walk back wards and forwards on the smooth velvet sod, until a sudden burst of radiance falling upon me through a break in the trees that sheltered the garden, told me the moon had arisen. For some time before this I had heard voices proceeding from the room I had quitted, and return- ing thither, I found Mr. Rushton, the surgeon, conversing with Cuth- bert Spring. He shook hands with me as I entered, but made no allusion to the affair on which we were engaged. Soon afterwards, a w r aiter came in to say the chaise was ready, and we all prepared to depart. Mr. Eushton's private carriage was waiting for him at the door, and it was arranged that he should follow us. While I was getting into the chaise, having previously deposited the pistol-case within it, Cuthbert Spring approached the postilion, and gave him some directions inaudible to the bystanders. The man touched his hat in token of acquiescence, and the next mo- ment my friend was by my side, the steps were put up, the whip cracked, and we set off along the Chester road. The sound of other wheels informed us that the surgeon w r as close behind. It was a lovely night, almost as bright as day. The road we were pursuing ran along high ground, and the wide vale below was steeped in moonlight. Some three miles off I could discern the shimmering expanse of Marston Mere, with the old church tower just above it. As we approached Dunton Park, and passed through part of it, its noble woods and long sweeping glades derived wonderful effect from the medium through which they were viewed. In places, the road was completely overshadowed by enormous beech-trees, which flou- rished vigorously in the sandy soil, and quite intercepted the moon- beams by their thick foliage. MERVYN CLITHEROE. 159 We were mounting a slight ascent, where one side of the road, being comparatively free from timber, admitted the full radiance of the moon, while the other was cast into deep shade by a thick grove of black pines ; when I noticed two dark figures standing on a high sand- bank, under the shadow of the sombre trees. Even in that imper- fect light, I could tell that they were gipsies, and I pointed them out to Cuthbert Spring. Both of the men were armed with bludgeons. I could not help watching their movements, and when we came close upon them I thought I recognised the swarthy lineaments of my old acquaintance Phaleg, who, it would appear, had returned to his former haunts ; while in the lithe young man by his side I had no doubt that I beheld Phaleg' s son Obed. My face was turned towards them, and as the moon lighted up my features, I am sure Phaleg knew me, for he bent eagerly forward, and pointed me out to his son. If the gipsies meditated an attack, they abandoned the design on seeing the other carriage approach ; but they looked after us, as if half disposed to follow. They were soon, however, out of sight, owing to a turn in the road, and I thought no more about them. A rapid descent brought us to the foot of a hill, and in a few minutes more we had reached the entrance of a narrow lane, about a bow-shot from the little stone bridge crossing the Eollin. Here we alighted, and leaving the postilion in care of the chaise, proceeded on foot towards the place of rendezvous, which was not very far off. Mr. JRushton followed more leisurely. Crabtree-green was a small common, bounded on the left by the river Eollin, which flowed in so deep a channel as to be altogether invisible, unless on a near approach to its banks. On the right, the green was edged by a woody dingle, called the Raven's Clough. About midway in the common, and a few yards in front of the clough, stood a remarkable tree, forming a most picturesque object in the landscape. It was an ancient oak, scathed by lightning, and reduced almost to a hollow trunk; but it had still some vitality left in its upper limbs, and flung abroad its two mighty arms like an old Druid in the act of prophecy. In this fantastic-looking tree a pair of ravens used to build, and were never allowed to be molested. At the further end of the green was a small cottage — the only tenement adjoining it; and in the enclosure near the cottage, grew an old crab- tree, which lent its name to the spot. We were first in the field. Cuthbert Spring looked at his watch, and said it wanted five minutes to eleven — in five minutes more they would be here. While he went to select a favourable piece of ground, I walked to- wards the banks of the river, and remained gazing at its current as it flowed tranquilly by. More than half the stream was in deep shade, and looked black as ink, but just beneath me the circling eddies glit- tered brightly in the moonlight. The serene beauty of the night had gradually softened my heart, and, as I looked down on that quiet stream, the thirst of vengeance, which had hitherto consumed me, subsided, and I felt reluctant to take the life of him who had so deeDly injured me. 160 LIFE AND ADVENTUBES OF Hearing sounds as of persons approaching along the lane leading to the green, I returned to Cuthbert Spring, whom I found on a per- fectly bare piece of ground, about fifty yards in front of the scathed oak. Mr. Rushton was standing by himself, a little way off, nearer the cottage, with a case of instruments under his arm. The next moment, Colonel Harbottle and Malpas Sale were seen advancing, and as they drew near they both saluted us ceremoniously, and we returned the greeting in the same formal manner. Colonel Harbottle then took Mr. Spring aside, and conferred with*him for a few moments. While this was passing, I glanced at Malpas, who stood oppo- site to me in a careless attitude. The moon was shining full upon us, and it might be the effect of its pallid light, but I thought his fea- tures looked ghastly. Presently, the seconds returned, and Colonel Harbottle approaching me, inquired in a very courteous manner if there was any possibility of the matter being accommodated. I answered sternly in the ne- gative, and as I spoke Malpas cast a sharp look at me. He then stood erect, with compressed lip, and knitted brow. The seconds now retired, and the pistols were loaded. This done, the distance was measured ; we were respectively placed ; and the weapons were delivered to us. It was arranged that the signal to fire should be a white handkerchief waved by Colonel Harbottle. Once more the seconds withdrew. Just then, two ravens flew over our heads, croaking hoarsely and angrily, evidently disturbed from their roost in the scathed oak-tree. I could not help glancing at them, and, in doing so, perceived that another couple of ravens had put the legitimate occupants of the old oak-tree to flight. The younger gipsy, Obed, it seemed, had climbed the antique tree, and taken up his station on one of its mighty arms. Phaleg himself was standing beneath, leaning against the massive trunk, and watching us composedly. I should have drawn the attention of the seconds to these unlicensed intruders, but ere I could do so Colonel Harbottle coughed loudly to call attention. On the instant I became fixed, with my eye upon my antagonist, yet watching for the signal. It was a trying moment, and I could scarcely draw breath. But 1 never swerved from the resolution I had formed while gazing at the river. The handkerchief was waved, and we both fired at the same moment. I am certain I could have killed my adversary ; but I had no such intention. I raised my arm aloft, and discharged my pistol into the air. The seconds ran towards us, making anxious inquiries, accompa- nied by Mr. Kushton, who had drawn near before the encounter took place. I was hit. A sharp knock, just above the right elbow, had quite numbed my arm, and the pistol dropped from my grasp. MERVYN CLITHEROE. 161 CHAPTEE V. I RENEW MY ACQUAINTANCE WITH PHALEG. Both the seconds seemed greatly relieved by the assurance I was able to give them that I was not much hurt, and having seen me fire into the air, they declared that the duel was at an end. Leaving me in the hands of the surgeon, Colonel Harbottle went to confer with his principal, while Mr. Rushton commenced an ex- amination of my arm, and finding I could not take off my coat, he instantly slit up the sleeve, and then discovered a severe con- tusion just above the elbow, where the ball had struck me. Owing to my arm being raised at the moment of receiving the shot, the ball had glanced off without doing much damage except to the muscles, which it had battered and benumbed, and then running along, had lodged itself in my dress, behind the shoulder. The surgeon took it from my shirt, and laughingly presented it to me, at the same time giving me the comfortable assurance that the hurt would be well in a few days, though my arm might probably continue stiff for a somewhat longer period. At this juncture, Colonel Harbottle and Malpas came up. " I am rejoiced to hear such a good report of you, Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe," the colonel said, with great politeness, " and so, I am quite sure, is my principal. After the magnanimity you have displayed, it would have been matter of deep regret to him, as well as to all engaged in this affair, if any ill consequences had resulted from his shot. This, sir, I beg you to believe. And now that the quarrel is adjusted, and you have so gallantly received your adversary's fire (which I trust I may construe into a tacit admission that you were somewhat hasty in your expressions concerning him), let me hope that a reconciliation may take place between ycu and my friend. It will gratify me extremely to see you shake hands toge- ther before we quit the field." Cuthbert Spring was about to make an observation, but I checked him, and addressing Colonel Harbottle with some warmth, said : " You are entirely mistaken in concluding, that because I did not choose to make Mr. Malpas Sale my mark, I admit that I was in the wrong. No such thing, sir. I regret the occasion of the quarrel ; but my opinion of Mr. Malpas Sale is unchanged, and I do not mean to retract anything I have said of him." " I am sorry to hear it," Colonel Harbottle rejoined, rather nettied. It is scarcely what I expected from you." A flush had spread over Malpas's face while I was speaking, and 1(52 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF it was with evident discomposure that he now remarked : " I should have been quite willing to shake hands with Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe, had he been so inclined ; but since he rejects all friendly advances, and refuses to place me upon an equality with himself in a meeting like the present, I trust he will give no further license to his tongue." "Softly, sir — softly," Cuthbert Spring interposed. "My princi- pal has offered you full satisfaction, and you ought to be content. Colonel Harbottle, I am sure, must be of my opinion." " I am, sir," the colonel rejoined. " We can ask no more than we have obtained. Still, I may be permitted to observe " " Nay, colonel, you must perceive that nothing can be gained by prolonging this discussion," Cuthbert Spring interrupted. "I must positively put a stop to it." " I have done," Colonel Harbottle rejoined. " In taking leave, I can only repeat my regret that we are no nearer a settlement than when we began. It is no compliment to Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe, but the simple expression of truth, to say that he lias conducted himself throughout the affair like a man of honour. Good night, gentlemen." Whereupon he and Mai pas formally saluted us, and withdrew. They had not, however, proceeded far, when they were brought to a halt. Two dark figures were seen hurrying towards them. I had been so completely engrossed by what had occurred during the last ten minutes, that I had taken no note of the pair of gipsies; and I ihould have expected them to disappear when their curiosity was gratified, rather than to come forward in this manner. "Halloa! who the deuce are you? — what d'ye want ?" Colonel Harbottle exclaimed, facing them. "I wants a word wi' his honour, Capt'n Sale, afore he goes," Phaleg replied. " He knows Phaleg, the gipsy. I did a little job for him some years ago. His honour win recollect it, I dar say," he added, with some significance. " His honour has no desire to recollect his boyish follies," Malpas replied, evidently annoyed by the interruption. " What are you doing here at this time of night, fellow?" " Nay, I might put that question to your honour," Phaleg rejoined, drily, " but I needn't ax when my eyes and ears ha' gied me in- formation. If gen'Pfolk chooses to settle their quarrels wi' pistols or swords. Ize nivir interfere wi' inn — not I. I likes the sport too well." " You had better be off to your tent, wherever it may be pitched," Malpas rejoined. "And here, you shan't go empty-handed," he added, giving him a piece of gold, as I conceived the coin to be from the eagerness with which the gipsy took it. " Thank your honour!" Phaleg cried. ' " Obed and me win drink your honour's health, an' wishin' you better luck next time." " I can't have better luck than to come off scot free myself, and hit my adversary," Malpas rejoined, with a laugh. " Tea, you might have better luck nor that," Phaleg replied. " 1 don't understand you, fellow." Malpas rejoined, sternly. " Hark MERVl'N CL1THE110E. 1Gb ye, sirrah, if you value your safety, you won't remain in this neigh- bourhood. Once before you made it too hot for you, and you may do so again, and not get oft' so easily." " Bless your honour, capt'n, I've nowt to fear. I've left oft* poaehin' this many a day. I be an honest tinker now by trade, and so be my son Obed." " Yes, we both of us be tinkers, at your honour's sarvice," Obea chimed in. " I be noways afeard to show myself i' broad dayleet," Phaleg said, " and if your honour win only let me know when I can wait upon you at the vicarage, I win ca' and tell you summat you may be pleased to larn." " Hang you for an importunate rascal !" Malpas cried, impatiently. " Call to-morrow morning if you will, but don't keep me any longer now. I owe you a thousand apologies for detaining you thus, colonel," he added, turning away. And taking his friend's arm, they marched quickly oft' the ground. "While the conversation just described took place between the gipsy and Malpas, the surgeon was engaged in dressing my bruised arm, and he applied some strong stimulant to the injured part that made it smart excessively. Mr. Rushton had bound up my arm, and was making a sling with a silk handkerchief to support it, when Phaleg came and planted himself right in front of me, with his thick bludgeon under his arm, and an impudent grin on his swarthy face. " How d'ye like the feel of cold lead, mester ?" he asked, perceiving me wince a little with the pain. " Uncommon pleasant — ben't it ? Tou once put half a charge of swan-shot into me, and every devil's pellet — each on 'em as big as a pea — had to be picked out. That wad ha' made you grind your teeth, and kick out a bit. I'm not sorry to see you writhe i' your turn." "I tell you what, you insolent scoundrel," Cuthbert Spring cried, " you'll have another taste of cold lead yourself, that may do your business effectually, if you and your comrade don't be off pretty quickly." "Me and my son be doin' no harm to nobody," Phaleg rejoined, in a tone of surly defiance ; " and we've as much right to be here as you, or anybody. I shan't stir ; and I advise you not to molest me, or mayhap you'll get the warst on't." Armed as he was, Phaleg did seem an awkward customer, and his son, though a lighter weight, appeared well able to support him. For the last few moments I had been considering what course to pursue. If I had been able to use my right arm, I would have seized the rascal without hesitation ; but though the odds were in our favour, I doubted whether we could master the pair of ruffians. Cuthbert Spring had threatened to use the pistols, but Phaleg knew well enough that the weapons were not loaded. It might be as well, therefore, to temporise. Moreover, I called to mind the mysterious conversation 1 had had with the elder gipsy in Marston Churchyard some years ago, and resolved to try whether anything could be extracted from him. m2 164 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF " J^o harm shall be done you, Phaleg, if you keep quiet," I ob- served, in a tone calculated, as I thought, to appease him. " Give heed to what I'm about to say to you. You once offered to sell me a secret. Are you still willing to dispose of it, or have you made a better bargain elsewhere ?" " Oh! you're on that tack, eh?" the gipsy cried, in a jeering tone, ind with an insolent grimace. " You intend goin' roundabout, I per- ceive ; but I'll come to the pint at once, like a plain-spoken chap as I be. Now, gie good heed to me, young mester. Twice I meant kindly by you, and both times you sarved me an ill turn. I've sworn not to forgie you. When I met you that night i' Marston kirkyard, I would ha' dealt fairly with you ; but you and that infernal keeper hunted me like an otter i' th' mere, and weel-nigh drownded me, besides tearin' my flesh to bits wi' your great hounds. I have a secret as 'ud make a man on you — a gerfVman. But," he added, with a savage look, while his black eyes blazed with vindictive malice, " I'd not sell it you for twice — ay, thrice as much as I axed then." Cuthbert Spring and the surgeon, as may well be supposed, stared in astonishment at what they heard, and the former took out a powder-flask and made a hasty attempt to load one of the pistols. But Phaleg was upon him in a twinkling. "Put that by!" he cried, with a deep oath, and brandishing his bludgeon as he spoke, " or Ize do ye a mischief." "Hold hard, Phaleg!" I exclaimed, grasping his arm with the hand I could still employ. "I will engage that my friend shall not meddle with you. Leave him alone," I added to Cuthbert Spring — "he's dangerous." " Ay, I be daungerous," Phaleg cried, shaking off my hold, " as he'll find, and you too, if you tries me." " What does the fellow want?" Mr. Spring demanded, uneasily. "Are we to be robbed and maltreated, and offer no resistance?" " Fair words, mester, or we shall come to blows," Phaleg re- joined, in a menacing voice. " You'll nother be robbed nor mol- trayted by me or my son. We be tinkers, as I telled his honour, Capt'n Sale, just now, and arns an honest livelihood. I want nowt from you nor onybody else ; but I expects civil usage, and I'll have it," he added, with another deep oath. " There, now you knows my mind. And he" — (pointing to me) — " knows it too ; and he onder- stands by this time what he have lost by playin' cross wi' me." Without another word he turned away, and motioning to his son, they ran towards the Haven's Clough, and plunged down its woody banks. Before they had reached the covert, Cuthbert Spring inquired why I had let them go ? I replied that the attempt to detain them would have been attended with great risk, and that it would be idle now to follow them, and Mr. Kushton concurred with me in opinion. " But don't suppose," I said to Mr. Spring, " that I have done with the MERVYN CLITHEROE. 165 pascal. I mean to have another interview with hirn before long. He must hide pretty closely if he hopes to baffle my search for him." In a few minutes more all preparations were made for our depar- ture, and we quitted the field. The incident that had just occurred formed the subject of our discourse as we walked along. Cuthbert Spring thought that immediate information should be given to the police at Dunton about Phaleg, but I dissuaded him from taking the step, as I had a scheme of my own for dealing with the gipsy. Before we reached the spot where the carriages had been left, my bruised arm began to give me great pain ; and after getting into the chaise, the motion of the vehicle increased my anguish so much that I determined to stop at Dunton, and pass the night at the Stamford Arms. Thither accordingly we drove, and the hour being now late, we had to knock up the house. However, I soon gained admittance, and on beholding me with my sleeve ripped up, and my arm in a sling, the landlord immediately divined what had happened. Indeed, he now owned that he had previously suspected my intentions. He promised that a comfortable bed should be prepared for me directly. Cuthbert Spring did not alight, but said he would come over to me on the morrow, and bring my luggage from the Palace Inn at Cotton- borough, as I might feel disposed to recruit myself by a few quiet days at Dunton. In taking leave of me, he said in a tone of great kindness, and not altogether void of emotion, " I told you you would come out of this affair with credit to yourself, — and you have done so. I fully appreciate the motives which, I am sure, induced you to fire into the air. Tou acted nobly. Here are the letters you entrusted to my charge," he added, delivering them to me. " I am truly happy in having to return them." With this, he drew back in the chaise to make room for Mr. Eushton, who took a place beside him, for the sake of companionship on the road ; and having ordered the other carriage to follow, both gentlemen bade me good night, and drove off. Previously to his departure, the surgeon had given me a phial, the contents of which he directed me to apply to my bruised arm ; adding, with a laugh, that he felt sure I should not require any further attendance on his part. The village apothecary would suffice, he said, if I needed further aid. Shortly afterwards, I sought my couch. The landlord aided me to disrobe, and would gladly have learnt some particulars of the duel, but I did not gratify his curiosity. It will be readily con- ceived that I did not sleep much that night. 166 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CHAPTEB VI. A SUMMER MORNING IN DUNTON PARK. — SAD INTELLIGENCE. Mt arm was very stiff next morning, but, the pain having in a great degree abated, I did not think it needful to call in the village surgeon. Having converted a black silk neckerchief into a decent-looking sling to support my injured limb, and put on a cool over-coat and a broad-leaved brown hat to shade me from the sun, I sallied forth, with the inten- tion of proceeding to Marston. Before starting, I took care to order dinner for seven o'clock ; giving particular directions about a bottle of the wonderful old port for Mr. Spring. It was a tempting day for a walk ; rather warm, but a pleasant breeze tempered the heat. For some little distance, the road was the same as that which I had taken on the previous night ; but with different feelings I now pursued it ! Nerve oneself as one may, the thought of an approaching conflict, the issue of which may be fatal, is anything but agreeable. I was glad the duel was over — and with- out bloodshed. I had sustained a trifling injury, but it gave me no concern ; whereas, if I had shot Malpas, I might ever afterwards have been a prey to remorse. Certainly, 1 should not have enjoyed the bright sunshine and the lovely prospect of wood, vale, and lake, as much as I now enjoyed them. Occasionally a saddening thought connected with Apphia would intrude itself, overshadowing me like a dark cloud ; but the exhilarating influences I have described soon enabled me to chase it away. On reaching Dunton Park, instead of proceeding along the high- way, I leaped the moss-grown pales, and shaped my course through the thickest parts of its magnificent woods. How tranquillising is the deep stillness of an ancient grove on a summer's day ! How favourable is such a spot for contemplation ! Ever and anon I sat down beneath the ample shade of some gigantic tree, and indulged in a pleasing re- verie. A herd of fallow deer, a chance squirrel, rabbits, and a few song- sters of the grove were the only living objects in view. If I reclined thus like Jaques, my meditations were neither moody nor misan- thropic. Though I looked upon myself as an injured man, my feelings towards my fellows were far from unkindly. My desire was to mix more with the world, and form fresh friendships, for I felt convinced that happiness can always be found if the right way of seeking it is only taken. While I was thus musing, the sudden flight of the herd of deer which had been couching beneath the shade of some evergreen oaks MERVYN CL1T11ER0E. 1G7 on the skirts of the wood, the cries of a jay and the chattering of magpies, made me aware that an intruder was at hand ; and I pre- sently saw a keeper, habited in a velveteen jacket and leather leggings, ride out of the covert. The man was mounted on a strong, shaggy- looking pony, which he appeared to guide entirely by voice, for he never touched the reins — his hands being occupied by a rifle, which he rested upon the saddle. He was accompanied by a coal-black bloodhound, and after galloping for a few minutes after the flying herd, by the help of the hound he singled out a fine buck and then suddenly halting, leaped to the ground, levelled, and fired. The deer fell with a single bound, being apparently hit between the horns. The keeper then placed' the carcase of the noble animal upon the back of the pony, and secured it from falling by tying cords to the legs. While watching the man during this operation, I became con- vinced that it must be Ned Culcheth. Those broad shoulders and athletic frame — those six feet of stature — those tremendous whiskers and forest of red hair — those manly features and that bold deport- ment, could belong to none but Ned. But how came he — one of Mr. Vernon's keepers — to be shooting a buck in the domains of Lord Amounderness ? Be this as it might — entertaining no doubt as to the identity of the personage with Ned — I went to the borders of the grove and hailed him. My voice arrested him just as he was setting off. He knew me directly, and hurried towards me— -the hound keeping close at his heels, and the pony, with its load, trotting after him, like a dog of a larger breed, and halting when he halted. A very cordial greeting passed between us, for I had a great liking for the honest fellow. I had not seen him for three or four years, and now that I scanned his features more closely, I perceived that he was much changed. Anxiety was visible in his open countenance, and a frost seemed to have settled upon the tips of his glowing whiskers. I began to fear something had gone wrong with him. In explanation of his presence in Dunton Park, he told me that he was now in the service of its noble owner ; and while imparting this piece of informa- tion, he heaved a deep sigh. However, he made an effort to appeal cheerful, and cried : ""Why, you be grown quite a man, I declare, Mester Mervyn— and a fine man, too, as ever I clapped eyes on. But what be thi matter wi' your arm? — not broken, I hope, sir ?" " Oh! a mere nothing, Ned — an accidental shot, that's all." " A pistol-shot, maybe?" Ned rejoined, with a sly look. " I did hear as how there war some shootin' on Crabtree-green last night, and it wouldn't surprise me to lam that you got hit there— by accident, of course, sir." I turned off the question witli a laugh, and directing my attention to the hound, remarked, while patting the animal's head, " What a uoble hound you have got, Ned! — a Saint Hubert — eh ?" " A Saint Hubert he be, sir," Ned replied. " He comes from the forest of the Ardennes, they tells me, and be one of the true race from Saint Hubert's Abbey. He were sent to Squire Vernon fro' 1CS LIKE AND ADVENTURES OF foreign parts, and the squire gied him to me ; and a better gift he couldn't have bestowed — for Hubert — I calls him Hubert, sir, — hasn't his match." "A perfect hound, Ned, I'll warrant him," I replied, regarding him with a sportsman's admiration — " he bears about him all the marks of keen scent, great swiftness, arid extraordinary force and endurance. When I first beheld him just now, 1 called to mind an old distich by a huntsman of Lorraine, which might be engraved on his collar : ' My name came first from holy Hubert's race, Souyllard my sire, a hound of singular grace.' I congratulate you on the possession of such a hound, Ned. But it is time to inquire after the other occupants of your kennel. How are my old friends and your faithful companions, Gaunt and Lupus ?" " Lupus be dead more nor a year ago," the keeper replied ; " but poor owd Gaunt be still livin', though too stiff for work, so I leaves him at home to tend the house." "A trusty watch-dog I'm sure, old as he is," I rejoined. "But I have been sadly remiss, Ned. I ought to have asked long ago after sweet Sissy ? How is your darling little wife ?" I never was more startled in my life. I thought the strong man would have dropped. He shook as if an ague had seized him, and staggered towards a tree, against which he leaned for support. Suspecting I had harmed his master, Hubert glared at me with his deep-set red orbs, while his lips curled fiercely. For my own part, I was exceedingly distressed. But I had never heard of poor Sissy's death. And that Ned must have lost her I now felt certain, from the emotion he displayed. I thought it best to let him be — and, indeed, I did not know how to comfort him. Sissy had alw r ays been a great favourite of mine, and it was sad to think that so fair a flower should be cut off thus prematurely. At length, Ned made an effort to rouse himself, and throwing back his head as if to ease his labouring breast, he came slowly towards me. I took his hand, and looked kindly into his haggard countenance. " I have been abroad for some time, Ned, and am only just re- turned," I said. " 1 was not aware of the heavy loss you have sus- tained, or I wouldn't have said anything to distress you." " Ay, ay, it be a heavy loss, sure enough — heavier a'most than I can bear," Ned groaned. "Mine were once a happy home — no man's more so. Sissy made a palace of my humble dwelling — leastways I thought it so. When I cum'd home tired and jaded after a long day's work, her smiles and cheerful words set me right at once. You ha* been i' my cottage often, sir, and know whether she kept it tidy or not. There wasn't a cleaner cottage in the county — that I'll uphold. And as to the missis herself — but I won't speak about her. You know what she were." ^ CM MERVTN CLITHEROE. 169 " I do, Ned. She was the prettiest woman of her class I ever beheld — and as good as she was pretty." " Hold, sir!" he cried, with a look I shall never forget. ' Don't say a word about her goodness. It were her misfortune mat she were so pratty. Better she had been the plainest lass i' Cheshire than turn her beauty to ill account." " I dare not ask for an explanation of your words, Ned," I re- plied, iuexpressibly shocked ; " but I hope I mistake their meaning. At all events, let me implore you to think kindly of the dead." " Sissy ben't dead, sir," he rejoined, with a stern look. " "Would she were ! Then I could truiy lament her. She have betrayed me — she have left me. But she ben't dead — no — she ben't dead," he re- peated, with a fearful shudder. Hubert uttered a low growl, and again glared fiercely at me. I hardly knew what to say to the poor keeper, for his deep affliction quite unmanned me, but at length I addressed him thus: — " If any one else, but yourself, had told me this, Ned, I would have flatly con- tradicted the statement. Even now I can scarcely believe it. If Sissy has proved false, I shall lose my faith in all the rest of her sex." " I wish I could doubt it myself, sir," he replied. " But it be only too true. Heaven knows I dearly loved her — better than life! I thought of nothin' but her; and couldn't do enough to please her. She had only to ax an' have, so far as my poor means went ; and as to failin' i' constancy to her, I could as soon ha' failed in duty to my Maker. But," he added, with intense bitterness, " I suppose I warn't handsome enough for her — I warn't fine gen'l'man enough — I couldn't talk softly enough." " And she left you, then, for some one who styled himself a gentle- man, Ned?" I demanded. " Am I to understand you so ?" " Ay," he replied, " she left me who valley ed her more than silver and gowd — more than a' the treasures on airth — r\/ one who only took her for an hour's pastime, and then cast her oft'. 1 don't know what black art he used to wean her affections fro' me — for I think her love were mine once — I don't know 7 whether she struggled against his snares — but she fell into 'em, and left me. And this I can say for myself, sir — and say it wi' truth — she left as fond and faithful a husband as ever woman had." And he sat down, and covered his face with his great freckled hands, utterly unable to control his grief. When men like Ned Culcheth weep, it is a sorry sight. Hubert uttered a mournful howl, and laid his large black head upon his master's lap. I looked on much distressed — utterly unable to offer the poor fellow consolation.