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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
<tehool by a melancholy incident. During the warm weather we
were wont to bathe in the Ater, the place selected being a deep
MEBVYN CLITHIBOS. 19
pool, into which we could plunge from an overhanging sandstone
rock. Of course, this spot was only available to swimmers, but I
was amongst the number, and being fond of the water, soon became
very expert, and was considered a first-rate diver. But it is not of
myself I am about to speak, but of poor Simpson, whom I have in-
cidentally mentioned. He, too, was accounted an excellent swimmer.
One luckless day I parted with him before breakfast, and he was
then in high spirits, and wanted me to have a swim in the Ater.
I told him I hadn't time, but would go the next morning. " To-
morrow, come never," he replied, with a laugh, little thinking
how truly he spoke. Others were easily persuaded to accompany
him. We had scarcely assembled, an hour afterwards, when a report
came that Simpson was drowned. We could scarcely believe it, but
it turned out too true. He had been seized with cramp, as was
supposed, and had sunk suddenly, in sight of his companions. The
body had not yet been found. ]N T ever shall I forget the shock occa-
sioned by this intelligence. A profound and mournful silence took
place of the universal din, and we could distinctly hear the voices
of the masters consulting together. The boys spoke in anxious
whispers, and smiles had fled even from the most thoughtless coun-
tenance. All felt the sudden loss, for Simpson was generally liked ;
and I felt it most of all, for he was my great friend. The school was
immediately dismissed, but no one went to play. All went sadly and
slowly home.
CHAPTER JIT.
CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF MY GREAT-UNCLE, JOHN MOBBEELEY,
HIS OLD DAME, AND HIS EARM AT MARSTON.
Most of my holidays were passed with my father's uncle, John
Mobberley, of Marston, in Cheshire. Old John was a farmer, on a
very extensive scale, and possessed some pastures which produced
the richest cheeses in the county, and his cheeses made him the
richest man, except the squire, in Marston. A farmer of the old
school was John, — old-fashioned in the management of his land, of
his crops, of his cattle, — old-fashioned likewise in his habits, manners,
and attire. He wore a blue coat, which looked as if it had been
cut out by some village snip about thirty years back in the last
century, ornamented with plain, flat, white buttons, as dull as old
pewter ; a waistcoat to match, with large flapped pockets ; knee
breeches, grey worsted stockings, and shoes, fastened by great plated
buckles. His low-crowned hat was looped up at the sides.
In the days of his robust manhood, as 1 have heard, John Mobber-
ley was a stout, upright fellow, and could go through as much hard
work as any man, but now Time had laid a heavy hand upon him, had
bent his back, and shrunk up his limbs within his clothes. When walk-
ing, he required the support of a staft'; and, besides being afflicted with
the rheumatic pains generally attendant upon old age, had partially
lost the sight of his right eye, which he kept covered up with a great
black patch, while the remaining orb was red and blear, giving a some-
what formidable and fiery character to his physiognomy. His nose
and chin were large and prominent, and, as he had lost all his teeth,
c2
20 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP
frequently met together as he mumbled his food, while from the same
cause his speech was not altogether intelligible. In manner he was
somewhat testy, like most old fellows who have got large pockets
with plenty of cash in them. But, notwithstanding this, he was
a good fellow in the main, and was very much liked and re-
spected. As may be imagined, his age and habits, as well as tastes,
wholly unfitted him for society, and hence his only resource was
a weekly visit to the Nag's Head, a little public-house in the village
of Marston, which lay about half a mile from his own dwelling,
where there was a bowling-green, at which he would sometimes
take a hand, and where a seat was reserved for him by the cosy fire-
side. To this snug little house some of the better inhabitants of the
village would repair to spell over the county paper, and gossip over a
cheerful glass. Once a week, about three or four o'clock in the after-
noon, according to the season, old John Mob berley would seize his staff,
and after scanning the farmyard with his only available eye, to ascertain
that the coast was clear, would steal through the side garden, and make
the best of his way across the fields to the village. These stolen visits to
the Nag's Head would have been prevented altogether by his good old
dame if she had had the powder, and she did check their too frequent
occurrence, being well aware of the excesses attending them, and of
the pernicious effect they had upon her husband's health. But in spite
of all remonstrances, go old John would, once a week, though stealthily
as I have described, and as if ashamed of himself. Once arrived at the
little inn, all his misgivings vanished. He was warmly welcomed by the
stout host and buxom hostess, the best seat near the fire was given him,
his pipe lighted, and a glass of cold gin-and-water prepared for him.
Old John was very happy as long as his senses lasted, chirruped
over his cups, treated his old cronies, and many a one would drop in,
apparently by accident, told his old jests, and talked of his farm and
his concerns as if he had been by his own fireside : indeed, he talked
a great deal more at the Nag's Head than he ever did at home,
where he was generally morose and taciturn.
Of course, in the inebriate condition to which he was invariably
reduced on these occasions, it would have been utterly impossible for
him to get home unassisted, and Sam Massey, one of the farming men,
was usually sent to fetch him. One night I accompanied Sam on the
errand. I had never seen my uncle in such a atate before, and must con-
fess I was surprised and shocked at his appearance. He was roaring
out and gesticulating like a Bedlamite. On seeing me, whom he had
not expected, he ordered a glass of gin-and-water to be given me, and
another to Sam, while he drained that which stood before him.
After this, and many futile attempts to keep steady on his seat, and
to utter a few coherent sentences, he was persuaded, chiefly by the
hostess, who seemed to exercise some influence over him, to go home.
We had fine work with him in the fields, for he kicked the horn lan-
tern, which I carried, into a clump of hazel trees, and while Sam
was searching for it, he broke away from me, and started off at a pace
which, in soberer moments, he certainly could not have equalled, and,
before we could overtake him, fell headlong into a pond. We got him
out as quickly as we could, and he sustained no further damage than
such as was occasioned by the ducking. But the accident made
him somewhat more careful for the next few weeks.
MERVTN CLITHEEOB. 21
My aunt Mobberley presented an advantageous contrast to her hus-
band in personal appearance ; for though past eighty, while he was
nearly ten years younger, she had preserved some traces of the come-
liness which had distinguished her youth and maturer years. She
was tall and perfectly upright, and though her features were deeply
furrowed with wrinkles, they still retained a pleasing expression.
Her eyesight was unimpaired, and her teeth tolerably good. Her
hair was still abundant, and merely grizzled, whereas her husband's
scanty locks were silvery white. She was in full possession of all her
faculties, and, considering her great age, very active, busying herself
about her household concerns, and superintending the dairy, which
was still an object of great solicitude and interest to her. But the
cheeses, which, during more than half a century, had been made by
her own hand, were now manufactured by her niece, Hannah Massey,
a stout damsel, who was fully equal to the important task assigned
her, and whose tongue and limbs were never idle. Under Hannah's
care the Marston cheese lost none of its high reputation.
The rest of the household comprised Hannah's younger sister
Martha, a fresh-complexioned lass of fifteen, and her two brothers,
Sam and Peter, the latter of whom was a great raw-boned fellow, and
a tremendous bruiser. He was very fond of wakes and fairs, and
required a good deal of looking after on the part of his elder sister.
Besides these, there was the superintendent of the farm, AVilliam
Weever, between whom and Hannah Massey an engagement of mar-
riage subsisted, which was to be ratified at some period, early or late,
as chance might dictate, when any change to warrant it might take
place in the family. The proposed match met with the entire approval
of the old couple, and my aunt only wished it to be postponed until
after her death.
Nethercrofts — for so my uncle Mobberley's habitation was desig-
nated — was nothing more than a farm-house, with large cow-houses
(shippons, in the dialect of the county), and other outbuildings
attached to it. A few rooms had been added at the back, but a
farm-house it remained to the end. The walls were whitewashed,
the roof thatched. Within, the entire centre of the house was occu-
pied by a spacious apartment, with a low roof encumbered by pro-
jecting rafters, from which hung hams and sides of bacon. Also, a
bread-flake full of oat cakes. Also, Sam Massey's sword, which lie
used to wear when he went out with the North Cheshire Yeomanry,
in which corps he served as my uncle's substitute. Also, a couple of
horse-pistols, belonging to the said Sam, and a long disused duck-gun,
with a wormeaten stock. The windows had small diamond panes, the
floor was flagged, and the fireplace had a wide-mouthed chimney, and
deep comfortable corners, furnished with wooden benches on either
side. Over the fire hung a great black kettle, and not far from it a
bake-stone.
The house-place — for so the room was called — looked extremely
comfortable, with its white walls, its clean sauded floor, its dresser,
its old oak chests, and its old clock, which stood quietly ticking in
the corner. Near one of the windows was a long, high-backed sofa,
the seat and cushions of which were covered with patchwork. Here
my aunt Mobberley used generally to sit, and, when not employed,
22 LIFE AND ADVENTUBE8 OF
read her Bible, or some other good book, with her favourite white
tom-cat at her feet — a huge animal, very gentle with her, but very-
spiteful to every one else, and to me in particular. My uncle's old
arm-chair and spittoon were placed near the fire, with a little table
close at hand, for the convenience of his pipe and tobacco-box ; while,
upon the hearth, Talbot, the retriever, would stretch his lazy length,
as often as permitted.
In reviewing my visits to Nethercrofts, I seem to fix on the hap-
piest period of my life. I liked the old farm-house ; I liked the life
I led ; I had no distasteful tasks to fulfil — no Mr. Cane to apprehend ;
I was constantly out in the open air, constantly engaged in exercise.
If this was not very intellectual employment, at least it was very
healthful ; and though rather delicate when at the Anchorite's, and
confined all day in a public school, and in the evening by tasks, here,
with plenty of exercise, and nothing on my mind, I became extremely
robust, and got a fresh glowing colour in my cheeks. At one time I
was a great angler, and thought of nothing else but rods, lines, tackle,
and baits. I used to troll for jack, and catch perch and carp in the
mere which lay in the valley about a mile from Nethercrofts ; and
would set drum-nets for tench, and night-lines for eels in my uncle's
ponds. Such was the mania that possessed me, that I used occasionally
to dream of catching pike as big as sharks. I longed for the time
when I should be able to throw a fly and take the speckled trout in
some mountain stream. My conversation turned w holly upon fishing ;
and I was thrown into ecstasies by hearing of any piscine preserves,
and treasured the place in my memory. I have since learnt to dis-
like the angler's art, and, so far from thinking it a " gentle" sport,
am of opinion that it is a very cruel pastime : but I had no such
scruples of sensibility then. If I gained nothing else by the pursuit,
at all events I acquired a love of Nature. I beheld her beauties
under many a varied aspect — at morn and eve, amid showers as well
as sunshine. I noted the pursuits of the feathered creation with in-
terest, and listened attentively to their different songs and cries. To
raise the wild duck or startle the coot from among the water-flags
%nd bulrushes fringing the banks of the mere — to watch the heron,
tith outstretched legs, and head between the shoulders, wing his
low and heavy flight across the water, and descend in some sheltered
Aook, to devour his prey undisturbed — to hear the bittern's booming
cry — to see the long-billed curlew or the plover — the redshank and
the sandpiper — and, above all, the kingfisher — these were delights and
studies to me then.
Connected with these ornithological tastes, though not exactly with
fishing, was my anxiety to possess an owl. One of these curious
birds tenanted a barn at Nethercrofts. It was a great white owl, and
I had often been startled by his screech, and marked with wonder
.lis ghostly flight. Sam and I contrived to surprise him in his haunt,
nerched on a rafter festooned with dusty cobwebs at the top of the
barn, and just when we had made sure of him, he dashed right in our
faces, knocked Sam off the ladder, and escaped. On relating the
/ircumstance to my uncle, to my surprise he was very angry, and
peremptorily forbade us to molest the owl, or, as Sam called it, the
hullart, in future. I am sorry to say I resolved to disobey him, for
MEItVYN CL1THER0E. 23
I longed more than ever to obtain possession of the bird ; but Sam,
to whom I communicated my secret desires, did not dare to help me,
and tried to dissuade me from making the attempt. But I would not
be reasoned out of it, and succeeded in catching the owl, though, as it
proved in the end, I had better not have meddled with him.
I have already mentioned that my uncle Mobberley was accounted
very rich ; — what the extent of his wealth might be I didn't know, but
1 felt sure it must be very great, for people always spoke of him as a
man who had made his thousands. Whatever it was, his expenditure
was so small that his money must have been constantly increasing.
He had few relations on his own side, the nearest being my father
and Dr. Sale, the vicar of Marston, both of whom stood to him in the
same degree of affinity, being his nephews. His wife had a great
many relations, none of whom were in very flourishing circumstances,
and some of them had given him a good deal of trouble, but of these
latterly he took no notice. One whole family, however — the Masseys,
who were the children of a farmer whose wife had died before her
eldest daughter, Hannah, had come of age, and who had himself fol-
lowed her to the grave within a year — had found a home at Nether-
crofts. They were not allowed to eat the bread of idleness, but
were all employed about the house and farm in various capacities,
and received good wages, as any other persons so engaged might have
done. Naturally enough, some of these poor folks hungered for a
legacy ; but it was clearly understood that my uncle, though he did
not mean to overlook his wife's relations altogether, intended to leave
the bulk of his property on his own side, and in his own way. The
old fellow had a good deal of pride about him ; and though he had
not himself led the life of a gentleman, he determined that his suc-
cessor should, and he would leave him the means of doing so. He
made no secret of his intentions ; and as his worthy dame had brought
him nothing beyond the active services which had helped him to save
the fortune he thus meant to bequeath, she quite assented to hi?
plans. Having no children of his own, my uncle looked about hin.
for an heir, and eventually selected me.
" I like Mervyn," he said to my aunt ; " he is a handsome, promising
lad. His father, Captain Clitheroe, can't do much for him, especially
since he has married again, and has got other children. The lad has
the air of a gentleman, and I'll make a gentleman of him."
Prom this date I was understood to be adopted by my uncle Mob-
berley, and every one considered me a lucky dog. No doubt I had
many enemies in consequence, and among the bitterest of them
(though I was not aware of his enmity at the time) was Mai pas Sale,
the vicar's only son. For my own part, I was too young to think
much upon the matter, and certainly evinced no improper sense of
the preference shown me. I never sought to curry favour with my
uncle, but always conducted myself in a very independent way towards
him ; and I have reason to think he liked me the better for it. There
was nothing like servility in my nature, and I cod d not stoop to such
an abject course, whatever I might have gained by it.
Lest my uncle's apparent neglect of the Sales might seem to jus-
tify Malpas's secret animosity towards me, I must explain how mat-
ters stood in that quarter. Some thirty years ago, when the Rev.
24 LIFE AND ADVENTUJJES OE
Wrigley Sale, then newly entered of the Church, and a very handsome
young man, became tutor to the sons of Mr. Yernon, of Fitton Park,
a proud Cheshire squire of large landed possessions, to whom Mar-
ston, its mere, and a considerable portion of the country adjoining it
belonged, he exemplified in his own conduct how dangerous pro-
pinquity to a charming object may prove ; for he speedily fell over
head and ears in love with Lydia, the squire's youngest daughter.
His passion was requited, and an engagement took place between
them ; but when the squire heard of it he was highly incensed, and
turned the tutor out of doors. The young lady was disconsolate, her
lover in despair. At this juncture, John Mobberley, with whom,
after his expulsion from the hall, Sale sought refuge, came forward,
and offered to settle 5000Z. on the young lady if Mr. Vernon would
consent to her marriage with his nephew. Moved by this con-
sideration, and by his daughter's tears, the squire at length yielded ;
the money was paid down, and the young couple united. There-
after, "Wrigley Sale moved in the best society in the county ; kept a
good nag, hunted with all the neighbouring squires (for most country
clergymen with good livings w T ere fox-hunters in those days), dined
with them, and drank with them ; and as this mode of living led him
into expenses far beyond his means, he was obliged to have recourse
to John Mobberley, from whom, at different times, he managed to
borrow a couple of thousand pounds, for which he gave his bond. A
few years afterwards Sale's position was greatly improved. His father-
in-law, the squire, with whom the advowson rested, presented him
with the valuable living of Marston when it became vacant ; and he
had now twelve hundred a year, and a capital residence. Still, he
did not pay back the money he had borrowed from John Mobberley,
nor was lie ever dunned for it by the old trump, as he called him,
who told him he would leave him the bond when he died, but he
must expect nothing more from him. With this arrangement Dr.
Sale (for he had now obtained his doctor's degree) was well content.
jNot so, however, his son Malpas — as will appear in the course of this
history.
As may be easily imagined, John Mobberley, who pretended to be
nothing more than a plain farmer, never supposed himself upon
any terms of equality with Dr. Sale's aristocratic connexions and
friends, and he declined all invitations to meet any of them at the
vicarage. For this the vicar was not sorry, as he began to feel
ashamed of an old uncle, trump though he might be, who had
amassed a fortune by selling cheeses ; but his wile, who could not
forget old John's generosity to her, and w r ho was too conscious of
her own proud descent and high connexions to think herself degraded
by associating with a worthy farmer, regretted the old man's ab-
sence. She often called at Nethercrofts— often took Dr. Sale with
her when he would not have gone of his own accord ; but John Mob-
berley rarcdy passed the gates of the vicarage. Of course, when stay-
ing at Marston, I went there when I chose; but though I liked Mrs.
Sale extremely, the vicar was a great deal too proud and pompous to
please me.
Malpas Sale and I were very intimate. He was three years older
than I, and much taller; very handsome, but effeminate-looking,
MEttVYK CL1THEROE. 25
with small features, as delicate as those of a woman ; very small hands
and feet ; an exceedingly pale, almost sickly, complexion ; and large
dark eyes, which, though shaded by long silken lashes, and ordinarily
soft in expression, would sometimes emit fierce and sinister glances.
He had fine black hair, which hung in wavy curls about his face.
Malpas used often to come over to Nethercrofts, and we went fish-
ing and shooting together, for I had already begun to handle a gun,
and was a tolerable shot. I liked him well enough, but I never felt
any great regard for him, his manner not being calculated to inspire
affection, for he had a strong tendency to sneer, and his jests were
always sarcastic. His laughter had more of derision than enjoyment
about it. Nevertheless, he could be very amusing when he chose, and
on the whole was a pleasant companion.
But when it became known that my uncle meant to make me his
heir, his manner changed. He came to Nethercrofts as usual, but
appeared to shun me, and when we met seemed resolved to pick a
quarrel with me. I was equally resolved he should not, and seldom
made any reply to the bitter and provoking things he said to me ;
but I could not always command my temper, and on one occasion
an outbreak took place which ended in a fight between us. We
were alone together in the barn, when he began, as usual, to jeer me
about some trifling matter, and finding his remarks produce no eifcct,
he proceeded to taunt me with being my uncle's favourite, insinu-
ating that I had used unworthy means to become so. This was more
than I could bear ; and I told him in plain terms he was uttering
falsehoods.
"You think yourself sure of old Mobb's money," he said; "and
give yourself airs in consequence ; but if the old cheesemonger knew
as much about you as I do, what mischievous tricks you play, and
how you turn him and the old woman into ridicule behind their
backs, he wouldn't leave you a shilling."
" How dare you make such shameful assertions, Malpas ?" I cried,
reddening with passion ; " so far from ridiculing my uncle, to whom I
am so much indebted, and whom you so impertinently nickname old
Mobb, I have always checked your sneers at the odd ways, as you
term them, of him and my aunt. But I comprehend the motive
of your anger. You are disappointed because you are not so great a
favourite as I am, and vent your spleen upon me, who have done no-
thing to offend you."
" But you have offended me, and, what is more, you have injured
me," Malpas rejoined. " You have told lies about me to old Mobb,
and have alienated his regard from me. Before you came, / was the
favourite, and should have continued so, and been his heir, but for
your underhand practices."
So, then, the secret is fairly out, I thought; and I could not help
laughing at the way in which he had betrayed himself. This exas-
perated him more than the bitterest retort I could have made.
" Take care of yourself, my lad," he cried ; " the game is not all
your own yet. Consummate hypocrite as you are, I will unmask you,
and display you in your true colours to my uncle."
"You have displayed yourself in your true colours to me, Malpas,"
I rejoined, " and they are not over-creditable to you. But you say I
26 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
have told lies about you to my uncle. Tbis I positively deny. I
have said nothing to your disadvantage to him or to any one. As to
underhand practices, you ought to be ashamed of entertaining such
unworthy suspicions ; but I suppose you judge of me by yourself.
Tou have also called me a hypocrite ; and unless you retract the
word "
" What will you do, my young cock ?" he interrupted, crowing like
chanticleer, and enchanted that he had roused me at last. " We shall
see — for I shan't retract a syllable. Now then, what'll you do ?"
My answer was a blow, which knocked him from his perch. When
he got up, his pale cheeks had turned absolutely green with rage.
" We'll soon settle this," he cried. " Come out into the croft."
I followed him out as he rushed through a side door. We went be-
hind a haystack, and our jackets were oft' in a moment. He attacked
me before I was quite ready for him, and fought in a very unmanly
way, more like an infuriated animal than a human being, tearing my
cheeks with his long nails, kicking me severely on the shins, and
biting my hands like a wild cat when we closed. To put a stop to
this, I gave him a tap on the nose, which drew his claret plentifully,
and sent him reeling backwards. I thought he had got enough, for
he stood still and took up his jacket, as if searching for a handker-
chief to stanch the blood. But he brought out a knife instead, and
was opening it, when I knocked it from his grasp, and set my foot
upon it. Thus disarmed, and finding himself no match for me — for
though the younger and the lesser lad of the two, I was the stronger
and the more active — he began to cry, and declared in a very abject
manner that he yielded.
"Do you retract what you have said about me?" I demanded,
scornfully.
" I do," he replied.
" And you won't call my uncle ' old Mobb,' or ' the cheesemonger,*
any more ?"
He promised he wouldn't ; and I extended him the hand bearing
the blue impression of his teeth. He took it with evident repug-
nance.
Just then we became aware of the presence of a third party, and
perceived my uncle a short distance off, leaning on his staff".
"Halloa! what's the matter?" the old man cried, between the
intervals of a violent fit of coughing; "fighting, eh? {Ugh, ugh.)
You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. (Ugh, ugh.) Two young
gentlemen, and disgrace yourselves in this way. What would Madam
Sale say, Malpas, if she could see thee now, with that bleeding nose ?
(Ugh, ugh.) And what would Madam Mervyn say to thy scratched
face, eh, boy? (Ugh — ugh — ugh.)"
" The quarrel wasn't of my seeking, uncle," Malpas hastily replied.
" I didn't begin it. He struck me first."
" Thou saidst something to provoke him, no doubt," rejoined my
uncle. "Thou'rt older than he, and ought to know better."
" Allow me to explain, uncle," I said.
" No, sir, I don't want any explanations," interrupted the old man.
" I don't want to know the cause of the dispute. I only want to
prevent its repetition. I won't hear either of ye. (Ugh, ugh.)
MERVTN CL1THER0E. 27
You're both in the wrong, and it's immaterial to me who is the most
to blame. (Ugh, ugh.) Shake hands and be friends, and let's hear
no more about it. Go to the pump and wash the stains from your
faces. (Ugh, ugh.)"
As we set off to obey the injunction, leaving him expectorating
freely after this lengthy harangue, Malpas observed to me,
" You'll not say anything about the knife to old Mobb, Mervyn ?"
"I'll give you another thrashing, if you call him that name again,"
I replied. " Eecollect how largely your father is indebted to him r
and hold your peace."
This effectually silenced him.
After this occurrence, Malpas was very civil to me, and we became
better friends than we had been for some time previously. He was
also very attentive to my uncle, and I thought, if any one could
be accused of trying to curry favour with the old man, it was he, and
not I. However, I did not concern myself about his proceedings, and
my uncle showed no increased regard for him. I thought, however,
from hints let drop occasionally by the old man, that he had got some
notions into his head respecting me which he had not previously en-
tertained. Somehow or other, he found out that I had caught the
owl, and was very cross with me for disobeying him. Then Talbot
was lamed, and it was said that I had beaten him with a heavy stick,
though I was much too fond of him to beat him at all. The great
boar had lost his curly tail, and the appendage being unaccountably
found in my pocket, it proved a great bore to me. But the climax
was put to my offences by one of such an aggravated nature, that it
threw me into disgrace. My aunt's favourite tom-cat was shot, and it
was supposed — nay, proved — that I had done the ruthless deed. Poor
Tom, who was fond of exercising his claws, had certainly scratched me
rather severely, and it was said I had breathed vengeance against him.
No such thing. The next morning master Tom was missing, and
after vainly calling to him, he was at last found by Malpas in the gar-
den, with half an ounce of shot in his head. Never shall I forget my
poor old aunt's distress at the sight of her favourite, held up before
her by the heels like a great jack-hare by Malpas.
" Zounds and fury ! — who killed the cat ?" cried my uncle, cough-
ing terribly.
" Ay, who indeed ?" said my aunt ; — " poor pussy !"
" My goodness! here's a pretty piece of work!" screamed Hannah
Massey, rushing out of the dairy. " Who can have done it ?"
All eyes were directed to me, and, though I was perfectly innocent,
I looked and felt like a culprit.
" It must be this young imp of the devil. He's always in mischief,"
cried my uncle, shaking his stick menacingly at me. " Where's Sam
Massey ? He'll tell us something about it."
Sam was accordingly called, and, being questioned, was obliged to
admit that I had taken out my gun on the previous evening, and that
he had heard one or two reports apparently at the back of the house.
This was enough. In vain I declared I had only fired once, at
a rabbit, and had missed it. My assertions were disbelieved. I was
pronounced guilty of taking the life of the cat by violence and with
malice aforethought, and incurred the angry denunciations of my
28 LIFE AND ADVENTURE8 OF
uncle, and, what was far worse to bear, the tearful reproaches of my
aunt, who mourned the death of her favourite.
This incident unquestionably shook me in my uncle's good opinion,
and auguries, very unfavourable to my ultimate succession to the
property, were drawn from it by interested parties ; and Malpas was
considered now to have the better chance. But whatever the old
man's secret intentions might be, he did not publish them to the world
at Nethercrofts, and everybody was left to doubt and speculation.
Soon after this I was summoned back to the Anchorite's, and to
school ; and several months elapsed before I again visited my uncle.
CHAPTER IV.
MALPAS AND I ATTEMPT TO CROSS MARSTON MERE DURING A HARD
FROST AN ADVENTURE ON THE ICE.
The Christmas holidays had commenced, and I went over to Marston.
I hoped my uncle had forgotten all my transgressions, real or sup-
posed, and it seemed he had, for he received me with as much kind-
ness as heretofore. My aunt was not quite so gracious. I was sorry
to find her grown a great deal more feeble ; and it was clear she
couldn't last much longer. She had got a new tabby cat; but she
told me, with tears in her eyes, that she didn't love him half so well
as poor Tom.
Malpas, who was an Etonian, had come home likewise, and never
allowed a day to pass without paying a visit to Nethercrofts, chiefly
under pretence of joining me in my amusements, but secretly, I be-
lieve, with the view of gaining the good graces of my uncle, in which
he fancied he had made considerable progress.
It was a winter of unusual severity ; and though the cold pinehed
the old folks sadly, it did us lads a world of good. The blood spun
through my veins, and my spirits were so elastic, that I could scarcely
contain myself for delight. I had taken to skating, and, like all my
other pursuits, devoted myself to it with ardour. I used to be off
to the mere at six in the morning — almost before it was light ; and
oh ! how I enjoyed the exercise, — what rosy cheeks I had, — and what
an appetite for breakfast ! No tea and toast, nor any such effeminate
luxuries then, but a good jorum of boiled milk and bread, or whole-
some meal pottage. And as to the coarse viands at dinner, how I
relished them! — how I devoured the pickled pork and peas-pudding,
or the salt beef and cabbage, and huge slice of suet-dumpling sweetened
with treacle.
Well, the frost increased in intensity ; and after the lapse of a
fortnight, Marston Mere was frozen over — a circumstance almost
without precedent, and such as had not occurred within my uncle's
recollection, and lie had known it for seventy years. The oppor-
tunity was not to be lost, so Malpas and I resolved to cross the mere
— an exploit which, as far as we knew, had never been achieved or
even attempted. We said nothing of our intentions to any one,
for fear of being prevented, but set out one day before breakfast in
high glee. It was a dull, grey morning, with woolly clouds threaten-
ing snow : and, as the ground did not feel quite so hard and crisp
MERVYN CL1THER0E. 29
as it had done, Malpas thought the frost must be giving way. I was
afraid so too, and fancied, if we had delayed our exploit to another
day, it might have been too late. I had taken my gun with me in
expectation of picking up a snipe or a wild-duck as we went along.
Descending a narrow lane, bordered with hazels and alders, we soon
reached the edge of the mere, whose broad expanse was entirely
sheeted with ice. Crowning a high bank on the left stood the vene-
rable church of Marston, a beautiful and picturesque object ; and
close adjoining it, amid a grove of ancestral trees, now stripped of
their leafy honours, but with many a rook's nest discernible amid their
branches, stood the vicarage. At the foot of the lawn, which came
down to the mere, was a boat-house, with its tiny craft frozen fast in
the water. Beyond this the banks rose still higher and more abruptly,
and their sides were clothed with brushwood and timber. Still fur-
ther they dipped gently down, and the view was bounded by the thick
dark woods of Dunton Park, which shrouded the residence of the Earl
of Amounderness. The fairest object in this part of the prospect
was Dunton Church, which stood on a gentle hill about a mile north
of the mere. It was an old pile with a square tower, like that of
Marston, and I know not to which church the palm of beauty ought
to be assigned. It was pleasant in summer-time to float on the mere,
and hear the bells of both fanes ring out in merry rivalry. Those of
Marston were deepest, Dunton's sweetest in tone. On the right of
Dunton the view was terminated by the dark and distant range of
Lancashire hills. My glances, however, were not cast in this direc-
tion, but towards the tower of Marston Church, the summit of which
was lighted up by a straggling sunbeam. I thought of my mother,
and fancied her eye might be upon me.
My reflections were put to flight by a flight of wild-fowl. I fired
amongst them, and brought down a couple of fine ducks, and, having
bagged them, we commenced our attempt. The southern extremity of
the mere, where we were, was the widest, and the point we intended
to make for — a cottage on the low banks, belonging to Ned Culcheth,
one of Squire Vernon's keepers — might be about a mile off, in a direct
line. At first, the ice was strong enough, and we trampled down the
flags and bulrushes as they appeared above the surface ; but after we
had got two or three hundred yards, and were above deep water, it
certainly looked thinner, and was very blue and clear. As we knew
there were many springs in the mere, we kept a sharp look-out for
all such dangerous places ; and, indeed; they were pointed out to us
by the water-fowl, which assembled at the spots in search of the fish
that swarmed there to breathe. By this time I had encumbered
myself with another duck, and having advanced for a quarter of a
mile without accident and without alarm, we were in high spirits
at our progress, and made sure of accomplishing the rest of the dis-
tance.
"While loading my gun, after an unsuccessful shot, we stopped for
a moment to look around us. It was a fine winterly scene : ice —
ice — everywhere, spreading out in a vast unbroken sheet, smooth,
shining like a mirror, and as slippery too. Just then the clock of
Marston Church struck seven, in an unusually solemn manner I
thought ; and we went on, running and sliding over the glassy sur-
face. All at once we became aware that the ice was bending un-
30 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
pleasantly beneath us, and we looked at each other uneasily. Forcing
a laugh, I began to repeat the schoolboy rhymes —
" If it bends, it'll bear,
If it cracks, it'll swear,
If it breaks "
" Hold your tongue !" interrupted Malpas. " Why the devil do
you mention such a thing as breaking now ? I wish we were safely
back again. What a fool I was to come with you at all !"
He was here interrupted in his turn by a most terrific crack, be-
ginning just beneath his feet, passing under mine, and sweeping on
with an awful noise to an immense distance. Malpas and I stared at
each other aghast, uncertain whether to advance or retreat.
We were now about midway from either shore, and therefore it
seemed immaterial which course was adopted. Malpas was for turn-
ing back ; but he had scarcely moved a foot in that direction, when
another crack, louder and more appalling than the first, took place
beneath him, and water sprang from between the fissures. Starting
back with a cry of terror, he speeded off in the course we had ori-
ginally pursued. We trod as lightly and moved as swiftly as we could,
stepping on the points of our feet. The distance between us and the
shore seemed interminable. The ice seemed fairly giving way, and
cracked and groaned most fearfully. On looking back, I saw that the
surface not fifty yards behind us was covered with water. I now gave
myself up for lost, and thought of my mother, hoping I should be
buried beside her, if my body was ever found, in Marston Churchyard.
Malpas, who was not encumbered with a gun and a bag of wild-
ducks, and who, besides, had a very light pair of heels, got con-
siderably in advance, and thinking I might safely follow where he
went, I shaped my course accordingly. But I soon found this
to be an error, for the ice, which bent beneath him and cracked,
would hardly sustain me, and more than once gave way altogether,
so that my escapes from destruction seemed almost miraculous. For
some time, my attention had been so intently directed to my own
precarious situation, that I had not dared to glance towards the shore ;
but now looking in that direction, with a thrill of delight I dis-
covered that I was much nearer it than I expected — scarcely more
than a hundred yards off, while the ice had become much firmer. But
where was Malpas ? Had he already reached the bank ? I could no-
where perceive him. A vague apprehension crossed me that he had
sunk through the ice ; and my fears were instantly afterwards con-
firmed by remarking his cap only a few yards before me. At a glance I
saw what had happened. In his haste, he had incautiously approached
a spring, and had fallen through the thin covering of ice. The sound
of his immersion had been drowned in the loud cracks and explosions.
All selfish considerations were lost in the thought of saving him, and
twenty rash plans — any of which would have cost me my own life —
occurred to me. 1 approached as near as 1 dared to the hole. Nothing
was to be discerned of him. The ice w r as as transparent as crystal,
and I looked eagerly around for any object beneath it. The next mo-
ment I distinguished Malpas under the glassy barrier, with his hands
outstretched, and his eyes open and fixed on me. Never shall 1 forget
their expression. 1 sprang to where he was, pointed in the direc-
tion of the aperture, and signed to him to move towards it. He
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 31
understood me, and with a last effort struggled thither, and got his
head above the ice. But the frail support broke beneath his hold,
and he sank again. I uttered a cry of despair. But the next moment-
he reappeared ; and, having thrown myself flat on the ice, 1 managed
to lay my gun across the hole, and lie caught hold of the barrel. But
I saw that he was so much exhausted, that unless he could be imme-
diately extricated he must unquestionably perish ; and I therefore
approached still nearer, though at the greatest personal risk, until I
could grasp his hand, and then, bidding him second my efforts, I
exerted all the strength I possessed, and succeeded in dragging him
out of the hole.
I was so overjoyed by his deliverance, that I felt disposed to fall on
my knees and offer up thanks to Heaven for it ; but there was some-
thing in his look that checked me.
Seeing he w r as too much exhausted to move, I laid hold of him and
dragged him along the surface of the ice, which, fortunately, was very
smooth, so that I had little difficulty in the job, for he himself was as
helpless as a sack. When I got him to land he was quite insensible,
and I was very much frightened, scarcely knowing what to do.
However, Ned Culcheth's cottage was close by; so I hurried thither,
and fortunately finding the keeper within, he came out at once, and
by his help and that of his wife, Malpas was quickly transported to
the little habitation, where he was wrapped in warm blankets, and
some hot spirits and water poured down his throat ; after which he
began to revive. At first he didn't seem to know r what had happened,
nor where he was ; but when his dark eye lighted on me as 1 sat by
the pallet on which he was laid, all seemed to flash upon him, and an
uneasy expression crossed his face.
" Weel, Master Malpas, how dun you find yourself, sir," inquired
Ned. " You'n had a narrow squeak for your life, and if it hadn't been
for Master Marvynhere, yo'd ha' been food for th' fishes by this time.
Tou owe your life to him."
" It's a debt I shall never be able to pay," Malpas rejoined, turning
away as if in pain, and averting his gaze from us.
The keeper shook his head.
" I dunna like that lad," he muttered between his teeth. " There's
summut naw reet about him "
With this he left the room ; and, after a little time, as Malpas did
not speak, 1 fancied he must be asleep, and got up to leave too, but
just as I was passing through the door I glanced towards the bed, and
beheld his eyes fixed upon me, with an expression of absolute hate. I
was stepping back to him, but he motioned me oft', saying, impatiently
and pettishly,
" I don't want you. Shut the door. I'm trying to go to sleep, and
your presence disturbs me."
So I left him, and stepping outside the cottage found Ned, who had
been to fetch my gun and the ducks which I had left on the ice.
" Why you're one o' t' warst poachers abowt Marston, Master
Marvyn," Ned cried, " and I dunna know what t' Squoire would say
if he seed you wi' these dooks. Howsomedever, we won't say nowt
about it. Hang that chap inside ; I canna 'bide him. Take care he
dunna do you an ill turn. You'n thrown a chance away. If I'd
been i' your place, when his head was once fairly uuder water, I'd ha*
82 LIFE AND ADVKNTURES OF
letten him be. No one could ha' blamed you, and he'd ha' done you
no more hurt."
" But I should have blamed myself, Culcheth," I rejoined, some-
what severely, for I was much displeased with the freedom he took ;
" or rather, I should never have forgiven myself, if I had acted in the
way you suggest. I would rather suffer any wrong than commit the
heinous crime of allowing a fellow-creature to perish, when I could
render him aid, even granting he were my enemy at the time, and,
which I can scarcely believe, should continue an enemy afterwards."
" Weel, them's Christian sentiments, I must say," returned the
keeper, rather abashed ; " and I am glad any one can be found to act
up to 'em, but you're young i' th' warld yet, and dunna know human
natur — the worst part on it I mean, for it's not all bad — Lord forbid !
When you'n lived as long as I have, you'n find that wi' some folk
every kindness you show T 'em is worse than an injury inflicted."
I put an end to the discussion, for I thought nothing would be
gained by pursuing it further; and we entered the cottage, where a
clean cloth had been spread upon the table, and a plain, but ample
and very good breakfast had been prepared by the keeper's wife, con-
sisting of fried eggs and bacon, toasted oat-cakes, butter, cheese, and
a large basin of new milk. To these good things I did ample justice,
for I was as hungry as a famished wolf.
Sissy Culcheth was a young and very pretty Welsh woman, and
wore a man's hat, which was extremely becoming to her. Her coun-
tenance was redolent of health and good humour, and her cherry lips
were ever sundered by smiles, as if to show her white teeth, w r hile a
pretty dimple was constantly displaying itself in her blooming cheeks.
She was particularly clean in her person and attire ; and as 1 looked
round the cottage, which in all its arrangements and details showed
evidence of her neatness and taste, I thought Ned must be a very
happy fellow with such a tidy and pretty helpmate. In return for the
excellent meal she had provided me with, I offered her the wild ducks
I had shot, and she appeared much obliged by the present ; but Ned
laughed, and said, " Nah, nah ; it would be like bringin' coals to New-
castle, to give her the dooks."
Before I sat down to breakfast, Sissy peeped into the room where
Malpas lay, and finding him asleep, did not disturb him ; but now
that nearly two hours had elapsed, and his clothes were quite dried,
she went again, and almost instantly returned, with a look of alarm,
saying he was sitting up in bed, talking very wildly and incoherently,
and, she feared, must be in a high fever. Ned and I instantly flew to
the room, and found her apprehensions verified. On seeing us, he
sprang out of bed, and seized me by the throat ; and it required all
Ned's strength to get him back again, and hold him down. In a
little time the paroxysm passed, and a shivering-fit ensued ; and as it
was evident immediate assistance must be obtained, Ned said my
Christian charity must be put in practice once more, and I must run
for Simon Pownall, the village barber-surgeon, and he would keep
watch over Master Malpas meanwhile, to prevent mischief. He
added, that I had better call at the vicarage, and let Dr. Sale know
how matters stood. This was not a very pleasant task, but there was
no help for it, and I set off as fast as I could to Marston.
MERYYN CLITHEROE. 33
CHAPTEB Y.
CONSEQUENCES OF THE ADVENTURE ON THE ICE.
Si^ion Pownall, the barber-surgeon of Marston, was a strange, con-
ceited little fellow, with whom I was well acquainted, for he shaved mv
uncle Mobberley three times a week, brought him mixtures for his
cough, lotions for his sore eye, and powders for his rheumatism. He
was the greatest gossip in the village, and knew every one's affairs far
better than they knew them themselves. There were no secrets, he
declared, in any family round the place with which he was not ac-
quainted. His practice had put him in possession of queer matters,
if he chose to disclose them ; "but ' mum ' 's the word with me," lie
said ; " professional men never betray their patients." Simon, more-
over, was of a very meddlesome turn, and liked to push his nose — and
it was very long and sharp — into everything, and to give advice with-
out being asked for it ; and as, from one cause or another, he was
very much feared, people took care to be on good terms with him.
He had plenty of employment with shaving and tooth-drawing, blis-
tering men and bleeding cattle, attending the farmers' wives in their
confinements, and physicking their sons and daughters. He powdered
the vicar's hair, and quacked him for his gout and other ailments ;
was very skilful in reducing a fracture ; and, indeed, in his own
opinion, was very skilful at everything. In short, he was a clever
little empiric, with a smattering of most things, and knew how to
make the most of the little he possessed. Though a great egotist,
he generally managed to drop the personal pronoun when speaking of
himself. His shop was close to the Xag's Head, somewhat retired
from the road, with a comfortable bench in front, a gallipot and a red
rag in the window, and a blue and white striped pole projecting from
the door.
When I rushed in, in breathless haste, Simon was operating on the
chin of a farmer, and, startled by the noise, he exclaimed, on seeing me,
" Something wrong at Nethercrofts, eh? He hound it's the old
dame. Never recovered the loss of her cat. Been in a low way ever
since — sinking — sinking — gradually smiting. Tried to support her.
Got her a fine tabby. No use. Ah ! ah ! poor soul — knew it would
come to this."
" But there's nothing the matter with her !" I cried. " My aunt's
not worse than usual."
" Oh, la! then it's the old man!" Pownall ejaculated. "What ails
him? Shaved him yesterday. Cough troublesome; rheumatiz ditto.
Av^ell enough, though, to go to the Nag's Head in the afternoon, and
drink his gin-and-water as usual. Sudden attack, eh ?"
Having now quite recovered my breath, I stopped his guess-work
by explaining what had really happened, and in what way his ser-
D
34 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
vices were required. On hearing that Malpas and I had crossed the
mere, he lifted up his hands in amazement ; so did his appren-
tice, Oheetham Quick, who was almost as queer a character as his
master ; and so also did Tom Shakeshaft, the farmer, who had waited
quietly all this while with his broad good-uatured face covered with
lather.
" Oh, la ! wonder you're here to tell the tale !" Pownall cried, after
this general expression of astonishment. " Risks young folks run, to
be sure. Wouldn't have done it for twenty pounds ; would you, Master
Shakeshaft?" (A grunt of assent from the farmer.) "Off imme-
diately — that is, as soon as you're finished, Master Shakeshaft. Take
care of the shop, Chetham."
And, having cleared the jolly farmer's cheeks and chin of their
stubble, he put a case of lancets, some bandages, and a few other
matters into his pocket, and, leaving Chetham Quick to conduct his
business in his absence, hurried off to the keeper's cottage, while T
repaired to the vicarage, very doubtful as to the reception I should
meet with.
The vicarage was a thoroughly comfortable residence. Trust your
well-beneficed parsons for taking care of themselves, and making all
snug about them. I was ushered into the study, whither the doctor
had retired after a substantial breakfast, the remains of which I saw
on the sideboard as I passed the dining-room. Dr. Sale was a pompous,
portly personage, with a rosy, handsome countenance, set off by well-
powdered hair, and boasting a goodly protuberance of stomach, sus-
tained by many a fat haunch of venison from Fitton Park, which was
now in the possession of his w T ife's brother, to whom in former days he
had been tutor. Dr. Sale suffered from gout, and as his weight and
corpulency prevented him from taking as much exercise as he re-
quired, his temper suffered likewise. He looked much surprised at
my visit, and when I told him, as briefly as 1 could, what had occurred,
he flew into a towering passion, and, ringing the bell furiously, bade
the man desire Mrs. Sale to come to him immediately. He then
rated me soundly, as if I had been the sole cause of the accident.
Before I could offer any further explanation, Mrs. Sale entered.
She was still very handsome, possessing a tall, graceful figure, and an
unmistakable air of high breeding in manner and deportment. Her
son greatly resembled her in point of features, but in no other respect,
for she was an excellent person, and very amiable.
" Good morning, Mervyn. What is the matter, Dr. Sale ?" she
inquired, calmly.
" The matter is this, Mrs. Sale," replied the vicar. " Malpas, at
the instance of this hair-brained boy, and in company with him, has
been crossing the mere — you know it is frozen over, Mrs. Sale : was
ever such an act of insanity committed ? — and he has fallen through
the ice, and is now lying, more than haif-drowned, at Ned Culcheth's
cottage. Is not that the sum of it, eh, sirrah?" he bellowed to me.
" Good gracious ! is this possible?" exclaimed Mrs. Sale, sinking
upon a chair, and looking as if she would faint away.
" It is not so bad as you represent, sir," I replied, hastening to
relieve the lady's anxiety. " Malpas is, no doubt, in a feverish state,
MEIIYYN CLITIIEROE. 35
caused by the immersion, but I trust he will soon be better. I did
not persuade him, as you assert, Dr. Sale, to undertake the feat which
so nearly proved fatal to both of us ; but I may say this — though, it
you had not taxed me so unjustly, I should not have mentioned it — -
that but for my exertions in helping him out of the water, he would
be there now."
Mrs. Sale instantly rose and embraced me. " So you have pre-
served his life? You were always a brave boy, Mervyn."
" God bless my soul! so you pulled him out, eh ?" cried the vicar.
" Good boy — brave boy , but very rash to cross the mere — very wrong
— man}^ springs in it — which never freeze — dreadfully dangerous.
And so Malpas is not in danger? Well, that's a comfort— a very
great comfort. You'll go to him directly, Mrs. Sale, and take Mr.
Vawdrey with you. I daren't venture out this dreadfully cold morning,
for you know I'm taking colchicum, and the gout would inevitably fly
to my stomach, and then the consequences might be worse to me than
the ducking to Malpas." So saying, he stirred up the fire, and took
up a position before it, spreading out the ample skirts of his black
coat. " You had better lose no time, Lydia. Mervyn tells me that
Simon Pownall is gone to the boy, but, if necessary, you can send over
to Knutsford for Dr. Lamb."
" I will do all that is requisite, Dr. Sale," replied the lady. " It is
needless to take Mr. Vawdrey. Mervyn will accompany me. I will
be ready in a moment, my dear."
So we set out together.
On arriving at the keeper's cottage, we found Malpas in the hands
of the little barber-surgeon, who had breathed a vein, and administered
a soothing draught, and the patient was now perfectly tranquil, and
doing so well, that Pownall declared he would answer for his perfect
recovery in twenty-four hours if he were not disturbed. But for the
intervention of Sissy Culcheth, who thought it would be a thousand
pities to disfigure so handsome a young gentleman, Malpas would
have been robbed of the flowing locks, of which he was so vain, by
the scissors of the barber-surgeon ; and for this Sissy received the
thanks of Mrs. Sale, who was dismayed to hear that such a dreadful
notion had been for a moment entertained.
Having satisfied herself that her son was doing as well as represented,
and that her presence only disturbed him, Mrs. Sale took leave, com-
mitting him to the care of the keeper and Ins wife, and promising
them a handsome reward for the inconvenience to which they were
put. Ned, 1 could see, would have been right glad to get rid of the
intruder, but Sissy smilingly undertook the charge, and said, in her
pleasant Welch tones, " An' please you, matam, I shall pe a fery coot
nurses to him."
" What a pretty, well-behaved young woman Sissy Culcheth u ;
and how clean she keeps her house. I declare, we haven't whiter linen
at the vicarage," Mrs. Sale observed, as we walked along. " -Ned
Culcheth has not been long married. He brought his wife from some
place in Caernarvonshire. I have often noticed her at church, but
never spoke to her before. A very pretty young person indeed !"
Mrs. Sale then inquired into all particulars concerning the accident,
d2
30 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
and I related them, I hope, with becoming modesty. She could not
thank me sufficiently for rescuing her son.
When we got back to the vicarage, Dr. Sale was so pleased with
the account we brought of Malpas, that he invited me to dine with
him, saying there would be giblet-soup, a fine roast turkey, andminced
pies. " Boys always like minced pies," he added, with a chuckling
laugh. " And you shall have a glass of port — such port ! — ten years
older than yourself, you dog — ho ! ho ! ho !"
Mrs. Sale urged me likewise, and said she would walk over with me
to Nethercrofts, and ask my uncle's permission.
"Pray do, my dear," said the vicar, who was now all blandnessand
smiles, " and I shall be happy to see the old gentleman too, if he will
come. But there's little chance of it, I fear."
" I wish, indeed, he would come," Mrs. Sale observed, with a sigh.
" No one ought to be a more welcome guest at the vicarage than Mr.
Mobberley, for, without him, we might never have possessed it."
" Quite true, Lydia, quite true," Dr. Sale returned. " But if a
man won't dine with you when you ask him, the fault is generally
considered to rest with him, not you. I should be glad to show Mr.
Mobberley more attention if he would let me ; but, you'll allow, it
would scarcely be consistent with my cloth to join him at the Nag's
Head. But go with Mervyn, and invite him ; press him ; say what
you please, my love — only bring him, that's all."
" I will try," Mrs. Sale replied ; " but I despair of success."
And the vicar seemed to be of her opinion, for he chuckled im-
mensely at the answer.
I was very glad of the proposed arrangement, for I hoped it would
save me from the " rowing" I anticapated from my uncle, when he
came to learn how my morning had been spent ; and I therefore
seconded it very warmly. So Mrs. Sale and I set out once more.
Marston was a straggling little place, consisting for the most part of
detached dwellings, with small gardens beside them, full of damascene
plum-trees and elders. The prettiest part of it was near the vicarage,
the lower garden-gates of which opened at the foot of a hill ; the
ascent being lined with picturesquely-disposed cottages, intermingled
with shrubs and trees. At the top of the hill, the road turned oft' on
the left to the church, and the rest of the village straggled on in a
straight line for about a quarter of a mile. The shortest way to Ne-
thercrofts was across the fields, but Mrs. Sale preferred the road, and
so well did her agreeable conversation beguile the distance, that I did
not care how far we went about. As we passed along, it was delight-
ful to observe the respect with which she was everywhere treated ;
but her affability and kindness fully entitled her to it. The news of
Malpas's accident had spread about like wildfire — very likely owing to
that gossiping Chetham Quick, whom we met running about — -and
frequent inquiries were addressed to her respecting her son.
On our arrival, my uncle would have conducted Mrs. Sale to a little
parlour, which was assigned to the better order of his guests, but she
would not hear of it ; told him she much preferred the house-place, and
sat down on the sofa beside my aunt, whose hand she took very affec-
tionately, and made many inquiries after her health. The old dame
MEHVYN CL1T1IER0E. 37
gave but a poor account of herself, but was delighted to see her visitor,
and so was my uncle, for her presence diffused unwonted cheerfulness
throughout the dwelling. It was surprising how much at home Mrs.
Sale made herself, how easy the old folks seemed with her, and how
well she adapted herself to their habits and feelings. There was not
the least condescension on her part, not the slightest departure from
her usual good breeding, and yet she managed all this without diffi-
culty. I could not have had a better advocate with my uncle. She
narrated the adventure on the mere, and applauded my conduct so
highly, that the old gentleman, instead of being angry, looked quite
pleased with me.
" Dost hear what Madam Sale says, Phoebe r" he observed to my
aunt.
" Ay, ay," she replied, " Mervyn's a mettlesome young spark, I
reckon. But I hope he won't kill any more cats."
The force of this allusion being explained to Mrs. Sale, she again
undertook my defence, and asked whether I would declare upon my
honour that I was not guilty of poor Tom's death.
" Upon my honour 1 am not," I said.
" Then you must believe him — you must acquit him, Mrs. Mobber-
ley," Mrs. Sale observed.
" Ay, ay, the lad wouldn't say as much as that if he had done it,"
remarked my uncle.
" I don't think he would," said my aunt. " But somebody must
have shot the poor creature — I can partly guess who it was now. And
then there was the owl."
" I certainly did catch the owl, aunt, but I let him go afterwards."
" And the boar's tail, what dost say to that, boy, eh ?"
" Never mind the boar's tail, my dear Mrs. Mobberley," Mrs. Sale
interposed, laughing. " There — I'm sure you've quite forgiven him.
He's a brave, generous boy, and I shall always look upon him as the
preserver of my son."
Thus, if Malpas had managed to get me into disgrace, as I some-
times suspected, his mother was the cause of my restoration to favour,
for from this time my aunt fully forgave me.
Though strongly urged, my uncle could not be prevailed upon to
dine at the vicarage, but he willingly allowed me to go ; and I
escorted Mrs. Sale home again. Intelligence, meanwhile, had been
brought by Simon Pownall that Malpas was going on so favourably,
that no more uneasiness need be entertained about him ; and this made
his mother quite happy. AVe had a capital dinner ; Mr. Vawdrey,
the curate and Malpas's private tutor, being the only guest beside
myself. I did full justice to the roast turkey and the minced pies, but
I did not appreciate the old port as much as it deserved, and was
glad to leave the two churchmen to the enjoyment of a second bottle,
and join Mrs. Sale in the drawing-room.
Next morning 1 went over to the keeper's cottage to see after
Malpas, and found him nearly well, and seated by the fireside, on a
rocking-chair, with pretty Sissy Culcheth opposite him, plying her
spinning-wheel. Ned, 1 found, had gone out early to shoot. Malpas
pretended to be very glad to see me, and thanked me, with apparent
38 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
warmth, for the important service I had rendered him the day before.
Sissy chimed in, too, and was louder in my praises than seemed
agreeable to Malpas, for he checked her with a frown, and said :
" Well, you've talked enough about it, at all events, Sissy."
" I suppose you'll return to the Vicarage presently, Malpas ?" I
remarked.
" Im very comfortable where I am," he replied ; " besides, I don't
feel quite strong enough to move."
" Well, you look so," I said.
" Pless your 'eart, Master Mirfyn, you mustn't trust to his looks
at all," Sissy interposed; "he's so weak still, look you, tat he was
forced to lean upon me all the ways to the chairs ; and he couldn't
eat any preekfasts, though I made him a fery nice one."
" Well, he ought to get well soon, you take such good care of him,
Sissy," I remarked; "though I dare say he'll be sorry to be out of
your hands."
" I tare say he'll pe fery glat to get away," Sissy replied. " Why
should a young gentlemans wish to stay in a poor cottage like this ?"
" Why, because he has such a nice nurse," I replied. " It's worth
while getting a ducking to be so tended."
" Thank you, Master Mirfyn. You're fery complimentary, look
you," Sissy returned, blushing, and glancing furtively at Malpas, who
didn't look over-pleased at our conversation.
It was, perhaps, just as well that at this juncture Simon Pownall
presented himself.
" Aha ! out of bed, eh ?" he exclaimed, on perceiving his patient.
" Knew- how it would be — soon set you to rights. Pulse feeble, but
good — all danger over — must keep quiet to-day, though. Brought you
a draught. Wine-glass here, Sissy — tonic — restore appetite — quicken
pulse — two hours hence, another glass — Sissy will administer it —
nice nurse — mustn't fall in love with her, though," with a knowing
wink — -" husband jealous — mum's the word with me."
Sissy was all confusion at this speech ; and Malpas, who looked
very angry, exclaimed:
" None of your ridiculous insinuations, Pownall. Can't one be
attended by a pretty voung woman without falling in love with
her?"
" Don't know," the barber- surgeon replied. " Complaint catching."
The fair object of these remarks now looked really distressed.
" Look you, Master Malpas, you must go home, sir. You can't
stay here, after these pat 'ords."
" There, you see what you've done with your infernal nonsense,
Pownall," Malpas cried. " I've a good mind to throw the phial at
your head, you stupid, meddling old ass."
The barber-surgeon burst into a loud laugh.
" All a joke— meant no harm," he said. " Didn't think it could
be taken amiss, or wouldn't have said it. Like a little bit of fun —
thought it was fun."
" Then you find out your mistake," Malpas rejoined, sharply.
" Do — and apologise," Pownall returned. " Think no more of it,
Sissy. Heard the news, eh ? Bessy Birch, the miller's daughter, has
MERYYN CLTTHE110E. 39
gone off with a bagman from Cottonborougli. Know it for a fact.
Not the first sweetheart she has had — could tell — but mum's the
word with me."
" Oh, pless us ! pretty Pessy Pirch gone oft' with a packman ! An'
her fathers tat was so fery font of her, too, poor ting ! What'll
happen next, I wonder !"
" You had better make yourself scarce, Pownall, if you have no-
thing but this stuff to talk about," Malpas cried.
" Difficult to give satisfaction it seems. Try again. Heard of the
Twelfth Night merry-making in Tom Shakeshaft's barn, of course?
Twelfth-cake — spiced ale — fiddling — dancing — all kinds of fun and
frolic. All the young folks of Marston — and some of the old ones,
too — will be there ; and amongst the latter your humble servant, who
hasn't quite lost his agility yet. Down the middle ! up the middle !
fol-der-iddle-ido." And singing, and snapping his fingers, he cut
several lively capers round the room, to our infinite amusement.
" Of course you're going, Sissy ?" I asked.
" 'Teet and I can't tell, Master Mirfyn," she replied. "I should
like it fery much, look you, but I ton't know whether my hurbants
will let me go, and tat's the truth."
" Let you ! he must — he shall," Pownall cried. " The merry-making
would be nothing without Sissy Culcheth. And here he comes, at
the very moment he's wanted. Put it to him at once."
" So please you, sir, ton't ; it'll only make him cross."
Ned entered with four or five dogs at his heels : an old pointer, a
water-spaniel, a terrier, and a couple of fine bloodhounds, answering
to the sounding names of John of Graunt and Hugh Lupus. Having
made his four-footed companions lie down, deposited his double-
barrelled gun, and taken some game out of his bag, he approached us.
If a manly frame, supported by strong thews and sinews, is to go for
anything, Ned was no unsuitable mate for pretty Sissy. He was
about thirty-five, and by no means a bad-looking fellow, though
perhaps too much of a Rufus for some people's tastes, for his poll
was a perfect forest of red hair, and his great bushy red whiskers
covered his cheeks and met under his chin. Ned was upwards of
six feet in height, and very powerfully built, with broad shoulders and
a wide deep chest ; and his athletic frame was well displayed in his
velveteen shooting-jacket, and leathern leggings, coming high up on
the thigh.
" Weel, Master Pownall, han yo quite cured th' young gentleman ?"
he asked.
" Not quite, Ned," the barber-surgeon replied, " but he'll be him-
self again to-morrow. Can't perform merracles, Ned."
"Hum !" the keeper muttered.
"Talking of Tom Shakeshaft's Twelfth Night hopping just as you
came in, Ned," Pownall pursued. " Mean to take Sissy, of course ?"
" No I dunnat, and that's flat,"
" Sorry for it. Know what folks will say — but mum's the word
with me."
" Ah ! — what wun they say ?"
" Mum's the word with me."
" What'n they say, I say ?"
40 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
" "Why, that you're a jealous oaf, siuce you want to know/'
" Jealous ! me jealous ! Ha ! ha ! Weel, then, I wun go, if only
to show 'em I'm not."
"What coaxing ways Sissy had. I saw her take Ned's hand, and
look at him so persuasively there was no resisting her. But the cun-
ning barber-surgeon thought it was his doing entirely.
" Knew how to do it, you see," Pownall whispered Sissy, with a
wink. "Took him on the right side. Down the middle! up the
middle ! fol-der-iddle-ido." But this time his capers were suddenly
cut short by Lupus and Gaunt and the rest, w r ho threatened to fly at
him, and Ned had to bring out his whip to make them lie down.
Order being once more restored, the barber-surgeon said :
" Tom Shakeshaft has left the management of the affair to me.
Sure to go off well in consequence. Must have the Fool Plough and
Sword Dance. Ought to be on Plough Monday, as you know, but
will do just as well on Twelfth Night. Only three days too soon.
You'll play the Fool, Ned, eh ?"
" Dang'd if I do."
" Dang'd if you don't, and see who's right. Chetham Quick, my
'prentice, shall play Old Bessie. Honour us with your presence,
young gentlemen ? — invite you both in Tom Shakeshaft's name."
" Oh ! I'll go, if I'm well enough," Malpas said.
" And so will I," I added, " provided my uncle has no objection."
" Answer for him — make him go too," Pownall said, with a laugh.
" Oh ! if the gentlefolk be goin', I must cry off," Ned observed.
" An' why so, look you ?" Sissy inquired.
" Ay, why so, indeed ?" Pownall cried. " People will talk, then.
But mum's the word with me."
" Pesides, you promised just now, and you never preek your 'orts,
Ned."
Ah, Ned, my good fellow ! you will never be able to resist those
soft looks and coaxing ways. Nor could he ; for he replied, with a
yielding laugh,
" Weel, a promise is a promise. To' han me thene, lass, and I'll
e'en play the fool, too, since Mester Pownall wishes it."
Satisfied with accomplishing his object, the barber-surgeon told
Malpas he should pay him a final visit in the morning, after which he
might return to the vicarage as soon as he pleased. Pownall then
took leave, and I accompanied him. On the way to the village we
met Mrs. Sale, to whom the barber-surgeon gave a very satisfactory
account of her son.
" I'm pleased with all you tell me, Pownall, but I shall go on and
see him, since he is not to come home till to-morrow," she said.
" Won't you walk back with me, Mervyn ?"
I could not refuse — and, indeed, I had no desire to do so — and
therefore retraced my steps with her. What was our surprise, when
we came within a hundred yards of the cottage, to perceive Malpas
walking slowly towards us. We hurried to meet him.
" Why, my dear, this is very imprudent — very imprudent indeed,"
the lady cried. " Simon Pownall told me you oughtn't to move till
to-morrow. Why have you run this risk ?"
" That liufus of a keeper is such a brute, I can't stand him,"
MEEVVN CLITHEEOE. 41
Mai pas replied. " He says the rudest things to his wife and to me ;
and because I replied — would you believe it ? — he has ordered me —
me!— to leave the house."
"I'm sorry to hear it!" Mrs. Sale cried; "and Sissy such a nice
creature. All ! here she is !"
As she spoke, Sissy came up, with her apron to her eyes, and sob-
bing violently.
" So please you, Master Malpas — do come back, sir ! My husbants
is fery sorry for what he said, look you, sir — he's hasty. Do come
back, sir."
Malpas looked as if he would have complied, but his mother inter-
posed :
" No, my dear, since you have ventured out, you had better go
home. "Where would be the use of returning ? You have been very
kind to him, I'm sure, Sissy ; and I'm greatly indebted to you ; but
I'm quite distressed there should be any unpleasantness between you
and your husband ; and I hope my son has not been the cause of it.
I will go with you and arrange it, for I cannot bear differences be-
tween married people. Mervyn, my dear, give Malpas your arm, and
walk home with him. Come, Sissy, no more tears."
And as Mrs. Sale went to the cottage with the keeper's wife, Malpas
and I proceeded slowly to the vicarage. I asked him what was the
cause of the disturbance, and he replied :
" Oh ! Rufus is infernally jealous, that's all."
" Well, don't give him cause, Malpas," I said.
" I — pshaw !" he exclaimed, contemptuously.
And he then continued silent till we reached the vicarage, where I
left him.
I was afterwards happy to learn from Mrs. Sale that all differences
were made up between the couple ; while I was subsequently informed
by Ned himself that he and his wife had been very handsomely re-
warded for the trouble they had been put to in regard to Malpas, who,
I may mention, did not suffer in the least from quitting the house so
suddenly, but was perfectly well next day, and able to come over to
Nethercrofts and join me in my sports.
CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH I RIDE HOUND MAESTON MERE ; MEET WITH SOME GIPSIES
IN A STRANGE PLACE ; AND TAKE PART AT THE TWELFTH NIGHT
MERRY-MAKING IN FAEMEE SHAKESHAFT's BAEN.
And plenty of sport, out-door and in-door, too, we had, for it was
holiday time at Marston, and all the lads of the village were enjoying
themselves in various recreative exercises and games suitable to the
season There were battles with snowballs in the fields ; football,
and bat and ball on the ice ; wrestling and nine-pins in the barns ;
and hot-cockles, hunt the slipper, blindman's-buff, puss in the corner,
42 LIFE AND ADVENTUHES OF
and other romping games within doors at night. Marston was a very
primitive place, and Christmas was kept well at it. The old church
was decked- with evergreens, and the windows of the farm-houses were
stuck full of holly and ivy, while a bunch of mistletoe was hung in
the middle of the house-place ; the great yule log blazed on the
hearth, and merry parties assembled round it to eat minced pies or
plum porridge, drain the well-spiced bowl of elder wine, and disport
themselves afterwards at some boisterous game. The mummers, too,
came round in their tinsel finery and ribands, ranted, and struck their
lathen swords upon the floor, and executed their dances. So that,
though the season was severe, the cold was well fenced off by whole-
some exercise and mirthful pastime. But the crowning piece of fes-
tivity was to be the Twelfth Night merry-making given by Farmer
Shakeshaft ; at which I anticipated no little amusement, and to which
even Malpas seemed to look forward with interest ; probably because
he hoped to meet Sissy Culcheth there. As to Simon Pownall, he
did nothing but talk about the great event ; and he not only induced
the vicar and his lady and Mr. Yawdrey to promise that they would
look in for a short time at the proceedings, but even prevailed upon
my uncle Mobberley to give a similar promise.
However, we were two or three days from it yet, though, in the
mean time, as I have shown, there was no lack of amusement. My
uncle, very good-naturedly, allowed me to go to some of the rustic
parties I have mentioned (always sending Sam Massey with me,
though I could have dispensed with the attention), and very amusing
I found them. And many a comely maiden did I meet at them, too ;
for Marston had its full share of female beauty. Our return home,
which, I am sorry to say, was sometimes later than was supposed, did
not disturb my uncle, for I slept at some distance from him, and in a
part of the house allotted to the men.
And here I may as well complete the survey, which I previously
commenced, of the premises. I have described the large and com-
fortable house-place where my uncle and aunt usually sat. Ad-
joining it was a snug little parlour, where company was received,
containing some old-fashioned furniture, and a few scriptural pic-
tures on the walls, and but seldom used. On the other side, a short
passage led to the room where the men had their meals, which
was provided with a narrow oak table and benches of the like sub-
stantial material. A door at one end of the house-place opened upon
the women's apartments, and another door led to the old people's
chamber, which occupied the ground-floor of the more modern part
of the building. Above it was a bed-chamber once allotted to
me ; but as to gain it I had to pass through my uncle's room, I
preferred, as I have just stated, a diiferent part of the house, where
the men slept, and which was gained by the help of a narrow
ladder-like staircase ascending from the back kitchen or wash-
house, and communicating with a large room having a roof like
that of a barn, crossed by great beams, so that a man had to
stoop in passing under them, though I could still do so witli ease.
Here were three beds, of one of which I had taken possession,
while the furthest was occupied by William Weever and Peter
MERVYN CL1THER0E. 43
Massey, and in the middle bed slept my friend Sam. A mingled
odour of apples and cheese pervaded the place ; and no wonder,
for close adjoining was the room where the cheeses were depo-
sited in long rows of three or four deep, while near it was a store-
closet, filled with the produce of the orchard. But I didn't mind
this at all. On the contrary, I thought the cheesy smell rather
agreeable, and decidedly wholesome. Just below was the dairy, where
Hannah reigned supreme, and where she was always to be seen
with her helpmates filling milk-pans, scouring pails, churning butter,
or pressing curds into a mould ; while the whole place rang with her
shrill tones. Outside the door was the pump, with a large array of
clean white milk-pails beside it. In front of the dwelling was the
farmyard, a large quadrangular area, filled with heaps of litter, sur-
rounded on three sides by shippons, stables, barns, and piggeries ;
and on the fourth by an orchard, full of old damascene plum-trees,
with stems as green as the mantle of the ditch that divided the orchard
from the meadows. In fact, I suspect the drainage of the place must
have been rather imperfect, for not only had a large black pool col-
lected near the pigsties, but the gates and palings, as well as the fruit-
trees, were painted in bright green by the hand of Nature. The
garden lay at the back of the house, and, though small, was pretty;
and, besides possessing a couple of clipped yew-trees, was defended
on the north by one of the finest holly hedges in the county. In a
sunny corner was a row of beehives. Adjoining the garden was a
paddock, or croft, scattered over with old apple-trees and pear-trees,
and occupied at one end by numerous stacks of hay and straw, with a
dovecot amongst them.
But garden and grounds were now bound up by the rigorous hand
of winter. The farmyard was full of snow ; the poultry and pigeons
had some difficulty in obtaining a living ; and as to the poor ducks
and geese, they were quite disconsolate, while the tracks of the cart-
wheels threw up masses that looked like great lumps of sugared
plum-cake. The old plum-trees in the orchard appeared frostbitten,
like starved old men, and on the weather side were white with snow.
The pools and ditches were caked over with chocolate-coloured ice ;
the thatched roof of the house had its coat of congealed and sparkling
snow, and from the wide eaves icicles depended like stalactites ; the
beehives were gone, and nothing was green except the ivy on the wall
and the long holly hedge, and they were in the fulness of their beauty.
As the old song says :
" Holly hath birdies, a fall fair nock—
The nightingale, the popinjay, the gentle laverock.
Good ivy, what birdies hast thou ?
None but the howlet, that cries ' How ! how !' "
Though there were no nightingales that I am aware of, plenty of
blackbirds and thrushes resorted to the holly hedge to appease their
hunger on the red berries ; and I dare say my favourite owl came to
the ivy-bush for its black fruit, though I never saw him, nor heard
his " how ! how !" To my thinking, the old place never looked so well
nor so cheery as at this wintry season ; and on a clear bright day, when
the sun shone upon its snowy roof, I thought it positively beautiful.
On such a morning as this— on Twelfth Day, for which I had longed
44 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
so much — I went to the stable with Sam Massey to saddle my pony
and take a ride round the mere. I had announced my intention the
evening before to Malpas, and asked him to accompany me, but he
declined, saying he would ride out and meet me as I came back, a mile
or two out of Marston. My pony was soon ready, and, as I had not
ridden him much of late, owing to the frosty weather, he was very
frisky, and Sam bade me mind what I was about, or I might miss the
hopping that night. I told him never to fear, and, touching Taffy
with the whip, dashed out of the farmyard. The roads were very
slippery, and justified Sam's caution; but my pony was clever and
careful, and being " sharpened," as they have it at Marston, kept his
feet well. Taffy was a rough little fellow, with a shaggy mane and
long tail, but came of good Welsh mountain stock, and had recently
been given me by kind, good Mrs. Mervyn to ride between the An-
chorite's and school.
A blithe and joyous morning it was, and I was in high spirits, and
sang and shouted from mere exuberance of happiness. Ah ! days of
our youth ! how happy are we then, if we only knew it ! Then we
ride merrily on, with no black Care seated behind us. Many a rosy-
cheeked, bright-eyed damsel, roused by the clatter of my pony's heels,
came forth to look at me, and as I gave to each a passing salutation,
adding a hope that I should meet her at the merry-making at night,
in every instance the response was in the affirmative. So thinks I to
myself thinks I, ""What a large party we shall have."
Taking the right bank of the mere first — Marston lying on the left
— I proceeded at a gallant pace up the slippery hill, and down the still
more slippery descent; passed deep snowdrifts that had buried whole
hedges, and now folded beautifully over them ; crossed runnels turned
to ice ; and paused to look at an old picturesque mill, whose water-
wheel was stopped, and overhung with icicles, and when the miller came
forth my gaiety prompted me to ask him after his daughter Bessy,
whom I knew to be a pretty girl. He shook his head, and went back
into the mill without a word ; and Simon Pownall's story rushing upon
my recollection, I blamed myself for my indiscretion.
Again I rode on : now looking at the wide expanse of the ice-
bound mere, and pluming myself upon having crossed it, yet think-
ing nothing should tempt me to do so again ; now glancing at some
black old tree, half- clad in snowy drapery, or holly, bowed down
by the weight upon its leaves ; until having mounted the gentle
acclivity on which Dunton Church was situated, I halted near its
reverend walls. Hence, in springtime, the view was exquisite. Then
it looked, as now, as if the whole country were covered with snow, but
from a different cause, the white vestiture being occasioned by the
bloom of the damascene plum-trees with which the numerous orchards
abounded, and the blossom of the sloe, or the bullace in the hedges.
At such a season the mere would gleam like a sheet of silver, mirror-
ing the bright sky above it. Now its surface sparkled in places,
but in others was seamed, roughened, and covered with snow, like a
frozen ocean. Suddenly, a merry peal of bells arose in the distance,
and I knew it came from Marston Church, which stood directly
opposite me, across the mere. How pleasantly those bells sounded ;
and yet, somehow, they awakened a train of half-melancholy re-
MERVYN CLITHEEOE. iij
flections, as a pensive thought will intrude in the midst of deepest
joy. But my reverie was speedily disturbed by a deafening crash
overhead, and the jackdaws flew screaming away from the church
tower. The challenge of Marston had been answered by the ringers
of Dunton, and loudly and exultingly did the peals of the latter
resound.
But the din was rather too much for me, so I hastened away, and
presently entered Dunton Park, through which the road passed.
These sylvan domains of the Earl of Amounderness boasted much
noble timber ; and many a sweeping vista, lined by magnificent though
leafless trees, now opened before me. Beneath the lordly beech-trees
the ground was thickly strewn with red sere leaves, which contrasted
strongly with the snow in the brake beyond them. The dappled
denizens of the forest might be seen herding together in some
favoured patches which had escaped the drift ; hares, emboldened by
hunger, dashed from out the covert, and passed by regardless of my
presence ; and pheasants, tamed by the severity of the season, fed like
barn-door fowls on grain placed for them by the keepers.
Having cleared the park, and left it nearly a mile behind, I de-
scended a gentle hill, and approached a secluded spot, where, many
years ago, a robbery had been committed by a noted highwayman.
Since then, however, the road had been slightly turned, and a deep
ravine, overshadowed by brushwood, through which it had formerly
passed, avoided. Just as I reached the brink of this hollow, a lad
suddenly started forward, and, planting himself right in my path,
screamed and flung his arms in the air, and so startled Tally that I
was nearly thrown from his back. Notwithstanding the severity of
the weather, the lad was half-naked, and evidently, from his tawny
skin and cast of features, of gipsy origin. I bade him get out of the
way ; but he uttered a wild and peculiar cry, which was instantly
answered by a crushing amongst the brushwood, caused by a fierce-
looking man, who presently emerged from it, and springing upon me
with a~" bound, seized hold of my bridle, and dragged Taffy towards
the edge of the ravine. I resisted as well as I could, and tried to
make him leave go by cutting at his hands. But he snatched the whip
from me with an oath, and gave it to the lad, who scutened the pony
behind, and made him go on.
" Where are you taking me to ? What are you going to do r" 1
cried, greatlv terrified, and unable to conceive what was about to
happen.
" You'll larn presently," the man replied, with a savage grin. And
he forced Taffy down the slippery sides of the hollow ; and if the
pony had not been as sure-footed as a goat of his own native hills, he
must have fallen. As it was, he slided down for some yards. I would
have jumped off if I could, but the gipsy held me fast. On reaching
the bottom, I became aware that the ravine was inhabited, and per-
ceived at a little distance a low shed, protected from the weather by
a sloping roof of dried gorse, and having wattled sides. The snow
had been carefully cleared away around it, and in this space a turf fire
was burning, and heating a caldron suspended above it from a cross-
sticks. In summer this ravine must have been beautiful as well as
secluded ; but now it had a savage and almost fearful aspect, more
46 LIFE AND ADVENTU11ES OF
fitted to the lair of a wild beast than the haunt of man. Black and
gnarled roots of trees protruded from the sides, looking hideous from
the congealed snow around, and the shoots of ice hanging from them.
So strange and fantastic were some of the tricks played by the spirits
of frost and snow, that the hollow had almost the appearance of an
icy cavern ; and at the further end, where the boughs overhead were
thick, making an arch impervious to the sun in summer, the snow had
lodged in masses, and then freezing, formed a roof from which long
icicles depended, giving the whole place the semblance of a grotto,
with a pavement of "thick-ribbed ice," caused by the accumulations
of a half-frozen rivulet that tried to force its way through it.
I was so much alarmed that I called loudly for help ; but the
gipsy bade me hold my tongue or he would silence me for ever. At
the cry, a woman and a girl issued from the tent. The former was
not so dark as the man, who was excessively swarthy, but she was
very handsome, with coal-black hair, and fine black eyes ; and the
girl, who might be twelve years old, promised to be very like her. 1
felt some assurance of safety when I saw them, more especially when
the woman, advancing towards me, seemed to scrutinise my features,
in spite of the man's orders to her to go back.
" What do you mean to do with him, Phaleg ?" she asked.
" Give him a winding-sheet of snow, Peninnah," the gipsy replied,
with a ferocious look at me that thrilled to my very marrow ; " he'll
sleep soundly under it, and no one will ever find him till it melts."
" You won't let him do it? — you won't let him murder me ?" I
cried, appealing to Peninnah, who looked as if she had some touch of
compassion about her.
" No — no ; don't be afraid, my little gentleman ; he's only joking,"
she replied. " It's a queer way he has with him. He shan't harm a
hair of your pretty head. You don't mean it — do you, Phaleg ?"
The man contradicted her with a muttered oath, and a savage scowl
at me.
"He wants to buy your pony — that's it — eh, Phaleg? Our old
donkey died last week."
" Mayhap he'll give us the pony ?" Phaleg said, with a grin.
"No, I won't," I replied, endeavouring to appear unconcerned,
though I was terribly frightened ; " I'll neither give it you, nor sell
it. 80 pray let me go."
But the man seemed in no humour to consent to my departure,
and I began to fear he would put his threats into execution, and I
considered what I could do to obtain help. A few words passed be-
tween the pair in an under tone ; but I caught what the woman said
in conclusion.
" You shan't lay a finger upon him, I tell you," she continued, in
a tone of authority, " no matter who bids you, nor what you may get.
So go to the shed and take Rue with you."
" Well, you always will have your own way, Ninnah," Phaleg re-
plied, as he sullenly obeyed her, and left us alone together.
" And quite right I should have it, when I'm tied to such a head-
strong, violent fool as thee," she muttered, looking after him with
contempt. " And now, my pretty little gentleman, let me tell you
^_ ->5^
WM-/7YM''£s//t6Zfs //ftM Me (<//y.Yr:-
MERVYN CL1T1IEK0E. 47
your fortin. But first you must cross my hand with a lucky half-
crown. I knows you've got one."
As I willingly complied with her request, she-looked into my palm,
and appeared to study its lines intently. At last she spoke :
" Plenty of adventure for you, my pretty little gentleman ; many
an up, many a down — many a difficulty, many a danger — before 1 you
comes to your own There's a good deal of love in your hand, my
merry little gentleman, but a good many crosses. All won't go
smooth where your heart's consarned, so you musn't expect ir.
You'll find many friends, and some enemies — some bitter enemies-
ay, you've got one now, secretly trying to work your ruin. You
ought to have a large fortune, my little gentleman, but there seems
summat in the way of it, and I fear it won't come to you. But keep
up your heart ; you've a bright eye and a merry look, and riches
doesn't bring happiness — at least, good folks say so, though I'm of a
contrairy opinion myself, and should like to roll in wealth. And now
I'll tell you how you may know my words to be true. You've lost
your mother, and haven't never seen your father."
" How do you know that P" I asked.
" As I know all else about you — from the lines on you hand. And
they tell me," said she, in a serious and almost solemn tone that lent
force to her words, " that before many hours are over, you'll receive
a sudden and painful shock."
I inquired what she meant, but she replied she could tell me no
more, when some object rolled down the bank, and was almost buried
in the avalanche of snow that attended its rapid course. It turned
out to be the gipsy lad. He was pursued by a bloodhound, which
dashed down the brake after him, and which no doubt would have
seized him and lacerated him dreadfully, but for the intervention of
his father, who, hearing the noise, rushed out of the tent to his as-
sistance, armed with a stake, with which he kept the hound off.
" This is Ned Culcheth's dog." exclaimed Phaleg. " Is he at hand,
Obed?"
"Ay, daddy," the lad replied, "and there's the young gentry cove
with him."
" What young gentry cove ?" inquired Peninnah.
" Young Sale."
" Curse you, hold your tongue," interrupted Phaleg, " and give the
young gentleman his whip — d'ye hear ?"
" You now see I was right," observed Peninnah ; " that hound
would have discovered all."
" Devil take his baying. I've a good mind to settle him," cried
Phaleg, raising the stake.
But at this moment Ned Culcheth dashed down the ravine, with a
double-barrelled gun on his shoulder, and followed by his other blood-
hound, as well as by Malpas, who, it afterwards appeared, had tied his
horse to a tree at the top of the bank. Both expressed great sur-
prise at seeing me, while Ned called off the hounds, which showed a
strong disposition to attack the gipsies. As Malpas came up, I fancied
I detected a glance of intelligence between him and Phaleg.
" Why, Mervyn, who the deuce would have thought of finding vou
48 LIFE AND ADYENTUBES OF
nere ?" he cried. " I was riding along to meet you as I promised last
evening, and wondering where you could be loitering, when just as I
crossed the bridge over the Eollin, I overtook our friend Rufus here,
and was chatting with him, when old Gaunt started off, and gave chase
to this little black rascal, who dived into the hollow to avoid him."
"And if I'd obeyed your orders and ca'd Gaunt back, Master
Mai pas," Ned remarked, "we should nother ha' found Master Mer-
vyn, nor unkennelled these foxes. Howsomever, they slianna ha' a
chance of robbing hen-roostes, smoking pheasants, and snaring hares
hereabouts any longer. I've long been on their trail, and at last have
leeted on their harbour, and now I gies 'em notice to quit, and with-
out delay, for if I finds 'em here again we'n see what Lupus and Gaunt
can make on 'em."
" Nay, let them be, Ned," interposed Malpas ; " I dare say the poor
people do no harm. Besides, you must be uncharitable indeed to be-
grudge them shelter in such a place as this. Ough !" he added, with
a shudder, " I'd as soon live in an ice-house, or be sent to Siberia."
" Uncharitable or not, they shan tramp," Ned returned; " and as
to doing no harm, they're nowt but a parcel o'thieves and wagabones.
Nothin's safe from 'em ; they pisons pigs, lames cattle, nets fish-
ponds, and snares game. No harm ! Ask your uncle, Squoire Vernon,
what he thinks on 'em."
" I will speak to him myself about them, Ned. I shall see him to-
morrow," Malpas said, authoritatively. " Till then you will not dis-
turb them."
" Varry weel, sir ; as yo' please," Ned replied ; "but yo'n find th'
squoire's of my way of thinking, if so be he hasna altered his mind."
" I must say they scarcely deserve my intercession, especially the
woman, who looks as if she wasn't to be trusted," Malpas observed ;
" but I have always had a liking to gipsies."
" And so have I till to-day," I remarked.
"Why, they hanna ill-treated you ; they hanna attempted to rob
you ?" demanded Ned.
I was about to make some reply, when Malpas hastily interposed.
" I suppose you came here to have your fortune told, and the wo-
man hasn't laid it on thick enough, eh ?" he said.
" She told me a good many things ; and, amongst others, that I
Sad a secret enemy," J replied, looking hard at him.
" Oh! she told you that; and you believe her, I suppose?" he re-
joined, with a forced laugh, ami glancing significantly at Peninnah ;
while Phaleg also looked disconcerted and angry. Malpas, indeed,
seemed dispo>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.
<l You'n excuse me, sir," Ned said, constraining himself at length.
"I'm not often i' this way, but the sight o' you, and the way you
spoke of her, brought a' back again. I mind the time when you used
to come to our cottage when it were the abode of wedded happiness
and love. Now there be no Sissv at the door to look out and wel-
170 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
come me — no cheerful hearth wi' Sissy sittin' smilin' beside it tc
gladden me — no Sissy to put her arms round my neck and kiss me,
But I be a lone, deserted, broken-hearted man."
" Not so bad as that, I trust, Ned. Don't think of Sissy auy more.
She doesn't deserve to be held in your regard."
But he seemed to have a pleasure in opening his wounds anew,
for, without heeding me, he took a locket from his bosom and
pressed it to his lips.
" You recollect her beautiful hair," he said, with a tenderness that
almost overcame me, "how it used to glint like gowd i' the sunshine.
This bauble contains a lock of it. It be a' I ha' left on her. I have
tried to throw it away, but it clings to my heart, and win stick there,
I fancy, till that heart ceases to beat."
And kissing the locket again, he replaced it softly in his bosom,
and then sprang to his feet.
" You must give me full particulars of this unhappy affair, Ned,
on some future occasion, when you are calmer. But if it will not
distress you too much to dwell upon the subject now, I should wish
to know when Sissy's flight took place, and what led to it ?"
" She left me about four months ago," he replied, "and if you
must know what led to the step, I think it were a quarrel betwixt us.
But I couldn't see a handsome, dashin' young gent'l'man al'ays
danglin' after her, and not feel jealous. Besides, folks jeered me
about it. He used to row her out i' my boat on th' mere. When I
heer'd o' this — for I hadn't seen it — I determined to put a stop to it —
and one e'en I came upon 'em by surprise, just as they landed. You
may believe, sir, when my blood were up, that I didn't use much civil
speech to the young spark. I forbade him to come near my cottage,
and commanded my foolish wife never to speak to him again. Bitter
words passed between me and Sissy, and I sat by myself a' that night,
half distracted, yet never dreamin' of the misery in store for me.
Ere day dawned, I went fortli to a distant cover, without biddin'
Sissy good-by — the first time I had ever done such a thing sin' we
were wedded — and when I got back at noon, there were no one
to greet me — no meal ready — she were gone. She had quitted the
house at night without my bein' aware on't."
" But she went alone ?"
" Oh ! he were there to help her — trust him for that. She got
through the window and joined him. It were a mercy I didn't hear
'em, or I should ha' shot 'em both on the spot. So help me, I
should, sir ! I were nearly shootin' myself when I found it out."
" You are certain she didn't go alone, Ned ?"
" Quite sartin. Things spoke for themselves when I cum'd to ex-
amine 'em. But it were so contrived that I couldn't bring it home
to him ; and when I taxed him wi' robbin' me of my wife, he point
blank denied it ; and endeavoured to lay the weight of the black deed
on another man's showthers."
" But did you make no search for your wife, Ned ?"
" Sarch, — yes, sir. I sarched for her high and low — far an' near,
MEKVYN CLIIHEltOE. 17]
but could gain no tidings whatever on her — and to this blessed day
I ha' learnt nothing."
I reflected for a short time, and then said, " It doesn't appear,
from what you tell me, Ned, that you have any clear proof oi
your wife's infidelity. She may have fled with the tempter, and left
him immediately afterwards, and yet have dreaded to return to you.
But, however I may try to exonerate Sissy, I will not attempt to
defend the villain who has sought to ensnare her. If it be as I
suspect, and I had known as much as I do now, I would not have
spared him when I had him within pistol-shot last night."
" What !" Ned exclaimed, " did you fight a duel wi' Capt'n Sale
last night?"
" Then it is as I suspected, Ned. He is the person who has
wronged you."
" Ay, he be the villain w T ho have destroyed my happiness," Ned re-
joined, fiercely. "I would give ten years o' my life to stand opposite
him i' fair fight. I would send a bullet through his black heart.
But though he wouldn't scruple to injure me, he won't gie me satis-
faction."
" No, no, Ned," I replied, bitterly ; " the laws of honour won't
compel a gentleman to give satisfaction to one of your condition.
Don't think it."
" And you ca' such laws as those, laws of honour, sir?" Ned cried,
with furious scorn. " Because I be a poor man, have I no sense of
injury ? Is not my wife as much to me as the gen'l'man's wife be to
him ? And if the geu'l'man wrongs me so deeply that nothing but the
gen'l'man's blood can wash out the stain, am I to be denied that
satisfaction which would be open to the gen'l'man's equal ? If those
be your laws of honour, sir, I shan't respect them. I bide my time,"
he muttered, in a stern tone, and with a sombre look, " and will find
my own mode of redress. "Woe be to him ! — woe be to him, I say, if
he once gets into my clutches !"
" Patience, Ned — patience !" I exclaimed. " Dismiss these violent
notions, and act like a just and prudent man. The laws of honour,
I agree with you, ought to bind all classes alike ; and if a man
is not too proud to injure another, his rank ought not to screen him
from the consequences of the act. If such a person refuses satisfac-
tion to his inferior, he ought to be stamped with dishonour. But this
cannot be, and therefore it is idle to discuss the question. Attend to
what I am about to say to you. Malpas Sale has injured me only a
degree less than he has injured you. We will make common cause
against him. Prove to me beyond question that he lured your wife
from you — that she eloped with him. Prove that they were seen to-
gether after her flight. Discover her retreat, so that she may be
produced, if we find occasion. Do this, and I will ensure you ample
redress."
" But how be I to obtain such proofs as you require, sir ?" Ned
rejoined, looking quite confused. " How be I to discover Sissy's re-
treat ? Capt'n Sale — curses upon him ! — and she ha' never been seen
172 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
together, that I can lam, sin' she left me. I ha' taxed him wi' it
as I tell'd you afore ; but he denies the charge a'together, and de.
clares I'm mista'en i' the man. I'm sorely perplexed i' my mind
Capt'n Sale were at the vicarage on the day after the elopement, for ]
seed him myself; and he ca'd his sarvant man to prove that he had
not been out the night afore. He treated the matter quite lightly,
and said if Sissy had eloped at all, it must have been wi' Simon
Pownall."
" "With Simon Pownall ! — ridiculous !"
" Bidic'lous, indeed, sir ! I towd him he couldn't impose upon me
by such a falsity. But when I began to make inquiries, things seemed
tobear out his assertions. A' the folk i' Marston believed then, and
believes to this day, that Simon were the offender."
" But where is Simon Pownall ?" I exclaimed. " Cannot he be
found?"
" No, sir, he cannot. He disappeared at the same time as poor
Sissy, and has never been heer'd on sin' ; and that's what confirms
folks' suspicions. I ought also to mention one circumstance, that
weighs wi' others, though it doesn't weigh much wi' me — Simon
were seen, and spoken with, i' the lane leadin' to my cottage, at an
hour when all honest folks should be a-bed, on the night of the elope-
ment."
" Tut ! — that was part of the plan. The knave took care to be
seen. Simon Pownall was a tool in the affair, I make no doubt ; but
not the principal. You have been far too slack, Ned. You must not
rest till you find Pownall, and discover your wife's retreat."
" Point out the way, sir, and I'll set about it at once."
" You are a woodman, Ned, and will understand the advice I am
about to give you. If you sought for a hart in a forest, you would
look for his slot, and follow him up by it. Do the same now. A
few slight footprints, which have hitherto escaped your notice, will
lead you to Pownall's lair, and enable you to unharbour him. But
you must devote yourself wholly and solely, and with all your energies,
to the task."
"I will, sir," Ned replied, firmly. "Your words ha' put new
mettle into me. Hitherto, I ha' been too slack — I feel it now — but
then I ha' been wofully cast down, and have had none to counsel me.
Hencefor'rard, you shan't complain o' my want o' zeal. I once thought
Sissy might ha' gone to her family at Llanberis, i' Carnarvonsheere —
and I wrote to 'em for tidings on her — but, alas ! they could gie me
none. She had never been nigh 'em."
" It is a sad affair, Ned, and strange as sad — but we must unravel
the mystery. You shall have all the assistance 1 can render you —
money, if you want it. But what's the matter with Hubert ? He
seems disturbed."
" He hears, or scents something, sir," Ned replied, noticing the
warning attitude of the hound. " More ears ha' been listenin' to us
than we counted on. We'll soon find out the spv. Hyke, Hubert !
to him, lad!"
As he uttered the words, the hound bounded oft", as if unleashed, to-
MEttVYN CLITHEROE. 173
wards a bed of fern, from out of which, at the same moment, sprang
the younger gipsy, Obed.
But the spy only fled to a short distance, and then, turning round,
laughed derisively at us.
He had taken precautions, as speedily appeared, to secure himself
from the attack of the hound ; and he must have possessed all the
stealthy wiliness of a savage of the backwoods of America, for he had
managed, during our converse, to creep up behind the pony, and cut
a large piece of flesh from the neck of the deer.
Hubert was caught in the trap set for him. He sprang with a
few mighty bounds to the spot where the lump of deer's flesh had
been thrown down by the gipsy, and began to devour it greedily, and
not all his master's threats could make him stir.
Pointing with a blood-stained wood-knife to the deluded hound,
Obed mimicked the challenge of a cock-pheasant, cut a caper, and
then took to his heels at full speed. Ned ran after him, after vainly-
trying to tear Hubert away from his repast, but I felt quite sure the
agile gipsy would give him the slip. And so it proved. In a few
minutes the keeper reappeared, alone and out of breath. The fugi-
tive had escaped.
By this time Hubert had gorged himself with the deer's flesh, and
approached his master with a very abject and contrite air. Ned
would have chastised him severely with his dog-whip ; but I inter-
fered to save him. Conscious that he deserved punishment, the hound
looked up wistfully in the keeper's face, as if eager to repair his
error.
" If I were to put him upon that pryin' young warmint's scent
now," Ned observed, " he would hunt him down fast enough. But
I have other matters to see to. I mun tak' up this buck to th' house ;
and then I'll try and get the steward to speak wi' his lordship, who
luckily be down here just now, to let me off for a month. Even if I
lose my place I'll do nowt else but attend to this job."
While Ned was chasing the gipsy, I had been considering what
could have brought the young rascal into the park, and I arrived at
the conclusion that he must have been watching me.
' : Harkye, Ned," I said, " beware of these gipsies. They are capable
of doing you a mischief, and I shrewdly suspect they are in the pay of
our enemy. It is strange that Phaleg should be again in this neigh-
bourhood. I saw him and his son on Crabtree- green last night.
They seem to dog me about."
"*Do they ?" Ned cried. " Then I'll dog them. Leave 'em to me.
I ben't a bit afeared on 'em. Where beyestayin', sir — i' Marston ?"
" At the Stamford Arms at Dunton. If not there, I shall be in the
neighbourhood."
; ' You shall hear fro' me, or see me, as soon as I've owt to com-
municate," Ned rejoined. " I'll find Sissy or die. And now fare ye
weel, sir, and Heaven bless you!"
Whereupon he warmly grasped the hand I extended to him, and
strode away, followed by the pony and Hubert, taking his course down
a A ong glade sweeping in the direction of Amounderness House.
174
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OE
CHAPTEB VII.
I AM INTRODUCED TO AN ECCENTRIC ELDERLY GENTLEMAN, FAMI-
LIARLY STYLED OLD HAZY ; WHO, THOUGH NO CONJURER HIMSELF,
IS MUCU ADDICTED TO NECROMANTIC LORE, AND HAS A VERY
ENCHANTING NIECE.
Poor Ned ! I pitied him from the bottom of my heart. His wound,
I feared, would prove incurable.
And poor Sissy ! I pitied her too — though she might not deserve
commiseration. I could not think of her without a pang. Her
image rose before me as I had seen her last — a model of rustic
beauty, coquettish, captivating, not unconscious of her charms, and
rather fond of admiration, yet devoted to her husband, whose love was
wholly hers. And she had fallen — alas ! alas !
Tears ago I had been filled with vague apprehensions that Malpas
was secretly indulging dishonourable love for her, and had grieved
that she should trifle with him so much — but I had not foreseen
the lamentable consequences that were to follow. Even now I could
scarcely believe her guilty.
I had preached patience to Ned Culcheth, but I felt none myself.
My hatred of Malpas was rekindled in all its intensity — it possible,
heightened. I should have reproached myself with sparing him,
but that a greater and more complete revenge seemed to be in
my power. I would crush him utterly. But to accomplish this
effectually, I must curb the impetuosity that prompted me to
take immediate steps against him. I must go cautiously to work,
and not precipitate matters, as I had recently done. I must draw
the nets slowly round him and leave him no loophole to escape.
Thus did I reason with myself; but I confess that if I had encoun-
tered Malpas at the moment, all my prudential resolves would have
flown to the winds, and passion alone have swayed me. Luckily, I was
not exposed to the temptation.
Full of wrathful and vindictive emotions, I set off at a rapid pace to
Marston, and did not halt till I reached the churchyard and stood
beside my mother's grave.
Often in earlier days and in moments of trouble had I come to
this spot, and had ever found relief. Consolation was not denied
me now. The clouds that had gathered round me began to disperse ;
and as a mother's endearing smiles and words chase away childish
grief, so my troubles were sensibly alleviated.
Quitting this hallowed spot, I approached the low stone wall at the
back of the churchyard, and gazed over the tops of the trees growing
at the foot of the eminence on which the sacred fabric was reared.
MERVYN CLTTHEROE. 17f'
Lit tie as Marston Mere, which now lay before me, would bea?
comparison with other lakes, world-renowned for beauty, which I had
recently visited, it had charms of its own, arising from old associa
tions, which endeared it to me, and rendered it more attractive in mj
eyes than even classic Como or lovely Lugano. I now beheld it ir
perfect repose. Unruffled by a breath, its surface reflected ever}
chject on its banks, — trees, church-tower, boat-house, — as distinctly
r.s a mirror. Tall black stakes, to which fishing-nets were fastened
dotted out the shallows on the right, and nearer the strand, ic
the same direction, stood a group of cattle cooling themselves in
the water. Golden lights were thrown upon the trees by the wes-
tering sun, and a stream of radiance ran along the edge of a low
copse on the left. Between this copse and the majestic woods ol
Dunton, crowning the distant heights, floated a thin summer haze_
giving them a slumberous beauty. I looked on for some time en-
tranced, following the shores of the lake, on either side, to the re-
motest point. Sweet Marston Mere, scene of my earliest pleasures,
how T dear was it to me ! How often had I rowed upon its waters, 01
plunged into their pellucid depths ! How often had I fished from its
banks, or roused the wild duck from its reeds only to fall beneath
my gun! My perilous exploit in crossing its frozen surface with
Malpas Sale, occurred to me — and the midnight chase with Xed
Culcheth of Phaleg, the gipsy. Poor Ned's cottage was plainly dis-
cernible from where I stood, but I sedulously avoided looking at it.
It required an effort to tear myself away from this enchanting
scene, but I could not gaze at it for ever, so I crossed the churchyard,
and, avoiding the vicarage, passed through a small gate, and took a
path which I knew would bring me out near Simon Pownall's former
habitation in the upper part of the village. In a few minutes I reached
the barber-surgeon's shop, and the only external change I perceived
in it was the substitution of Chetham Quick's name for that of
Pownall. The apprentice had succeeded his master, and, in doing
so, aped his master's peculiarities, and even personal appearance, to
such an extent that he might almost have been taken for him. As 1
entered the shop, Chetham was sharpening a razor, and. on seeing
me, he exhibited momentary surprise and perhaps alarm ; but
being by no means destitute of self-possession, he as quickly re-
covered himself, and cocking up his impudent nose, regarded me with
a saucy, consequential air. He declared he knew nothing whatever
of his late master, but his private opinion was that lie was gone to
America with Sissy Culcheth. At the time of Simon's sudden disap-
pearance, more than a year's salary was- due to him, and he had
seized upon the contents of the shop as part payment of the debt,
and set up in his master's place. Could he do anything for me ?
Could he cut my hair — shave me — or trim my whiskers ? Could
he bleed me, — or dress my arm — he had a sovereign remedy for a
bruise ? — He was rattling on in this way, when I suddenly checked his
oquacity, by observing with some sternness that I didn't believe a
word he had just told me — that I felt quite sure his master was not
176 LIFE AND ADVENTUltES OF
gone to America — and equally sure that Sissy had not eloped witb
his master — but that both were kept designedly out of the way.
and he knew it. While saying this, I eyed him fixedly, but though
he grew a thought paler, he did not move a muscle. He replied
in a saucy tone that he was sorry I doubted his word, hut he had
given me all the information in his power, and if I was not satisfied ]
had better inquire elsewhere. Upon which he began sharpening the
razor anew, and I left the shop.
My next visit was to Job Greaseby's smithy. Old Job did not re-
collect me at first, but as soon as he made out who I was, he
evinced his delight by griping my hand* — my left hand, luckily
— as he would have griped a pair of pincers. I put the same
question to him that I had done to Chetham Quick. Job shook his
grey head, and said it was a thousand pities Sissy was gone, and
with such a "feaw owd reprobate" as Simon Pownall. He did not
blame her as much as most folks did, but he was very sorry for her
husband, who w T as as worthy a chap as ever breathed, and had always
treated her kindly. This was all I could extract from honest Job. He
either suspected no one else, or kept his suspicions to himself.
I made no further inquiries in the village, but walked across the
fields to Nethercrofts, where I fortunately found both William Weever
and his wife at home. William had still got the management of the
farm, and appeared to thrive on his stewardship. He and Hannah
looked very w r ell-to-do and comfortable. Neither of them had grown
thinner. The old farm-house was but little changed since my uncle
Mobberley's time. The old articles of furniture occupied their cus-
tomary places, and I was glad to hear the old clock ticking
still. Notwithstanding my remonstrances, I was show r n into the
parlour, and Hannah would fain have brought me some refreshments,
but I would only take a cup of milk. I soon brought up the subject
of Sissy's elopement, but I learnt nothing new. They both believed
that Simon Pownall was the offender, and pitied her taste. William
Weever was disposed to be as charitable as Job Greaseby, but his
wife would not hear a word in Sissy's defence. She had always been a
vain, good-for-nothing hussy, and Hannah wasn't a bit surprised at
her conduct. Poor Ned was well rid of her, if he could only think
so. It was a pity he couldn't see his wife with other people's eyes.
Failing in obtaining any further information, I rose to depart,
promising the good couple to pay them another visit very shortly,
as I intended to remain for a little time in the neighbourhood.
I had a pleasant walk back to Dunton, varying the route by keep-
ing on the side of the mere, opposite to that by which I had come to
Marston.
As I approached the Stamford Arms, I perceived, under the shade
of a large tree in front of the inn, an old-fashioned barouche, with a
pair of very fat horses attached to it, a remarkably stout coachman in
an antiquated livery on the box, and a couple of ladies seated inside it ;
while just within the porch of the hostel there stood a singular-looking
old gentleman, engaged in earnest discourse with Cuthbert Spring.
This old gentleman, whom I recognised at once, for I had seen him
MEKVYN CLITHEEOE. 177
before, was Mr. Norbury EadclifFe Hazilrigge, of Owlarton Grange,
near Delamere Forest — a very worthy person, but rather eccentric —
of whom I had heard a great deal from various friends — amongst
others, from John Brideoake, who was curate at Mr. Hazilrigge's
parish church of AVeverham, and who had described the old gentleman
in his letters, — but I had never been introduced to him, and was very
glad of the opportunity that now offered of forming his acquaintance.
Mr. Hazilrigge was between sixty and seventy, but had still a
hale look, and though very odd in manner and grotesque in attire,
had decidedly the air of a gentleman. In person he was rather
comical, being short and punchy, while his round shoulders tended
to diminish his stature. On the ridge of his large hooked nose
rested a pair of massive silver spectacles, through which glim-
mered eyes the most extraordinary I ever beheld — large, light-
blue, projecting, but dim. In a word, the old gentleman was
moon-eyed. He wore his hair in powder, brushed back from the
forehead, and tied behind in a long and respectable pigtail. His
attire, of the formal cut of George the Third's day, might have
been made about the beginning of the present century, or the end
of the last, and consisted of a long blue coat, cut away at the breast
and skirts, and having flat, gilt buttons, a red waistcoat, buckskins,
boots with brown tops looped up behind, a large plaited frill to
his shirt, and a padded cravat tied with immense bows. A broad-
brimmed, low-crowned beaver, specially noticeable for its deep hat-
band and buckle, and a gold-headed cane, completed his appoint-
ments.
Mr. Hazilrigge was so much engrossed by what he was saying
to Cuthbert Spring, that he did not notice my approach until I
was close beside him. He then turned round, and, adjusting his
spectacles, looked me full in the face. His manner was so odd, and
the expression of his countenance so droll as he regarded me thus,
that I o-ould scarcely help laughing at him.
' Why, this is he, Mr. Spring !" he exclaimed — "this is the young
duellist ! — I'm sure of it."
"Tou are right, Mr. Hazilrigge," Cuthbert Spring rejoined ; "this
is my young friend of whom we have just been speaking — Mr. Mervyn
Clitheroe. Allow me to introduce him to you."
" Delighted to know you, sir," the old gentleman said, returning
my salute. " Tou behaved very well in that affair last night with
young Sale — very well indeed, upon my honour. But you'll never
guess, Mr. Clitheroe, what brought me to Dunton to-day — will he,
Cuthbert ?— ha ! ha!"
" No, I don't think he will," Mr. Spring rejoined, winking at me.
" I can't pretend to guess what business may have brought you
here, Mr. Hazilrigge," I observed. " But it is a fortunate circum-
stance for me, since it has procured me the pleasure of your ac-
quaintance."
The old gentleman made me a low bow.
178 LIFE AND ADVENTUBES OF
" Sir, you are extremely complimentary," he said. " I won't keep
you longer in suspense. Know, then, that a dream brought me here."
" A dream !" I ejaculated, with difficulty preserving my gravity.
" Yes, sir," he answered. " I dreamed that the old yew-tree in the
churchyard yonder, with the bench round it, was struck by lightning
and withered. This I dreamed last night— three times, sir — and I
resolved to drive over this morning, and ascertain, from personal in-
spection, whether the yew-tree had really sustained any damage from
the fiery element. I found it fair and flourishing. Now the learned
Artemidorus, in his treatise De Somniorum Interpretation, tells us
that to dream of thunder signifies jars, quarrels, fierce debates, and
contentions. And again, Anselmus Julianus, in his Art and Judg-
ment of 'Dreams , says that a burnt or withered tree denotes vexation,
fear, displeasure, and grief. Therefore, mine was a bad dream every
way — a very bad dream, sir."
" Not so, sir," I rejoined, willing to humour him, and yet set him at
ease. " To the great oneirocritical authorities you have brought for-
ward, I will oppose the opinion of the oracular Apomazar, who de-
clares that a burnt yew-tree presages the destruction of an enemy."
" Does Apomazar say so, Mr. Clitheroe?" he cried, staring at me
with his purblind orbs. " Does he indeed ? Apomazar is a wise man
— a very wise man — plus sapit quam Thales. You greatly relieve my
mind. I am not aware that I have an enemy — but no matter."
"You forget your other dream about cleaving logs, Mr. Hazil-
rigge," Cuthbert Spring interposed. " What does that portend ?"
" The visit of a stranger to the house of the dreamer, according to
Artemidorus," the old gentleman answered.
" There Artemidorus is in the right, Mr. Hazilrigge," I rejoined,
laughing, "/am the stranger, and will pay you a visit at Owlarton
Grange whenever you choose to invite me."
"That is already settled," Cuthbert Spring observed. " The in-
vitation has been given and accepted. I answered for you, as I felt
sure a visit to Owlarton Grange would be highly agreeable to you.
We are going to dine with my worthy friend to-morrow, and spend
a few days with him."
I expressed my entire satisfaction at the arrangement.
" Mr. Spring ought to tell you that mine is a haunted house, sir,"
Mr. Hazilrigge said, looking at me through his spectacles.
" So much the better," I rejoined. " I have long desired to stay
in a haunted house ; and must beg you, as a particular favour, to
put me into the ghost's room."
" Tut ! you don't know what a request you are preferring," Cuth-
bert Spring cried. " You won't sleep a wink. I have tried the ex-
periment once, and don't desire to try it again."
" Well, well, there are other rooms at the grange if the ghost's
room shouldn't suit Mr. Clitheroe," Mr. Hazilrigge said. " He shall
have his choice. We will do our best to amuse you, sir. Wever-
ham Glen is accounted picturesque by sight-seers, and you may
explore Delamere forest, noted as the scene of several of the predic-
tions of our famous old Cheshire prophet, Robert Nixon."
MEltYYN CLITHKROE. 17..
" No want of attractions, sir," I rejoined. " But one of the
greatest pleasures to me will be the opportunity of seeing my dear
friend — almost brother — John Brideoake, who lives near you."
" John Brideoake is constantly with us," Mr. Hazilrigge rejoined.
" I have the greatest regard for him, and so has my sister. He has
often talked of you, Mr. Clitheroe, and has wondered when you would
return from the Continent. Poor Brideoake ! I fear he has some
secret sorrow. He never complains, but he looks unhappy, and his
state of health gives my sister much uneasiness. Tou shall meet him
at dinner to-morrow. But come, sir, let me make you personally
known to my sister, Miss Hazilrigge, and my niece, Ora Doveton.
They know you already by description."
With this, he conducted me to the barouche, and presented me in
form to its occupants. Both ladies received me very graciously ; but
I was wholly unprepared for so much beauty as I discovered in Ora
Doveton, — having only directed a casual glance towards her as I pre-
viously passed the carriage.
Miss Doveton evidently remarked my surprise, and enjoyed it.
A sparkling brunette, about nineteen, with a rich bloom under the
olive skin, splendid black eyes, dark pencilled brows and long silken
eyelashes, magnificent black hair, teeth like pearls, and lips of the
brightest coral. Such was Ora Doveton. The contour of her face
was exquisite. Her manner had a peculiar witchery and grace, well
suited to the southern style of her beauty ; and her black silk attire
and lace might have been worn by an Andalusian damsel.
I have described the niece first, because I confess that her beauty
quite dazzled me, and left me very little power of noticing the aunt.
But Miss Hazilrigge merited more attention than I paid her. Full
fifteen years younger than her brother, she was still good looking,
and had a very amiable expression. She wore her own grey hair,
which suited the fresh tint of her comely features extremely well.
A certain family likeness existed between her and her brother, but
she was evidently shrewd and sensible, and quite as much matter-
of-fact in her notions as he appeared to be the reverse.
Both ladies expressed great satisfaction on hearing that I was
about to pay Owlarton Grange a visit ; but Ora Doveton assured me
with a smile, which rather contradicted her words, that I should find
the place dreadfully dull. Her countenance wore an extremely arch
expression when she spoke of the singular errand on which her uncle
had come to Dunton, and she did not appear to share in his belief in
dreams. I soon found out that gravity formed no part of Ora's com-
position. She was the merriest creature imaginable, and her high
spirits carried everything before chem. We were upon intimate
terms directly. She rallied me upon my wounded arm, and the cause
of the duel, of which she had heard — and I became so much interested
by her sprightly talk, and so much enthralled by the magic of the
beautiful eyes bent down upon me, that I felt quite annoyed when
Mr. Hazilrigge ordered a tall old footman in an antiquated livery
(Finch by name) to let down the steps, and got into the carriage.
n2
180 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
The old gentleman then bade us good-by, — hoping to see us on the
morrow, — the ladies smiled adieu — Ora's smile completed her con-
quest — and the stout coachman put his fat cattle in motion.
" Well, what do you think of Old Hazy?" Cuthbert Spring asked,
as we entered the inn, and repaired to the room opening upon the
bowling-green, where the table was spread for dinner.
" I think him very diverting," I rejoined. " He seems to have the
organ of credulity rather extensively developed."
" He is the most credulous person alive," Mr. Spring returned,
" and but for his excellent sister would be the dupe of any artful im-
postor who might choose to practise upon him. You heard on what an
absurd errand he came here to-day — a dream ! ha ! ha ! — but he is
always on some wildgoose-chase or another — always finding a mare's-
nest. Every nook and cranny of the old fellow's head is stuffed full
of tales of hobgoblins, spectres, wood-demons, gnomes, elves, and
fairies ; and he reads nothing but books of necromancy, witchcraft, and
judicial astrology. You will have a treat, if he shows you his library.
But, notwithstanding his whims and eccentricities, Old Hazy is an
excellent, estimable person."
"Amongst his numerous merits, not the least, in my opinion," I
remarked, " is the possession of a very charming niece."
" Faith ! you may say so. There isn't such a pair of black eyes as
Ora Doveton's in the county. Why, zounds ! at your age I should
have fallen head-over-heels in love with her at first sight. And mark
what I say, Mervyn, — beauty isn't Ora's only recommendation. She
will be her uncle's heiress. Old Hazy is rich. He has no other
nephews or nieces — no other near relations that I know of, except
his sister ; so Owlarton Grange and all belonging to it must be Ora's.
There's a look-out for you, my boy."
I smiled, but not caring to acknowledge the interest I had begun to
feel for Ora, I spoke of Miss Hazilrigge and the singular contrast she
presented to her brother, and soon afterwards dinner was served, and
we sat down to it. After the removal of the cloth, and while we
were discussing a bottle of the delectable port, our conversation turned
upon Owlarton Orange, and the report of its being haunted. I laugh-
ingly inquired under what form the ghost appeared ?
" I am not aware that the phantom has ever revealed itself to mortal
gaze," Mr. Spring replied ; " but I have heard it, as you may possibly
do, since you mean to occupy the haunted room. Owlarton Grange, as
you will find, is a very curious old house — one of those quaint black
and white, timber and plaster structures which I have heard you
admire — and abounds in dark galleries, oddly-shaped rooms, bay-
windows full of stained glass, wide staircases, 'narrow staircases, and
out-of-the-way mouldy passages. Ghosts must be partial to such a
dwelling, so no wonder one has found its way there. The grange has
been in possession of the Hazilrigge family for more than two centu-
ries, and connected with it is the remnant of a still older edifice, once
appertaining to the Monastery of St. Mary, Vale Royal. But to come
back to the haunted room. I won't describe it — for it will soon come
MERVVN CLLT1IE110E. 1S1
ander your own observation — except to say that it is spacious, with alow
veiling crossed by great oak beams, and has black oak panels, a singular
3ld portrait, and a fantastic-looking old tester bed, with strangely
carved pillars, and hangings of faded tapestry. I am not supersti-
tious, but when I saw this bed, I felt very little inclination to occupy
it. However, since there was no help, in due time I laid my head
upon the pillow. Whether I had dropped off to sleep I cannot say,
but I was suddenly roused by an extraordinary knock — a dull, dead,
but distinct sound, as if caused by a heavy blow struck against the
inner side of the wall, just below the room. I listened intently, and
in another minute the knock was repeated. I counted five distinct
blows — and then the sound ceased."
" Did you not arise and try to ascertain whence the sound pro-
ceeded?" I inquired.
" I had extinguished my taper, and thick curtains were drawn
before the large bay-window, so that I was in profound darkness. I
confess that I felt considerable trepidation. After an interval of ten
minutes the mysterious sound was renewed — knock! — knock! —
knock ! — as if the blows had been deliberately dealt by the hand of a
giant. Each blow seemed to approach nearer — and the last sounded
as if struck against a closet door, which I expected would burst open,
fvnd some terrible intruder stalk in. These mysterious knocks must
have commenced about midnight, and they continued at intervals, as
I have described, for nearly two hours."
Cuthbert Spring had more than once replenished his glass during
the progress of this story, and he now thought that its length entitled
him to a second bottle of port, but having had enough, I left him to
its enjoyment, and strolled out upon the bowling-green to breathe
the evening air. Not to pollute the sweet atmosphere with the
odour of tobacco be it understood, for I abominate the practice of
smoking, and never indulge in it. While pacing to and fro, I re-
viewed the various incidents of the day, and though my meet-
ing with JNed Culcheth, and the story of his wrongs had left a very
painful impression upon me, yet I found myself chiefly dwelling
upon a more recent occurrence. My susceptibilities seemed to be
roused anew. I began to persuade myself that, by encouraging my
admiration of Ora, I might succeed in forgetting Apphia. Un-
doubtedly there did not seem to be so great a blank in my heart as
there had been in the morning. As I gazed up at the stars in the
clear vault above me, I thought of orbs that rivalled them in bril-
liancy. Yes, yes, — I fear Apphia was in a fair way of being sup-
planted by the beautiful and bewitching brunette.
By-and-by, Cuthbert Spring joined me. He was in a merry moou\
and soon brought up the subject of Old Hazy's charming niece, and
now I did not discourage him. It was just the hour to talk of a
pretty girl, and I felt disposed to unbosom myself, and own that I was
half captivated, but a certain bashfulness restrained me. However, I
said quite enough to convince him that I was slightly hit.
After partaking of a cup of tea in the open air, we retired early to
182 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
our chambers, and my arm being much easier, I made up that night
for my previous want of rest.
I arose next morning in better spirits than I had known for
many a day. Could it be the anticipation of seeing the charming Ora
Doveton that made me feel so joyous ? I cannot precisely answer
the question, but I think she must have had something to do with my
good spirits. When we met at breakfast, Cuthbert Spring congratu-
lated me on my improved appearance, and told me I looked more like
my former self. He could perceive, he said, that I had been dreaming
of something more agreeable than blighted yew-trees — perhaps, of a
pair of fine black eyes, which was especially lucky, if the fine black
eyes seemed to ogle you — according to Artemidorus. My persona!
comfort was increased by the amended condition of my arm, which
now gave me much less inconvenience, and promised soon to be useful
again. Moreover, the fine weather continued, and everything held out
a pleasurable prospect. So no wonder I felt gay.
Cuthbert Spring left me to my own devices until four o'clock, at
which time it was agreed that we should start for Owlarton Grange.
If the arrangement had been left to me, I should have set out at once
—for I was impatient to be off — but my friend had letters to write,
and of course his convenience must be consulted.
Not finding much to amuse me in-doors, I sallied forth, and proceeded
to the churchyard to look at the ancient yew-tree which had served
me as a medium of introduction to the charming Ora. It was a
fine old tree, in perfect preservation, with a bench, capable of accom-
modating at least twenty people, encircling its mighty stem. Dunton
Church, as I have heretofore stated, stands on an elevated ridge of
land, overlooking the extensive vale of the Mersey, with the Lanca-
shire hills bounding the view on the north, while on the south, or
Cheshire side, the prospect is even more diversified and beautiful. I
had seated myself on the bench beneath the yew-tree, and was
trying to discover some landmark to indicate the position of Owlar-
ton Grange, when the noise caused by the shutting of a gate at
the bottom of the churchyard made me aware of some one's ap-
proach. It was Ned Culcheth. He was accompanied by Hubert,
and had come over to inform me that a month's leave of absence
bad been granted him by Lord Amounderness. He had heard
something overnight which he thought would furnish him with a
jlue to Simon PownalTs retreat. A person very like Simon had
been seen a few days ago at Knutsford with Chetham Quick. Chet-
bam, therefore, as I had suspected, was most probably in secret com-
munication with his old master. That Chetham must be in league
vvith Captain Sale, Ned thought quite certain, for soon after my visit
:o the barber's shop on the day before, Chetham had run down to the
ncarage to inform the captain of the circumstance. Phaleg had
also been to the vicarage. This was the sum of Ned's intelligence.
It was not much, but by closely watching Chetham he felt sure
he should soon learn more. I agreed with him that he was now
upon the right scent, and likely soon to unearth the old fox, but
MEEVTN CLITHEROE. 183
I advised him to use the utmost caution in his proceedings, as no doubt
he would be watched in his turn. I then told him of my proposed
visit to Owlarton Grange, and that I should probably remain there
for three or four days. Ned said he would come over to the Grange,
if he had any tidings to give me, and he then left me — taking my
best wishes with him — and made his way out of the churchyard, with
Hubert at his heels.
The rest of the morning passed rather slowly, and was un-
marked by any incident, but at four o'clock a yellow rattler, as Mr.
Spring termed the post-chaise, came to the door, and we started
on our expedition. Our road lay through a fair and fertile district,
abounding in comfortable homesteads, orchards, barns, cow-houses,
stacks of corn, hay, and beans, and other evidences of the prosperous
condition of the cultivators of the soil. Nowhere in England is there
better farming than in this part of Cheshire ; nowhere are such
cheeses made — a fact which alone would prove the extraordinary
fatness of the land. But it was not merely the comfortable farm-
house and its appurtenances that we beheld. In the course of our
drive we passed by many an ancestral hall and lordly mansion, en-
riched with the accessories of wood and water — for without a mere a
Cheshire park would be incomplete. Some of these domains were of
vast extent, and calculated to give exalted notions of the territorial
importance of their possessors. The Cheshire squires may well be
proud. But by far the most picturesque scene we beheld was to-
wards the end of the drive, and as my companion had not prepared
me for it, I was quite taken by surprise. Emerging from a thick
wood, through which the road was cut, we came suddenly upon a
most romantic glen, hemmed in on either side by rocks some sixty-
feet in height, seemingly rent asunder, and spanned by a giddy-looking
stone bridge, such as might be thrown across an Alpine ravine.
Beneath this bridge dashed a rapid stream, which, falling over ledges
of rock, formed a cascade, and then taking its way down the glen, the
bottom of which was covered with well-grown timber, reached a point
where its waters were dammed, in order that they might turn the
wheels of a most picturesque-looking mill, causing them to spread
out into a miniature lake. In some places the rocks were naked
and precipitous ; in others, where less steep, their sides were clothed
with shrubs and evergreens. On the farther side of the glen, and
overhanging it, stood a venerable fabric, with a tine square tower, and
I learnt to my surprise that this was Weverham Church, of which John
Brideoake was curate. John did not live in the village, but his cot-
tage was pointed out to me amongst a clump of trees behind the
church. Most assuredly I should have called there, had I not ex-
pected to meet him at dinner. We were now within a couple of
miles of Owlarton Grange, and my heart began to beat with pleasur-
able anticipation. The last mile was rather trying to our horses,
being up a deep sandy lane, but having waded slowly through it,
we came to firm ground, and entered a long avenue of stately syca-
mores at the end of which we descried the old hall.
184 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP
CHAPTEK VIII.
OE THE MYSTERIOUS BELL-RINGING AT OWLARTON GRANGE.
On a nearer approach, I was struck with the lonesome look of the
place. It had an air of gloom about it that filled me with supersti-
tious fancies. How could Ora dwell there, and retain such high spirits ?
A stagnant moat, covered with duckweed and flags, and with its
edges overgrown with rushes, surrounded the house and the quaintly-
cut parterres in front of it. This moat was crossed by a stone bridge,
on either side of which grew a sombre pine. There was no lodge,
but on the further side of the bridge stood a tall arched gateway of
red brick, with stone copings and large stone shields, on which were
sculptured the arms of the family. Over a smaller gate on the right
was a demi-wyvern carved in stone. A brick wall, about four feet
high, with iron rails on the top, skirted the garden, and extended as
far as some small outbuildings. The house itself was a very fair speci-
men of an old Cheshire timber-framed hall. According to dates pre-
served in different parts of the edifice, which I afterwards saw, it
must have been built in the reign of James I., when a great portion
of the ancient grange was probably demolished. Cuthbert Spring's
description of the place was sufficiently accurate, though its exterior
was more picturesque than he had led me to anticipate. From a
narrow centre sprang two small projections ; and beyond these ad-
vanced, far out, a couple of broad wings, constituting altogether a
frontage of great beauty. In each of the wings and lesser projec-
tions were large transom windows, with stained glass in the small
octagonal leaden frames. All the timber of the hall was painted
black, and the plaster white, with quatrefoils in the squares, pro-
ducing a very charming and fanciful effect. Sharp gables terminated
each point of the roof.
Our summons at the gateway-bell was speedily answered by Finch,
the old footman, and a stout, respectable-looking butler of remarkably
sedate aspect, whom Cuthbert Spring addressed as Mr. Ponder. The
gates being thrown open, we drove on to the porch, and, alighting
there, made but a step into a spacious entrance-hall, hung round with
old buff coats, hunting horns, battle-axes, and pikes. Here Mr.
Hazilrigge came forth to bid us welcome.
The old gentleman seemed enchanted to see me. I had evidently
won his heart by my solution of his dream, but he told me, with a
very solemn look, that he was sure some misfortune awaited him,
for the yard-clock had struck thirteen at midnight, and old blind
Mungo, the superannuated house-dog, had howled throughout the
night. Moreover, Mrs. Duucalf, the cook, had complained that the
kitchen fire would only burn on one side of the grate. This I
could not but admit was a very bad sign, portending that the meat
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 18?
would be only half roasted, and I recommended an immediate anc
vigorous application of the poker, in order to dispel the charm. Tc
my infinite regret, Mr. Hazilrigge next informed me that John
Brideoake was too unwell to leave home on that day. He sent his
love to me, and hoped I would come over and see him on the morrow.
How grieved I then felt that I had not called on him as I passed
through Weverham. But where was Ora? I was just going to
inquire after the ladies, when my host moved an adjournment to the
library, and I followed him, hoping to find them there ; but the
chamber was vacant, and I learnt that it was a sanctum sanctorum
which none of womankind were allowed to invade. I also remarked,
as the old gentleman closed the door, that Cuthbert Spring had
vanished, and I soon discovered the reason of his declining to ac-
company us.
The library was well furnished with musty volumes. But just
then I was in no humour for examining black-letter tomes, and
would far rather have encountered the black eyes that had be-
witched me. However, there was no escape, so, groaning internally,
I seated myself in the chair offered me by Old Hazy, and listened, as
attentively as I could, while he took down some of his treasures, and
descanted upon them. He propounded the magical oracles of Zo-
roaster — half fascinated me by the wondrous narratives of From-
mannus and Leonard Vair — cited Delancre, Delrio, Cardan, Torre-
blanca, John Baptist Porta, Psellus, Pererius, Doctor Dee, and other
writers on occult philosophy — recounted the history of the three
possessed Virgins in Flanders, the Princess of the Sorcerers in Pro-
vence, and Martha Brossier — discoursed on the Clavicula Salamonis
and the Euchiridion of Pope Leo — flagellated demons and sorcerers
with the lashes of Bodinus — revealed the confessions of witches by the
help of Binsfeldius — and stunned me with the Malleus Maleficorum.
While listening to him, I felt as if I myself were in a magic circle
from which there was no escape. At last he took down a large
mystic folio, bound in black vellum, and full of blood-red characters
and conjurations, and, telling me it was the Grimoire, was about to
exhibit to my stupified gaze the veritable sign-manual of the Prince
of Darkness, when, luckily, the rumbling of a gong announced that
it was time to dress for dinner, and I was liberated from a pur-
gatory of more than an hour's duration. My delight was excessive
as we returned to the entrance-hall, and, fancying there was no
immediate prospect of seeing Ora, I willingly accepted my host's
offer to conduct me to the haunted room, which had been prepared
for me, in accordance with my request.
Passing through an arched opening in a richly-carved screen of
dark oak, Mr. Hazilrigge then led the way to a magnificent staircase
of the same lustrous material, with massive and elaborately-carved
handrails and balusters. Tall posts at each angle supported the
family crest — a demi-wyvern — together with a carved shield with
armorial bearings. Light was afforded by large transom windows
glowing with rich dyes. As I commenced ascending the staircase
the sound of light musical laughter reached my ears, and looking up
at an open gallery above, I beheld OraDoveton. Yes — there stood the
18G LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
charmer in the prettiest attitude possible, between the pillars, with
one small hand resting upon the low balustrade in front of her. jN"o
portrait in Old Hazy's gallery could be better framed — no frame could
contain more exquisite portrait. My gaze must have expressed the
admiration I felt, for an added colour rose to her cheeks. Close
behind her stood her aunt and Cuthbert Spring. On our joining
the, party, Miss Hazilrigge chided her brother for detaining me
so long in the library, but Ora, with a sly glance, said she thought
I must be just as fond of necromantic lore as her uncle, since
his books seemed to have more attraction for me than their society.
Good-natured Mr. Hazilrigge came to my rescue at once, declar-
ing if anybody was to blame he was ; but, finding my tastes con-
genial to his own, he had seized the earliest opportunity of displaying
his treasures to me, and was happy to state that I fully understood
and appreciated them. Ora must not suppose that conversation with a
silly girl was half so attractive as discourse with departed sages, to a
young gentleman of my reflective turn. He had seldom met with
so patient a listener as I had proved, and he hoped I should pass many
equally profitable hours with him in his study. All his recondite stores
should be laid open to me. My fair tormentress heard him quietly to
an end, looking all the while archly at me, but she then broke into a
fit of merriment, which was only checked by her uncle ordering her
to go and prepare for dinner, while he carried me off — much to my
chagrin — down the long, dark corridor. Cuthbert Spring accom-
panied us, but Ora tripped off with her aunt in the opposite direc-
tion, and we had just reached the door of the chamber assigned to
me, when her jocund laugh was heard again, as if she thought I was
about to undergo a second ordeal. Looking round, I just caught
a glimpse of her mirthful countenance ere she disappeared.
Cuthbert Spring left me at the door, saying, with a shrug of the
shoulders, that he had had quite enough of that chamber. Mr.
Hazilrigge himself only just entered the room, and after looking
round to see that all was comfortable, and inquiring whether I wanted
anything, proffered to send his valet, Eivers, to assist me in my toilet,
and departed.
I looked round with curiosity, not unmixed with a little super-
stitious dread. The room was spacious and gloomy, owing to the
sombre character of the furniture, and the dark oak panels. Opposite
the antique tester bed, with its stiff, faded hangings, described by
Cuthbert Spring, was a large bay- window- filled with painted glass, now
glowing with the radiance of the setting sun, and casting its rich dyes
on the polished oak floor. Over the carved mantelpiece hung the por-
trait of an old man in a nightcap wig, and a long loose coat of reddish
brown cloth wrapped round his attenuated limbs. The features of
the personage thus represented were spare and sharp, with a nose like
a hawk's beak. He wore spectacles, by the aid of whicli he was exa-
mining an account-book. Behind him stood an attendant in a square-
cut coat and long-flapped waistcoat, with a sinister expression of coun-
tenance. This was the only picture in the room, and it strongly
arrested my attention.
MERVTN CLTTHEROE. 187
I was examining it when Rivers entered. He was a young man,
and an importation from town, and rattled away all the time he was
helping me to dress. Rivers did not think it possible he could
remain in his place, for though he had no objections to make to his
master or M : ^s Hazilrigge, or to anyone else, yet such strange things
had happened in the house of late — such alarming noises had been
heard — that he couldn't stay in it. I questi' led him as to the kind
of noises he meant, but he glanced round in trepidation, and said, in
a low tone, " I daren't speak in this room, sir, lest the ghost should
overhear me. But you'll find it out. Between ourselves, I don't
think you'll stop here long. Nobody does, sir." And with this con-
solatory remark — his services being no longer required — he left me.
Seating myself on an old fauteuil covered w T ith faded Utrecht velvet,
I again began to examine the remarkable picture I have mentioned,
and might have been occupied in this way for two or three minutes,
when the door suddenly opened, and Eivers bounced into the room.
Seeing that he looked startled, I asked him what was the matter.
" Pray what may be your pleasure, sir r" he said.
"I want nothing," I returned. " I didn't ring."
He eyed me rather incredulously, but, without making any further
remark, bowed and departed.
But he had not been gone more than a couple of minutes when
he reappeared.
" This time you must have rung, sir," he observed. " There can
be no mistake, for I watched the bell. Excuse me for remarking,
sir, that nothing disturbs my master so much as the loud ringing
of chamber-bells, or, indeed, any other bells, and he hopes his guests
will kindly consider him in this particular."
" Tour master may rely upon it I will not disturb him," I rejoined,
* but no bell has been rung by me. I have not quitted this chair since
you were last here."
Rivers looked at me again, shrugged his shoulders, and departed
I thought his conduct very odd, but I was still more surprised when
he once more burst into the room.
" Now, sir !" he exclaimed, " I am certain of it."
" Certain of what ?" I rejoined, almost laughing in his face.
* Certain that I rang the bell ?"
" Yes, sir, — yes ! — and very loudly too ! Mr. Ponder, the butler,
tnd old Pinch, the footman, heard it as well as me — and watched it."
" This is very extraordinary," I remarked.
" Very extraordinary indeed!" he rejoined, "if you didn't ring the
bell, sir. But perhaps it's a joke, sir ?"
I looked angrily at him, but at this moment the sedate-looking
tier came in, having previously tapped at the door.
" Beg pardon, sir, but the bell has been rung again — since Rivers
went up."
" Well, at least he can bear witness that I have not rung it," I said.
" Certainly, sir — there's no denying it," the valet replied, staring
with surprise.
" Js there not a possibility of mistake as to the bell ?" I asked.
188 LIFE AISTD ADVENTURES OF
" None whatever, sir," Mr. Ponder answered. " We all know the
bell belonging to this room well enough. It hasn't rung for many
a long day — not since Mr. Cuthbert Spring slept in the room."
Here there was another tap at the door, and old Finch, the
footman, entered.
" It be goin' again," Finch said, " and I be come to see whatever
be the matter."
"We all exchanged glances of astonishment, but no explanation
could be given.
" This is very strange — very unaccountable," I remarked.
" Ours is a very strange house, sir, and very odd things happen in
it," Mr. Ponder rejoined, gravely. " But let me beg you not to men-
tion the circumstance to my master. It would put him out exceedingly,
and he would have no rest during the whole evening. If we hear any
more ringing, we shall conclude that we needn't answer the summons.
Dinner will be served directly, sir."
Upon this, he quitted the room with the two other servants, and I
soon afterwards found my way to the drawing-room, in which all the
party, with one important exception, had assembled. Of course,
having been cautioned by the butler, I said nothing of the strange
circumstance that had just taken place to Mr. Hazilrigge. Soon after-
wards, Ora entered, looking ravishing in a dark evening dress, which
set off the graces of her exquisite person to the utmost advantage.
With a sly smile she asked how I liked the haunted chamber —
whether my courage had evaporated — and whether I had heard any
supernatural sounds ? Not for worlds would she sleep in that room,
she declared. She would not even enter it in broad daylight. Had
I noticed the portraits of the miser and his wicked servant — old
Clotten Hazilrigge and Jotham Shocklach ? Before I could reply to
these inquiries, the bell at the garden gate rang loudly, attracting
general attention.
" Eh day ! who can that be ?" Mr. Hazilrigge exclaimed. " I expect
no one. Perhaps it may be John Brideoake, after all. I hope so,"
" Mr. Brideoake would never ring in that manner," Ora remarked.
" But whoever it is, he is just in time for dinner."
We waited a little in expectation, but no one was announced.
Presently the bell rang again more loudly than before.
" Very strange the servants shouldn't go to the door," Mr. Hazil-
rigge cried, impatiently. " What can be the matter with them ?"
Here there was another peal from the bell, louder and longer than
any that had preceded it — a peal to disturb the whole house. Ex-
clamations of astonishment burst from all the party. Who can it
be ? — what can it mean ?
The tremendous peal had scarcely ceased when Mr. Ponder entered
the room, and with an imperturbable manner, as if nothing had hap-
pened, and in a very quiet tone, announced that dinner was served.
" Dinner !" Mr. Hazilrigge exclaimed. " I thought you were going
to announce half a dozen unexpected guests. Pray who has been
ringing the door-bell?"
" The door-bell, sir ?" Mr. Ponder exclaimed " I beg your pardon,
sir — did you say the door-bell ?"
MEItVYN CLITHEROE. 189
" To be sure I did ! "Would you try to persuade me you didn't
hear it ? There it goes again — there ! do you hear it now, sir ?"
" Oh yes, sir, I hear it," Mr. Ponder replied, quietly.
" Zounds ! Ponder, you're enough to provoke a saint with your im-
perturbability ! Will nothing move you ? If you do hear it, why don't
you answer it ? — why don't you go to the door ?"
" I have been to the door, sir," Mr. Ponder replied, without moving
a muscle. " And I saw — no one."
" You don't mean to say that the bell has been ringing of its own
accord, Ponder?" Mr. Hazilrigge cried.
" It seems very like it, sir," the butler answered.
" A hoax! — a manifest hoax!" Cuthbert Spring exclaimed.
" I don't see how that can be, sir," the tranquil Ponder rejoined.
" Eivers and Pinch are stationed near the gate. Apparently, the bel]
has made up its mind to ring, and it will ring in spite of us."
As he said this, there was an almost imperceptible smile about the
butler's placid features. Suspecting a hoax, and eager to detect it,
I begged Mr. Hazilrigge to excuse me, and rushed forth.
I have already described the position and appearance of the gate-
way to the hall. It was to the side gate, reserved for foot passengers,
that the bell, which had disturbed us by its peals, was affixed. It was
sheltered from the weather by a little wooden penthouse, but was other-
wise fully exposed to view. It was ringing violently as I approached,
and continued to do so for a minute or two after my arrival, when it
ceased. Eivers and Pinch were watching it narrowly, and both de-
clared they could not account for its extraordinary agitation. The
bell-pull was outside, but no one was there to touch it. I went out
upon the bridge, and looked along the wall skirting the moat, but no
one was visible. There was still light enough to enable me to dis-
tinguish clearly any object within that range. Failing to make any
discovery, after remaining on the spot for a few minutes, I returned
to the house, followed by the two servants, speculating on the mys-
terious occurrence. But scarcely had we gained the porch when the
provoking clamour commenced again, and we all three rushed back,
quick as lightning. In an instant I was out of the gate — but not a
soul could be seen.
Again the bell ceased, and again we retraced our steps, with a like
result, for the ringing recommenced. But this time we left the bell
to indulge its mysterious vagaries unobserved, and entered the house.
The whole party were assembled in the hall, awaiting our return,
and hoping we should be able to oifer some elucidation of the mystery,
but we could give none. Mr. Hazilrigge took off his spectacles, rubbed
them with his pocket-handkerchief, as if he thought that would
enable him to see more clearly into the matter. Ora Doveton
laughed heartily, and thought it an excellant joke ; while Cuthbert
Spring suggested that we should let the bell ring till it was tired,
and go to dinner. Mr. Hazilrigge assented, and we then repaired to
the dining-room — a large room panelled with oak, like most of the
other apartments, and full of antique furniture — where a very com-
190 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
fortable meal was served, and we were allowed to enjoy it in peace-
contrary, I must own, to my expectation, for I feared some fresh
interruption would occur. In spite of the reported half-burning fire
the saddle of mutton was roasted to perfection. Moreover, word was
brought that at last the garden-bell had ceased its clamour, and this
news increased the general satisfaction. During dinner our host en-
tertained us with relations of divers preternatural occurrences, and
quite monopolised the talk, compelling Ora and myself, as we sat at
opposite sides of the table, to discourse by glances — a mode of conver-
sation in which we soon became adepts.
Dinner was over, and Mr. Hazilrigge's stock of wonderful nar-
ratives was far from exhausted. He was just beginning to tell us
a marvellous story from Johannes Tritenhemius, when Mr. Ponder
made his appearance with a fresh jug of claret. Eyeing the butler
in some displeasure, for he did not like to be interrupted, Mr. Hazil-
rigge pointed to the decanter before him, which was half full, and
said that more wine was not wanted at present.
Mr. Ponder looked as cool as the claret he had just brought, and
while placing the bottle on the table, quietly observed, "You rang, sir."
" Tour pardon!" Mr. Hazilrigge exclaimed ; " I did not ring."
" Oh ! then I must have been mistaken," the latter rejoined, re-
spectfully. " I am really very sorry, sir — very." And he left the
room with the quietest footstep imaginable.
" What can Ponder mean, I wonder ?" Mr. Hazilrigge ejaculated.
" I never knew him make such a mistake before. He must be be-
wildered by the bell-ringing out of doors."
" I hope the bells in-doors are not going to follow the example set
them outside," Cuthbert Spring remarked. " This looks like it."
He might have foreseen what was about to occur. Scarcely were
the words uttered when there arose the strangest noise imaginable, as
if all the bells in the house had gone mad. Tingle! tingle! — crash !
Jingle! jingle! — louder crash! Brangle ! brangle ! — grand crash!
— Put I despair of giving any idea of the discordant din by words.
Simultaneously we rose from our places. Miss Hazilrigge looked
alarmed, but Ora Doveton burst into a fit of laughter. As to Old
Hazy, he got excessively red in the face, and appeared half-suffocated
by passion.
" Take it easily, my good friend," Cuthbert Spring said to him —
" no use being angry at a trifle."
"'Sdeath! do you call this disturbance a trifle? It will drive me
frantic if it goes on. Ha ! — I see it all. This is the dire calamity por-
tended by my dream of the blasted yew-tree, the clock striking thirteen
at midnight, the howling of Muugo, and the half-burning kitchen fire."
At this juncture, ]\] r. Ponder returned. Amidst the extraordi-
aary uproar he maintained his unperturbed manner, and approaching
his master, said quietly, " Do you hear anything, sir ?"
" Do you suppose I am deaf, sir?" Mr. Hazilrigge rejoined, with
i tremendous explosion of rage. " I wish I were, for then I might
3scape this infernal clatter. What's the meaning of it, sir ? Why
ion't you put a stop to it ?"
MEEVTN CLITHEROE. 191
" Perhaps you will come and look at the bells, sir," Mr. Ponder re-
plied, quietly, " and then you may suggest something."
" Yes, yes, come along ! we'll all go !" Cuthbert Spring cried.
Upon this, we should all have hurried out of the room, but the de-
liberate butler would allow no such exhibition of impatience, but
calmly led us to the scene of disturbance.
In order to render the mysterious circumstance about to be desc/'bed
comprehensible, I must premise that behind the great staircase stoou ..
massive oak screen, separating the entrance-hall from the back part
of the house. Richly carved, and of great beauty, this screen con-
tained two arched entrances to a passage communicating with the
butler's pantry, housekeeper's room, servants' hall, and kitchen.
This passage, called " the Screens," from the timber partitions of
which it was formed, was long and gloomy, — it might be about six
feet wide and fourteen high, — and had a conventual appearance, owing
to the number of cell-like doors, with low arches, opening out of it.
Half way down it a flight of steep stone steps, protected by a little
wicket, conducted to the cellars, and at the further end stood the
buttery hatch.
Commencing at a point nearly opposite the entrance to the cellar-
steps, and against the slightly-projecting cornice of the oak screen
on the right side of the passage, hung thirty bells in a row. I am sure
of the number, for I subsequently counted them. All these bells
were pealing as we entered "the Screens." The effect was at once
ludicrous and appalling. The noise was furious, stunning — almost
terrifying. The bells seemed to be under some extraordinary influence,
and were so violently agitated that the spiral flexible irons supporting
them were constantly dashed against the ceiling. I expected the whole
row would tumble to the ground. The wires were also jerked with
great force. The whole household were collected on the spot. Near
the kitchen door was huddled together a group of women-servants,
headed by the fat cook, and a pretty-looking lady's-maid, who called
Ora mistress. Most of these, however, would have taken to flight,
if astonishment and terror had not detained them. The men-ser-
vants, stationed in front of the female part of the establishment, tried
to put a bolder face upon the matter, but were evidently little less
alarmed, and the only one amongst them who appeared calm was
Mr. Ponder. Not so Mr. Hazilrigge. The unearthly clangour ex-
asperated him almost to frenzy. Every nerve in his body seemed to
vibrate in unison with the infuriated bells. He stamped, Lshook
his hands, and raved like a madman. His sister endeavoured to
lead him away ; but he would not stir. The louder the bells rang,
the more frantically did he gesticulate at them.
All at once, and as if by magic, the bells stopped. The sudden
cessation of the noise, though a relief, was startling. No one made
a remark for a moment, but we consulted each other by our looks.
Ora Doveton, who had treated the matter with ridicule while at a
distance, could scarcely be persuaded to remain, when she beheld the
diabolical bells in motion. Now that they were silent, she regained
her courage, and began to smile again, though rather timorously.
192 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
Cuthbert Spring declared it was a hoax — a most unpardonable hoai
— tbougb be could offer no explanation as to bow tbe trick was
managed.
Emboldened by tbe cessation of tbe terrifying peals, tbe women-
servants now ventured to come forward, and planted themselves
beneath 'lie row of bells tbe better to examine tbem ; but tbey were
ser 4 ocreaming away in an instant, as tbe wire was observed to
.--uaKe and tbe foremost bell began to tinkle. Jts lead was soon
followed by a second — a tbird — and so on, till the wbole row was
again in motion. Tben ensued another concert as astounding as the
first ; and during its continuance Mr. Hazilrigge was thrown into
transports of fury as outrageous as those he had previously exhibited ;
but no entreaties of bis sister, or of Cuthbert Spring, could move
him from the spot. After continuing to peal in this violent manner
for full five minutes, the bells again stopped. The sound did not die
away by degrees, but appeared at its loudest, when it was checked
with startling suddenness.
Amid the silence that prevailed, Mr. Hazilrigge shouted to the butler
to bring him some implement to cut the wires.
Mr. Ponder displayed great promptitude in executing his master's
orders. He disappeared for a moment, and then returned with a
pair of pruning-shears with long handles. At the same time, old
Finch brought a step-ladder, and Rivers another lighted candle.
Seizing the shears impatiently, Mr. Hazilrigge caused the ladder to
be placed just under the bells, and aided by tbe butler, who held a
light for him, mounted the steps.
" This will stop it, I think," he exclaimed, looking round triumph-
antly. " This will stop it," he repeated, applying the points of the
shears to the wires.
But before he could bring the sharp edges to bear, the diaboli-
cal bells fired forth a volley with the suddenness and force of an
electric shock. Not singly this time, but all together. The bell
which was nearest to Old Hazy's face seemed actually to hit him on the
nose. Certainly his spectacles were knocked off and broken in their
fall. So startled was he by the sudden shock, that he lost his balance,
and must have been precipitated to the floor, if Mr. Ponder had not
fortunately caught him before he fell. Screams arose from the
women-servants, and one of the housemaids, in trying to beat a hasty
retreat into the kitchen, lost her footing, and two others, together with
the iat cook, tumbled over her. The men, in rushing to their assist-
ance, made matters worse, for three of them were stretched upon the
ground. Nor did the ladies display very great presence of mind.
Ora Doveton uttered a cry on seeing her uncle's danger, and clung
to me for support ; while poor Miss Hazilrigge, frightened almost
out of her wits, positively fell into Cuthbert Spring's arms.
During all this confusion the bells pealed on furiously as ever, and
as if deriding Old Hazy's futile attempt to check their clangour.
MERTYN CLITHEEOE. 193
CHAPTER IX.
HOW WE PASSED THE BEST OF THE EYE!NTNG AT OWLAETON
GEANGE.
The bells still pealed furiously. It was now a continuous grand
crash.
"Will nobody stop this infernal clamour?" Mr. Hazilrigge cried,
despairingly.
" I should like to know how it is to be done?" Cuthbert Spring
said. "The ladies are nearly stunned, and I shall be deaf as a
post for a month to come."
" It can't be stopped, sir," Mr. Ponder observed, in a solemn tone.
" Those bells are rung by no mortal hand."
"You think so, Ponder!" Mr. Hazilrigge exclaimed, staring at
him. " You think so — eh ?"
"I am perfectly sure of it, sir," the butler answered.
Not entirely coinciding with Mr. Ponder in opinion, I left Ora, and
quickly mounting the step-ladder, which had not been removed since
Old Hazy's misadventure, I seized one of the bells and held it firmly, so
as to prevent further oscillation.
On first touching it, I fancied I experienced a slight electric shock,
but whether the sensation was really so produced, or by the violent
action of the bell, I could not determine. "While detained in my
grasp the bell shook very perceptibly, and when released, it began to
ring as furiously as before.
After trying the same experiment on the two adjoining bells with
precisely the same result, I desired Ponder to hand me the shears, in
order that I might sever the wires, but he seemed disinclined to obey
me, expressing his firm conviction that I should only do mischief:
and Mr. Hazilrigge also begging me earnestly to desist, I reluctantly
came down from the step-ladder.
"Ponder is quite right, Mr. Clitheroe," Old Hazy said. "If
you provoke the mischievous sprites, who are evidently here at
work, they may occasion me infinitely greater annoyance. Thej r
may pinch me grievously while I am in bed — squat down heavily upon
my chest, so as to check my breathing, and prevent all power of
motion — pluck off my nightcap, or the bedclothes, and give me
my death from cold : all which things are related by Robert de
Triez in his Buses, Finesses et Impostures des Esprits Malins. Or
the sprites may do other mischief, as described by Le Loyer in
his treatise Des Spectres — such as upsetting pots, platters, tables,
o
19Js LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
and trenchers, and tumbling them down stairs — removing doors
from their hinges — and causing strange rumbling noises. No, no,
Mr. Clitheroe, it won't do to enter into a contest with invisible
foes. You see they have already broken my spectacles — a mischievous
freak that I don't remember to have met with either in Robert de
Triez or Le Loyer."
Undoubtedly the old gentleman's observations were enough to dis-
turb any one's gravity, but chancing to detect a furtive smile on the
butler's usually immovable couutenance, I fixed my regards keenly
upon him as I addressed Mr. Hazilrigge.
" I am no believer in esprits maliiis, sir," I said, "in spite of the
jvell-autheiiticated relations of such veracious writers as Eobert de
Triez and Le Loyer ; and extraordinary as this bell-ringing may appear,
I have no doubt that the trick could be easily performed by some de-
signing person, well acquainted with the premises, and aided by a
confederate."
" You look at me, sir," Mr. Ponder observed, very calmly, but
with an air of offended dignity, " as if you suspect that I have a
hand in the trick, as you are pleased to term it, but which I venture
to affirm is no trick at all. I should be ill deserving of the confi-
dence which my master reposes in me, if I could attempt to deceive
him — or allow him to be deceived in any way. My master, I am
sure, will do me the justice to say that he entertains a favourable
opinion of me."
" So I do ! — so I do !" the old gentleman cried. " I entertain the
highest opinion of you, Ponder." Then turning to me he added. " A
trustier servant does not exist than Ponder, Mr. Clitheroe. He is
my right hand." •
" Take care he doesn't get the upper hand of you, my good friend,"
Cuthbert Spring muttered.
The butler either did not hear the remark or did not choose to
notice it, but bowed profoundly in acknowledgment of his master's
commendations.
" Well, Mr. Ponder," I said, " I will frankly confess that a mo-
mentary suspicion of you did cross me, but I am now persuaded that
I did you injustice. But pray don't take offence at my asking if all
the household were assembled here just now ?"
" All, sir — male and female."
" There are no visitors to the servants in the house ?" I continued.
"Excuse the question, but you will perceive its jecessity."
" The inquiry is very proper, sir," Mr. Pondei replied. " We have
no visitors this evening in the kitchen."
" And you suspect no one ?"
" No one whatever, sir. I have already stated my belief as to the
cause of the disturbance."
" I am not as yet acquainted with this house, but Mr. Spring, in
describing it to me, stated that a portion of the old monastic grange
closely adjoins it. Is that ancient fragment a ruin ?"
" A ruin, no !" Mr. Hazilrigge cried. " It is a very comfortable
MERVTN CLITHEROE. 1<)5
farm-house, inhabited by my bailiff", Stephen Biackden, and his family.
And very quiet, respectable folks they are."
"Have you any suspicion of Biackden?" I continued, addressing
Ponder.
The butler looked surprised by the inquiry.
" Lord bless you ! no sir," he cried. " Stephen Biackden, as my
master well knows, is the last man to play mischievous tricks."
"The very last man," Old Hazy chimed in. "Stephen Biackden
is the quietest and most inoffensive person breathing."
" jN"o\v you call my attention to the farm-house, sir," Ponder cried,
as if an idea had suddenly struck him, " perhaps I ought to mention
that a certain Dr. Hooker sometimes lodges there ; and I believe lie
is there now. But he is a man of very retiring habits — quite a philo-
sopher, sir. My master knows him very well."
" Oh yes! I know Dr. Hooker," Mr. Hazilrigge said, rather
hastily, as he did not like the subject. " He often stays with
Biackden."
Before I could institute any further inquiries concerning this Dr.
Hooker, I was interrupted by Cuthbert Spring, who having been all
this time embarrassed by the charge of both ladies, neither of whom
had entirely recovered from her fright, called out to me to lend Ora
an arm, as she and Miss Hazilrigge had had quite enough of it,
and wished to retire.
Of course I instantly complied. It struck me at the moment
that Cuthbert was rather anxious to get rid of Ora in order to devote
himself exclusively to her aunt.
Just as we were quitting the "Screens," the bells left off pealing.
And with this cessation of their clatter, I may mention, the dis-
turbance wholly ceased.
Cuthbert Spring as well as myself would fain have remained with
the ladies, but our host would have us back to the claret, and we were
obliged therefore to accompany him to the dining-room.
As may be supposed, the conversation turned chiefly upon the
mysterious occurrences of the evening, and on my inquiring from
Mr. Hazilrigge whether the bells had ever rung in this extraordinary
manner before, he replied, that they liad not done so in his time, but
he thought he had heard that similar disturbances took place in
his grandfather's days ; at which period, it was, he added, that the
grange was first reported to be haunted.
This led the old gentleman into a discourse upon nocturnal noises,
which threatened to be interminable, illustrated as it was by a variety
of stories culled from his favourite authorities — Becker's World
Bewitched, Paul Grrilland, Pierre Masse, Taillepied, and Thirajus De
Locis Infestis : until at last, Cuthbert Spring's patience being fairly
exhausted, for the claret had been long since finished, and our host
was too much engrossed by his narrations to think of ordering another
bottle, — he voted that we should adjourn to the drawing-room, and
I joyfully seconded the movement.
By this time, the ladies had got over their alarm, and Ora was as
o2
196 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
lively as ever ; but her aunt had another strange incident to relate,
to which she particularly called my attention.
Mr. Ponder, she said, had just been in to inform them that he and
old Finch had made a strict search of the house, and while standing
in the corridor they had both distinctly heard the sound of foot-
steps within the haunted chamber. They listened for a few minutes
before they could muster up courage to enter the room, but on doing
so, it was perfectly empty.
" Mere fancy !" I exclaimed. " Their imaginations were heated by
what has recently occurred. If they really did hear footsteps in the
chamber, the sounds must have been caused by some living person,
and I shall make a point of carefully searching the room before I retire
to rest."
" Search as much as you please, you won't find anybody," Mr.
Hazilrigge remarked. " It was more than fancy."
Apprehensive of a fresh batch of supernatural stories from our
host, Cuthbert Spring here interposed, and begged Ora to favour
us with a song. She willingly complied, and, proceeding to the
piano, charmed me with some gay French canzonets. During a pause
in the singing, I spoke of John Brideoake's fondness for vocal music,
upon which Ora volunteered to give me his favourite song — one of
the most pathetic of Moore's Irish Melodies — which she executed
with great feeling and tenderness, and, while listening to it, I thought
that such strains must have touched John to the heart.
After expressing my admiration, I chanced to say, " By-the-by,
you have not told me how you like my friend, Brideoake ?"
The abruptness of the question brought the colour to her cheeks.
" He is a great favourite of my aunt," she replied, somewhat
evasively.
" But not equally so with you ?" I rejoined. " I am verv sorry for
it."
" Oh ! no, I don't mean that. I respect Mr. Brideoake greatly, and
may have liked him a little once, but I am very capricious, as you
will find when you know me better."
A strange thought crossed me. Why it came into my head I
cannot tell, but I fancied poor John might have been captivated by
this bewitching girl, and his passion treated with disdain. The
notion gave me a pang, and I would have questioned Ora further,
but she struck up a a sprightly sequidilla, which transported me in
a moment to the banks of the Guadalquivir. What with music
and mirthful chat the time flew by almost too quickly, and the
moment for separation for the night arrived much sooner than I
desired.
The signal for dispersion was accidentally given by our host,
who, while indulging in a nap in an easy-chair, suddenly started
up, vociferating, "There they go again! ring! ring! ring! — Will
nobody stop those confounded bells ?"
AVe assured him that he had only been dreaming, but he persisted
in asserting that he had heard the bells, and would not be convinced
MEHVYN CL1THEK0E. lD7
that they had not actually recommenced their diabolical concert^ until
he had summoned Ponder, who respectfully assured him that the mis-
chievous sprites had entirely left off their vagaries. Hereupon the
ladies prepared to retire, and as Ora bade me good night, she said
she expected I should have something surprising to relate at break-
fast. A rather tender parting, as it appeared to me, took place be-
tween Cuthbert Spring and Miss Hazilrigge, as the old bachelor
gallantly attended the elderly spinster to the door, and gave her a
flat candlestick.
We did not remain long after them, and indeed, as we as-
cended the great staircase, I heard the echoes of Ora's jocund
laughter resounding from above, but I was not indulged with another
glimpse of her witching countenance, for ere we reached the corridor
she had vanished.
Having bade good night to my host and Cuthbert Spring, I entered
the haunted chamber, and closed the door.
My feelings were very different, I confess, from those which I had
experienced when viewing the chamber by broad daylight. It now
seemed far gloomier than it had appeared then, and the sombre bed-
hangings looked perfectly funereal.
I stole a glance at the singular picture over the mantelpiece,
but I quickly withdrew my gaze, for it seemed as if the fea-
tures of the sinister-looking figure in the background were in-
stinct with life, and that the personage represented frowned at
me. Ashamed of this weakness, I marched boldly towards the
picture, and, holding up the light, gazed steadily at it. The effect
was instantly dispelled. I could see nothing but the dull canvas.
While thus occupied I fancied I heard a slight rustling sound behind
me, and turned sharply round, but I could perceive nothing.
The noise had appeared to come from that part of the room where
the bed stood, and stepping in that direction, I looked behind
its stiff hangings, and examined every part of the cumbrous piece of
furniture which could by possibility screen an intruder. No one
was there.
Not content with this scrutiny, I next commenced an investi-
gation of the whole room. An old black walnut wardrobe, of
the same date as the bed, attracted my attention, and opening it,
I found only a few of my own habiliments hanging inside it.
Heavy curtains were stretched across the deep bay-window. These
I drew aside, and let in a flood of moonlight. My investigations,
though very strictly conducted, not being rewarded by any discovery,
I persuaded myself that I had been deceived by overwrought fancy.
However, it was some time before I could prevail upon myself to
take possession of the antique bed, and several hours fled by ere I
became lost to consciousness.
198 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
CHAPTER X.
IN WHICH 1 EANCY THAT I SOLVE THE MYSTERY OE THE EXTRAOR-
DINARY BELL-RINGING.
On again opening my eyes I was glad to perceive the sun shining
brightly through the large bay-window. Everything looked so cheer-
ful now that I could not help laughing at the fears I had experienced
overnight. But I must have slept unusually soundly, and to a much
later hour than was my custom, for, on consulting my watch, I found
it was near nine o'clock — a discovery that caused me to quit my stately
couch without a moment's delay.
My toilette being expeditiously made, I went down stairs, but
before joining the party at breakfast, I resolved to have a word with
Stephen Blackden's philosophic lodger, Dr. Hooker.
With this design 1 sallied forth into the garden, and made my way
to the back of the hall, where I found the old monastic grange ; or
rather a very substantial and comfortable-looking habitation, which
had been constructed out of the ancient materials. It was a
picturesque-looking structure, being partly overgrown with ivy, and
harmonised very well with the hall, which it closely adjoined. In
fact, the two fabrics touched.
The occupants of the farm-house were Stephen Blackden, his wife,
a couple of grown-up daughters, and his son — a sharp-looking lad be-
tween thirteen and fourteen, to whom I addressed myself on entering
the farm-yard.
On inquiry from this youth, I learnt that Dr. Hooker had left them
early that morning, and on asking which room he had occupied, the
lad pointed it out to me, and I saw at once from its situation that
it must be in close connexion with the hall. I then expressed a
desire to see the room. Evidently much surprised at the request,
the lad replied that he didn't know whether I could see it, but he
would ask his mother, for his father was not within.
On this he went into the house, and presently afterwards Dame
Blackden came out to me, followed by her two daughters, rustic lasses,
not without some pretension to good looks. Dame Blackden was a
decent-looking woman, but appeared rather confused, and said she
was sorry she couldn't oblige me by a sight of the room, as her husband
had locked it up, and taken the key.
Not quite crediting this story, I inquired when she expected Dr.
Hooker to return, and she answered that he might be back in two
or three days, or even sooner — she couldn't say exactly.
"While talking to her, I noticed a long ladder reared against the
building, and thinking it might aid me in my investigations, 1 bade
young Blackden help me to place it near the window which he had
MERVVN CLITHEROE. 199
pointed out as belonging to Dr. Hooker's room, in order that I might
look in.
The lad became very red, and appeared extremely unwilling to
obey me, and his mother shook her head at him as if to negative the
order; but, as I repeated the injunction more authoritatively, he
was forced to comply, and by our joint efforts the ladder being soon
placed by the side of the window, I began to scale it.
But quick as were my own movements, I have reason to suspect
that the movements of some other party were yet more expeditious.
While we were shifting the ladder, one of the young women hastily
withdrew, and I am almost certain that I heard a tap at the door of
the room I was about to reconnoitre, coupled with a word or two of
caution from a female voice in a low key. These sounds were in-
stantaneously followed by a slight stir, as if some one had got up
and cautiously closed a door ; but at this moment I had reached the
window, and was able to gaze through its small leaden-framed panes
into the chamber.
Unluckily, the window was fastened inside, and white dimity curtains
being drawn partially across it, I could not make out the objects
within very distinctly. But it appeared pretty evident, from sundry
slight circumstances warranting such an inference, that someone had
just quitted the room.
That Dr. Hooker must be sometimes engaged in scientific expe-
riments was evident from the number of machines that I beheld;
amongst others, there was a powerful galvanic battery, with its trough,
plates, glasses, and wires complete.
On beholding this battery, I felt sure that I had detected the
secret of the mysterious disturbance of the previous night, as by
means of connecting wires all the bells about the place could be
easily set in motion by the apparatus. There were other instruments
in the room, the use of which I did not so well understand ; but
everything tended to show that Dr. Hooker must be an ingenious
personage.
On the table lay some books, which, if I had seen them in Mr.
Hazilrigge's sanctum, I might have taken for treatises on divi-
nation and magic ; and I am by no means certain, after all, that
these volumes did not come from the old gentleman's library. Besides
these there was a large piece of white cloth stamped with black mys-
tical figures, evidently derived from Cornelius Agrippa, the Clavicula
Salamonis, and Dr. Dee. There was not much furniture in the room ;
a small bed in one corner, a little clothes-press, a table, and a couple of
chairs, constituted the sum total of it; but the rest of the space was
almost entirely enc-umbered by the various machines I have men-
tioned.
In the hasty survey which I took, I tried in vain to discover a door
communicating with the hall. I could perceive none ; neither could
I detect by what means the occupant of the room had effected so
hasty a retreat.
Having finished my scrutiny, I descended the ladder, and made
200
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
a few apparently careless observations on what I had seen to Dame
Blackden and her sod, who had been watching me inquisitively from
below. I remarked that Doctor Hooker must be a very learned
man ; and she replied that he was quite a conjuror, and knew almost
as much as the old Squire himself. Indeed, he and the old Squire
often put their heads together, and when they did something extraor-
dinary was sure to come of it. This I told her I could readily be-
lieve, and added that I should be glad of an opportunity of consulting
the sagacious Dr. Hooker. Satisfied with the discovery I had made,
I then left her and returned to the garden.
The path which I now pursued led me by the side of the hall,
and against this portion of the building a large pear-tree was trained.
Remarking that the bell- wires were carried along beneatli the branches
of the pear-tree, I thought it not improbable that about this point a
junction with the wires of the galvanic battery migtli have been effected.
But I did not attempt further investigation.
How particular bells — such as the bell at the entrance gate, and
the bell belonging to the haunted chamber — had been rung I could
not so easily explain, but entertaining no doubt whatever that elec-
tricity was the agent by which the trick had been performed, in order
to satisfy myself fully on the point, I proceeded to the low wall which
I have described as skirting the inner bank of the moat, and, after
careful scrutiny, I detected a wire running along it so close to the
ground as to be wholly undiscernible except upon careful examination.
I next traced the course of this wire along the wall until within a
few feet of the entrance-gate, where it had evidently been cut off,
though no doubt during the extraordinary ringing its junction with
the gate bell was complete.
The mystery seemed thus satisfactorily solved. But I determined
to keep my discovery to myself for the present, in order to see whether
any fresh attempt at disturbance should be made at night, in which
case I would put an instantaneous stop to it.
I then entered the house, and repairing to the dining-room, found
the party assembled and breakfast nearly over.
Excepting Mr. Hazilrigge, who made no remark on the subject,
everybody was convinced that I had seen the ghost ; and Ora, while
assisting me to a cup of coffee, fixed her dark eyes inquiringly upon
me, and besought me to satisfy her curiosity without delay. She was
dying to know what I had heard, or seen.
Mr. Spring declared that I generally rose with the lark, and he could
only account for my being so late by the supposition that I must have
been kept awake more than half the night by a lengthened ghostly
confabulation.
Miss Hazilrigge came next. Rivers, the valet, she had been told
by Ponder, had knocked twice at my door and received no answer, and
on the third occasion he had entered the room and found me fast asleep
— upon which he had considerately withdrawn. This sudden change
in my hahits proved that something extraordinary must have hap-
pened, and I was bound to give them an explanation.
MERVYN CLITUEKOE. 201
Paying little attention to the raillery of the elderly couple, I told
Ora that I was sorry I could not give a distinct answer to her inquiries.
The events of the night appeared like a dream to me — a reply not at all
satisfactory to my charming catechiser, who insisted upon a relation of
my dreams, and pressed me so hard, that at last I was obliged to say
that, whatever had happened to me (and she might tax her imagina-
tion to any extent she pleased), my lips were hermetically sealed. If
I knew anything I could not disclose it. Mr. Hazilrigge declared that
I was quite right. If the ghost had admitted me to its confidence,
I was bound in honour not to betray it. Such was the opinion of
Melancthon and Ludovicus Yives, confirmed by Le Loyer. As
there was no disputing authorities like these, Ora ceased to im-
portune me, but she looked a little piqued.
Luckily a turn was given to the conversation by Cuthbert Spring,
who inquired from our host whether any discovery had been made as to
how the bells were rung overnight. Mr. Hazilrigge shook his head, and
replied that the mysterious affair was still as great a mystery as ever.
" I think I can unravel it," I said, with a smile.
Everybody looked at me in surprise.
" You don't pretend to say that you have found out how the trick
was performed — for trick it was, I maintain r" Cuthbert Spring
cried.
"I have detected the juggler who played it," I rejoined; "that
must suffice for the present."
" You have !" Mr. Hazilrigge exclaimed, starting to his feet. " Who
is it ? Tell me at once, Mr. Clitheroe. If it should be one of my
servants who has dared to practise on me thus — even Ponder himself
— he shall be instantly sent about his business."
" Rest easy on that score, sir," I rejoined. " It is not Mr. Ponder,
nor any of your servants, that you need suspect. I will point out the
real author of the trick to you by-and-by, and then you can deal with
him as you think fit."
" Hum !" Mr. Hazilrigge ejaculated. " I fancy I know whom you
allude to. But it's not he ! — it's not he !"
"More concealments?" Cuthbert Spring cried. "Are we to be
kept in the dark for ever ?"
" Yery tantalising, I must say," Miss Hazilrigge cried.
" Yery unfair !" Ora added. "Mr. Clitheroe will entirely forfeit
my good opinion if he goes on in this way."
"I hope not," I replied ; "as far as I am concerned, I have no
desire to make any mystery of the matter, and if Mr. Hazilrigge
desires it, I will name the person I mean."
" Better not," the old gentleman interposed, hastily. " As soon as
you have finished breakfast, Mr. Clitheroe, we will adjourn to my
sanctum, aud confer upon the matter."
" I shall be at your service in a moment," I replied, trying to make
up for lost time by proceeding rapidly with my meal.
" Dear heart ! brother, you are in a great hurry. You won't allow
Mr. Clitheroe to make half a breakfast," Miss Hazilrigge said.
202 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
" Step to the side-table and carve him a slice of ham, I beg of you —
our hams are excellent, Mr. Clitheroe. Perhaps you would prefer
pigeon-pie — the eggs and the cutlets are cold, I am afraid, so T won't
recommend them — but do take a little marmalade. Brother, brother
— a slice of ham instantly for Mr. Clitheroe."
" Don't hurry me, sister," the old gentleman replied, testily ; " Mr.
Clitheroe prefers intellectual food to gross diet like this. I want to
show him my copy of Pere Jacques d'Autum's I? Incredulite savante
et la Credulite ignorante, au sajet des Magiciens et Sor tiers"
" I am doing extremely well," I observed, attacking the grilled leg
of a chicken ; " but I will trouble Miss Doveton for another cup of
coffee."
" Ora ! Ora ! attend to your duty, child," the good-natured lady
cried. " More coffee to Mr. Clitheroe, and plenty of cream."
" I should compassionate Mr. Clitheroe for his poor breakfast, if
he were more communicative," Ora said, with a smile. " Perhaps he
will condescend to tell us what he intends doing this morning ?"
" In the first place, I mean to walk over to Weverham to see my
dear old friend, John Brideoake," I replied.
" Dear heart a day ! Ora," Miss Hazilrigge exclaimed, " you have
upset the coffee-cup, I declare. I never knew you so careless before.
One would think that the mention of Mr. Brideoake' s name agitated
you."
The observation was made in jest, but it almost appeared to be
called for, for my eyes being fixed upon Ora at the moment, I per-
ceived the colour mount to her cheek, and I asked myself, with some
internal misgiving, what it could mean?
" My aunt and I propose driving to Delamere Forest to see the
Headless Cross, spoken of in Nixon's prophecies," Ora said, " and
Oak Mere, and the Hind's Well, and Sevenlowes, and Swan's Well,
and Castle Cob, and some other curious spots, and we thought you
might feel inclined to accompany us."
" Nothing would afford me greater pleasure than such a drive," I re-
plied ; " but I should be wanting in friendship if I delayed another
hour to call on John Brideoake — especially after learning that he is
unwell, and has expressed a desire to see me."
" Oh! he wishes to see you! I didn't understand that," Ora re-
marked.
" To be sure he does, and very naturally," Miss Hazilrigge said.
" Go to him by all means, Mr. Clitheroe, and don't mind us in the
least. We will take another drive into the forest to-morrow, or next
day. Mr. Spring will oblige us with his company to-day."
" I shall be enchanted," Cuthbert rejoined, gallantly ; " and I
think Mervyn ought not to delay his visit to his friend."
" I never chanced to see Apphia Brideoake," Ora remarked, with a
sly glance at me. " 1 am told she is very beautiful. Is it so, Mr.
Clitheroe ?"
"Dear heart, child! what a question to ask!" INliss Hazilrigge
cried. " Don't you know r" and she suddenly stopped.
" Know what, aunt ?" Ora inquired, with affected simplicity. " Oh
MEJtYYN CLITHEROE. 203
yes ! — now I recollect. How very stupid of me ! Tiie duel was about
her, to be sure ! Pray excuse me, Mr. Clitheroe. But since 1 have
been silly enough to put such a question, perhaps you won't mind an-
swering it. Is she at all like her brother ? Is she very beautiful ?"
It will be easily imagined that these questions caused me consider-
able embarrassment, and rather interfered with the progress of my
breakfast. However, I managed to reply that I didn't think there
was any great resemblance between the brother and sister, but that
Apphia unquestionably was very beautiful.
" That I can vouch for," Cuthbert Spring remarked ; " and she is
exceedingly amiable and accomplished as well. If I had not models of
perfection before me," he proceeded, glancing from aunt to niece,
" I should say she w r as without a peer. At all events, she is a great
deal too good and too charming for the person for whom she is de-
signed."
" Mr. Malpas Sale, is it not?" Ora cried, laughing at the ex-
travagance of Cuthbert's compliments. " I have never seen him, but
I am told he is excessively good-looking. I suppose I mustn't ask
your opinion of him, Mr. Clitheroe?"
" Certainly not, my dear," Miss Hazilrigge interposed, quickly.
" How can you think of such a thing? By-the-by, Mr. Spring," she
continued, " can you tell me who the Brideoakes are ? I don't know
Mrs. Brideoake, but from the airs I am told she gives herself, she
ought to be somebody. Who was she, and whence does she come —
eh?"
" I'm sorry I cannot answer your questions," Cuthbert Spring re-
joined. " The only person originally acquainted with Mrs. Bride-
oake, Dr. Foam, always observes a discreet silence concerning her;
but I presume he imparted any information he possesses to Mrs.
Mervyn before the intimacy commenced between the two ladies —
an intimacy which you are aware has resulted in Mrs. Brideoake be-
coming virtually mistress of the Anchorite's."
" Very odd !— very odd, indeed !" Mr. Hazilrigge exclaimed, looking
up. " And you, also, are unable to enlighten us as to this proud lady's
family— eh, Mr. Clitheroe ?"
"Entirely so, sir," I replied. " And what is more extraordinary-
still, I believe John Brideoake to be as much in the dark as myself.
He has often told me that his mother can never be prevailed upon
to speak to him of his father, but always checks his inquiries on the
subject."
" I fancied, from what I could pick up from him, that Brideoake was
rather imperfectly acquainted with his genealogy," the old gentleman
said ; " and you now account for his ignorance. But why should the
mother withhold knowledge from her son to which he is entitled ?"
" I cannot answer for Mrs. Brideoake — neither can John," I
replied. " She has her own rule of conduct, and will allow no inter-
ference with it."
" Where nothing is positively known, all must be matter of mere
conjecture," Cuthbert Spring remarked; "but I have always fancied
204 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
that Mrs. Brideoake belongs to a good old Jacobite family, crushed
by the Rebellion of '45. This would account for the interest that
Mrs. Mervyn, whose predilections for the Stuarts are notorious, takes
in her."
" It accounts for it partly, but not entirely," I replied. " My
relative must have some particular interest in Mrs. Brideoake, or she
would not have devoted herself to her so warmly. Of that I am
certain. It almost seems to me that she has discovered a rela-
tion in Mrs. Brideoake."
" A connexion by marriage possibly," Cuthbert Spring replied.
" After all, it may turn out that Brideoake is an assumed name."
" Nonsense ! Mr. Spring. I cannot think that," Miss Hazilrigge
cried.
" While you are about it, you may as well try to make out that
Mrs. Brideoake is of a noble family," Mr. Hazilrigge said. " There
were several such attainted in '15 and '45, and she may belong to
one of them."
" And why not ?" Mr. Spring cried, laughing. " Many a random
shaft has hit the mark. But, as I said just now, ail this is mere
conjecture. Mrs. Brideoake may be of noble origin — and if hereditary
nobility were universally characterised by arrogance and haughty
bearing, I should have no doubt about it. She may also be related by
marriage to Mrs. Mervyn, and I think I can discern how the connexion
may have arisen but," he added, checking himself, " it is idle to
speculate further, since we cannot, by possibility, arrive at the truth."
Ora, who had been listening with almost as much attention as
myself to the foregoing conversation, now observed :
" You have been making out a delightfully romantic history for John
Brideoake. If he should turn out to be grandson of some attainted
Jacobite peer, and the title be restored ! Wouldn't that be enchant-
ing, aunt!"
" Poh ! you silly creature ! ~No such good fortune is likely to
attend the poor fellow," Miss Hazilrigge rejoined.
" Romantic as the idea may be of John Brideoake's restoration to
the forfeited honours of his ancestors, I fear there is very little chance
of such a consummation," Cuthbert Spring observed, with a smile.
" Even supposing him to be in reality what we have imagined him
to be in jest, where are the estates to come from to support a title ?' (
" Ay, where indeed ?" Mr. Hazilrigge exclaimed. " He is as poor
as a rat."
" Still, a title is a title, brother," Miss Hazilrigge said.
" And a very fine thing, too, aunt," Ora remarked ; " and if John
Brideoake were only to become a lord, he might marry some rich
heiress, and so repair his fortunes."
" In that view of the case, I trust he may get a title," Cuthbert
Spring remarked with a smile. " One thing is quite certain, that
before the projected marriage takes place between Malpas Sale and
Apphia, positive explanations as to who the Brideoakes really are
must take place."
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 205
" I should think the Sales are already well informed on that point,
Mr. Spring," Miss Hazilrigge said. " The vicar would naturally
make all inquiries ; and his son, from what I hear of him, has a keen
eye to his own interests."
Seeing that I had done breakfast, Mr. Hazilrigge now rose, and
again proposed an adjournment to his sanctum to examine his Pere
Jacques d'Autum ; but I excused myself on the plea of extreme
anxiety to see my friend, and Miss Hazilrigge coming to my aid, I
happily escaped the infliction.
Not long afterwards I set out on my expedition, and the ladies
having put on garden-bonnets in the interim, volunteered to accom-
pany me to the end of the long avenue ; on arriving at which point
Miss Hazilrigge showed me a path across the fields leading to Wever-
ham, telling me it was the shortest and pleasantest road.
Ere we separated, it was arranged that, after taking their drive,
the ladies should call for me at John Brideoake's cottage, and bring
me home in the carriage, and Miss Hazilrigge trusted that my friend
would be well enough to dine with them on that day, and she charged
me to invite him. No company were expected, and he would there-
fore be perfectly quiet.
CHAPTER XI.
I OBTAIN AN INSIGHT INTO JOHN BRIDEOAKE'S HEART.
I found John Brideoake's little domicile without difficulty, having
carefully noted its position in passing through AVeverham on the
previous day.
A pretty ornamental cottage ; small, but commodious enough for its
occupant, with a thatched roof, a rustic porch overgrown with honey-
suckles and other creepers, and whitewashed walls covered with a pro-
fusion of roses. In front, a trimly-kept garden with dainty flower-
beds, and a grass-plot planted with standard roses. John must have
become excessively fond of roses, for he had them in every variety,
and the plants appeared to be well tended. There was a cheerful look
about the little habitation that delighted me, and I lingered in the
garden, admiring its beauty and arrangement, before I advanced to
the porch.
Suddenly I heard my name pronounced by a well-known voice, and
John himself, issuing from an arbour where he had been reading,
hastened towards me, and with an exclamation of delight flung his
arms round my neck.
My poor friend ! he was sadly changed, and my heart sank within
me as I gazed at him.
If he could have stood erect, John would have been above the
206 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
average height, but his slender frame was prematurely bent, and hia
movements betokened extreme debility. He was so thin, that his
clothes hung loosely about him ; and his looks altogether were
calculated to inspire the most serious apprehensions. But in spite
of their emaciation his features were handsome — I might almost say
beautiful ; and his eyes were large and lustrous — too lustrous, indeed,
when viewed in connexion with his pallid cheeks with the ominous
red spot upon them.
While regarding him wistfully I could scarcely repress my emotion,
and I found it wholly impossible to give utterance to the expressions
of joy which a meeting with him must otherwise have prompted.
My poor friend had no such misgivings in regard to me, but
seemed unfeignedly delighted to see me, and the affectionate warmth
of his greetmg, while it endeared him still more to me, increased, if
possible, my anxiety for him.
Still keeping his arm over my shoulder, he led me into his cottage,
and opening the door of a little room, which he called his study,
ushered me into it.
A pleasant room, looking upon the garden, embowered with roses,
and furnished with book-shelves laden with the works of divines
and writers on ecclesiastical history. Amongst them I distinguished
South, Strype, Stillingfleet, Tillotson, and Sherlock. On the table
lay a large annotated Bible, with book-marks placed in it, writing
materials, and a half-finished manuscript sermon. I told John, as I
took a chair, that he had a delightful abode, and I thought he must
now lead a truly happy life.
"As happy a life as I can ever expect to lead, dear Mervyn," he
replied. " My desires are few, and my great object is to do all the
good I can. I am of some little use to my parishioners, and if more
strength were granted me I might do yet more for them. As it is,
I persuade myself that I have gained their love, and they listen to
my counsels. I have healed some differences — have brought several
erring sheep back to the fold — and I would fain believe that 1 have
been the humble instrument of rescuing one soul at least from per-
dition."
" That you discharge the duties of your sacred calling to the fullest
extent of your power, I cannot for a moment doubt, dear John," I
replied, "and fortunate it is for those amongst whom you are
thrown that they have such a pastor and friend. But you must
take care of yourself, and not tax your energies too far. The country
about you is very beautiful — indeed I hardly know a more picturesque
district — but are you quite sure that the place is healthy ? — does it
agree with you ?"
" If I suffer, dear Mervyn," he replied, " it is not from any ill effects
caused by the air of the place, but by latent disease, which I have
reason to fear is consuming me. I am quite as well here as I should
be elsewhere — perhaps better. Indeed, I should not be so weU
elsewhere, for then I should be anxious about my little flock. No,
Mervyn, the end with me cannot be far off, and I trust to be
MERVYN CLITHKHOE. 207
permitted to breathe my last amongst those whom my precepts and
example may benefit. I shall not be able to accomplish half the
work I would fain perform, but while power is granted me I will
never abandon it."
Recalling the singular conversation we had had about my friend
during breakfast that morning, I said,
" But were circumstances suddenly to change your position, John,
would you still desire to stay here ?"
" There is little likelihood of my position being changed," he re-
plied ; " but thus much I will say, that even under altered circum-
stances, if any choice were left me, I would remain here. As I have
told you, I am strongly attached to my nock, and it would pain me
to separate from them."
" I understand and respect the feeling," I replied. " You have
found a home here amongst strangers which you could not meet with
amidst your own family."
" It is quite true, Mervyn," he said, sadly. " My mother, as you
are aware, has cast me from her, and without any just cause, as I
verily believe, on my part, treats me as if I had deeply offended
her. I have disappointed her— though that can scarcely be imputed
to me as a fault, since my strength failed me in the task — but I
myself am more deeply disappointed than she can ever be. It is a
deplorable thing, to imagine a mother without love for her children ;
but on reviewing my life calmly, I am forced to come to the con-
clusion that she never loved — in the full sense of maternal love —
either myself or Apphia."
" A saddening reflection indeed, John," I replied ; " but as you have
said so much, I will not hesitate to go further, and declare my con-
viction that your mother will not scruple to sacrifice the happiness
of her children in order to carry out her own designs. She is about
to force Apphia into a match which must be productive of wretched-
ness to her. The marriage must be averted, if possible. Ill will come
of it. You know that I would never malign even an enemy, and will
believe me when I assert that Malpas Sale is in all respects unworthy
to be your sister's husband."
" You are incapable, I am sure, of asserting anything you do not
fully believe, Mervyn ; but in this instance you are influenced by
feelings that may warp your judgment. You have long entertained
a dislike to Malpas, and latterly your dislike has deepened into ani-
mosity. You can, therefore, scarcely be accounted a fair judge."
" Perhaps not, John ; but I advance nothing that I am not prepared
to prove. I did not dislike Malpas formerly without cause — neither
is it without good cause that I hate him now. I have been wronged
— deeply wronged — and must have reparation."
" But not in the way you propose, Mervyn," he replied, with gentle
gravity. " I grieve to hear you profess sentiments so totally at vari-
ance with those which Christianity inculcates, and by which alone
your conduct ought to be governed. Forgiveness may be hard
to practise, but, trust me, it is the only way to efface the sense of
208 LIVE AND ADVENTURES OF
injury. I speak to you, Mervyn, because I love you as a brother,
aucl loving you thus dearly, I cannot be blind to your faults. Tou
have many excellent — nay, admirable qualities — you are generous,
enthusiastic, warm-hearted, loyal — but you are also impetuous,
quick in anger, disposed to be resentful. It is the latter teDdency,
more than any other, that I desire to see corrected ; because it
wars most with your present happiness, and may endanger your
future weal. I do not say that you are unforgiving — far from it —
such conduct would be incompatible with the generosity of your
nature. But your wrath, easily kindled, does not soon die out, and
you believe yourself bound by laws of honour to obtain satisfaction
for wrongs, sometimes imaginary, but even if real, not to be thus re-
paired. Leave vengeance in His hands, who alone is able to repay."
Grentle and kindly-intended as was John's reproof, it somewhat
chafed me, and I answered, I fear, rather impatiently,
"lam quite sure you are right, John, but I should play the hypo-
crite were I to admit that I shall act as you would have me act.
Believing Malpas Sale to be a villain, I do not mean to rest till I
have unmasked and punished him."
" Malpas may be as bad as you represent him, though I hope not.
But grant that he is so, do not you, Mervyn, commit a fault as
grave as any you reprobate. Leave others to decide the question.
Tou cannot act both as accuser and judge."
" Act as judge yourself, then, John, and decide between us. Has
Malpas not robbed me of my fortune ? Has he not snatched from me
your sister, whom I loved better than life ? These are the wrongs that
goad me to call down punishment upon his head. You, John
— pure and virtuous yourself — can scarcely believe in the misdeeds
of others. In addition to the injuries he has done me, enough to
warrant the most terrible reprisals on my part, Malpas has carried
desolation into a once happy family — has destroyed the happiness
of a fond husband — taken away from him his wife "
" Hold ! Mervyn," John interrupted. " This last charge, at all
events, falls to the ground. I am aware of the unhappy case to which
you refer, and I am persuaded that Malpas was not the author of the
wrong then committed."
" Tou believe, then, that Simon Pownall was the destroyer of Ned
Culcheth's peace ?" I cried.
"I do," he answered. "I have means of knowing the truth of
this lamentable case, and I believe it to be as I have stated."
" Tou are imposed upon, John," I said.
" Alas! not so," he replied, sadly but firmly. " It is you, Mervyn,
who are blinded by prejudice. May you, one day, see the truth
clearly — and not, as now, through a glass darkly !"
He spoke with so much earnestness and conviction that I was
staggered ; but a moment's reflection brought me back to my origi
nal opinion.
" Poor Sissy's avowal alone shall satisfy me," I cried.
MERVYN CLITUEROE. 20i
" If that will suffice, perhaps it may be obtained," he returned.
" How ?" I exclaimed, startled. "Do you know where she is ?"
" I am not at liberty to answer any questions on the subject," he
said. " There is only one person to whom I can reveal anything
that has been divulged to me. To Sissy's unhappy husband I mav
possibly speak — but to no other."
" Then do speak to him, John, I adjure you ; and perhaps, through
your intervention, something of peace may be restored to his breast.
At all events, he may be brought to a better frame of mind."
" Send him to me, and I will do all that in me lies to help him,"
the young curate said, fervently. "Bat do not raise your hopes too
highly," he continued, with an expression of great sadness. " Poor
Ned has had a severe trial ; but the worst is not yet over. Ques-
tion me no further, I pray of you. Let us change this painful
theme."
" So be it," I replied, reluctantly. "Let us return to a matter
in which I myself am personally interested. "Will you not oppose
your sister's marriage with Malpas ?"
" I do not conceive that I should be warranted in opposing it —
neither do I think that any opposition on my part would be avail-
ing. I have already remonstrated with my mother, and have angered
her so much against me by doing so, that she will neither write to
me herself, nor suffer Apphia to write to me. I am unwilling to
widen the breach. My mother, with all her faults of temper, is still
my mother, and I owe her a son's obedience."
" But, by the same rule, your sister is your sister, and as a brother
you are bound to save her from certain misery."
" If I saw the matter with your eyes, I might act differently,
Mervyn. But Apphia seems reconciled to the match. Tou know
my weaknesses, and I could not, therefore, disguise them from you,
even if so disposed. Naturally timid, in my mother's presence I
lose all my self-possession, and I could no more dispute with her
than I could wrestle with an athlete. She has always been accus-
tomed to exact obedience from me and Apphia, and neither of us
have ever disputed her control."
" I know it, John — but if your sister's happiness depended upon
your resolution, would you not throw off this unfortunate weakness ?
— for such, in truth, I esteem it."
" I must first feel that the effort is needed. It might be fatal to
me. I am equal to little now."
" Forgive me, John, if I put a question to you, which has its
origin in no idle curiosity, but in sincere interest in yourself. Tour
mother's proud deportment has excited surprise, and I have been
asked what there is to justify her haughtiness — in a word, whe-
ther she belongs to some family of good lineage. I could offer no
information, for I have none to give."
"Neither can I afford you any information, Mervyn, being in
utter ignorance as to my mother's family. Such a statement
might appear incredible to any one except yourself, who know
p
210 LIFE AND ADVExHTUEES Or
my mother, and are aware of the extraordinary reserve of her cha-
racter. What may be her motives for casting an impenetrable veil
over her family history I pretend not to divine. But she has done
so from my earliest years, and could never be induced for a moment
to withdraw it. All I know relative to my father is that he died
before my mother gave birth to Apphia, and that the marriage, either
on one side or the other — but probably my mother's — had offended
her connexions so deeply, that they disowned her altogether, and
she was consequently plunged into the greatest distress. At that
period we all suffered much, and my proud mother most of all. She
forbade us then ever to speak of her relations — ever to inquire after
them — and I religiously obeyed her. Apphia, indeed, has questioned
her repeatedly in my hearing, but has always been sharply checked
for her curiosity. So little do I know about myself, Mervyn, that I
am by no means sure that the name I bear is my rightful name.
Enough! — it will serve to be inscribed upon my tombstone."
Profound emotion kept me silent for a short space. At last I
said,
" But if you are indifferent to your parentage, John, I am not.
Have you any objection to my instituting inquiries for you ?"
" I would rather you did not. I should gain nothing by learning
a secret which my mother has sedulously kept from me. What boots
it, Mervyn, who I am ? I am alone in the world — or nearly alone.
Heaven knows that I seek to honour and love my mother, and strive
to obey her ! Heaven knows, also, that I dearly love my sister,
though I am not permitted to behold her, or to profit by her love !
I have no kinsman ; and except yourself, my friend and brother, I
have none to care for me — none to sympathise w r ith me, or to share
my sorrows."
He bowed his head, and we were again silent.
" Yet do not think that I repine," he continued, more cheerfully.
" While I can be useful in my limited sphere, 1 ought to be content."
" Long as I have known you, John," I exclaimed, regarding him
with admiration, " I never fully understood you till now."
" You overrate me, my dear friend," he replied, kindly. " Suffering
has made me a better man. By constantly fixing my thoughts on
Heaven, I have been able to shake off the ties of earth. Y^et when
1 had emancipated myself from thraldom, and conquered, as I deemed,
all my worldly feelings and passions, 1 was again for awhile enslaved."
1 thought this a fitting opportunity for putting a question I had
meditated ; and I inquired it his heart had ever been touched ?
He would not hide the truth from me, but answered, though with
some bashfulness,
" Yes, I was foolish enough to indulge for a time a hopeless
passion. Before becoming aware of it, I had swallowed the in-
toxicating potion, and, under its influence, 1 lost my customary self-
control. 1 loved madly — yes, madly is the word — for what but
madness could it be in me to aspire even in thought to a young
and lovely heiress?"
MERYYN CLITHEKOE. 211
" Did you ever declare your passion, John ?" I said, regarding him
earnestly.
"Never in words," he replied, an almost maidenly blusli suffusing
his pale cheek. " I should not have dared to give utterance to
my feelings."
"" Speak to me without reserve, John, for you know you are speaking
to a brother. Did she — did the object of your regard seem to en-
courage your suit ? Tell me the exact impression produced upon you
by her manner?"
* " My impression, then, is, Mervyn, that she perceived she had
made my heart captive, and merely encouraged me for her amusement.
"When she found she had gone too far, she made me clearly understand
that she was indifferent to me. Alas ! it was then too late for me.
The arrow was shot which will rankle in my breast so long as sensi-
bility lasts within it."
"My poor friend !" I exclaimed, with deep sympathy. " But you
may find some other person to whom you can transfer your love."
" Love like mine, Mervyn, cannot be transferred," he replied,
mournfully. " My heart is not susceptible of a second impression."
" You have not confided to me the name of the syren who has be-
witched you, John, but I guessed it from the first. And I admit that
her beauty is quite sufficient to account for the influence she lias
gained over you — nay more, I will own to you, my dear friend, that 1
was well-nigh falling into the same snare myself."
"You!" he exclaimed, quickly, and putting his hand to his heart
as if to repress a pang, while a hot flush sprang to his cheek. Then
suddenly recovering himself, he added, "Forgive me, Mervyn, for
the selfish feeling which crossed me for a moment. Why should you
not love Ora Doveton ? Why should my senseless passion, which
ought never to have been indulged, prevent you from winning her
regard — from claiming her hand ? Let no thought of me stand be-
tween you and her. If you love her, it will be my fondest aspiration
that you may win her. I had, indeed, hoped that another union
might have brought us more closely together — might have made us
really brothers, as we are in regard — but that hope is crushed.
Whether Ora is as well calculated to make you happy as Apphia,
cannot now be considered. You have lost the one, mav vou gain the
other !"
" I fully appreciate the unheard-of generosity of your motives,
John," I said. "But I have no reason to believe that Ora has
thought seriously about me for a moment. Nay, now that I am
better acquainted with her character than I was at first, I cannot
help suspecting that she has been trifling with me in the same heart-
less manner that she trifled with you. But I am still able to stop."
" But why should you stop ?" John cried. " Not from considera-
tion to me — for I am out of the question. Besides, it would be idle
to institute any comparison between us. Though merely coquetting
with me, Ora could scarcely be otherwise than sincere with you,
p2
212 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
formed as you are to please. No— no — our cases are widely different*
Success awaits you, though failure has attended me."
I regarded him in astonishment, scarcely able to credit such self-
abnegation, even in him.
" I should not be the true friend I am to you, John," I said, " if I
were to yield to your generous solicitations. Not till I am assured
that Ora lias no regard for you, will I indulge another thought of
her."
"Take the assurance from me," he said. " I am not likely to be
deceived on such a point."
" I do not know that," I replied. " Your diffidence makes you de-
spair where a bolder man might justly feel confident. Again, I say,
I must ascertain from her own lips that Ora has dismissed all
thoughts of you before I advance another step."
"You must do no such thing, Mervyn," John said, earnestly.
" Promise me that you will never mention what has passed between
us to Ora. I am ashamed of my folly and presumption. Do not ex-
pose me to ridicule. I have laid bare my heart to you as a brother.
Respect its secrets."
" Calm yourself, dear John," I said. " Your wishes shall be obeyed.
"What is more, I believe you are right. Neither of us ought to think
of Ora. What I have just learnt explains your absence yesterday.
You shun a meeting with her."
" Till 1 am completely cured, I judge it safest not to meet her,"
he returned. " But in truth I did not feel equal to dining out yester-
day — so the excuse was justifiable."
As Ave were talking, I perceived an old man, with a leathern bag
slung across his shoulders, enter the garden, and march towards the
cottage door.
" "Whom have we here, John ?" I asked.
" The postman," he replied. " His visits are rare here. I receive
few letters. You have been my best correspondent."
Shortly afterwards a pretty little rustic-looking girl, about ten years
of age, entered the room with a letter on a tray, and handing the
missive to John, and dropping a curtsey to me, she retired.
" Apphia's handwriting !" John exclaimed, in surprise, after glanc-
ing at the superscription of the letter. " What can it mean ? The
poor girl must have written to me without our mother's knowledge ?"
He then paused, and his countenance lost the glad smile which had
for a moment illumined it. "A presentiment crosses me that this is
a messenger of ill tidings. Have you never felt, Mervyn, ere opening
a letter, that you had a notion of its contents — and could tell whether
it brought weal or wo ?"
" I have experienced something of the sort, I confess. But I trust
your present forebodings may not be verified."
" Wo will ascertain at once," he replied.
" Hold, John," I cried, rising. " I will quit you for a short time, in
order that you may read your letter tranquilly. Apphia may write
to you about many circumstances which might render my presence
undesirable."
MERYTN CLITnEEOE. 213
" I thank you for your consideration, dear Mcrvyn," lie replied.
" It may possibly be as you suggest. I will call you when 1 have read
the letter."
Taking my hat, I stepped forth into the garden. After lingering
near the flower-beds for a few minutes, finding that John did not
summon me, I walked out into the highroad, which a little further on
was completely overshaded by large trees, forming a natural avenue to
the church — a structure of great beauty and antiquity, distant about
three hundred yards. Between the church and my friend's dwelling
several cottages intervened, and amongst others a small public-house.
At the door of the latter stood a tall man, evidently making in-
quiries, and as he turned towards me I recognised Ned Culchetk.
Indeed, I should have known Ned at once if I had seen Hubert, who
now sprang over a hedge, and came bounding towards me.
On descrying me, the keeper hurried forward, and we soon met.
He told me he had been to Owlarton Grange, and learning there that
I had gone over to "Weverham, he had followed me, and had just
been inquiring at the public-house for Mr. Brideoake's dwelling.
Ned added that he was sure he was now on Simon Pownall's track,
and felt confident, ere long, of discovering the rascal's retreat. Tt
would surprise me, he said, to learn that Simon must be somewhere
in the neighbourhood of Weverham. He had picked up this piece of
information by playing the spy upon Chetham Quick, and had
managed to overhear a private conference between Chetham and the
young gipsy, Obed ; — the end of which was that Obed was engaged
to convey a letter secretly to Pownall. The pair had not spoken of
Pownall by his right name, but Ned was certain that their discourse
referred to him.
Obed started on his mission before daybreak that morning, and
Ned, who had never lost sight of him, followed him as closely as
he judged prudent, making sure that the gipsy would guide him to
Pownall's retreat. But the wary vagabond must have found out
who was upon his heels, for on entering Weverham Glen he entirely-
disappeared, and after a couple of hours' fruitless search, aided by
Hubert, Ned was obliged to quit the ravine. Obed, no doubt, had
waded for some distance in the brook to destroy the scent, for the
hound lost it on the banks. What became of him afterwards Ned
could not discover.
Ned's scheme having thus failed, he had naturally gone on to
Owlarton Grange to consult me. His relation was curious, and might
have interested me more, if I had not been chiefly struck by the sin-
gular opportuneness of the poor fellow's arrival.
After debating with myself whether I should tell him what John
Brideoake had intimated to me about Sissy, I arrived at the conclu-
sion that any disclosure respecting her would come best from the
young clergyman himself, and I therefore said,
" Well, at all events, whether you find Pownall or not, Ned, you
have not come hither on a bootless errand. Mr. Brideoake can give
you some intelligence of your wife. What it is, I know not, for
he declined to communicate any particulars to me — saying they
214 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
were for your ear alone ; but I must prepare you for bad tidings,
for such, I fear, they will prove."
" I have not lost her ?" Ned said, halting and looking hard at me.
" Tou don't mean to prepare me for that ?"
"No — no," I replied ; "your apprehensions of calamity far out-
strip my meaning. I only judge, from Mr. Brideoake's manner, that
he has something distressing to relate, and I deem it right to prepare
you for it."
" Nothing more distressing can be in store for me than what lias
already occurred," Ned replied, marchiug by my side as I proceeded
towards the cottage.
Before introducing the poor keeper, I thought it best to acquaint
John with his unexpected arrival, and, leaving Ned and his hound
in the garden, I entered the cottage alone.
I found my friend in a state of utter prostration, evidently oc-
casioned by the perusal of his sister's letter.
" I am not the only sufferer in my family, Mervyn," he said.
" Apphia appears to be equally unhappy. The view I took of her
position, which I explained to you just now, is entirely changed by
the details she gives me in this letter, which, as I supposed, is
written without my mother's knowledge. I now agree with you that
her marriage with Malpas ought never to take place. And yet to
thwart my mother ! — to disobey her — to incur her lasting displeasure
— perhaps her malediction — it is frightful to think of it."
And his countenance proclaimed the terror and agitation to which
his thoughts gave birth.
" Does xVpphia urge you to interfere, John ?" I cried. " I ask only
that."
" She does, and of course I cannot refuse the appeal. But, as I
have already told you, the effort will cost me my life."
"Courage! John, courage!" I exclaimed. " .Rouse yourself and
be a man. Tou shall have ail the support I can give you. Though
the difficulties of the task may appear insurmountable at first, they
will dwindle into nothing if met firmly. But we will talk of this
anon. I have another matter to bring before you now. There
is a person at hand whose claims upon your attention are urgent,
and ought not to be deferred."
And I then acquainted him with the unexpected arrival of Ned
Culcheth, and entreated him to admit him.
" Assuredly I will see him," he replied, " though I would willingly
have chosen another occasion — when my nerves might be more
firmly strung — for an interview with the poor fellow. Where is he
— in the garden ? — bid him come to me, and I will speak to him at
once. And I must beg you, dear Mervyn, to let me have some
quarter of an hour's discourse with him in private. I will do my
best to console him under his heavy affliction."
On this I stepped forth, and calling to Ned Culcheth, bade him
go in. He at once obeyed, uncovering his glowing locks, and bowing
nis tall head as he crossed the little threshold. I kept Hubert with
me, and taking the hound into the arbour, sat down to meditate.
MEBTTS CLITIlEltOJi. 215
Many minutes had not elapsed when a startling noise was heard at
the door of the cottage, as of some one rushing hurriedly forth, and
Hubert, who was couched near me, sprang up, and dashed out of
the arbour.
I followed, and was just in time to stop poor Ned, who was making
his way wildly across the little parterres and grass-plot, regardless
of the shrubs and flowers that he trampled beneath his feet.
His looks were fearfully haggard, and his demeanour desperate.
Nevertheless, I ran up to him, and laying hold of his arm, arrested
him forcibly.
" What are you about, Ned ?" I cried.
"lam about to put an end to a wretched existence," he re-
joined, in a voice scarcely human. " Stand oft'! and let me go."
" Never, for the fell purpose you are bent on, Ned," I exclaimed,
still keeping fast hold of him. " What's the matter with you, man ?
Have you become suddenly demented ?"
" Ay !" he replied, dashing his cap on the ground with a force and
fierceness that made Hubert spring back in alarm, " you've said the
w T ord. I am demented. I've suffered enough," he continued, with
a burst of anguish very painful, indeed, to hear. " I can bear no
more. Let me die."
" Forbear, Ned !" I sternly and authoritatively exclaimed, for I
felt this was the only way to deal with him. ;< By raising your
hand against yourself to escape present misery, which must and can
be borne, you will destroy all your hopes of hereafter. Tour present
paroxysm of grief will abate, and you will then view matters differ-
ently. Give heed to what the good young man you have just
abruptly quitted may say to you. Go back to him, — go back at
once, or you will for ever forfeit my esteem — and return to me when
you are calmer."
Ned looked at me for a moment, wildly, almost savagely, but he
gradually quailed beneath my steady gaze, groaned, let his head fall
upon his breast, and, without a word, went back to John, who was
standing beneath the porch anxiously watching us, and re-entered
the cottage with him.
I returned to the arbour with Hubert, who seemed instinctively
to comprehend that something was amiss with his master, for he
whined and looked quite downcast.
A long interval occurred before Ned's footsteps were again heard.
Hubert and I came forth to meet him. The poor fellow's heart had
evidently been melted — his eyes were red with recent tears.
" I am calmer now, sir," he said, in a low tone, and with a look of
humble resignation; "I will do whatever you and Mr. Brideoake bid
me."
" Then you must remain with me here till to-morrow, my poor
friend," John Brideoake said, issuing from the porch. " Tou know
why I desire you to stay," he added, with a certain significance, "and
what I would have you do."
"I do, sir," Ned replied; "and I hope Heaven will grant me
strength to go through with it!"
216 LIFE AND ADVENTUltES OF
At this juncture the sound o carriage wheels was heard in the
distance, and Mr. Hazilrigge's barouche, with the ladies inside it,
could be descried coming slowly along the road towards the cottage.
" Make my excuses to Miss Hazilrigge, Mervyn," John cried,
hastily. " I cannot see her or Ora to-day. Come over to me to-
morrow morning. I have much to say to you. This poor fellow,"
he added, pointing to K"ed, " will remain with me. He will have
need of preparation — and so shall I — for the painful task which we
have to perform. Farewell, my dear friend !"
Signing to Ned Culcheth to come with him, John then retired,
and Hubert followed them into the cottage.
I met the carriage at the gate, and made the best excuses I could
for John. Both ladies displayed great interest concerning him, and
I had some difficulty in preventing Miss Hazilrigge from getting
out to see him. She felt sure she could be of service to him, she de-
clared. Could she send him anything? — wine — chicken-broth —
calves-foot jelly, or blanc-mange ? I declined all for my friend. At
last the steps were let clown, and I got into the carriage, taking a
place beside Cuthbert Spring.
AVe had not a very cheerful drive back to Owlarton Grange,
for a gloom was cast over the party by the accounts I gave them
Df poor John's alarming state of health.
CHAPTEE XII.
THE LEGEND OF OWLAETON GEANGE. MY ADYENTITEE IN THE
HAUNTED CHAMBER.
Me. Haztleigge was out when we returned to the grange, and
recent occurrences indisposing me for anything like light conver-
sation, I at once withdrew to my own room, and continued there
until the hour for dinner had arrived.
On descending, I found good, kind Miss Hazilrigge consulting with
her brother about the propriety of having John Brideoake at the
grange to be nursed, and the worthy old gentleman told her to do just
as she pleased. She had his full consent to send for John at once, and
nurse him as long as might be needful. I offered no objection, of
course, though I felt almost certain that John would not accede to
the arrangement. Cuthbert Spring expressed extraordinary sympathy
for the invalid, and offered many suggestions for his benefit ; but I
could not help fancying that the interest he manifested was not entirely
disinterested, but had its origin in a desire to please Miss Hazilrigge.
Ora's vivacity had completely deserted her, and I could scarcely
recognise in her the lively girl of the day before. Very little con-
versation passed between us at dinner. This was more my own
A1JSRVTN CL1THER0E. 217
fault than hers, I suspect, for she vras too quick not to perceive that
my manner towards her was changed ; neither could she be ignorant
of the cause of the alteration. There was no longer any exchange of
speaking glances between us, but on the contrary a growing coldness,
which Ave both of us understood and felt, though neither cared to ex-
plain.
If there was any flirting that day, it was between Cuthbert Spring
and Miss Hazilrigge, and I began to think it not unlikely that a match
might be struck up between them. The ladies retired soon after
dinner, for Ora complained of a severe headache.
Supernatural stories of course formed the staple of our conversa-
tion while discussing our claret. Our host inquired whether I had
ever heard the legend connected with his house, and on my answering
in the negative, and expressing a great desire to hear it, he was good
enough to relate it to me.
" You have no doubt," he premised, " remarked a curious picture
hanging over the mantelpiece in the haunted chamber?"
I replied in the affirmative, and that the picture had struck me
forcibly.
" The principal personage represented is my great-grandfather,
Clotten Hazilrigge, surnamed, from his parsimonious habits, the
' Miser.' The figure standing behind him is his much-trusted, but
perfidious servant, Jotham Shocklach. Old Clotten little thought,
when causing that portrait to be painted, that he would preserve
the features of his murderer."
"The portraits are admirably painted," I observed, "and the artist
must have caught the exact expression of the originals."
" He was too indifferently paid, I make no doubt, to flatter. Old
Clotten looks like what he was, and Jotham has the air of an assassin.
But to my story. Clotten Hazilrigge had one son, Leycester, with
whom he quarrelled, on account of his alleged extravagance, though
I really believe the young man gave him no just cause of complaint
on that score. But the miser could not bear to part with money
even to his only son. His wife — fortunately, perhaps, for her —
died about three years after their marriage — tradition says of a broken
heart, but this is beside the purpose. Clotten lived by himself at
the grange, and his penurious habits increased as he grew older.
He was morose, unsociable, tyrannical, and was disliked both by
tenants and neighbours. He visited no one, invited no one, and
would allow no one to enter the house except on matters of bu-
siness. He discharged all his servants except Jotham Shocklach,
and in him, who merited the trust so little, he reposed implicit confi-
dence.
" Now it was well known that old Clotten had vast hoards of gold
secreted in the house, and his steward often remonstrated with him
on the danger he ran from robbers by keeping such large sums of
money in his possession ; but the miser despised the warnings ; de-
nying that he had any secret hoards, and declaring that if thieves broke
into the house they would find nothing. And Jotham privately con-
218 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
firmed the assertion, for though he knew, he said, that his master
must have a heap of treasure somewhere about the premises, he
could never find out where it was secreted.
" But he did discover the hidden store at last. One night, it is sup-
posed — for this must rest on conjecture — lie entered his master's
bed-chamber, and found, wide open, a narrow sliding door in the panels,
of the existence of which he must have been previously unaware.
Through this aperture he passed — stealthily, no doubt — and tracking
a strait passage contrived in the thickness of the walls, arrived at a
small chamber without a window, constructed for a priest's hiding-
place, for our family once were Papists. Here he discovered old
Clotten, with a huge chest full of money-bags before him.
"No eye beheld them, no tongue related the dark transaction, yet
the state in which all was subsequently found showed clearly what
took place. Old Clotten must have sprung from his hoards like a
tiger, and have seized Jotham by the throat, for a piece of the villain's
cravat was found in the miser's gripe. But Jotham was a strong man,
and, no doubt, shook himself easily free. With a heavy mallet, which
it is supposed he picked up in the priest's hiding-place, he dealt his
master a fatal blow on the head, and then stuffing his pockets with
gold, and taking as many money-bags as he could carry, hurried to
the secret door.
" His horror and fright may be conceived on finding it closed. The
lamp brought by his master had been crushed and extinguished in
the death-struggle. It was found beneath the miser's body. In vain
the murderous villain searched for the secret spring. In vain he
tried to batter open the door with the mallet. It was of stout oak,
and resisted his attempts. He was caught in a trap from which there
was no escape. He would only be liberated to meet the shameful
death he merited. Yet a worse fate awaited him in his self-contrived
prison.
" Next day, some tradesfolk from Weverham came to the house,
but finding none to answer them, they went away. This did not excite
surprise, for the miser's habits were so eccentric that it was thought
he might have gone forth with his servant ; but when he did not re-
turn on the succeeding day, some alarm began to be felt. Still
no one entered the house until the evening of the third day after the
murder, when the steward and some of the villagers got in through a
window, and, after searching about, went to the miser's bedroom.
AA r hile there, they heard a faint knocking against the wall. Somebody
must be shut up there, the steward cried — old Clotten, or Jotham —
perhaps both. He called out, and the knocking was renewed, but
very feebly. Then there was a groan, and all became silent. After
some search, the secret door was discovered ; the spring was touched,
and it flew open.
" A terrible spectacle presented itself to the steward, who was the
first to enter — Jotham Shocklaoh lying dead with the mallet in his
hand. The wretch had only just expired. Bags of money were near
him, and the floor of the narrow passage was strewn over with pieces
MEEVYN CLITHEROE. 219
of gold. They dragged out the body of the murderer, aud then, pro-
ceeding further, discovered his victim. All was now explained.
" After old Clotten's tragical end, my grandfather, of course, came
into possession of the property, and caused the secret door to be nailed
up. Notwithstanding this, the restless spirit of Jotham Shocklach
disturbed the house. Mysterious knockings, groans, and other ap-
palling sounds were heard in that room at dead of night. These noc-
turnal disturbances, however, had ceased for many years, and only
began again about four months ago, when Cuthbert Spring occupied
the haunted chamber."
Tea being announced soon after this recital, we obeyed the sum-
mons, and found Miss Hazilrigge alone, for Ora's headache having in-
creased, she had retired for the night. As we could have no music,
in consequence of Miss Doveton's indisposition, we sat down to a
rubber of whist, and, in cutting for partners, Mr. Spring fell to Miss
Hazilrigge's share — a circumstance that diverted them immensely. I
felt so distrait that I scarcely knew w r hat I was about, and it is sur-
prising that I did not commit some unpardonable blunders. We did
not play more than one game, which was won by the old bachelor and
his partner, and then Miss Hazilrigge bade us good night, saying she
must see how Ora was going on. As on the former occasion, Mr.
Spring gallantly attended her to the door, where they had a few more
"last words."
No further bell-ringing having taken place that night I deferred
my solution of the mystery till the morrow, but I put a few more
questions to our host relative to Dr. Hooker. From Old Hazy's de-
scription of the Doctor, he appeared to be well skilled in chiromancy,
physiognonfy, necromancy, natural and judicial astronomy, could cast
nativities, interpret dreams, and do many other wonderful things be-
sides. I dare say the old gentleman did not tell me half the delu-
sions that had been practised upon him by the Doctor, but he told
me quite enough to show me to what extent he had been duped. I
tried in vain to open his eyes to the man's real character. He
would not believe that he was a charlatan. The world, he said,
always called the wisest men charlatans, but he knew better, and
would never join in the senseless cry. Dr. Hooker had not overrated
his influence over his dupe. When I affirmed that I was certain
that Hooker had rung the bells, I rather raised than lowered him
in the old gentleman's opinion, for he declared that such a feat could
not have been accomplished except by supernatural aid ; and this
alone was sufficient to establish the Doctor's extraordinary powers.
No, no ; I must not attempt to depreciate such a man. I did not
reveal what I knew of the galvanic battery and the electric wires — for
I kept that disclosure for another occasion. Cuthbert Spring made
no remarks about Dr. Hooker, for he was too well aware of Old
Hazy's peculiarities to meddle with them.
Midnight had nearly arrived before our host released us.
Once more I was alone in the haunted chamber. Again I glanced
at the portraits of the miser and his murderous servant, and, now
220 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
that I was acquainted with the legend connected with the picture,
it impressed me still more powerfully. In consequence, no doubt,
of the story I had heard from Old Hazy, superstitious fancies
crowded thickly upon me, and all my efforts to shake them off were
unavailing. As on the previous night, I drew back the heavy cur-
tain from before the deep bay-window, and allowed the moonlight to
stream into the chamber. I took some precautions which 1 had
not deemed needful on the former occasion. Taking my case of
duelling-pistols from my portmanteau, I loaded the weapons, and laid
them on the table. Then seating myself in an easy-chair, I deter-
mined to keep watch, but in spite of my resolutions of vigilance, sleep
after awhile stole over my eyelids.
How long I slumbered I cannot say, but I was suddenly aroused
by a strange and startling noise, which I at once recognised as the
ghostly knocking described by Cuthbert Spring. I listened intently.
After the lapse of about a minute there was another heavy blow as if
dealt by a mallet — a third — a fourth — up to ten ; with the same inter-
vals between each.
The unearthly sounds seemed to proceed from the lower part of the
wall on the left of the bed. But they did not appear to be stationary.
On the contrary, the blows were dealt at various points inside the
wainscot.
I am not ashamed to own that I felt appalled. My taper had burnt
out, and the wan light of the moon, which must have been struggling
with passing clouds, only served to make darkness visible. The further
end of the chamber in which the bed stood was plunged in deep
shade.
While peering into this obscurity I fancied I saw a figure standing
near the bed. It was perfectly motionless, and scarcely distinguish-
able ; but as far as I could make it out, the attire of the phantom —
or semblance of attire — was like that worn by Jotham Shocklach, as
represented in the portrait — while the features, as far as they could
be discerned — were those of the murderous servant. Something like
a thin shroud hung over the lower part of the figure, and in its right
hand it held a mallet.
Terror completely transfixed me. I strove to speak — but my tongue
clove to the roof of my mouth. My limbs refused their office, and
I could not grasp my pistols. The figure remained motionless and
stationary, half concealed by the dark drapery of the bed, from which
it could scarcely be distinguished. As I gazed at it, for 1 could not
withdraw my eyes, it began to glide slowly towards me. ~No sound
that I could detect attended its progress.
My terror increased. At length the phantom came under the in-
fluence of a ray of moonlight streaming athwart the chamber, which
lighted up its ghastly and cadaverous features. It then paused ; and
at that moment I recovered my firmness, for I felt convinced that
I had to do with one of mortal mould. Starting to my feet, J de-
manded of the ghost, in tones that sounded hoarse and strange in my
own ears, — who it was, — and what it wanted P
MEUVYN CLITIIEROE. 221
Tlie apparition made no answer, but pointed to the door, as if en-
joining my departure. But I did not move.
"You would fain persuade me," I cried, in a bolder tone than I
could at first assume, " that you are the restless spirit of the mur-
derer, Jotham Shocklach. But I know better. Unless I am much
mistaken, we have met before, and this is not the first time I have seen
you play the ghost."
The phantom was evidently much discomposed, and I felt satisfied
that I was right in my conjecture,
" It is useless to attempt to impose upon me further," I cried, in a
voice of thunder. " I know you, rascal. Tou are Dr. Hooker, alias
Simon Pownall."
The ghost would have beaten a hasty retreat, but I snatched up a
pistol.
"Attempt to stir," I exclaimed, levelling it at him, "and I will
send you to join the miscreant whose likeness you have assumed."
Probably the ghost thought I should put my threat into execution,
and seeing no chance of escape, dropped on its knees.
" Spare me !" it ejaculated in a piteous voice, which I instantly re-
cognised as that of Simon Pownall — "spare me, and I will con-
fess all."
" Ho ! ho ! So it is you, then, Pownall ?" I cried.
" Why, yes ; there's no use in denying it, since you've found me
out."
" Well, get up," I cried, drawing near to him. " I don't want to
take your life, or even harm you, unless you force me to do so by
attempting to escape. You are my prisoner. You must answer to
Mr. Hazilrigge for entering his house in this unlicensed manner ; as
well as passing yourself off upon him under a false name. I have been
in search of you, but I little expected to find you here."
By this time, Simon, finding that I did not mean to injure him, had
recovered some of his natural audacity.
" I can easily satisfy old Hazy," he replied. " He won't punish
me."
" Don't make too sure of that, rascal," I returned. " Mr. Hazil-
rigge is credulous and good-humoured, but he will not allow such
liberties as these to be taken with him with impunity. This is not
the only trick you have played since my arrival at Owlarton Grange.
You rang the bells better than you have played the ghost."
At this remark, Simon seemed entirely to forget the jeopardy in
which he stood, and laughed long and heartily.
"A capital joke! — wasn't it, ?" he cried, with a fresh explosion
of laughter.
" I don't quite appreciate the joke," I rejoined, sternly, " neither
I think, will Mr. Hazilrigge, when he learns that the bells were rung
by an electrical machine under your management. You will be pro-
secuted for the offence."
" You are mistaken, sir. Mr. Hazilrigge will treat the matter as
a jest, and pass it by." The rascal spoke so confidently, that I felt
222 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
staggered, and, perceiving it, he went on: "But let us leave this
question of the bell-ringing and pass to your own concerns. What
cause of complaint have you against me ?"
" Dare you put such a question to me, sirrah, when you know how
much mischief you have done me ? The day of reckoning has been
long postponed, but at last it has arrived, and I mean to have a
settlement in full."
rt You go the wrong way to work," he replied, in a tone of dogged
defiance. " You will get nothing from me by threats. Adopt
another course, and you will stand a better chance of gaining your
object."
" I understand what you mean," I rejoined ; " but I will make
no terms with you. You fancy yourself secure, but you will be
forced to give an account of your conduct — not to me only, but to
another whom you have injured. You have hitherto contrived to hide
yourself from poor Ned Culcheth, but you will now have to brave his
just indignation. How will you answer him when he demands back
his wife from you ? Will you give her to him ?"
" I cannot," he replied, sullenly.
" Then she has left you ?" I cried.
" I will answer no questions about her," he replied. " If Ned
believes she ran away with me, he is welcome to think so. I
shan't contradict him. But he won't find her with me, and he won't
learn from me where to find her — that I can promise him. But I will
tell you, sir, since you seem to interest yourself in the matter, that it
will be happier — far happier for Ned — never to see her again, than
to see her as she is."
" What do you mean?" I exclaimed, startled by his words, which
seemed to corroborate some fears that had been aroused within me
by the obscure remarks of John Brideoake.
" I have said I will answer no more questions — and I mean to
keep to my word," he returned.
The audacity of the man quite confounded me.
I considered what I should do with him. I could not let him
go, and yet felt unwilling to disturb the house. Besides, the rascal's
unconcern added to my perplexity, and I almost fancied there might
be some sort of understanding between him and Mr. Hazilrigge,
though I could hardly reconcile such a notion with my ideas of the
old gentleman's sense of propriety. If he had employed Pownall for
any purpose, it must have been because he was in total ignorance of
the man's character.
At length, I asked my prisoner how he got into the room ?
" I didn't come through the keyhole, though it looks like it," he re-
plied, with a laugh. " But I've no objection to tell you, provided you
promise to keep the information secret."
" I will give no such promise," I replied. " It is quite enough for
me to be aware that there is a concealed entrance to the room to be
able to find it out. I have merely to sound the walls to make the
discovery."
" Something more than sounding the walls is required," Pownall
MEIIVYN CLITHEROB. 223
rejoined ; " but since you decline my offer, you must exercise your own
ingenuity. May I ask what you intend to do with me? I presume
you don't mean to keep me here all night ?"
" I haven't quite decided," I replied ; " but one thing is quite cer-
tain — you won't be allowed to depart."
"As you please, sir," he replied, in an indifferent tone. "But,
methinks, you'll be tired of my company before I am of yours. I
am by no means sorry to have an opportunity of a little confidential
chat with you, as it may lead to a result advantageous to both
of us."
" How so ?" I cried.
" To begin — you will do well to make a friend of me."
" I am of a contrary opinion. But let me hear what advantage I
am likely to gain by a partnership with a rogue and a traitor."
" Nay, if you employ such terms as those, we are not likely to
come to any understanding," he rejoined, sharply. " It seems to me,
that for so shrewd a young gentleman as you appear to be, you are
singularly blind to your own interests."
" Why, yes, I happen to have notions on the score of honesty and
straightforward conduct which appear highly absurd to you, Pownall,
I make no doubt. But such as they are, I act up to my opinions. I
am quite sure you could serve me materially if you would ; but I am
equally certain you won't."
" Why are you so certain of it, may I ask, sir?"
" Because, by doing so, you would'incur the chance of a tolerably
long term of penal servitude."
" That would not be very pleasant, I admit. But why take such a
view of the case ? The course I propose would accomplish your ob-
ject, and bring no one into trouble — least of all, your humble
servant."
" I see very plainly what you are driving at, Pownall," I rejoined,
" and I am glad to learn that it is yet in your power to repair the
mischief you have done."
" It is quite in my power to put you in possession of your uncle
Mo'bberley's property, if you mean that," he replied.
" Tou confess it then, scoundrel," I cried — " you confess you stole
the rightful will. Tou shall be compelled to produce it before a
Court of Justice."
" Stop, sir," he rejoined. " Tou are getting on a leetle too fast. I
may readily admit certain matters to you which I should bo loth
to admit if a third person were present; but as to compelling me
to produce the will in a Court of Justice, you must first prove the
existence of such a document, and next, that I have got it — neither
of which you can easily do. For you may rely upon it that if
any steps are taken against me, such as you threaten, the precious do-
cument in question will be destroyed. Now, sir, you will know how
to act."
And he burst into a mocking laugh, which provoked me to such a
degree that I felt inclined to brain him with the butt-end of the
pistol.
224 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
" Come ! come ! my good young sir," he cried, checking his ill-
timed hilarity, apprehensive, perhaps, of irritating me too much, " let
us be reasonable. An affectation of stern morality may have great
influence with some folks — with me it has none at all. I am apt to be
sceptical when a man deliberately tells me that he will sacrifice his
own interests for a point of principle. He takes me for a fool, but
I know him to be a hypocrite. Now, you are a person of good sense
— a little too hasty, perhaps — but shrewd enough when you choose
to exercise your judgment properly. Look at the matter as it ought
to be looked at. There is only one way in which you can ever
gain your point — namely, by employing me."
" By buying you, in short."
" Well, by buying me, if you like the term. Of course, you can't
expect to get a good thing for nothing, and won't grumble at paying
for it."
" Tou are a cool hand, Simon !" I cried, with irrepressible disgust,
" and persuade yourself that your criminality cannot be proved. You
are deceived. There is a witness who can tell how you purloined
that will, and I will obtainJiis evidence."
" No, you won't, sir," he rejoined, in a tone of defiance. " The man
you allude to will never peach. He would rather bite oif his tongue
than utter a word to serve you, so bring him forward and welcome.
Much good Phaleg will do you — ha ! ha ! But 1 am sure you must
have had enough of my society, so I'll relieve you of it."
" Hardly so," I rejoined. " Tou will not quit this room, unless I
consign you to some one who will detain you in safe custody till the
morrow."
" It will be useless to ring," lie observed, with a laugh. "All the
servants are a-bed, and, even if they heard the bell, they wouldn't
answer it. I will summon assistance for you, for I am as anxious to
be gone as you can be to get rid of me."
And, before I could prevent him, he struck three heavy blows with
his mallet, which he still held, upon the floor. While I was wonder-
ing what would ensue, a tap was heard at the door, and a voice
which sounded like that of Mr. Hazilrigge inquired what was the
matter ?
Greatly surprised, I called to the old gentleman to come in — but
after waiting for a moment, finding that my request was not at-
tended to, I sprang to the door, opened it, and looked out.
No one was there that I could discern, for it was pitch-dark in the
corridor. Neither did any one answer when I spoke. I did not think
it possible that Pownall could have stirred without my hearing him ;
and not the slightest sound reached my ears. But when I turned, he
was gone.
Highly provoked, I proceeded to search the room, hoping to
detect a sliding panel or secret door through which he might have
passed. But in vain.
MKItYYN CLITJ1EROE. 225
CHAPTEK XIII.
WHEREIN OLD HAZY ENDEAVOURS TO PERSUADE ME THAT I HAVE
BEEN DELUDED BY AN EVIL SPIRIT.
That Simon Pownall would return to his own room in the Old Grange
by some secret passage communicating with it, I nothing doubted ;
but that he would be found there in the morning appeared highly
improbable. Unless, therefore, I intended to let him get off altogether
I must effect his recapture without loss of time.
It was provoking in the extreme to be outwitted and derided by the
rascal. Yet what could be done ? To alarm the house and obtain
the assistance of the servants seemed the only course to be pursued
under the circumstances ; but the objections to such a step were two-
fold. In the first place, I must necessarily create a great disturbance
— and this I did not like to do. Secondly, it was almost certain that
Old Hazy would prohibit any interference with his associate. The
extraordinary audacity exhibited by Simon Pownall could only arise
from confidence in the hold lie had, by some means or other, ob-
tained over the credulous old gentleman.
What was to be done? I asked myself again. Unable to an-
swer the question satisfactorily, I at length made up my mind to
abide patiently till the morrow. And so I retired to rest.
Sleep, though long in coming, visited me at last, and I had just
opened my eyes in the morning when Mr. Ponder entered my room,
and approaching the foot of my bed, observed, with more than his
usual gravity of manner, " I am afraid, sir, you must have been a
good deal disturbed last night."
I made no reply, and he continued :
" I feel assured that you must have had a visit from the ghost, sir.
My bedroom is situated immediately above this chamber, and about
one o'clock I heard the dreadful knocking quite distinctly. After
that, I heard voices, as if a long conversation were taking place.
Then came three startling knocks. And then all was still."
" If you heard this, Mr. Ponder, why on earth didn't you come
down to me?" I demanded.
"Come down to you, sir!" he exclaimed. "Lord love you! I
hadn't courage enough to get out of bed. I wouldn't have entered
this room at that unearthly hour for fifty pounds— and that's more
than my year's wages. On hearing the last three knocks I dived
tinder the bed-clothes to shut the ghost from my sight in case it
should rise through the floor."
" I did not suppose you were such a poltroon, Mr. Ponder."
" I am no coward in broad daylight, sir, but at dead of night, and
Q
226 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
in a haunted house like this — with supernatural objects swarming
iround you — it's a different matter altogether. I'm not ashamed to
confess my fears. — But, save us ! what's this?" he cried, starting
back in affright. " As I'm a sinner, the ghost has left its mallet be-
hind it !"
"Indeed!" I exclaimed; "I didn't notice it. Eeach it to me,
Ponder."
" I wouldn't touch it for the world!" he cried, recoiling.
" Why, surely you don't imagine there can be mischief in that
wooden hammer," I observed, laughing. " It won't strike you."
" I don't know that," he answered, in great trepidation. " At any
rate, I won't give it the chance. Can I be of any further use to yo^
sir?" he added, evidently anxious to depart.
I told him that I had a little commission which I wished him to ex-
ecute for me ; and on his promising prompt conpliance, I bade him go
to the old Grange, and ascertain whether Dr. Hooker was still there.
"Merely make the inquiry," I said, "without stating who sent
you."
" I can satisfy you at once on the point, sir," he replied. " My
master sent me with a message to the same gentleman more than an
hour ago ; and Stephen Blackden himself informed me that Doctor
Hooker left at eight o'clock last night."
" Stephen Blackden must have misinformed you," I cried. " Doctor
Hooker was here — in this very room — an hour after midnight."
" Here, sir!" Ponder ejaculated, staring at me. " Here! — in this
room, an hour after midnight ! Pray how did he get in ?"
" That's more than I can explain. But here he was, most undoubt-
edly. And by your own account you must have heard him conversing
witli me. It was no ghost who visited me last night, Ponder, but a
mortal like ourselves."
" I wish I had known that, sir," the butler replied ; " I'd have
been down with you in a trice. But you haven't told me in what
manner the doctor disappeared."
" He vanished suddenly from my sight — that is all I can tell you.
lie may be hidden in the room now, for aught I know to the con-
trary !"
" Zounds ! sir, I hope not. Mayhap he flew through the window.
It wouldn't be a difficult feat for a conjuror — and folks say the doctor
is one. I wonder my master likes the society of a man who, beyond
all doubt, must be in league with Beelzebub."
" Is the doctor, as you style him, much with Mr. Hazilrigge ?" I
inquired.
" More than he should be, if I may presume to say so," Ponder
replied. " He is often with my master in the library, and there they
sit poring for hours over those abominable books of witchcraft and
magic. I should like to see 'em all burnt; and so would Miss Hazil-
rigge, for I've heard her say so."
" I should rejoice in such an auto dafe myself," I rejoined. " I
wish the Holy Inquisition could get hold of Doctor Hooker. Miss
Hazilrigge, I am sure, cannot approve of such a person."
MERVTN CLITHEROE. 227
" Approve of him ! — not she, sir. But my master has his fancies,
and won't be interfered with by his sister, or by any one else
Doctor Hooker has got an unaccountable influence over him. Bui
perhaps I've said too much on this subject already, sir?"
And receiving no answer, for I had fallen into a reverie, the butler
bowed respectfully, as was his wont, and retired.
As it was pretty certain now that Simon Pownall had decamped,
E was forced to abandon all idea of recapturing him for the present.
Before going down stairs, however, I took another and more rigorous
3urvey of the room — examined the panels, and struck them here and
there with the mallet which my nocturnal visitor had left behind,
but could detect nothing to indicate a secret door. I specially
directed my attention to that part of the chamber where the bed
was placed ; but the panels seemed just as solid here as elsewhere.
Wherever it might be, the entrance was exceedingly well concealed,
and completely baffled my researches.
After this, I went down stairs. Nothing worthy of note occurred
at breakfast, except that Ora did not join the party. I made no
allusion to my adventure overnight — reserving what I had to say for
my host's private ear. Luckily, I was not questioned on the subject ;
Miss Hazilrigge and Cuthbert Spring being too much occupied with
each other to trouble themselves about me or Old Hazy.
As we rose from table, I volunteered to accompany the old gentle-
man to his sanctum ; but I half repented the step when, on ushering
me into the room, he closed the door, and, forcing me into a chair,
without allowing me to utter a word of remonstrance, hurried to the
bookshelves, and taking down a little volume, exclaimed,
'* I must show you this treasure, Mr. Clitheroe. It is a rare little
treatise called the Antidemon of Macon, containing a true and parti-
cular relation of what a Demon said and did in the house of Father
Perreaud. Let me read you a few passages from it. They are highly
instructive, and well worth hearing, I assure you."
" I have no doubt of it, my good sir," I replied, impatiently. " But
just now I have too much on my mind to attend to Father Per-
reaud. I want to open your eyes to the true character of the soi-
disant Dr. Hooker, whom I must denounce as a charlatan — an im-
postor — and something worse."
" Tou denounced him yesterday," old Hazy rejoined, petulantly.
Why persist in assailing him ? Doctor Dee was called a charlatan,
an impostor, and something worse ; and so were Paracelsus, Cornelius
Agrippa, and the Alberts, Great and Little. There is hardly one
amongst the professors of occult philosophy whose works load these
shelves who has not been calumniated and reviled. But I shall ever
protest against such injustice, Mr. Clitheroe. Here, in this sanctum
a true disciple of those glorious sages shall never be treated with op
probrium. Dr. Hooker is a second Doctor Dee. He is a true
Thaumaturgus. As a physiognomist, he is equal to Taxil and Jear
[ndagine ; in chiromancy, to Praetorius and Codes ; he can read the
celestial influences as well as Father Francis ; can cast a horoscope as
Q2
228 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
well as Joseph de Tertiis ; and pronounce a judgment upon a nativity
us well as Fevrier and Ranzonius."
" He practises a great many more tricks than you are aware of,
Mr. Hazilrigge," I rejoined. " I have discovered something about
him that will astonish you. What do you think, sir? — last night, he
personated the ghost of Jotham Shocklach."
" Ah ! my good young sir," the old gentleman cried, regarding me
with compassion, " you are deceived. You are unacquainted with the
subtleties and devices of evil spirits. If the ghost of Jotham Shock-
lach did not actually appear to you — as is more than probable — it
was an evil spirit in the guise of the defunct assassin — not Dr.
Hooker."
" This is idle, sir," I cried, almost out of patience. " Suffer me
to say that in this rascal, who personated the ghost of Jotham, and
who calls himself Dr. Hooker, I discovered "
" An evil spirit — -I know it," Old Hazy exclaimed.
" No, sir ; not an evil spirit, but a knave, who has cheated me,
and duped you — and who continues to dupe you, sir."
Mr. Hazilrigge shook his head.
" A diabolical illusion, my good young friend. I can produce
plenty of instances of the kind from Fathers Perreaud and Taillepied.
Permit me to cite some of them."
" Pest take Fathers Perreaud and Taillepied !" I cried, impatiently.
" Am I not to trust the evidence of my own eyes and my own ears ?"
" Assuredly not, in a case of this kind. You ought to discredit
all you see and hear. The plainer and more palpable the thing
appears, the more certain is the delusion. Such is the opinion
of Father Perreaud, and I will refer to him for some observations
in support of my argument. Attend to what he says in his eighth
chapter touching demoniacal illusions : ' It cannot be doubted that
demons can charm the eyes and ears in such manner externally,
putting between the eye and the ear, and the thing seen or heard, a
body which produces the effect they desire.' And further on, he
adds : ' Demons, who are beyond comparison more subtle than all
the most subtle of men, can deceive and elude our senses by a
thousand false and deceitful appearances. This they can do either
immediately of themselves, or mediately by magicians and sorcerers.'
You hear the opinion of this erudite man. In your case, the delusion
has been practised immediately, that is, without intervention, by an
evil spirit."
" Pshaw !" I cried, " I am dealing with the material world. 1
told you the other night, sir, that I have no belief in evil spirits."
" I am sorry to hear you confess so much after your recent experi-
ence. As to the existence of evil spirits, I must again refer to Father
Perreaud. Observe how he closes his first discourse, which is directed
against those who, like yourself, are perverse and sceptical. ' It
ought to be sufficient for us, after what we have heard, drawn from
the word of God and from experience, that we are assured, or ought
to be so, that spirits of evil exist in great abundance.' I will give
you the father's words in his own language : ' Quit y a vrayement
MKltVYK CL1THER0E. 229
et (V effect des diahles et malins esprits, voire une grandissime et in-
nombrable quantite /' — Tine grandissime quantite ! Mark that !" he
added, regarding me with an air of triumph.
I did not attempt to reply ; feeling it was useless to reason with
him. I merely observed, therefore, " I sincerely wish you could
divest yourself of this strange opinion for a moment, sir. Why
should not the person you call Dr. Hooker have found his way to my
room ?"
" For the best of all reasons — he was far away. No, no ; trust
me, Mr. Clitheroe, you have been deluded. Shall I give you another
quotation from Father Perreaud ?"
" On no account," I replied, hastily. " One more question, Mr.
Hazilrigge, and I have done. Did you not overhear what was pass-
ing in my room last night ?"
" I overhear what was passing !" he exclaimed.
" Yes. Were you not summoned by three blows of a mallet on
the floor ? Did you not knock at my door, and inquire what was the
matter ?"
" Ah, my good young friend !" he cried, shaking his head compas-
sionately, " if anything could convince you, this ought to do so.
Why, sir, I was fast asleep in bed, and if there was a knock at your
door, as you assert, and a voice heard like mine, it must have been a
diabolic delusion. Taillepied gives an infallible test whereby you may
know whether a demon has appeared to you. ' If the person whose
semblance the spirit puts on strives to tempt you, or counsels a
wicked action, you may be assured that the spirit is evil.' Was it so
in your case ?"
" I must confess," I replied, unable to refrain from laughter,
" that the rascal did give me evil counsel, and tried to incite me to
wrong."
" An evil spirit, beyond all question. Dr. Hooker would never
have acted so. No, no, the demon has assumed the doctor's shape
in order to beguile you."
" Then you absolutely refuse to believe that it was Dr. Hooker
who visited me last night?"
" Absolutely and entirely."
" And you likewise refuse to believe that I recognised in the soi-
disant Hooker a knavish and runaway barber from Marston?"
" I entirely disbelieve it. Tou have been deluded by evil spirits,
who, I grieve to say, abound in this house. Suffer me to read you a
few passages from Thiraeus De locis infestis ob molestantes dwmoni-
orum et defunctorum spiritus."
But I had had quite enough While he was searching for his
tiresome Thiraeus ; Boissier's JRecueil de Lettres au sujet des Male-
Hoes et du Sortilege; Martinus de Aries; and some other works of a
like nature, which he particularised, but the titles of which I now
forget, I took to flight.
As soon as I got into the hall, I snatched up my hat and rushed
out into the garden, where I soon regained my tranquillity.
280 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
CHAPTER XIY.
LOVE IN A MAZE.
Take it altogether, I have never seen a more perfect specimen of an
old-fashioned garden than that of Owlarton Grange. I have said
little about it hitherto, because 1 have waited for a favourable oppor-
tunity of describing it.
- The garden was originally laid out more than a couple of centuries
ago, and its general plan was still carefully maintained. Some few
alterations had no doubt been made in certain parts, but they were
so slight as not to interfere with the principal features. The broad
terrace walks, with the smooth green slopes, the stone steps for the
mimic waterfalls, the " pleached bowers,"
Where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun,
Forbid the sun to enter —
the mossy seats upon the slopes — all these were the same as hereto-
Fore. The garden-knots, moreover, were extremely quaint and curious,
and no departure from their pristine shape was permitted. There
you could see the cinque-foil, the trefoil, the fleur-de-lis, the fret,
and other designs, that had charmed the loiterers in this Eden
during the time of James I., still embroidering the parterres. The
preservation of the garden in its integrity was chiefly owing to Miss
Hazilrigge, who paid great attention to it, and allowed nothing to be
disturbed. She abominated "landscape gardeners," and said they
had spoiled many of the finest old places in England. The garden
at Owlarton Grange thus continued intact. Its long dark green
alleys of clipped yew-trees — its magnificent hedges of holly — its
marvellous specimens of topiarian art, exhibited in groups of trees,
trimmed and twisted into a variety of fantastical devices, some of
which looked as if Ovid's Metamorphoses had been put into action
upon the lawns — its statues— dial — fountains — maze— and mound,
with summer-house on the top, overlooking the moat — all these
formed the admiration of the neighbourhood, and would have made
the garden of Owlarton Grange one of the "sights" of that part 01
Cheshire, if its owner would have allowed it to be shown.
As the hall w'ould have been incomplete without its garden, so
the garden would not have been perfect without the hall. One
was an indispensable adjunct to the other. The picturesque old pile
was seen to the greatest advantage from the smooth-shaven lawn;
while the garden looked enchanting as the bowers of Armida when
beheld from the house.
T was wandering about this delightful garden — admiring its
MERVYN CLITHEEOE. 231
various objects of interest — now looking at a little fountain witr
a curious mechanical contrivance that caused a musical sound -
now at a bay-tree, trimmed and twined into a representation 01
Daphne — now at a marble statue of Leda and the swan, weather-
stained, and crusted with lichens — now pausing to look at the old
hall, as it displayed itself under some new and picturesque aspect —
when I perceived Ora hastening towards me across the lawn, and I
instantly flew to meet her.
AVe walked together for some time, conversing upon indifferent
topics, but I could perceive that she had something upon her mind,
which she desired to mention, though she hesitated long ere coming
to the point. At last she spoke of John Brideoake, and inquired,
with some anxiety, whether I thought him alarmingly ill ?
" I am indeed seriously apprehensive about him," I replied. "He
is suffering in mind as well as in body."
" But, perhaps, some remedy might be found," she cried, quickly.
" If your friend has a secret sorrow, no doubt he imparted it to you —
and it may, possibly, be relieved. Don't you think so ?"
I looked at her fixedly.
" If hope could be once more kindled in John's breast," I said, " he
might perchance recover. At present, life is a blank to him. My poor
friend has no secrets from me, MissDoveton, and has laid bare his in-
nermost heart to me. He has had the temerity to fix his affections
ton an object utterly unattainable, and is now paving the penalty
of his folly."
"But why should he conclude that the object is unattainable?"
Ora rejoined.
" Because he feels that it would be the height of presumption in
him to think otherwise. How should he — a poor curate — dare to aspire
to the hand of a young and lovely heiress ?"
" Some men have aspired, and successfully, Mr. Clitheroe."
" Would you have him — the most modest of men — imitate the most
audacious, Miss Doveton ?" I exclaimed.
" I would have him get well — I would help to bring about his cure,
if I could," she replied.
" A word from you will do it. You have only to make the experi-
ment to see what a result will follow. AVill you authorise me to
give my friend a hope ?"
" I cannot prevent you from saying anything you choose to him,"
she answered, smiling.
" That is hardly sufficient. You must promise that you will not
contradict what 1 do say. Suppose I were to tell him that the fair
being whom he thinks only laughed at him, takes a real interest in
him, and grieves for the despairing state into which he has been
thrown r"
" Enough ! enough !" she interrupted. " Xo doubt you will say a
great deal more than you ought to do — more than I shall ever autho-
rise you to say. But at any rate, you may say that I sincerely hope
he will get better."
232 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
" For your sake ?" I said.
" Tou may add, ' for my sake,' if you think proper," she replied.
I uttered a joyful exclamation.
" If John is not too far gone already I will answer for his cure,"
/ cried. " I am now bound for his cottage, and shall, indeed, be the
bearer of good tidings."
" Do not go till you have seen my aunt," Ora said. " Perhaps she
may drive over to Weverham in the course of the day, and if so I will
accompany her."
" That will be a very kind act. It will do John an infinitude of
good to see you. I will prepare him for the visit."
" Well, let us find my aunt," Ora cried, in a far more lively tone,
for her spirits seemed to have wonderfully improved within the last
few minutes, " and learn what she has to say about it. I have no
doubt she will go, unless she has fixed some other plan with Mr.
Spring. They are somewhere in the garden — very likely in the maze.
I saw them straying in that direction just before I joined you."
To the maze accordingly we repaired.
On entering the leafy labyrinth, we could distinctly hear the voices
of the elderly couple, though, of course, they were hidden by the
tall ranges of privet.
Ora stopped for a moment, gave me an arch look, and put her fin-
ger to her lips to impose silence.
" Well, here we are, I declare, in the very centre of the maze,"
Outhbert Spring exclaimed. " I should never be able to find my way
back through all its intricate windings without guidance."
" I have a good mind to leave you, and let you try," the elderly
spinster replied, with a laugh.
" Oh ! no, don't, I entreat of you," Mr. Spring rejoined. " Nay,
indeed, I must detain you. This is the most inviting spot ima-
ginable for a tete-a-tete. Let us be seated upon this bench, which
seems contrived for lovers. No fear of interruption here, my dear
Miss Hazilrigge."
" I don't know that," she replied. " Ora and Mr. Clitheroe are in
the garden. I saw them as we emerged from the allee verte just
now."
" I did not observe them," Cuthbert returned. " And in truth I
had no eyes save for the charming person at my side."
" A truce to compliments, Mr. Spring," the elderly spinster sim-
pered. " You have paid me too many already."
* Not one more than you deserve, my dear Miss Hazilrigge,"
Cuthbert said. " Shall I tell you what the meanderings of this maze
have put into my head ?"
" Pray do, Mr. Spring," she answered. " I am curious to know
what they have suggested to you."
" They have convinced me that I should find my way much more
readily through the twists and turnings which I have yet to take in
life if I had some one to direct me."
MERYYN CLITHEROE. 233
" Ton nave got on very well hitherto without assistance, Mr.
Spring," Miss Hazilrigge replied.
Here Ora could not repress her laughter.
" AVhat was that, Mr. Spring ?" the elderly spinster cried. " I am
sure I heard something. I hope there are no listeners near us."
" Have no fear, my dear Miss Hazilrigge," Cuthbert cried, in a
more impassioned tone than he had yet assumed — I almost fancied he
must have thrown himself upon his knees. " This is the moment
when my fate must be sealed. You have it in your power to make
me the happiest of men. Speak and decide !"
" Dear heart a day ! Mr. Spring," the lady rejoined, evidently quite
in a flutter, " you have taken me quite by surprise. I don't know
what to say, I am sure. Tour proposal is very flattering, but it re-
quires consideration. Before answering you positively, I think — nay,
I am quite sure — that I ought to consult my brother."
" By all means, my dear Miss Hazilrigge. Very proper ! very
proper! But I am confident my friend Hazilrigge won't oppose your
wishes, when he learns which way they tend. So, after all, the de-
cision will rest with you. Tou do not bid me despair."
" A regular proposal, I declare !" Ora exclaimed. " Oh, aunt !"
" Who's that?" Miss Hazilrigge cried, in alarm. "I am sure it
must be Ora. Where are you, child ? What are you doing ?"
" I am making my way to you aunt, through the maze, as fast as I
can, with Mr. Clitheroe," Ora replied.
So saying, she hurried on, trying to repress her laughter, and the
next moment we stood before the elderly pair of turtle-doves, both of
whom, though they strove to put a good lace upon the matter, looked
excessively annoyed, as well they might, at the interruption.
" We were searching for you, aunt," Ora said. " Mr. Clitheroe is
going to Weverham. I told him you would probably drive there in
the course of the day. Have you any message for Mr. Brideoake?"
" Is that all?" Miss Hazilrigge cried, rather tartly. " There was
no occasion to come to me on such a trivial matter. My message to
Mr. Brideoake — which I beg Mr. Clitheroe will be good enough to
deliver to his friend — is that my brother and myself hope that the
dear young man will make arrangements to come and stay with us
for a month. We can make him, perhaps, a little more comfortable
than he is in his cottage, and he shall be well nursed."
" I will not fail to deliver your kind message to him," I replied,
" and when you come, he will give you his answer."
" Nay, I will have no refusal," Miss Hazilrigge returned. " I
mean to bring him away in the carriage."
" Be sure to tell him so," Ora subjoined. " And now, Mr. Cli-
theroe," she cried, with an arch look, " do not stir till I clap my hands,
and then try to catch me. Tou must promise not to break through
the fences, for that would not be fair."
She then disappeared, and in another moment I heard the signal
given, accompanied by a merry laugh, and I set oft' after her — much
234 LIFE AKD ADVENTUKES OF
to the relief, I am sure, of the elderly couple. But though I ran on
and on, I must, somehow, have taken a wrong turn, and greatly tc
my surprise and annoyance found myself once more near the centre
of the maze. Despairing of getting out unaided, I went into the
little enclosure, where I found the elderly couple seated close to-
gether on the bench.
" "What ! you can't find your way out, Mr. Clitheroe ?" Miss Hazil-
rigge said, rising. " The maze is very perplexing. I have known peo-
ple puzzled by it for hours. Come ! I will help you."
I glanced at my friend to let him know liow sorry I was to inter-
rupt him — but he took it very good humouredly, and Miss Hazilrigge
preceding us, we were soon extricated from the labyrinth. Ora was
standing outside, and appeared not a little diverted. Ever since she
had taken me into her confidence — as I have just intimated — her
former liveliness had completely returned to her; and she now looked
as full of merriment and mischief as ever.
" "Well, I must say, this maze is the most perplexing place I ever
entered," Cuthbert Spring observed. " I would as soon attempt to
unravel a tangled skein of thread as make my way out of it unas-
sisted."
" Tou must always have my aunt for a guide, Mr. Spring," Ora
observed, archly, " and then you will have no difficulty in tracking its
meanderings — or in getting through any other twistings and turn-
ings which you may have to take in life."
MERVTN CL1THEROE. 235
CHAPTER XV.
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE ORCHARD OF THE MILL IN WEVERHAM
GLEN.
I had quitted my friends at the Grange, and was pursuing the pleasant
path across the fields leading to Weverham, when I saw Ned Cul-
cheth, with Hubert at his heels, coming towards me from the opposite
direction. Even at a distance I could perceive that the poor fellow
was labouring under great depression, and, on joining him, I found
that the judgment I had formed was correct. He was scarcely able
to open his lips, and we walked together, side by side, for some
little time in silence. Arrived at a stile, I besought him to try
and ease his breast of its cares.
" Of a truth, my breast does need lightening, sir," he replied, with
a groan. " A feather's weight more of care would crush me. Ah ! sir,
what I have gone through since we parted yesterday no words of mine
can tell."
Then after a pause, during which he struggled with his violent
emotion, he added — " I have seen her, sir."
" Tour wife !" I exclaimed, starting.
" Ay, sir — Sissy ; and I almost wish I had not seen her. Oh ! sir,"
he continued, with a despairing look, "there have been moments
when, maddened by jealous passion, I have wished ill to Sissy — but
never, never, sir — I take Heaven to witness ! — never did I wish her
ill like this!"
" Tou fill me with terrible apprehensions, Ned," I rejoined, re-
garding him anxiously. " Eelieve me, if you can."
" I can scarcely bring myself to speak it," he rejoined, with an
agonised look, " but it must out. Sissy is no longer herself, sir. I
stood beside her and she did not know me. I spoke to her in the ten-
derest way I could — called her by her name, and told her I forgave her,
as I did from the bottom of my heart — but she paid no heed to me.
I tried to clasp her in my arms, and fold her to my breast, but she
pushed me off with horror. Oh ! sir, I shall never forget the look she
gave me. It froze the very blood in my veins. Much as I love her
— for I do love her still, in spite of all that has passed — I don't
think I can have her to live with me again. I could have borne it
better if she had known me — but this state drives me almost mad
myself — and Mr. Brideoake gives me no hopes whatever of her re-
covery."
" How long has she been thus afflicted, Ned ?" I inquired, after a
pause.
" Tou shall hear the whole sad story, sir," he replied, " for I now
feel able to tell it. On the day after she left my roof, she was brought,
by a man who represented himself to be her husband, to the Plough
236 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OE
at Weverham — the little inn at the door of which you saw me stand-
ing yesterday. There is no doubt from the description given of him
by the landlady of the Plough that the man who brought Sissy was
Simon Pownall. Well, Simon left her— saying he would fetch her
on the morrow — but lie never returned. When she first arrived at
the Plough, Sissy was ill and excited — but she soon got worse. On the
second day, a brain fever came on, and she was at times quite light-
headed. Mrs. Vines, the landlady — a good, kind-hearted soul — did
not know what to do with her guest. Ill as she was she could not
turn her out of the house, and yet it was almost impossible to keep
her. Poor Sissy would not give any account of herself, but de-
clared she was a wretched, guilty thing, and only wished to die.
Sorely put about and distressed, Mrs. Vines thought the best thing
she could do was to consult the curate, and, on hearing her relation,
Mr. Brideoake came down with her to see the unfortunate guest —
and, to his surprise and grief, found that the poor sufferer was Sissy.
" Well, sir, as Mr. Brideoake told me yesterday, the poor crea-
ture, on seeing him, was terrified almost out of her senses — and sup-
plicated him not to send her back to me, as I should certainly
kill her — she knew I should. Her terror was so great, that the worthy
young gentleman, believing that violence on my part was to be ap-
prehended — though Heaven knows his fears were unjust — promised
to screen her till my anger should pass away. And he kept his
promise, as you know. Indeed, he would not disclose her retreat to
me yesterday, until I had solemnly pledged my word not to harm her.
" But to proceed with my narration. After seeing Mr. Brideoake,
Sissy got worse. The fever lasted for a week, and when it left her,
her senses were gone — never more — as it seems, to return. She was
removed to the mill in Weverham Grlen, where a room was engaged
for her by Mr. Brideoake, and where she has been ever since."
" And Mr. Brideoake has been at all charges for her, I suppose ?"
" Heaven bless him for his kindness ! — yes, sir. He watched over
ner during her illness, and prayed constantly by her side. That
she is still living is mainly — if not entirely— owing to his care. If
there is a good man on earth, it is Mr. Brideoake. I would
go through fire and water to serve him. I have met two friends
in him and you, sir — two such friends as a poor man like me
seldom meets. But there is another point on which it is right
1 should speak to you, sir — painful though it be to me to mention
it. It is Mr. Brideoake's firm opinion that Simon Pownall, and
not Captain Sale, is the author of all this misery. Poor Sissy,
he says, as good as confessed this to him, when he questioned her.
She never mentioned the other at all — but spoke only of Simon."
" That does not convince me, Ned," L rejoined. " You may think
me unwilling to acquit Mr. Sale — perhaps I am so — but I am per-
suaded he is the real offender. The truth will come out some day,
and then you will find who is in the right."
" Well, I own that I incline to your opinion myself," he returned.
" But it is strange that Sissy should make such a declaration."
" A good deal depends upon the way in which she was interrogated
MERVYN CLITHEKOE. 23 ?
Mr. Brideoake's suspicions of Malpas were not then aroused, and no
doubt, in ascertaiuing the name of Simon Pownall, he thought he
had elicited the whole truth. Moreover, Sissy herself might have
wished to screen her betrayer."
" That's true," Ned replied, with a sombre look. " I didn't think
of that. Mr. Brideoake preaches forgiveness to me, and I would
willingly follow his counsels. But I find it hard to forgive injuries
like these. When I think of Sissy — in her present woful state, and
what has caused it — I must be more than man, or less than man,
not to nourish vengeance against the author of the wrong."
I made no reply, for I could not contradict him.
After another pause, I said, " I suppose it is impossible now to
jbtain any further information from poor Sissy ?"
"Quite impossible, sir," he replied. "Poor soul! she can give
no rational answer to any questions put to her. Yet she is very
gentle and easily managed. The good folks at the mill are extremely
kind to her. Master Mavis, the miller, and his dame treat her like
one of the family, and their little daughter, Grace, is constantly with
her. I hope you will come with me to see her, sir. Mr. Brideoake
himself is at the mill, and waits your arrival there. He sent me to
meet you and bring you to him."
Though I felt it would pain me exceedingly to behold poor Sissy in
her present forlorn state, I could not refuse to accompany Ned,
and so put myself under his guidance.
Our course, it appeared, lav to the right, for Ned struck off in
that direction, and after crossing a few fields, we gained the high
road, along which we proceeded for about a quarter of a mile, and
then again diverging to the right, reached the edge of the rocky glen
which I had seen on first approaching Weverham.
Prom these craggy heights which looked like the frowning battle-
ments of a castle, nearly the whole of the glen w r as visible ; beginning
at the point where the alpine bridge was stretched across it, and
where the rocks were highest and most precipitous, and terminating
where the banks were much lower and further apart, and where the
stream, checked by a dam, had expanded almost into a lake. The
mill itself was situated at the widest part of this pool, and with its
floodgate, bridge, and large water-wheels — formed an extremely
picturesque feature in the scene. Adjoining the mill, and bounding
the further side of the pool, was a large orchard, and in this pleasant
place I saw three persons walking — a young woman, a little girl, and
a man attired in black. I had no doubt who these persons were, and
on consulting Ned by a glance, he answered my mute inquiry with
a look that told me I was right in my conjecture.
Following my conductor down a zigzag path hewn in the rock,
I soon gained the bottom of the ravine, and proceeding along a
road, shaded by tall trees, and skirted by the brawling stream, we ere
long reached the pool We next crossed a narrow bridge thrown
over the rapid mill-race, and entered a yard, where Mavis and two
of his men were busily employed in loading a cart with sacks of flour.
Ned said a word to the miller, and the good man touched his du^ty
236 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
cap to me, and we passed on. A few steps more brought us to
the door of the dwelling, which stood open, and Ned entering with-
out ceremony, called out for Dame Mavis. At the summons, a fresh-
complexioned, tidy little woman, of middle age, came out of an inner
room, and seeing me dropped a curtsey, and bade me welcome. In
reply to Ned's inquiries, Dame Mavis told us we should find Sissy in
the orchard with Mr. Brideoake and her little daughter, and, as Ned
knew T the way thither, there would be no occasion for her to attend
us ; whereupon she retired.
Before entering the orchard, I paused at the gate to look at Sissy,
and being partially concealed by the hedge, neither she nor her com-
panion noticed me. She was not so much changed as I anticipated, and
except from a certain flightiness of manner and a strange look about
the eyes, I should not have deemed her mind to be affected. Though
her attire was not arranged with the care she had once bestowed
upon it, it was still neat ; and it was evident, from the knots of
ribands stuck upon her dress here and there, that her love of finery
was not entirely effaced. Her long and beautiful tresses were un-
bound, and floated in disorder over her neck and shoulders, giving
her rather a wild look. In manner she seemed extremely gentle.
Her little attendant, Grace, who might be about seven or eight
years old, had twined her a wreath of honeysuckles, and was in
the act of placing the simple garland over her brows at the moment
of my arrival. Delighted with the effect of the wreath when so dis-
posed, little Grace clapped her hands with childish glee; and Sissy,
no less pleased, cried out to the little girl, " Does it not suit me ?
xlm I not pretty ? — am I not pretty ?"
" Indeed you are," little Grace replied. " Tou look very pretty in
that w T reath, Sissy,"
Here John Brideoake interposed, and taking the wreath from
Sissy's brows, gave it back to little Grace. The poor sufferer did
not in any way oppose him, though she seemed sorry to lose the or-
nament.
"Tou must promise me to tie up your hair to-morrow, Sissy — will
you not?" John said.
She assented with a motion of the head, and presently inquired,
" Do I look better with my hair tied up ?"
" Much better," John replied.
Upon this the poor thing instantly sat down upon the grass, and
plucking off one of the bows of ribbon from her dress, was proceed-
ing to gather together her luxuriant tresses, when John interrupted
her, saying, " Not now-, Sissy. Another time. Let us continue our
walk. Come with me."
But at this moment an irrepressible groan burst from Ned, and
the sound attracting Sissy's attention, she touched John's arm, and
pointed in the direction where we stood. Finding I was discovered,
[ opened the gate, and entered the orchard ; and as soon as he was
able to control himself, Ned followed. I went up at once to Sissy .
but on addressing her by name, and holding out my hand to her, she
merely dropped me a bashful curtsey.
MEBVYN CLITHEltOE. j39
" Won't you shake hands with the gentleman, Sissy ?" little Grace
said to her.
Before complying, Sissy consulted John Brideoake by a look, and
having obtained his permission, gave me her hand. As I held it for
a moment it felt cold as marble.
" Do you not know me, Sissy ?" I said, looking hard at her. " I
am your old friend, Mervyn Clitheroe."
She shook her head, and exhibited no sign of recognition.
" Don't you remember our merry-making on Twelfth Night, in
Farmer Shakeshaft's barn at Marston, Sissy ?" I continued. " I
was king on that night, and you were queen."
" I never was a queen, an' please you, sir," she replied. " I'm only
a poor country girl — from Wales, sir."
"Yes, I know that," I rejoined; "but try if you can't recol-
lect me."
She again shook her head, and said, " You're a pretty young gentle-
mans, sir, put I never saw you pefore."
" Oh, you are quite mistaken 1" I rejoined. " You have often seen
me with your husband, honest Ned Culcheth. Yonder he stands.
Look at him."
"I haf no huspants, sir," she answered; adding, with a strange,
half-terrified, mysterious look, "I must never be married."
" Indeed! why not?" I asked, willing to humour her.
" I've had my fortunes told, sir, by a plack gipsy oomans, an' she
said I should make a pad wife — a fery pad wife — and pring sorrow
m' shame on my huspants — so I must never marry — oh, no, I must
lever marry."
" But if your husband should be a good man, and a kind man,
Sissy, he might forgive your faults, however great they might be, and
r ,ake you back to him."
" Come this way, and I'll tell you something," Sissy cried, taking
any hand, and leading me to a short distance. "I must whisper it
m your ear, for no one must hear it — least of all, that tall mans
fonder, who is watching us. What do you think the plack gipsy
;omans told me ? She said I should play my huspants false — and
vvhen he found me out he would kill me — and they would hang him
for the plootty teet. So you see I must never marry. — Who is that
call mans, sir ?" she continued, with a terrified look ; " and why does
tie stare at me so ? He frightens me. I've treamt of somebody like
aim."
" Are you sure you have only dreamed of him, Sissy ? Perhaps
70U have seen him before. Think !"
" jNTo, it was only a tream," she answered, after a pause, during
which she vainly essayed to collect her scattered wits — " but I did
tream that a man like him was my huspants. But he won't kill me
because I treamt so, will he ?"
" Make yourself easy, Sissy. Husband or not, the good fellow will
aever harm you. He forgives you."
" Forgives me — what for ? What harm have I done him ? Ask
aim to tell you."
240 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
" Why not ask him yourself, Sissy ?"
" Because I am afraid of him," she replied, shuddering. " He means
me mischief. I know he does. I can read it in his eyes."
" Come ! you must shake off these groundless fears, Sissy. Let me
call him to you. Ned !"
Thus summoned, the poor fellow sprang towards her instantly, but
the sight of her distress arrested him.
" Oh! no; do not let him come near me!" she exclaimed, clinging
to me with affright. " He will be the death of me — I know he will.
Keep him off! — keep him off!"
I was obliged to motion Ned away, and he withdrew to a bank and
sat down upon it, evidently very painfully affected.
John Brideoake and the little girl now joined us, and engaging Sissy
in conversation, she soon regained her serenity, and at little Grace's
request, sang me one of her native airs with so much sweetness and
pathos, that I could not refuse it the tribute of my tears.
While poor Sissy was warbling her touching strains, Dame Mavis
came into the orchard, and taking John Brideoake aside, said a few
w r ords to him which seemed to cause him infinite surprise. Signing
to me that he would be back presently, he went away at once with
Dame Mavis. Her song concluded, Sissy dropped me a curtsey,
and taking little Grace's hand, walked with her towards the further
end of the orchard, where they were hidden by the trees. Being
thus in a measure left alone — for poor Ned still remained seated on
the bank, with his face buried in his hands, and his faithful Hubert
crouched at his feet — I walked down to the edge of the pool, and
stood for a few minutes contemplating the beautiful scenery of the
glen. All at once, I perceived a chariot about half a mile off coming
rapidly along the road which Ned and I had just traversed. While
watching the progress of this vehicle, and wondering wmether it could
be coming to the mill, I heard footsteps behind me, and turning, I
almost started back with astonishment and delight on beholding
Apphia coming towards me with John. She w r as in a riding-habit,
and must have just dismounted from her horse. I bounded to-
wards her with rapture ; but my transports were instantly checked
by the profound gloom of her looks — a gloom that was shared by her
brother. Though kindly in her greeting, her manner towards me was
constrained and cold.
" It is strange that we should meet here, Mervyn, in this unex-
pected manner," she soid, " and at a juncture which may affect all
ray future life. Knowing how I am circumstanced, you will not be
surprised to learn that I have come to claim my brother's protection.
3 H >er since your visit to the Anchorite's, I have felt that I could
not fulfil my contract with Mai pas, but I lacked the courage to break
it. Yesterday decided me. I came with my mother to the vicarage
at Marston to spend a few days w r ith the family with whom 1 was to
be connected, and some circumstances occurred last evening — not
worth detailing now — but which made me resolve to emancipate
myself at once from a thraldom which I found insupportable. To
accomplish my design, I was obliged to have recourse to artifice —
METITYN CLITHEEOE. 241
excusable, I trust, under the circumstances— and 1 solicited my
mother's permission to ride over to "Weverham this morning to
see John — stipulating that I should only be attended by Dr. Sale's
groom, and not accompanied by Malpas. Her consent was rather
reluctantly given, but she at last yielded to my importunities. Be-
fore leaving, I entrusted a letter to one of the servants — to be de-
livered an hour after my departure — in which I acquainted my
mother with my determination. On arriving at John's cottage, I
learnt, to my great disappointment, that he was not within — but
ascertaining that he was at the mill, I rode hither at once. All un-
easiness is dissipated, since I have found him."
" But you are pursued !" I cried, pointing to the road on the fur-
ther side of the mill-pool. " Yonder is Dr. Sale's carriage. No
doubt your mother has likewise been to John's cottage, and has
traced you here."
" Let her come. I will not return with her, unless John means to
give me up."
" I will afford you an asylum," John replied ; "but who shall say,
in my infirm state of health, how long I may be able to offer it
" Cannot I help you, Apphia ?" I exclaimed. " You might give
me rights, even more sacred than those of a brother, to aid you and
protect you."
" I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Mervyn, for your de-
votion," she replied. " But, alas ! I cannot profit by it. I have
given a promise — a solemn promise to my mother — never to bestow
my hand upon any one without her consent — and I am well assured
she will never consent to my union with you."
" I had not foreseen this," John said, mournfully. " A hope was
springing in my breast that I might see you both happy — but
you have wholly crushed it, Apphia. I lament that you have uttered
this rash promise — but having given it, you must, perforce, keep it."
" I do not think so," I rejoined, warmly. " Such a promise ought
not to be exacted by a parent, and can never be binding on a child."
" If the child voluntarily chooses to place such an obligation upon
her conscience, she must abide by it," John rejoined. " Apphia can-
not be released, except by her mother."
" You are right, John," she replied. "I fear there will always be
an insuperable bar between me and Mervyn. I must therefore look
to you — and to you alone. And yet, perhaps, I ought not to place
you in this position. You will have lasting differences with our
mother, on my account."
" Do not consider me, Apphia," he said. " I would not offend
our mother if I could help it — and I will strive to reason with her now.
Failing my endeavours in this respect, my home is your home."
"I thank you, John," she replied, earnestly.
"Your decision is only just made in time," I cried, "for here
comes Mrs. Brideoake."
As I spoke, the carriage drove up to the little bridge near the
E
242 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
mill. A footman immediately came down from the box, crossed
the bridge, and returned the next moment with Mavis, who,
doffing his cap, evidently told the occupants of the carriage that
the persons they sought were there. On receiving this information,
the steps were instantly lowered, and Malpas Sale and Mrs. Bride-
oake alighting, proceeded towards the mill.
" We will await their coming here, Apphia," John said to his
sister. " You had better withdraw, Mervyn ; for your presence might
tend to complicate matters. Retire behind those palings," he added,
pointing to the palisades of a gardener's shed. "You will then
hear all that passes. I desire to have you for a witness. Should
I need you, I will call you. Take ]N"ed Culcheth with you. He
would be in the way."
Feeling that no time must be lost, I ran towards JSTed, and rousing
him as well as I could from the state of apathy into which he had
sunk, I half dragged him behind the palings which John had indicated,
and which completely screened us from view.
We had only just gained this retreat, when I heard voices, and
placing myself in a position that enabled me to see without being
seen, I beheld Mrs. Brideoake, attended by Malpas, approach her son
and daughter. John made a respectful salutation to his mother as
she approached, taking off his hat as she drew near, and remaining
uncovered during the whole of his interview with her. On her part,
she treated him with the utmost coldness — did not shako hands with
him — but eyed him with severe displeasure. As to Malpas and John
they might have been utter strangers to each other, so distant was the
manner in which their salutations were made.
Apphia took refuge behind her brother, and remained with her
eyes fixed upon the ground.
" You are aware what brings me here, John," Mrs. Brideoake began,
in a dictatorial tone, and as if determined to enforce obedience to her
commands. " Apphia has left me in an extraordinary manner, and I
am sure you will see the propriety of her immediate return to her
duty."
Ci Apphia has fully explained her sentiments to me," John replied,
in tones the gentleness of which contrasted strongly with his mo-
ther's haughty accents, " and I can therefore speak for her. She
is quite willing to return to you, and to obey your behests as here-
tofore "
" I am glad of it," Mrs. Brideoake interrupted. " No more need be
said, then."
" Pardon me, mother, much remains to be said. That you desire
my sister's happiness and worldly prosperity I do not doubt, and
that in choosing a husband for her, you have chosen one who, in
your own opinion, justifies your selection, I am ready to grant. But
the heart cannot be controlled, and Apphia feels that to marry
without love — in her case, at least — would be to marry to certain
misery. She therefore — through me — beseeches you not to seek to
force her inclinations, but to leave her the free exercise of her will :
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 243
and on this understanding she will willingly, cheerfully return tc
you. I also join my earnest entreaties to hers that you will accede
to her request."
No supplication could be more gently, more respectfully preferred.
But John's humility served only to heighten his mother's imperious-
ness of manner.
" I can make no terms with a disobedient child," she said. " I
order Apphia to return to me. She will disobey at her peril."
" A word more, mother," John urged, in the same respectful man-
ner as before. " Apphia is most unwilling to resist your mandates —
believe me when I say it. Surely, surely, after what I have stated,
you cannot wish to doom her to unhappiness ? Neither after
what he has heard, can the gentleman to whom she is affianced desire
fulfilment of the contract."
" Since I am appealed to," Mai pas said, " I must answer that 1
have placed myself entirely in Mrs. Brideoake's hands. I am natu-
rally unwilling to surrender one to whom I am devotedly attached —
and I shall not of my own accord break the contract I have entered
into. But if Mrs. Brideoake desires it, I will forego all claim to her
daughter's hand. Not otherwise. Indeed, I am at a loss to under-
stand the meaning of this sudden change in Apphia's feelings to-
wards me. She entered into this engagement deliberately — and as
far as I am able to judge, voluntarily — but within the last week
her sentiments seem totally altered, and she appears to regard me
with aversion."
" The cause of the change is easily explained," Mrs. Brideoake said.
" It is because by the return of Mervyn Clitheroe a foolish attach-
ment, which she indulged in as a child, has been revived in her breast.
But," she added, sternly, addressing Apphia, " let her mark me well,
if she thwarts my inclinations, she may rest assured that, under no
circumstances, and on no pretence, will I consent to her marriage with
the object of her fancied regard. And you, John," she continued,
turning to him, " who argue for her, let me point out to you the
mischief you are doing, by combining with your undutiful sister
against me. It is your fault if I am compelled to mention matters
without due regard to delicacy. Listen to me with attention, and
you will see how little of a brother's regard for a sister's welfare
there is in your opposition to me. My dear friend, Mrs. Mervyn,"
she continued, slowly and emphatically, " has executed a deed, by
which she settles one half of her large property — and a large property
it is, being upwards of 4000Z. a year — upon Apphia — on her mar-
riage."
" On her marriage with Malpas Sale — and no other?" John asked,
quickly.
" On her marriage with Malpas Sale, and no other," Mrs. Bride-
oake repeated, deliberately. " Malpas is the person specified in the
settlement, which would become null and voicf in the event of
Apphia's union with — say Mervyn Clitheroe. The marriage is ap-
pointed for Malpas's next birthday, when he will be twenty-five,
b2
244 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
and will consequently attain his majority, according to the terms
of bis uDcle Mobberley's will. At the same time, he will come into
2000Z. a year — so that the fortunes of bride and bridegroom will be
fairly balanced."
" Having heard this statement, which I can confirm," Malpas said,
" Mr. Brideoake will do doubt give it due consideration."
" It merits consideration, indeed," John replied, after a moment's
pause. " You had better take time for reflection, Apphia."
" I require none," his sister replied, firmly. " I decide at once.
No pecuniary consideration shall induce me to enter into this mar-
riage, and I am sure it was not with any design of forcing my incli-
nations, that kind, excellent Mrs. Mervyn acted thus generously to-
wards me. Having no claim upon her bounty — no expectations from
her — I do not now feel disappointed ; but I am not less grateful for
her kindness, though I cannot accept the gift with its conditions."
" And this is your decision, Apphia?" her mother cried, severely.
" Tou had better pursue the course recommended you by your brother,
and reflect. Bear in mind that you will not only forfeit this large
property — but my love and protection — my love and protection," she
sternly repeated.
" I cannot help it, mother," Apphia answered, meekly. " I shall
strive to bear your displeasure, hoping that time may soften it."
"Be not mistaken — time will never soften it," Mrs. Brideoake
cried, furiously. " Have I reared you — have I toiled for you — have
I paved your way to fortuue — uugrateful, disobedieut child, ooly
to find you turn upon me thus ? But tremble ! Tour ingrati-
tude aud disobedieDce warraDt me iD invokiDg coDdign punishment
upon your head."
And as she spoke she raised her arm, as if about to pronounce a
malediction. Affrighted at the gesture, Apphia flung herself at her
feet, and clasped her knees.
But Mrs. Brideoake was held in check by one who had never
before asserted supremacy over her. For the first time in his life
her son turned a menacing and indignant look upon her, and she
gazed upon him, as all who beheld him did, in astonishment and
awe.
John seemed endowed with superhuman power, and drawing up
his tall figure to its full height, he regarded his mother with eyes
that flashed with lightning.
"Forbear, mother!" he exclaimed, stretching out his hand to-
wards her. " In my sacred character, which you are bound
to respect, I command you to desist ! Tou have no just cause of
offence against your daughter. She has ever been dutiful towards
you, and if she now rebels against your authority, it is because you
exact too much. Heaven has not ears for invocations like yours, and
if you call down curses upon your child, be assured they will recoil on
your own head. Rise up, Apphia, rise up, and come to me. I have
made every effort to soften our mother's obdurate heart ; but in vain.
She casts you off, my poor child. Be it so. I receive you. If there
MEltVYN CLITHEKOE. 245
should be remorse and repentance for this day's unhappy proceedings,
they will not rest with us."
Mrs. Brideoake, who had appeared quite confounded by her son's
address, now made an effort to retrieve the ground she had lost.
" John, John — you ought not to take part with her, but with me,"
she cried. " You share her disobedience."
" Peace! mother, and let us part," John replied. "I will nevei
reproach you, though when you think of me hereafter, you may
sometimes reproach yourself. Neither, I am sure, will Apphia re-
proach you, even if you refuse to make her happy by assenting
to her union with the only man she can love. I would that we
might part with you in a better frame of mind, and that you would
leave your blessing with us."
" My blessing — never ! ungrateful as you both are," she rejoined,
with asperity. " Tou will both repent this step — bitterly repent it."
" It is to be hoped, for your own sake, that you may repent it,
mother," John replied.
Mrs. Brideoake made a movement, as if to quit the spot.
" Nay, tarrya moment, my dear Mrs. Brideoake," Malpas said. " Let
us have something like an amicable understanding if we can, ere we se-
parate. I. will not further press the fulfilment of the contract between
myself and Apphia, but as she has alleged no stronger reason than
change of mind for the avoidance of her solemn engagement, I will still
venture to hope that, ere long, another change may occur, and I may be
reinstated in her good opinion, which, for no fault of my own that I
can discern, I appear to have forfeited. All I will beg, therefore, is
to be permitted to visit her as a friend, and I will undertake not to
renew my proposition unless it shall be agreeable to herself."
" The proposal appears reasonable," John rejoined. " What an-
swer do you make, Apphia ?"
But before she could reply, a soft and plaintive voice was heard
singing a Welsh song, and little Grace and her companion were seen
advancing along a path that led towards the party.
" It is Sissy Culcheth ! — I am sure it is !" Apphia exclaimed.
As she spoke the song ceased, for poor Sissy, perceiving the party,
hurried towards them. Her lap was full of wild-flowers, and she
offered a branch of honeysuckle to Apphia.
I had kept my eye on Malpas. When the voice of the poor singer
was heard he became pale as death, trembled, and would no doubt
have taken to flight, if he could have framed a plausible excuse for
his sudden departure. But when Sissy came up, he found his posi-
tion intolerable, and was moving off, when John Brideoake caught
hold of his arm, and detained him.
" Stay a moment, sir," John cried, sternly. " I am compelled to
put some interrogations to you. You have just stated that my sister
can allege no stronger reason for refusing to fulfil her contract with
you, than change of mind. A plea seems now to be furnished her, which,
if correct, cannot be resisted. A charge of the gravest character has
been brought against you in reference to this distracted woman. Can
24(5 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
you look the poor creature in the face, and declare solemnly, and
as you will render a final account of your actions to Heaven, that
you are not the cause of her present lamentable condition ?"
" I trust not," Malpas replied, shuddering and averting his head.
" Look at her, I say," John continued, " and do not equivocate in
pour answer. Did you, or did you not, lure her from her husband's
home?"
" These questions are only put to me for the purpose of enabling
Apphia to break her engagement with me," Malpas said, trying to
feign indignation, though his faltering tones showed how differently
he was affected, " and they do not deserve to be answered. Enough
for me to declare at once that all such assertions respecting me, by
whomsoever made, are false and calumnious. The person with whom
this unhappy woman left her home is Simon Pownall."
" If so, you cannot object to an ordeal which I will propose, with
a view to test your innocence ?" John said.
" What ordeal do you mean ?" Malpas asked, in faltering tones.
" You shall see," John replied. " Here, Sissy," he cried, taking the
hand of the poor creature, who was busily engaged in picking out a
sprig of blooming eglantine from her bundle of flowers, " come this
w r ay. An old acquaintance wishes to see you. Look at him. Do
you not know him — Mr. Malpas Sale ?"
Poor Sissy, at first, had not heeded what was said to her, but con-
tinued to pursue her occupation. On hearing the name, however,
which John repeated more than once, with marked and peculiar em-
phasis, she looked up, and fixing her eyes on Malpas, a fearful change
came suddenly over her countenance.
" It is he ! it is he !" she shrieked. " It is the pad man of my
treams. It is he who is to take me from my huspants, and cause my
death!"
Then, uttering a piercing scream, and placing her hands before
her eyes as if to exclude some dreadful vision, she would have suflk
bo the ground, if Apphia had not supported her.
On hearing this cry, Ned, who had with difficulty restrained him-
self, rushed forth, and I followed him, for I feared from the expres-
sion of his countenance that he might do some desperate act.
Malpas seemed as if he would have gladly sunk into the earth
when the vengeful husband stood before him.
" Look at me," Ned vociferated — " look at me, thou black-hearted,
shaking villain. Dost know me ? Dost know me, I say ?"
Malpas made no answer, but turned to fly.
But the grasp of a giant was laid upon him. Seizing him by the
shoulder, Ned plucked him round as easily as if he had been a child.
They were again face to face.
" Well, what do you want with me ?" Malpas faltered.
"Satisfaction! — that's what I want," Ned thundered — "satisfac-
tion for the wrougs done me. And by the Heaven above us ! I'll
have it."
MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. 247
" What do you want satisfaction for, my good fellow ?" Malpas said,
trying to appease him. " I've done you no harm."
"Thou liest!" Ned cried. "Thou hast done me a wrong which
nothing but blood can wipe out — and thy blood I'll have, I have
tarried thus long for vengeance because I doubted thy guilt, but her
cries have accused thee. Prepare thyself if thou canst — thy hour is
come."
" Hear me, Ned," Malpas cried, seriously alarmed by the other's
infuriated aspect. " I swear to you that I have not injured you as
you suppose."
" Oaths like thine won't weigh with me," Ned cried. " Thy victim
there gives thee the lie. Look at the wreck thou hast made, and ask
thyself if I am likely to spare thee."
" This madman will do Mr. Sale a mischief," Mrs. Brideoake said.
" "Will nobody fly for assistance ? Nay, then, I must go myself.
There will be murder done. Help ! help !"
And she ran screaming towards the mill.
" Come, Ned," I cried, " I feel for you deeply, as you know, but I
cannot stand by and see outrage done."
" What ! you, too, take his part, sir, eh ?" Ned roared, blinded by
fury. " I didn't expect it. But neither you nor Mr. Brideoake shall
baulk my vengeance. Hubert will keep you both off. Tent 'em,
lad !— tent 'em !"
And the fierce hound instantly displayed his glistening fangs, and
seemed ready to spring at us.
" Now stand upon thy defence and we will fight, as man with
man," Ned cried, releasing Malpas.
" No ; I won't fight you, Ned," Malpas replied. " I'm no match
for you."
" Thou thought'st thyself more than a match for me wi' yon poor
fool, thou dastardly villain," Ned rejoined, with scornful fury. " But
if thou won't fight, down on thy knees, confess thy guilt, and sue for
mercy."
At this moment shouts were heard, and several persons were seen
hurrying towards us from the mill.
" Sue for mercy to you, fellow — never !" Malpas cried, reassured by
the sound.
But the words were scarcely out of his mouth when a tremendous
blow in the face from Ned's clenched hand stretched him, bleeding,
upon the ground. The enraged keeper knelt upon his prostrate body,
and seizing him by the throat, would infallibly have strangled him, if
I had not, at great personal hazard, come to the rescue. Aided by
John Brideoake, who prevented Hubert from attacking me, I suc-
ceeded in compelling Ned to relinquish his death-gripe of Malpas. In
another moment, Mavis, with three of his men, reached the scene of
strife.
Mrs. Brideoake tried hard to have Ned seized, charging him with a
murderous attack upon Malpas ; but as soon as Mavis learnt from
248 LIFE AND ADVENTURES Oh MERVYN CLITHE110E.
John Brideoake and mysel how matters really stood, the worthy
miller would not allow Ned to be touched — declaring that, under simi-
lar provocation, he should have acted in the same manner.
While Malpas, quite insensible from the crushing blow — enough to
stun an ox — which he had received, was carried to the mill, Ned de-
voted himself to his wife, and, as she no longer repelled his advances,
he pressed her to his bosom, and covered her with kisses. Poor
Sissy appeared, in some degree, to have regained her faculties, for she
murmured, as her husband strained her fondly to his breast, " If you
mean to kill me, Ned, do it now."
" Kill thee, dear lass !" he exclaimed. " If I do kill thee, it shall
be wi' kindness. I have got thee back at last, and nought shall part
us more."
"And, Ned! — dear Ned!" she cried, "I have been foolish, and
greatly to blame, but I am innocent — on my faith I am. Forgive me
— oh, forgive me !"
" I forgive thee, dear, from the bottom of my heart," he replied ;
" and I fully believe what thou dost tell me. Oh ! what a load is
taken from my breast !"
Sissy gazed at him for a moment with inexpressible gratitude and
affection, and flung her arms about his neck. They remained locked
in each other's embrace for a few moments, when Sissy's hold relaxed,
and she swooned away. The revulsion of feeling had been too much
for her.
Ned bore her gently towards the mill, and we followed, in silence
and in tears. While witnessing such a touching scene as was exhi-
bited in the reconciliation of this poor couple, it was impossible to
utter a word.
Mrs. Brideoake was already gone. She had left when Malpas was
removed, without vouchsafing a word to either of her children.
END Of BOOK THE SECOND.
BOOK THE THIRD.
BOOK THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I.
HOW THE TWO WIZARDS OF OWLARTON GRANGE RAISED A SPIRIT
THAT THEY DID NOT EXPECT.
About two months must be allowed to elapse ere I resume my nar-
rative. No events of any importance had occurred to me during this
interval. My affairs were pretty nearly in the same unsettled state
as heretofore, and there seemed no immediate prospect of their
amendment. I had made more than one unsuccessful attempt to
obtain an interview with Mrs. Mervyn ; and I had reason to be-
lieve that the letters which I addressed to her were never per-
mitted to reach her — at all events, they were never answered.
Neither Mr. Comberbach nor Molly Bailey, though both well
enough disposed towards me, were able to lend me aid. Mrs.
Brideoake still reigned supreme at the Anchorite's. As I was given
to understand, she accounted for her daughter's absence by saying
that Apphia was obliged to remain with her brother, whose feeble
state of health required constant attendance, and, as no contradic-
tion was given to the statement, Mrs. Mervyn probably believed it.
But the poor lady — now almost entirely confined to her room —
mourned for her absent favourite, and sighed for her return.
Malpas Sale had not been to the Anchorite's since his misad-
venture at the mill. Besides producing insensibility for several
hours, the violent blow dealt by Ned's huge fist disfigured his features,
and he was too personally vain to exhibit himself in public until his
good looks were completely restored. By this time his leave of
absence had expired, and he was obliged to join his regiment, which
fcas stationed at Windsor. Before departing, he made an effort to
obtain an interview with Apphia, but she declined to see him. He
had previously written to her, professing undying love, and hoping
still to be reinstated in her affections. Moreover, he utterly denied
the accusations brought against him by Ned Culcheth, and solemnly
252 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
protested that he had not seen Sissy from the time of her quitting her
husband's roof until the luckless day at the mill.
This latter assertion, John Brideoake, who answered the letter for
his sister, showed to be an evasion of the truth. It was now known,
John said, by Sissy's confession, that Simon Pownall had been a mere
instrument in the base plot, and Sissy was only saved from actual
guilt by the agonies of suddenly-awakened conscience, which had
thrown her into a fever, and for a while, as Malpas knew, had
disturbed her intellects. John concluded his letter by saying that
his sister must decline to hold any further intercourse with Mr. Sale.
To this communication Malpas sent a haughty rejoinder from
Windsor — to the effect that " he should formally demand fulfilment
of his marriage contract with Apphia at the time appointed ; and as
he had her mother's support, it would then be seen whether his just
claim could be resisted." Here the correspondence ended.
Quitting Malpas, whom it is small pleasure for me at any time to
mention, let me say that John's cottage — always delightful — was ren-
dered doubly so by its new inmate. His roses seemed to gain in
beauty and fragrance from her sedulous attention. And John's
powers of serving his parishioners were materially increased by li is
sister's zeal and unremitting exertions. Much as the young curate
was beloved, his sister bade fair to eclipse him in general regard. One
result followed Apphia's instalation in her brother's abode, which, if
there had been no other reason for it, would have made her advent for
tunate. John's health improved — slightly, it is true ; but improve it
did. Whether he had less upon his mind — whether her presence
cheered him — or that she took such good care of him — certain it
is that the progress of disease was arrested, and confident hopes began
to be entertained of his ultimate recovery. Moreover, John was
hopeful about himself, and that was a good sign. If careful nursing
could accomplish a cure, it must be owned that he had an ex-
cellent chance. Not only had he his sister to watch over him, but he
had frequent visits from the ladies of Owlarton Grange. Scarcely a
day passed on which Miss Hazilrigge and Ora failed to drive over to
Weverham, bringing with them all sorts of nourishing things for the
invalid.
Apphia and Ora took a liking to each other at once, and mutual
regard soon ripened into warmest friendship. If good, kind Miss
Hazilrigge, who was little behind her niece in regard for Apphia, could
have had her own way, she would have had both John and his sister
to stay with her at the Grange ; but as this could not be, she con-
tented herself with passing as much time as possible in their society.
What degree of encouragement John had received from Ora, and
whether there had been any " love passages" between them, I shall
not at this moment pause to inquire. As regards myself and Apphia,
I would be more explicit, but unluckily 1 have nothing to relate.
Apphia treated me as a friend — nothing more. I was free to come
and go to John's cottage as 1 pleased, and was always kindly welcomed
by herself and brother. But I was given clearly to understand by the
MERVYtf CLITHEROE. 253
voting lady that I must not assume the character of a suitor ; and
whatever constraint I was obliged to put upon myself, in order to
comply, I never sought to violate her inj motions.
Thus matters stood with mj friends a ' • Weverham.
As at John's cottage, so at Owlarton Grange, I was always wel-
come. Old Hazy would have had me consider his house as my home
— and Miss Hazilrigge insisted upon niy taking her brother at his
word. Cuthbert Spring had long since returned to Cottonborough —
though he now and then came over to spend a day at the Grange.
"Whether any positive matrimonial engagement had been entered into
between him and the elderly spinster, I am not prepared to say. No
such announcement had been made ; and Miss Hazilrigge was still
Miss Hazilrigge.
Charmed with the beautiful situation of the mill, and liking both
Dame Mavis and her husband, I took up my abode with them. My
new quarters suited me extremely well, and enabled me to enjoy the
society of my friends, both at Owlarton Grange and Weverham.
I bought a serviceable horse from the miller, and rode about in every
direction throughout the county — visiting some new scene on nearly
every day. A couple of months thus passed by almost without my
being aware of their flight. If not entirely happy, I was content.
A more active life might have suited me better, but I felt that a time
would come when I should have work enough — and I determined to
enjoy my present leisure.
What had become of the Thaumaturgus, Doctor Hooker, since his
disappearance from the old Grange, on the night when he played the
ghost, I could not ascertain. Old Hazy did not like to be questioned
about him, and took it in such high dudgeon if I ventured to disparage
the Thaumaturgus in his hearing, that at last I ceased to allude to
him. But I did not intend to let the rascal escape with impunity.
I only bided my time.
Peace had once more returned to Ned Culcheth's humble dwelling.
Sissy had sufficiently recovered to be able to attend to her household
concerns, and strove to repay by duty and affection her husband's
deep devotion to her. No more coquetry — no more frivolity now. She
had received a severe lesson, and meant to profit by it for the rest of
her life.
With this brief reference to most of the reader's acquaintances, I
shall resume my story.
I had ridden over to Marston, in order to have a day's fishing in
the mere — according to previous arrangement with Ned Culcheth.
Very good sport we had, and caught a couple of jack, besides a
basketful of perch and other fish. With this supply we returned to
Ned's cottage, where some of the perch were fried for me by Sissy —
constituting, with a roast fowl and a few rashers of bacon, a most ex-
cellent repast.
The shades of night had fallen when I rose to take leave of my
humble but hospitable entertainers. I had left my horse at the Nag's
Head in the village, and Ned offered to row me across the mere and
254 LIFE AND ADVEH fUKES OF
land me at the foot of the church, which would save me a mile's walk ;
besides, as the night was extremely fine, with bright moonlight on
the water, he thought I shoi Id prefer that plan. I gladly accepted
the proposal. Nothing couLl be mor* exquisite than the appear-
ance of the mere as our little bark clov<3 through its shining waters.
Before us towered the old church amidst its trees — its square
tower illumined by the silvery radiance. Leaning back in the boat,
I did not address a word to Ned, who plied his oars in silence.
In spite of the beauty and tranquillity of the scene, sad feelings
stole over me. I thought of the dead — and of one who was as
if dead to me: of my mother in her grave in the adjacent church-
yard, and of my father, whom I had never seen, in India. Melan-
choly musings like these engrossed me, until the boat reached the
strand, when I leaped ashore, and taking leave of Ned, climbed the
hill, and entering the precincts of the church, proceeded towards my
mother's grave. The white head-stones, the grassy mounds, the
humble wooden rails, and the more imposing monuments, were all
bathed in bright moonlight. Amidst them, an old black yew-tree,
with outstretched boughs, had a spectral effect. I was just turn-
ing the angle of the church, when, to my surprise, I perceived a
tall man wrapped in a cloak standing near my mother's resting-place.
I could not be mistaken, for I knew the exact situation of the grave,
and as the moonlight fell full upon the flat stone, I could almost
read its inscription from where I stood. The person I beheld was
extremely erect in deportment, and had a military carriage. His
cap was removed, and I saw that he was grey-haired and partially
bald, with a lofty forehead, but his features being in the shade, I
could not clearly distinguish them. So far, however, as they were
discernible, they were entirely strange to me. Yet, somehow, I felt
that I ought to know him. Who was he ? Why should he visit my
mother's grave at such an hour ? Why display such emotion ?
My curiosity being greatly aroused, I stood still to gaze at him.
Indeed, I did not like to disturb him, so impressed was I by his ap-
pearance.
More than once I saw his lips move as if in prayer. After heaving
many deep sighs, and beating his breast, he put on his cap, and
thinking he was about to depart, I resolved to address him ; but
not wishing to take him by surprise, I coughed slightly to announce
my approach. He no sooner noticed me than he hurried out of
the churchyard, and I watched his tall dark figure speeding rapidly
across the fields, until it disappeared from my sight. I felt half dis-
posed to follow him. Yet, to what end? He evidently shunned
observation. Wherefore should I intrude upon his grief?
I did not tarry much longer in the churchyard. Kneeling beside
my mother's grave, I breathed a hasty prayer, and then proceeded to
the village inn, where my horse being in readiness, I mounted him
and rode off in the direction of Weverham.
I had fourteen miles to traverse, but what was such a distance as that
with a fleet horse on a fine night ? A mere question of an hour and a
MEBVTN CLITHEROB. 255
quarter. Besides, being now well acquainted with the country, 1
knew how to save a mile or two by taking cross-roads.
The shortest way to Weverharn led past Owlarton Grange, and
that road I now selected. But the nearest road is sometimes the
furthest about, they say ; and the proverb was verified in my case.
All went well till I got within a couple of miles of the Grange,
when, from some cause or other, my horse fell dead lame. I was
obliged to get off and lead him, but the poor animal could hardly
hobble after me. What to do with him I gcarcely knew, for to take
him on to the mill, which was more than four miles off, seemed im-
possible. My best plan seemed to leave him at the Grange, where
I could at all events place him in a shed till the morning. To the
Grange accordingly I proceeded, but the horse moved so slowly that
midnight had struck before I arrived there.
Being now well acquainted with the premises, I went round to the
back, and, opening a gate, soon made my way into the farm-yard.
Luckily the door of a cow-house was unfastened, and entering it, I
placed my unlucky steed amongst the cattle, took off his saddle and
bridle, tossed him a truss of hay, and after making him as comfort-
able as circumstances would admit, sallied forth with the intention of
knocking up Stephen Blackden or one of his hinds.
But my purpose was suddenly changed, for just as I regained the
yard, the door of the farm-house was cautiously opened, and two
persons issued from it, enveloped in long cloaks, with hats pulled over
their brows, and so muffled up that it was impossible to distinguish their
features. Notwithstanding this evident attempt at disguise, I felt
certain that the pair were no other than Old Hazy and Simon
Pownall ; and I resolved to watch their movements. After pausing
for a moment, to secure the door, they moved off towards the garden,
and I stele after them.
On entering the garden the two mysterious individuals plunged into
long alley, formed of clipped yew-trees, leading in the direction of the
Bummer-house. I followed, taking care to keep out of sight. The
alley once gained, indeed, I was tolerably secure from observation,
for it was so dark, owing to the height and thickness of its hedges,
that I could scarcely discern the two figures moving on before me.
Arrived at an archway, however, the pair turned off, and when I
next beheld them, they were standing together in a retired corner
of the lawn. From the preparations they were now making, it was
evident that some mysterious rites were about to be enacted. The
large white sheet stamped with magical characters, which I bad seen,
on a previous occasion, in Simon Pownall's room, was spread upon
the lawn, and they both seemed occupied in studying its cabalistic
signs.
The spot selected for the ceremonial seemed suitable enough. It
was a part of the lawn furthest removed from the hall, and screened
by a group of shorn trees, which, by a little stretch of imagination,
might be taken for men and animals suddenly transformed by the
power of enchantment. On the right was a gigantic bear reared on
256 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
its hind legs, and with outstretched paws prepared to close with
a huntsman, who was attacking it with an axe. Behind was a
gigantic figure, with a long beard, probably meant to represent a
Druid. Then came an evil angel with wide, outspread wings. Then
a grotesque figure. Then a Faun playing Pandean pipes, with goats
skipping before him ; and lastly, a cock crowing on a tree.
Surrounded by these mute witnesses of their doings, the mysterious
pair proceeded with their performance. The chief wizard, whom I took
to be Simon, produced a Mallet from under his cloak, and brought
out a human skull and cross bones, the dried skins of toads, lizards,
adders, and other reptiles, and disposed them in a circle round the
cloth. While he was thus employed, the second wizard produced a
little iron trivet with some combustibles ; and these lie placed outside
the mystic ring.
The pair of conjurors then marched thrice round the magic circle,
and seemed from their gestures to be muttering spells. This done,
they paused, and the second wizard, whom I took for Old Hazy,
brought forth a large book bound in black parchment, which I at once
recognised as the grimoire he had shown to me in his sanctum.
Opening this magical volume, he pronounced some strange sound-
ing words from it, which might be intended as an incantation, while
his companion stepped into the magic circle, and began to trace
eertain lines upon it with the points of his fingers.
By this time my patience having become exhausted, I determined
to put an end to the scene. When, therefore, the second wizard
summoned some spirit, with a tremendous name, to appear, I did
not wait for the response, but rushing forward, and shouting out,
'You have raised a spirit that you did not expect!" I snatched the
grimoire from his hands, and with the ponderous volume buffeted
his companion soundly on the head and shoulders.
In doing so, however, I knocked off the individual's hat, when to
my great surprise and vexation I found it was Old Hazy himself
whom I had thus maltreated. At the same time the old gentleman,
who had been struck speechless with terror by my sudden appearance,
found his voice, and implored me to desist.
Simon Pownall had not waited for me to find out my mistake, but
took nimbly to his heels, flying in the direction of the summer-
house. Before, however, he could climb the mound on which it was
situated, I was after him, when finding himself hard pressed, the wily
fox changed his plan, and ran on till he reached the edge of the moat,
\nto which he unhesitatingly plunged, and swam across to the further
side.
I was debating whether to follow him, but by this time Old Hazy
having come up, entreated me to let him go ; and before I could dis-
engage myself, Simon had disappeared — thus, for the second time,
eluding me.
MERVYN CLITHKItOE. 257
CHAPTER II.
MISS HAZILEIGGE TAKES ME INTO HER CONFIDENCE.
Old Hazy took ray unlucky attack upon him in very good part, but
thought I had carried the joke a little too far. He never expected,
he said, to be beaten about the head with his beloved grimoire. He
accepted ray apologies, promising to think no more about the matter,
provided 1 undertook to keep strict silence as to the occurrence ;
not liking to be made a laughing-stock, as would certainly be the
case if the circumstance became known.
Delighted to be let off so easily, I readily agreed to his terms,
and we then proceeded to remove all traces of the magical cere-
monial from the lawn. After gathering together the mysterious
implements, the obnoxious grimoire included, we wrapped them up in
the sheet, and carried the bundle between us to the farm-house, de-
positing it in the room formerly occupied by the soi-disant Dr. Hooker,
which communicated, as 1 had supposed must be the case, by a
small private door with the hall. .Renewing my apologies to the
worthy old gentleman for my maladroit behaviour, I then took leave,
and proceeded on foot to the mill, where I arrived without further
accident or adventure, at a somewhat late hour.
In a few days my horse having recovered from his lameness, which
proved to have been caused by a badly-driven nail, I was able to
resume my rides about the country. All my inquiries after Simon
Pownall were ineffectual. I could not learn what had become of him
after his flight from the garden. Though, of course, in compliance
with Old Hazy's injunctions, I made no allusion whatever to Simon's
clandestine visit to the Grange, nor to the Der Freischiitz scene in
the garden, in which he had played the part of Caspar, I thought it
right to acquaint Miss Hazilrigge with the rogue's real name and cha-
racter. She manifested no surprise at the information, but expressed
great concern that her brother should be so egregiously duped.
" But it has constantly been the case with him, I can assure you,
dear Mr. Clitheroe," she said. " He has been deluded by impostor after
impostor for years ; and if w r e get rid of this Dr. Hooker, or Pownall,
or whatever his name may be, another cheat will take his place.
Decided opposition won't do with my brother. He must be humoured
to a certain extent. If thwarted entirely, he would become un-
manageable. This you must have perceived is the course I adopt
with him, and the course I prescribe to the servants, who are all
ordered to indulge ttieir master's whims and peculiarities. You
will now understand whatever may have appeared strange in the
e
258 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
conduct of Stephen Blackden, the bailiff, and his family. Stephen
knows he would lose his place — and a very good place it is — if he didn't
humour my brother, and put up with his odd ways, and so does Dame
Blackden. So do the whole household, in fact. Ponder makes a
complete study of his master's eccentricities, and understands pre-
cisely how to treat him. He knows 'the exact length of his foot,' as
they say in these parts. But setting aside his fantasies, my brother is
so good and kind a master, and so honourable and just in his dealings,
that his servants and tenants all regard him and respect him, and
though no doubt they occasionally practise upon his credulity, yet on
the whole I have no reason to complain. However, a stop must, and
shall be put to this knavish Pownall's proceedings, and I will take
care he no longer infests the premises. Orders shall be given to
Stephen Blackden to warn him off."
" Better order Blackden to arrest him, my dear Miss Hazilrigge,"
I ventured to observe.
" No, I can't consent to that," she rejoined. "I don't choose to
ha*ve my brother's weaknesses exposed and turned into ridicule, which
must be the case if this charlatan is brought to justice. It will be best
to get rid of him quietly. Ah ! my poor dear brother !" Miss Hazil-
rigge ejaculated, with a sigh. " What a pity so much goodness as is
to be found in his composition should be linked to so much folly.
Half his absurdities, I believe, are traceable to the nonsensical stuff
with which he crams his brain, and I have more than once resolved to
make a grand clearance of his shelves, and commit all the abominable
rubbish he has collected to the flames ; just as the curate and the
housekeeper burnt Don Quixote's books of chivalry. But I have
been deterred by fear of the consequences. The proceeding might
drive him distracted."
"Upon my word, I believe it would," I rejoined. " Mr. Hazil-
rigge would never recover the loss of his Frommannus, his Maldo-
natus, his Psellus, Remigius and Filesacus, and other writers on
whom he sets such store. He loves them better than life."
" You are right, Mr. Clitheroe," she said. " It won't do to inter-
fere with him. An oddity he is, and an oddity he must remain to
the end of the chapter. His mania is incurable, and must be tole-
rated — 'tis well it's no worse. For my part, I dislike your great
bookworms. They're good for little else than an arm-chair in a library
with a huge folio before them. I sincerely hope you won't read too
much, Mr. Clitheroe."
I replied that I did not think it very likely I should err in that
respect.
" I'm glad to hear it," she rejoined. " But now, while we are on
the subject of my poor dear brother and his eccentricities, I must
make a confidant of you, Mr. Clitheroe, and explain how anxious —
how inexpressibly anxious — I shall feel about him — if — if I am com-
pelled to leave him. No, I don't think I ever can leave him," she
added, applying her handkerchief to her eyes.
Not knowing to what extent her confidence might be given, J
MERYYN CLITHEUOE. 259
contented myself with inquiring whether she had any immediate idea
of leaving her brother.
Her agitation increased as she attempted a response. At last she
sobbed out, " It will be a dreadful struggle — a terrible sacrifice, Mr
Clitheroe — and I hope Mr. Spring won't exact it from me."
I am sorry to confess, that instead of being moved by this pathetic
address, I felt very much inclined to smile; but I managed to pro-
serve my gravity. Though not in entire possession of my friend's sen-
timents, I thought I might venture to speak for him.
" Mr. Spring, I am convinced, my dear Miss Hazilrigge," I said,
" will consent to any arrangement most in accordance with your wishes
and comforts.'
" Then you think he will allow me to remain at Owlarton Grange
— with my dear brother — do you, Mr. Clitheroe ?" she cried, removing
the handkerchief from her eyes, and gazing wistfully at me through
her tears. "I fancied he was wedded to Cottonborough and the
neighbourhood. Now, I have the greatest regard for Mr. Spring,
and consider him a most charming person, but even lie couldn't
reconcile me to Cottonborough, or to the sort of society one must
be compelled to mix with there. The mere idea of it makes me
shudder."
" I have no authority for saying so, of course, my dear Miss Hazil-
rigge," I replied ; "but I repeat my firm conviction that Mr. Spring-
will gladly accede to your wishes. Whatever his own inclinations may
be, your happiness must necessarily be his first study. Of that be
assured. If a certain happy event — to which, I trust, I may without
impropriety allude — should occur — I do not see why you should not
continue to live here — always supposing the arrangement to be agree-
able to Mr. Hazilrigge."
" Oh, there is no difficulty on my dear brother's part," she replied;
" but Mr. Spring objects "
" You don't say so ?" I cried.
" Decidedly objects," Miss Hazilrigge continued. " He calls this
place dull, and declares he should be moped to death if he dwelt here
for a month. He doesn't care for hunting, shooting, fishing, or any
other country sport. He doesn't like country employments. He
doesn't like country gentlemen, or farmers — clodhoppers he calls
them. In short, the only place he does like appears to be Cotton-
borough, and the only society he apparently cares for is the society
of the Cottonburghers. I pity his taste in the latter particular, I
must say. If Mr. Spring has no relish for our pleasant country, I
can't abide his filthy town, with its tall, smoky chimneys and its
squalid population, and so I have told him. To be frank with you, Mr.
Clitheroe, we have joined issue on this point — Town or Country —
Cottonborough or Owlarton Grange."
" Country will gain the day," I cried.
" I am not so sure of it," she replied. "Mr. Spring is very obsti-
nate, and clings to Cottonborough as if nothing could tear him from
it. But one thing I can promise him — either he must quit that
s2
260 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
odious, black, smoky place, or he shan't have me. I am not selfish,
Mr. Clitheroe, but I am bound to consider my brother, and must not
totally disregard my own comforts."
" Certainly not, my dear Miss Iiazilrigge," I replied.
Our confidential discourse, which took place in Miss Hazilrigge's
boudoir, was here cut short — rather to my relief, I must say — by the
entrance of Ora, who, by an arch glance at me, intimated that she
could guess what we had been talking about. Her aunt imposed
silence upon me by a look, and of course I did not betray the trust
reposed in me. But on thinking over what I had heard, I came to
the conclusion that the match between the elderly couple was not
quite so certain of coming off, as I had previously fancied.
Miss Hazilrigge was sincerely attached to her brother, and I do
not think she could have borne a separation from him. Now that it
had come to the positive question of leaving Owlarton Grange, she
evidently began to feel the strength of the ties that bound her to the
place, and to its eccentric but estimable master, and shrank from
breaking them. Old Hazy and she had lived together since their early
years — how would they get on apart in their latter days ? What
would become of him when she was gone, and there was no one to
take care of him ? He would become a prey to every impostor.
Would Cuthbert Spring and Cottonborough suffice for the loss of the
dear old house, and the dearer old brother? Hardly. The chances
seemed against the marriage, unless the perverse old bachelor would
give up his residence in the smoky manufacturing town, which Miss
Hazilrigge so much abominated, and consent to share the pure delights
of the country with her and her brother. But Cuthbert was town-
bred, and town-educated, and liked noise and bustle, the busy mart
and the crowded street, the dingy warehouse and the stupendous mill,
and it was just as difficult to tear him from Cottonborough, as to remove
Miss Hazilrigge from the Grange.
Had the case been mine instead of Mr. Spring's, I shoukl have
declared for the country, without an instant's hesitation. Owlarton
Grange was a delightful residence. Old Hazy was somewhat of a
bore, it is true, with his long stories and whimsies ; but he had
so many redeeming qualities, was so good-natured, so kind and
considerate, that it was impossible for any one, much in his society,
not to like him. 1 became very much attached to him ; but though
willing to listen to his long stories after dinner, over a bottle of
claret, I took good care to keep out of his sanctum.
Being now perfectly at home at the Grange, I rambled about the
house and garden as much as I listed. No one stood upon any
ceremony with me, and I came to be regarded as one of the family by
the household. A room was allotted to me in the great gallery, where
I retired to read when I pleased, without fear of disturbance.
The haunted chamber was always ready for me in case I chose to pass
the night at the hall. But I rarely availed myself of the privilege,
preferring my snug little bedroom at the mill.
Apropos of the haunted chamber, let me take this opportunity of
MERTYN CLITHEEOE. 26
mentioning that careful investigation of the room enabled me to
detect a trap-door, very ingeniously contrived in the planks of the
floor near the antique tester-bed. On opening this trap-door, a steep
narrow staircase was discovered, on descending which, a long arched
passage appeared, built in the inside of the foundation walls of the
habitation. After tracking this passage, a second staircase was
reached, similar to the first, which landed me, by means of a sliding
panel at its summit, in a small room near to the extreme end of
the great gallery. Prom this room, access could be gained through a
private door to the farm-house.
The course taken by Pownall in his nocturnal visit to me was there-
fore revealed. At first I had supposed that the rascal had found his
way to the priest's hiding-place, where the murderous deed was com-
mitted by Jotham Shocklach ; but this proved not to be the case.
Since Pownall's disappearance from the farm-house, no more
ghostly noises had been heard, and the awful rapping of the mallet
entirely ceased. If things went on in this way, and no new presti-
giator appeared on the scene, Old Ha2 r would lo^e his character
for eccentricity, and Owlarton Grange 3ecome little better than an
every-day habitation, remarkable only for its antiquity.
But it must not be imagined that the old gentleman neglected his
beloved treatises on occult philosophy. On the contrary, he found
greater solace in them than ever. Debarred from the society and
counsel of the modern Thaumaturgus, as he styled the soi-disant
Dr. Hooker, he held constant communion with the departed sages —
with Zoroaster, Olaus Magnus, and John Adam Osiander — and if he
heated his brain overmuch with their prodigious recitals, he, at all
events, committed fewer extravagances.
And where was the bewitching Ora all this while ? The bewitch-
ing Ora had her own pursuits — 1 had mine. We were the best
friends possible, and if 1 had encouraged her, I have no doubt she
would have been as confidential Math me as her aunt had proved. But
though we talked together with perfect freedom on most topics, we
never renewed the conversation Ave had had in the garden relative
to John Brideoake. Perhaps, she was quite satisfied now that John
was in a fair way of regaining his health, and no longer felt any
uneasiness about him. Perhaps, his sister was the depositary of her
confidences, if she had any to impart. Perhaps, it was not necessary
to speak of John at all, since she saw so much of him — rarely a day
passing that she did not visit "Weverham. Perhaps but what need
of further guessing? I consider it impertinent and unfair to pry
into vouDii laditiM' •Arrets
262 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
CHAPTEE III.
REVELATIONS.
When not at Owlarton Grange, I was at Weverham ; and when not
at Weverham, I was at Owlarton' Grange. My time was pretty
equally divided between my friends. Naturally, the curate's humble
dwelling possessed stronger attractions to me than the ancient hall,
inasmuch as it contained Apphia ; and if I had consulted my own in-
clinations I should never have been absent from her side. But this
might not be ; and I was forced to submit to a destiny which for the
time seemed unpropitious to my happiness. More than once, when
there appeared to be a possibility of my forgetting it, Apphia gently
reminded me of the unfortunate promise she had given to her mother,
and declaring that no entreaties of mine could cause her to break it,
reduced me, in an instant, from a state of rapture to utter despair.
Sometimes I thought her unnecessarily cold — and told her so — but I
perceived from the expression of her countenance, as well as from
the tears starting to her eyes, that my reproaches were unjust, and 1
hastened to recal them. That she acted from a sense of propriety I
knew, and however I might suffer, I felt I had no right to complain.
What the solution of this painful question might be, I did not dare
to conjecture. Time only could decide. But though cast down for
the moment, I was not without hope for the future.
But I must now proceed to detail an adventure which befel me
when returning one evening from a visit to Weverham ; and which
furnished me, in a strange way, with some rather important in-
formation.
The day had been oppressively hot, and as the sun went down there
was every appearance of a thunderstorm : heavy masses of leaden-
coloured clouds, accompanied by portentous stillness and gloom. The
shades of night brought no coolness. Scarce a breath of air was
stirring. We sat with open windows, but found little relief, for the
scent of the flowers from the garden was almost overpowering.
Still the storm held off, and I thought 1 should be able to reach the
mill before it burst forth. John advised me to wait, and so did
Apphia, who seemed more apprehensive of danger than her brother,
but I would not listen to their entreaties, and set forth, laughingly
assuring them that they need be under no apprehension about me.
Scarcely had I reached the garden-gate, when a flash of forked light-
ning traversing the sky seemed to rebuke my rashness, while, in
another instant, an angry growl of thunder was heard in the distance.
Apphia called out to me, imploring me to come back, but I did not
heed her, and went on my way.
The mill was distant about two miles, and the nearest road lying
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 263
across the fields, I took it of course, walking as fast as I could.
But I had not proceeded more than a mile, when the storm broke
npon me in all its fury. The rain came down like a waterspout,
drenching me in an instant to the skin. Fire and water were
commingled, for notwithstanding the deluging showers, the heavens
appeared in a blaze. I have never beheld more vivid lightning, nor
heard more awful claps of thunder. I should now have been glad
to be back again with John and his sister, and regretted that I had
turned a deaf ear to Apphia's urgent entreaties to me to stay. But
I could not but admit that I was rightly served for my imprudence.
The situation was extremely unpleasant. I was half-drowned,
deafened, nearly blinded — wholly confused. I looked around for
shelter — none was at hand — for I did not dare to place myself under
a tree, knowing well the risk incurred in doing so from the electric
fluid.
To turn back was as bad as to go on. So I pursued my course with
as much expedition as circumstances would permit. Bapid progress,
however, was now out of the question ; and indeed it was with diffi-
culty that I got on at all, for the paths were flooded and slippery,
and the lightning so dazzling and incessant, that I could scarcely
face it.
At length, after crossing a couple more fields, I came to a halt ;
beginning to fear that I must have got upon a wrong track. In
another moment my doubts were converted into certainties. A flash
of lightning of extraordinary brilliancy showed me that I was within
thirty yards of the high road leading to Owlarton Grange. Instead
of proceeding in the direction of the mill, I had therefore been walk-
ing away from it for the last quarter of an hour.
Bushing forward to a stile near the high road, I waited for the
next flash, hoping it might reveal some dwelling where I might obtain
shelter; but though disappointed in this expectation, I caught sight
of something, which, under the circumstances, was nearly as welcome
— namely, a haystack situated at the further end of the opposite field.
Congratulating myself on the discovery, I at once started towards
this place of refuge, and quickly reached it. The haystack proved to
be as large as a good-sized farm-house, with widely overhanging eaves
and sides sloping down to a somewhat narrow base — promising com-
fortable shelter at the end not exposed to the weather. I was hasten-
ing thither, when the sound of voices arrested me. Something seemed
to whisper caution, and well it was that I attended to the monitor.
In the intervals between the loud peals of thunder I could distinguish
the voices of the speakers more clearly, and they seemed familiar to
me, but in order to make sure, I peered cautiously round the corner,
and a flash of lightning occurring at the moment, I beheld Simon
Pownall conversing with Phaleg and Obed.
Simon seemed ill at ease, and either from fright, or owing to
the blue glare«of the lightning, looked perfectly livid. But his com-
panions appeared wholly indifferent to the terrors of the storm
which agitated him so violently. Beclining against the side of the
Btack with his brawny arms crossed upon his chest, and one muscular
2G4 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
ieg twined round the other, gipsy-fashion, Phaleg looked the picture
of reckless unconcern ; while his son leaned in an equally careless
attitude against a donkey, winch, with a pair of panniers and a bundle
of stakes upon its back, formed a conspicuous feature in the group.
All this I noted at a glance ; and I noted, moreover, with some
uneasiness, that both gipsies carried their heavy bludgeons with
them. It might be the effect of the lightning, as in Pownall's case,
but I thought Phaleg' a countenance wore an unusually sinister ex-
pression. The stack had been cut at this end in steps, and a good
deal of loose hay lay scattered about, in the midst of which sat Pownall
with his back partly towards me. A ladder reared against the side of
the rick showed that the honest husbandman had been recently at
work there, not calculating upon such visitants as these.
" Mercy on us !" Simon ejaculated, his teeth chattering with fright
— " what an awful peal of thunder ! I never recollect such a storm in
all my born days. D'ye think we're safe here, my worthy Phaleg ?"
" Safe ! — ay, to be sure," the elder gipsy rejoined, in a scoffing voice ;
"just as safe as you'd be in a church — safer, mayhap — for I once seed
the tower o' Lvmme church struck by a thunderbowt, and some great
heavy stones rolled down and broke through the roof, and would
ha' killed a score o' godly folk, if they had chanced to be mumbling
their prayers at the time."
And the miscreant chuckled at his own pleasantry.
" Don't laugh in that way, I beg of you, my irreverend Phaleg,"
Pownall rejoined. " It makes the flesh creep on my bones. Powers
above ! what a flash ! — enough to put one's eyes out."
" What, you're afeared o' thunder an' lightnin', are ye ?" the caitiff
rejoined, scowling at the heavens. " Well, I ain't. I rayther enjoys
a storm like this. I account it a pratty sight — a'most as good as fire-
works. Some canting folks would fancy that the Dule and all his imps
was abroad."
"Have done, Phaleg," Pownall cried, sharply. "This is not a
proper season for jesting."
" Well, chant a psalm, if you're so inclined," the ruffian answered,
contemptuously. " How long is it since you turned Methoddy parson,
eh, Pownall ? I thought you were still in the conjuring line."
" Don't be angry, my worthy Phaleg," the other rejoined ; " I
meant no offence. Let us proceed to business."
" Wi' a' my heart," the other replied. " Go on. I'll listen to you,
provided the thunder' 11 let me."
" I wish I had as much courage as you, my brave Phaleg," Simon
replied; "but this storm has robbed me of all mine."
" .Robbed you, has it ?" the gipsy cried, derisively. " I didn't fancy
you had much courage to lose. But if you want to rouse your sperrits,
why don't you take a drop o' brandy ?"
"An excellent suggestion," Simon said. "Luckily I have my
pocket-flask with me. You know whose; cellar the liquor comes from,
Phaleg," lie added, producing a small leather-covered flask, and un-
screwing a silver cup from the top, which he proceeded to till.
"Ay, ay, I know where you got it, and .1 know also that it be the
right sort o' stuff," the gipsy replied. " 1 wish I were as well varsed i'
MEEVYN CLITIIKKOE. 265
the black art as you, Pownall. You plays hocuspocus tricks to some
purpose."
"That's some of O'ld Hazy's best Nantz," Simon cried, tossing off
the contents of the cup. " Taste it, Plialeg," he said, replenishing
the little vessel, and handing it to him.
" I won't say ' No,' " the gipsy rejoined. " Here's success to us all
three !" he added, emptying the cup. " A rare cordial, by my soul !"
he cried, smacking his lips. " Obed won't object to a drop of it."
" That I won't, father," the younger gipsy replied, with a grin.
" Here you are, then, little Obed," Pownall said, giving him the cup,
which he had once more filled to the brim. " Plague on't ! how my
hand shakes."
"Steady it wi' another cupful," Phaleg rejoined, with a gruff
kind of facetiousness. And as Simon acted upon the hint, the gipsy
added, " Now we can talk over matters comfortably."
"Ha! ha! so we can," Pownall laughed. "I don't care for the
thunder now. It may roar till it's hoarse — ha ! ha ! And the
lightning may burn itself out. But to business," he added, check-
ing his hilarity on the sudden. " You and I are in the same boat,
Phaleg, and must pull together, if we want to get along smoothly."
"Well, I'm willing," the elder gipsy said. "You've only to say
which way we are to pull."
" Let me first explain how I'm situated," Pownall went on. " T lie
game at Owlarton Grange is up. I could have made a good harvest
there, and stayed as long as I liked, if it hadn't been for that
meddlesome fool, young Clitheroe."
"Curse him!" Phaleg ejaculated. " He'd better not come across
me again. I'd split his skull for two pins."
"'Twas an unlucky day for me that brought him to the Grange,"
Simon continued, " for he has marred all my schemes. I tried to
scare him oft' the premises by playing the ghost, but he was too
wide awake to be so taken in, and I had enough to do to get away
from him. T'other night, just as 1 had enticed Old Hazy into the
garden, and was about to play off some conjuring tricks, for which the
old fellow would have come down handsomely, my gentleman pops
upon us unawares, and not only deprives me of my fee, but forces
me to swim across the moat in order to escape."
Simon's description of his misadventures seemed highly diverting
to both gipsies, for they broke into a loud fit of laughter.
"I found it no joke, my lively friends, I can promise you," Simon
continued, rather testily ; " and I don't think that either of you
wouJd have liked it. This was my last appearance at the Grange.
Old Hazy still sticks to me, and would have me back again if he dared ;
but owing to this confounded young Clitheroe's interference, Miss
Hazilrigge and ail the household are against me, and I daren't show
my face. Before I bolted, I tried hard to get a good thumping sum
out of the old squire, but it was no go. And this brings me to the
point, my worthy Phaleg. Since money is not to be had there, it
must be got elsewhere — d'ye understand?"
"I shall do so, I dare say, afore you've done," the elder gipsy
rejoined.
266 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
"Briefly, then," Simon said, " if a certain friend of ours is to come
quietly into 2000?. a year in a few months' time, he must pay us for
permission to obtain it."
" I am quite of your opinion, Mester Pownall," the elder gipsy
replied. " If he axes my permission, he shan't have it, unless he do
pay. But I thought you had got summut already from the voung
chap."
" So I have, but it's all spent. However, our secret ought to be
a mine of wealth to us, Phaleg — a mine of wealth ; and I'm con-
tent to share it with you, because "
" Tou can't help yourself, that's why," the gipsy interrupted, with
a coarse laugh. " You're afeared o' me, and must stop my mouth,
just as Capt'n Sale must stop yours. That's the long and short on't,
Pownall. Well, I'm willing to act wi' you, so long as you play upon
the square. But deal falsely wi' me, and look to yourself, man."
" Trust to my honour, my worthy Phaleg. AYhen we've settled
this little affair to our mutual satisfaction with Captain Sale — to
our mutual satisfaction, I repeat — I shall make myself scarce —
emigrate. I've had enough of a vagabond life, and mean to turn my
talents to proper account. America's the land for a sharp fellow
like me — or Australia."
" Not a bad plan," Phaleg remarked. " I think I shall go to
Horsteravlia myself. "What say'st thou, Obed ? Wilt go wi' thy
father?"'
" No," the younger gipsy replied, bluntly. " I shall stick to the owd
country. Leave me little Eobin," he added, patting the donkey's
neck, " and I shall be quite content."
"Well, do as thou wilt, lad," Phaleg said. "Thou shalt have
Robin, and welcome — though, mayhap, I shall change my mind
afore the time comes for starting. Thy mother and Kue mayn't
like to go."
" It'll be your own fault, my worthy Phaleg," Simon remarked, "if
you don't get enough to enable you to live comfortably either here
or in Australia."
"That's exactly what I should like, Mester Pownall," the gipsy
rejoined, dryly ; " so I'm quite ready to act wi' you. Where is the
capt'n?"
" At Windsor with his regiment, but I mean to write and appoint a
meeting with him without delay. I shall take the liberty of in-
forming him that his future fortune as well as the maintenance of
his position in society depend upon his keeping that appointment.
If he fails, he must take the consequences."
" He'll come then, you think ?"
"I'm sure of it. lie daren't refuse. And now for the plan "
Here Simon lowered his voice so much that I could not catch what
he said.
" How if he should turn rusty ?" Phaleg remarked, after a pause.
"In that case, I'll make him feel my power to its full extent,"
Pownall rejoined. " But, bless you ! it'll never come to that. He
may stamp and swear — and call me ugly names, as he has often done
before — but I know the way to tame him. I shall use an argument
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 207
not to be resisted. Only let me threaten to produce the rightful will,
and he'll agree to my terms pretty quickly — be they what they may.
It won't suit him to lose 2000Z. a year. It won't suit him to be pub-
licly disgraced, which he will be if it comes to be known that he has
been acting under a wrong will, with full understanding that it is
wrongful. He has to choose between compliance with my demands,
and ruin, Phaleg — absolute ruin."
" Poor young gen'l'man !" Phaleg cried, with affected commisera-
tion. " Don't be too hard upon him."
" I don't want to be extortionate, my tender-hearted Phaleg,"
Pownall rejoined. " But I must take care of myself, you know.
Besides, I've got to share the spoil with you. We must have a good
round sum. It's our last chance. He'll want to have the will de-
livered up this time."
" He must be a precious fool if he doesn't," Phaleg said. " It's a
wonder to me he didn't bargain for it at first — but he didn't know
you so well then as he has done since. Tou haven't got the will
about you now ? — ha !" he added, with a suddenness that made Simon
start, and led me to suspect that he had an evil motive for putting
the question.
"~No, no," Pownall replied, evidently in some trepidation. "Do
you think I would carry such a valuable document as that about me ?
It is lodged in a place of safety — where no one but myself can find
it. One can't be too cautious, you know, worthy Phaleg. One
never knows into what sort of company one may get."
"Very true," the other replied. "And I wouldn't advise you to
take that precious dokiment i' your pocket when you pays Capt'n
Sale a visit, or you may chance to return without it. And I think
you'd be all the safer at the interview wi' a friend like me at your
elbow. But I wish you'd just explain this to me, Pownall. I never
could rightly understand how there corned to be two wills; nor how
you managed to get the true will into your possession ? I suppose
vou stole it when you broke into the room where the dead man was
lying?"
" Hush ! Phaleg," Simon cried ; " I don't like to speak of the old
chap on a night like this. I'll just take another drop of brandy,
and then I'll give you the information you desire. Old Mobb, you
must know, had two great-nephews — the present Captain Sale and
Mervyn Clitheroe. Clitheroe was his favourite, and he meant to
leave him his money, but the lad displeased him by shooting a tabby-
cat belonging to the old missis, and Mobb changed his mind, making
a will in favour of Malpas Sale. That was the first will. Pay atten-
tion, Phaleg. By-and-by, however, Clitheroe gets into his uncle's
good graces again, the tabby-cat is forgotten, the old missis dies, and
a second will is made, by which Mervyn becomes heir. That second
will is the true will. Pay particular attention now, Phaleg, and you
shall hear how the precious document came into my possession.
'Twas a cleverly-managed affair, as you will admit. On the day of his
death old Mobb was burning papers in his bedroom, which was on the
ground-floor, with a little window looking in the garden, and he meant
to have destroyed the first will — the Jlrst will, mind, Phaleg — placing
268 LIFE AND ADVENTUKES OF
it on his bed for that purpose. jN^ow the bed being close to the win-
dow, and the window being open, and I chancing to be in the
garden at the time — watching the old man's proceedings — I seized
the opportunity when Mobb's back was turned, thrust in my hand,
and grabbed the will."
" But what were the use of grabbin' it, if it warn't the right will ?"
Phaleg inquired.
" You shall hear, if you'll let me tell the story in my own way,
most respectable Phaleg," Simon replied. " The old man didn't per-
ceive what I had clone, but thought he had burnt the will, and soon
afterwards took to his bed and died. The right will I knew was
locked up in a bureau in the bedroom, but I hoped to get the key,
in order to enable me to secure that precious document, and put the
wrong will in its place. In this I was disappointed — so I was com-
pelled to break into the room at night to accomplish the job."
" At which time I caught sight of you," Phaleg remarked.
" Unluckily for me, but luckily for yourself, you did so, my crafty
Phaleg," Simon went on. " My object in making this change of the
will must now be apparent to you, methinks. The second will was
found where I had placed it ; was read ; and Malpas declared heir —
heir to 2000Z. a year. But the true will being in my possession, I
could upset him in a moment by its production. And this I took
care to let the fortunate youth know. You would have grinned to
see how chopfallen he looked when I gave him the information.
However, he saw there was nothing for it but to make terms with
me, and he did so without hesitation."
" "What did you get out of him, may I ask ?" the gipsy said.
" That's scarcely a fair question, worthy Phaleg," Simon replied,
"and you must excuse my answering it. I dare say you'll learn,
though, at our meeting with the captain, for he'll be sure to rake
up old scores. Thus you see, Phaleg — and I'll give it you as the
moral of my story — a man should never make a second will till he
has burnt the first. "
At this moment, I bent forward rather incautiously, and, in doing
so, made a slight noise, which caught the quick ears of Obed.
I drew back instantly, but it was evident, from the exclamation
of the younger gipsy, that he had seen me.
" There's a man round the corner !" he cried. " I saw him draw back
his head."
"A listener!" Pownall exclaimed. " If it should be young Ch-
theroe, we're done for!"
" If it should be young Clitheroe I'll do for Mm" Phaleg roared,
with a fearful oath, that left me little doubt he would try to out ins
threat into execution. " Come along, Obed."
And, as he spoke, he dashed round the corner, brandishing his
bludgeon.
They were within an ace of discovering me, and if it had lightened
at the time I must infallibly have been detected. lint I managed to
elude them, instead of attempting flight, which I knew would be
useless, I threw myself on the ground, and crept round the corner
of the haystack so expeditiously, that I was actually amongst them
MERVYN CLITHEHOE. 269
before they bad moved from the spot. Simon Pownail did not quit
bis post, and I was therefore compelled to bury myself in the hay,
which screened me effectually.
The shouts and oaths of the gipsies as they beat about the hay-
stack reached me where I lay, and told me what I bad to expect if my
hiding-place should be discovered. Presently they came back, greatly
enraged at their failure. Phaleg swore lustily at his son, and told
him he must have been dreaming ; but Obed stoutly maintained the
contrary, declaring that he had seen a man's head as plainly as he
now beheld his own father's. Where was he, then F What had be-
come of him ? Phaleg demanded. Obed couldn't tell ; so, after some
wrangling, they both held their peace.
The incident served to break up the conference. Simon Pownail,
though concurring in opinion with the elder gipsy that Obed must
have been deceived, was evidently rendered uneasy, and declined to talk
any more on business. Much to my relief — for I began to find my
position almost intolerable — I heard him soon afterwards announce his
departure. After exchanging a few words with Phaleg, in too low a
tone to reach me, he bade him and his son good night, and set off.
Xothing passed between the gipsies for a minute or two, but when
Simon, as I presumed, was fairly out of hearing, the elder ruffian ob-
served to his son, with a laugh,
" I tell thee what it is, Obed — I mean to have that will."
"You do, father ?" the younger gipsy replied. "Then you won't
work wi' this owd chap ?"
" Xot unless I'm driven to it, lad," the other replied. " 1 cannot
trust him ; and I know he doesn't trust me, but means to throw me
over, if he can. All Capt'n Sale wants is the will ; and he would liever
deal wi' me than wi' a greedy curmudgeon like Simon. We must find
out where the will be hidden, Obed."
" You don't think as how th' owd chap had it about him to-night f "
the son rejoined.
"I had my doubts," Phaleg returned, "and I thought of knockin'
him on the head to see. But if I hadn't found it, it would ha' been
awk'ard. I should ha' cracked the nut without gettin' the karnal.
So I thought it best to let things bide as they be."
" Lucky for him you did think so, father," Obed laughed. " Well,
I've a plan, which, if we can bring it to bear, will enable us to stand
in Simon's shoes as regards the capt'n. You shall hear what 'tis
when I ha' conned it over."
" A\ r ell done, Obed," the elder gipsy cried, approvingly. -: Thy
wits are sharp enough, lad, if thou chooses to give 'em fair play, and
not fancy thou sees a man's head round the corner of a hayrick — ha !
ha ! But come ! the rain's over. Bring along iiobin, and let's be
jogging."
With this he evidently moved off, and his son was not long in fol-
lowing him.
As soon as I deemed the coast clear I shook off the covering of hay,
and congratulated myself on my deliverance. If the miscreants had
remained many minutes longer, I must have shifted my position, or
have been stifled.
270 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
Suffering a few minutes more to elapse before quitting the field,
I made the best of my way to the mill.
I rose betimes next day, and spent the whole of it in searching for
Pownall and the gipsies. But though I scoured the country round
for miles, visiting every spot where 1 thought it likely tidings could
be obtained, I learnt nothing. No one answering to Pown all's de-
scription had been seen at Weverham, or any of the adjacent hamlets
— nor had lodged — so far as I could discover — at any wayside inn, or
hovel. I was equally unsuccessful in my quest of the gipsies. The
latter, I found, had been encamped on Delamere Forest during the
last week, but had struck their tent a few hours before I assisted at
their rendezvous with Pownall at the haystack, and in all probability
they had removed to some distant spot.
Sorely disappointed, I rode over on the ensuing day to Marston,
for the purpose of consulting with Ned Culcheth. Ned advised me
to keep quiet, and not give the alarm. Something would soon be
heard, lie was sure, of Captain Sale, and the moment he arrived at the
vicarage I should be apprised. The captain's movements should be
closely watched, and, likely enough, we might catch all the birds we
wanted with the same net. I was not very sanguine as to the suc-
cess of Ned's scheme, but having nothing better of my own to suggest,
I agreed to it, and the worthy fellow took measures to carry it out.
But while this matter was in abeyance, another event occurred,
which I shall relate in the succeeding chapter.
CHAPTER IV.
I GIVE A RUSTIC F&TE AT THE MILL.
Kind-hearted Miss Hazilrigge, ever anxious to promote harmless
amusement, and never so happy as when helping to make other
people happy — young people especially — persuaded me to give a
rustic fete at the mill, promising to take ail trouble of the arrange-
ments off my hands.
" You have only to invite your friends," the good lady said.
" Leave all the rest to me. Of course you will ask John Brideoake
and his sister; and I have no doubt Mr. Cuthbert Spring will come
over if you send him word. We have seen nothing of him, by-the-
by, for the last week. And now, when shall it be ? The sooner
the better, I think, for the weather is extremely fine just now, and
likely to continue so. To-day is Monday — suppose we say Thursday.
That will give plenty of time for preparation. But mind, it is merely
to be a rustic fete, and quite simple in character, for if any preten-
sion is attempted, or any fine folks are invited, John Brideoake and
his sister will never join it, I'm sure."
" I quite agree with you there, Miss Hazilrigge," I replied ; " and
as far as I myself am concerned I should very much prefer a little out-
MERVYN CL1THEH0E. 271
door entertainment at which my humbler friends can assist — and I will
therefore invite Ned Culcheth and his wife. I dare say we shall be
able to get up a dance on the green sward near the mill-pool."
"Delightful!" Miss Hazilrigge cried. "I hope the Culcheths
will come. To make sure, you had better say that I will send some
conveyance for them — and they shall be taken back next day. Don't
omit to mention that."
" You are kindness itself, dear Miss Hazilrigge," I rejoined, " and
leave nothing undone to contribute to the happiness of your friends
and dependents."
The fete was therefore fixed for the following Thursday, and I
despatched an invitation without delay to Cuthbert Spring. I did
not hear from him till the Wednesday morning, when I received a letter
to say that he had just returned from London, whither he had been
summoned by important business. He would be extremely happy to
assist at my rural festivities, he said, and would bring with him his
old friend Major Atherton, who had returned with him from town ;
desiring me to mention to Mr. Hazilrigge that he should claim his
hospitality for the night for himself and his friend at the Grange.
" I shall be very glad to see Cuthbert and his friend, of course,"
Old Hazy said, when I delivered the message. " But who is Major
Atherton? I don't recollect him."
I could afford no information, the major being equally a stranger
to me, and the old gentleman contented himself with remarking that
he had no doubt he must be an agreeable man, or Cuthbert would
not have volunteered to bring him.
" Apropos !" he cried. " I dreamed last night of a swan, and that,
according to Artemidorus, signifies joy and the revealing of secrets.
And the night before, I dreamed that my teeth were winter, firmer,
and more comely than ordinary, denoting, according to Anselmus
Julianus, prosperity, good news, and friendship among relations. I
have no doubt I shall learn some curious intelligence from Major
Atherton, as well as experience much pleasure in his society."
I acquiesced with him in opinion, and here the matter dropped.
My invitation to Ned Culcheth and Sissy was delivered in person.
On learning that a light cart would be sent for them early on the
morning of the day of the fete, and that the same conveyance would
bring them back next day, the only obstacle to their prompt accept-
ance was removed ; and they joyfully promised to come. Sissy said
she should look forward with delight to seeing her kind friends at the
mill again, and she hoped to be able to bring back little Grace with
her, if Dame Mavis would only spare the sweet child for a month.
Sissy loved little Grace, she said, as dearly as if she were her own
daughter.
Nothing had been heard of Malpas. Ned had caused inquiries
to be made at the vicarage, but no letter had been received from
him, neither did it appear that he Was expected.
The appointed day arrived, and the weather proving highly pro-
pitious, I had reason to hope that the fete would go off well. A
large level patch of green sward in front of the miller's pictu-
resque abode had been carefully rolled and mown till it resembled
272 LIEE AND ADVENTURES OF
a bowling-green, and on this turf the amusements were to take place.
Here a marquee was pitched, whicli had been sent from Owlarton
Grange, and, adjoining it, stood a long table, covered with all the
essentials of an excellent cold collation : a roast sirloin of beef, roast
lamb, pigeon pies, roast fowls, hams, tongues, and other good things
too numerous to particularise. Covers were laid for thirty persons,
and benches were placed on either side of the table capable of com-
fortably accommodating that number.
But after all, though good viands and stout ale are not to be de-
spised, a fete would be nothing — -in female eyes, at least — without
music and dancing. Accordingly, by the kind prevision of Miss
Hazilrigge, the AVeverham band of musicians was engaged, consisting
of a couple of fiddles, a flute, hautboy, and bassoon. A little stage
was erected on the right of the lawn, opposite the marquee, on which
chairs and stands were placed ; and this constituted the orchestra.
A pretty picture altogether; with a background formed by the
mill, and the old-fashioned timber-and- plaster habitation contiguous
to it. The latter, with its grey thatched roof, its black-and-white
chequer-work, and its transom windows, was quite as pleasing an
object as the mill itself. On the right of the green was a small but
prettily laid-out garden, screened off by a low privet hedge ; and
on the left lay the orchard, which I have heretofore had occasion
to describe. A couple of gaily-decorated boats were moored to the
margin of the mill-pool, and hard by the wooden steps, serving as a
landing-place, grew a beautiful weeping willow, its pendent branches
dipping into the water.
Such was the scene presented to my gaze as I contemplated it
with Mr. Ponder, shortly before the arrival of the company.
But pleasing as I then thought it, it was nothing to what it after-
wards became, when the green was thronged by merry groups, when
every seat at the long table was occupied, and the viands were in a
state of active demolition, when laugh and jest went round, when
the butler and his assistants were in full employ, when the musicians
struck up their liveliest strains, and good-looking lads and buxom
lasses footed it blithely in the country dance and the jig.
But lo ! an arrival. It is Miss Hazilrigge. Three o'clock is the
hour appointed for the fete, but she comes a little earlier, wishing to
be satisfied that her directions have been properly carried out. After
looking round, and examining all the preparations with a critical eye,
the good lady claps her hands with delight, declaring that all had
been done to admiration. Mr. Ponder appropriates the compliment
to himself, and bows respectfully. Mr. Hazilrigge comes next with
Ora, who is charmingly attired, and looks more bewitching than ever
in her pretty straw hat. The old gentleman seizes my arm, and tells
me, with a comical look, which I scarcely know how to interpret,
that he has invited two persons to my fete — a gipsy woman and her
daughter. Seeing me stare at him, he hastens to add, "but they're
both very decent, well-mannered people, and won't offend anybody.
The daughter is one of the prettiest creatures you ever beheld — with
such a pair of black eyes — such supple limbs — and such a little foot.
She dances like a Spanish gitalin. Doesn't she, Ora?"
MERVTN CLITHEROE. 2^73
" She is exceedingly pretty, indeed, and dances with inimitable
grace," his niece replied. " Her raven tresses and superb black eyes
are enough to make one turn pale with envy. I am very glad my
uncle has bidden her to your fete, Mervyn, for she will be quite
an attraction to it. The only misfortune is, she will turn the heads
of all the men, and make them indifferent to their homely partners.
Her mother tells fortunes capitally, and will afford amusement to the
younger damsels and their admirers. She wanted to give me a peep
into the future this morning — but I declined."
"She told my fortune, though," Old Hazy cried, "and told it re-
markably well. I'm not going to let you into my secrets, you saucy
minx," he added to Ora, " so ycu needn't expect it. But as I was
saying, this gipsy woman told me a great deal that has happened to
me, and that is only known to myself and to one other person — and
a great deal that will happen to me. She seems as well versed in
chiromancy as Dr. Hooker himself."
" I shouldn't be surprised if she has derived some of her informa-
tion concerning previous events in your history from that respectable
individual," I observed. But, seeing the old gentleman look rather
blank, I added, " Well, I am very glad you have invited the gipsy
pair. Ora's description of the daughter makes me curious to see
her, and the mother's skill in soothsaying shall be put to the test."
Soon after this. Apphia and her brother arrived, and I flew to
bid them welcome. They told me I might expect a large attend-
ance, for the glen was thronged with young folks of both sexes on
their way from Weverham. I may here mention that I had left
the AVeverham invitations to John, as his acquaintance with the
village folk enabled him to make a better selection than I could do.
I had not given him a very agreeable office, he said, for when a
rumour of the fete got abroad evervbodv wanted to go to it, and
numbers were of course disappointed.
But here they come ! A large party of lads and lasses, in holiday
attire, step upon the green, preceded by Mr. Mavis, who, arrayed in
his Sunday habiliments, and having a large bunch of white ribands
stuck on his breast, performs the part of usher, takes tickets, and
presents the company to me. The young men look rather sheepish
at first, and the damsels somewhat bashful, but, encouraged by
the bland and friendly manner of Miss Hazilrigge, by the smiles
and kind addresses of the younger ladies, and I may venture to say
by my own not uncourteous reception, they speedily regain their
confidence, and appear quite at ease. By this time, also, the band
of musicians have arrived, and taking their places on the orchestra,
after a brief preliminary tuning of their instruments, strike up a
lively air, and on the instant every countenance becomes animated,
and every tongue is unloosed.
After a short interval, more guests arrive — a second detachment of
village lads and lasses, more numerous than the first. Mr. Mavis
has enough to do to get them all forward, and laughs heartily at
their uncouth bows and scrapes, and their funny curtseys. Then
come the miller's men — such of them as are married, with their wives
T
274 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
and children. Then more villagers, until at last the green is quite
thronged. At last — just when I have begun to give them up — ■
to my great satisfaction, I descry Ned Culcheth and Sissy. They
are accompanied by Dame Mavis and her little daughter. The crowd
draw aside to afford them passage as they advance towards me.
Sissy comes first, holding Grace by the hand, looking more like
her former self than I have seen her of late. If anything, im-
proved, for, while she has quite recovered her bloom and beauty,
her manner is sedate and wholly free from levity. For manly
bearing, not one in that assemblage can compare with JSTed Cul-
cheth ; and yet there are some stout, well-looking lads amidst it
too. JNTed is a first-rate specimen of a stalwart English yeoman. 1
feel quite proud of him. His heart beams out in his honest coun-
tenance, and makes itself felt in his warm grasp. Giving him and
his wife a cordial welcome, I tell Sissy I am glad to perceive that
she has returned to her primitive Welsh hat, as a bonnet does not
suit her half so well. She colours a little, and turns to her husband,
who informs me, with a laugh, that his missis has put on the hat
thinking to please me. Well, she lias succeeded, if such was her inten-
tion. tJnbidden thoughts cross me. As I look at Sissy and contrast
her present cheerful expression and composed manner with her recent
woful condition as exhibited on this very spot, I can scarcely believe
in the reality of the change. The past now only appears like a
troubled dream. Some thoughts of a like nature probably occur to
Sissy, for I observe her lip quiver, and a tear start to her eye. Her
husband notices her emotion too, and, guessing the cause, catches little
Grace in his arms, and holds her up to his wife to receive a kiss. But
this does not improve matters, but rather makes them worse, for as
Sissy strains her little pet to her bosom, her tears can no longer be
repressed, and she rushes away until her emotion quite subsides.
But this is the only occasion on which she gives way, and as Dame
Mavis kindly says, "it be quite excusable. 1 ' For my own part, I
think all the better of her for the display of feeling. " I do believe
Sissy loves my child as well as I do myself," Dame Mavis chatters
on ; " and I be quite sure the child be as fond of her as she be of her
own mother. Therefore, I can't find i' my heart to deny 'em both
since Sissy wants to take Grace home wi' her for a month— and I
shall e'en let the child go."
Behold a grave and respectable-looking personage, in a blue coat
and white waistcoat, with a stately, not to say majestic, deportment !
Mr. Ponder comes to tell me that the benches at the table are
fully occupied, and the guests eager to fall to — so I accompany the
stately butler, and by our joint exertions, aided by those of Mr. Hazil-
rigge and John Brideoake, every plate is speedily filled, and nearly
as speedily emptied. My guests, I must say, whether male or female,
have no lack of appetite, and do ample justice to the good things set
before them. Luckily, the supply is equal to the demand. Mr.
Ponder smiles in his grave manner as he sees the havoc I am making
with the noble sirloin of beef — very little of which now remains —
and tells me, in an under tone, not to be alarmed, for he has famous
cold roast " ribs" in the tent. " I don't think they will eat us quite
MERYTN CLITHEROE. 275
out, sir," the butler adds. Old Hazy seems euchanted with the scene;
declaring that it does him good to see such real, hearty, unso-
phisticated enjoyment. " I would rather witness a simple feast of
this kind," he says, " than a grand civic banquet, with my Lord
Mayor at its head." Jugs of stout ale are handed round by old
Finch and Hivers, and their contents liberally dispensed.
At length the fire begins to slacken, and it becomes evident that
the majority of the party have had enough. Ponder seizes this op-
portunity of handing round the wine, and having served each of the
guests with a glass of fine old sherry, which makes the lads smack
their lips with satisfaction, and brightens the eyes of the lasses, the
butler informs the company, with a politeness that is generally appre-
ciated, that he is extremely sorry to disturb them, but they must
excuse him for intimating that their places were required by the next
party. On this they all rise in high glee, tender their thanks to me,
and the squire, and madam (meaning Miss Hazilrigge), and the young
parson (meaning John), and the young ladies. The benches they
have vacated are then instantly reoccupied.
The same scene is acted over again, and the second batch of guests
display just as good appetites as the first, and keep us all actively
employed. A third party succeeding, evidently possessing as vigorous
powers of demolition as those who had gone before, I am fain to resign
my post of carver- general to Old Hazy, who very kindly undertakes
it for me, and discharges it to the entire satisfaction of the guests.
Meanwhile, other amusements have been going on. The boats
have been put in requisition. Ned Culcheth, who plies a famous oar,
having had plenty of practice on Marston Mere, has taken his wife
and little Grace on a trip to the upper end of the pool, while the
second boat has been manned by two of the miller's men, and filled
with young village folk of either sex, whose songs and merry laughter
can be heard during the whole of their passage across the sheet of
water. Ned happens to bring back his party at the very moment of
my quitting my post at the refreshment-table, and I am just in time,
therefore, to assist Sissy to land.
A hubbub at the further end of the green now informs me of the
arrival of the pair of fortune-tellers. Disengaging themselves, as well
as they can, from the crowd, by whom they are instantly surrounded,
the two gipsy women make towards me. As they approach, I have
no difficulty in recognising my old acquaintance, Peninnah, while her
companion must certainly be Kue. The charms of the latter have
not been exaggerated, either by Old Hazy or his niece. Look at
her as she comes along. If that is not a pretty girl, I don't know
one when I see her. What with her singular personal attractions,
and her characteristic and picturesque attire, she offers quite a study
for you, if you are a painter. Slight in figure, and pliant of limb, her
movements are as easy and agile as those of a fawn. Her features are
cast in a delicate moufd ; nose fine and straight ; lips ripe and full, and
as vivid as carnation ; teeth like a casket of pearls. Tou must expect
her complexion to be dark, but there is a rich glow beneath the skin
that gives it inexpressible warmth and beauty. Her eyes are large,
t2
276 LIFE AND ADTEiS'TUHES OF
black, and full of fire, yet veiled by long silken eyelashes, that mi-
tigate their radiance. Her brows are dark as night, and her jetty
tresses are coifed by a coloured Valencian handkerchief, which she
wears, coquettish ly tied, over the back of her head. Her dress is
somewhat showy in point of colour, and fanciful in make, but it suits
her perfectly. There, I have done. You ought to have her before
you.
Gipsy women wear well, or possess some secret for the preservation
of their charms. Old age comes upon them at once, and not by
degrees. Peninnah's hair is as raven black as ever, and her eyes as
bright ; but her cheek-bones are higher than they used to be, and her
features generally sharper and more prominent. Still, she may be
reckoned a handsome woman. Her countenance has an expression of
greater cunning than I remember noticing in it before, and her
glances are restless and suspicious. She marches boldly up to me,
but notwithstanding her confident air, I can see that she rather doubts
the reception she may meet with. She addresses me in the usual for-
mula — asking leave to tell my fortune. I refuse.
"Nay, let me see your hand, my handsome young gentleman," she
says; "it ben't the first time I have looked at it. I told you your
fortune truly then, and I'll tell it as truly now. Ask him to let me
look at his hand, my pretty young lady," she added to Ora. " I know
he won't refuse you"''
" Oh! you are quite mistaken if you suppose I have any influence
over Mr. Clitheroe, my good woman," Ora rejoined. " He won't mind
what I say."
" Try," Peninnah cried. "I warrant you'll succeed."
Ora looked at me, and unwilling to disoblige her, I held out my
hand to the gipsy woman's inspection.
" Give me a piece of silver," Peninnah said ; "gold would be better,
if you have it."
" Silver must suffice," I replied, giving her a half-crown. " "What
do you discover?" I added, as she gazed into the palm of my hand,
and attentively perused its lines.
" A good deal," she replied — " a good deal, that you will be glad to
know. But you must step aside with me to hear it, for it won't do
to speak before all the world."
" Oh ! you needn't be under any apprehension, my good woman,"
Ora said. " Mr. Clitheroe won't mind our hearing what you have to
tell. AV r ill you, Mervyn ?"
"I am sure he will," Peninnah rejoined, "and therefore I daren't
speak. But I will tell you thus much, my pretty young lady, that
he's a young gentleman as is born to good luck, though his troubles
ben't yet entirely over."
"No, I should think not," Ora cried, with a laugh.
" Whv don't you let the woman see vour hand, Miss Doveton ?"
I said.
" Because I'm afraid," she replied.
" Don't be afraid of me," Peninnah exclaimed, in a coaxing voice.
"J will tell you nothing disagreeable — that I promise you."
" On that condition, I am willing to try your skill," Ora returned,
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 27t
taking off her glove, and resigning her white little hand to the gipsy
woman.
Peniunah studied its lines attentively for a few minutes, and then
looked up perplexed.
" Mind ! y.ou are only to tell me what is agreeable," Ora cried
" I am almost as superstitious as my uncle, and if misfortune were
predicted, I should be miserable."
" Don't be uneasy, my sweet young lady," Peninnah said. " Tour
path is a path of flowers, as far as I can see. But I thought there
was an early marriage, and something that I can't make out seems
to hinder it. I should like to look at that gentleman's hand,"
she added, pointing to John Brideoake, who was standing at a little
distance, watching what was going forward.
"Why at his hand ?" Ora demanded, colouring.
"Oh ! be sure I have good reason for making the request, my
sweet young lady," Peninnah said. " Will you allow the poor gipsy
woman to see your hand, sir ?" she added to John.
But he coldly and decidedly refused, crossing his arms upon his
breast.
" Never for such a purpose," he said. " I have no faith in your
practices, and will never encourage them."
" As you please, sir," Peninnah replied, fixing her dark eyes upon
him, " but if I were to tell you all I have just learnt, you would
own there is some truth in the art I practise. Let me look at your
hand, young lady," she added, turning to Apphia, who was standing
near her brother.
" On no account," Apphia rejoined, uneasily, and clinging to John.
" What ! you are also afraid of me ? — ha !" Peninnah exclaimed,
with a half contemptuous laugh. "Have you no curiosity to peer
into the future — no wish to know what will befal you ? Your
brother despises my art, and thinks me a cheat. Show me your
hand, and you shall see whether I deserve to be so accounted."
" Yes do, Apphia," Ora cried, rushing up to her. " I want to
hear what she will say."
" Well, since you desire it, I will not oppose your wishes," Apphia
said, " though I am quite as incredulous as John." And as she
spoke, she surrendered her hand to Peninnah, who rapidly traced its
lines.
" Ah ! what is this I see ?" the gipsy woman exclaimed. " You say
you are incredulous. Now mark my words. You will be suddenly
summoned from tins place, and will go — shall I tell you where ?"
" No, I don't care to learn," Apphia said, with evident uneasiness.
" I can tell you whither you will go, and what will occur to you,"
Peninnah pursued. " Strange things are in store for you, and great
surprises— -some risk, perhaps, of which I can give you a warning,
if you will listen to me."
" Desist, woman," John Brideoake interposed. " I will not allow
you to listen to her longer, Apphia." And taking his sister's arm, he
drew her away.
A sudden cry startled me at this juncture, and turning, I found
it had proceeded from Sissy Culcheth. After disembarking from the
27Q LLFE A1SD ADVENTUltES OF
boat, Sissy had seated herself on the bank near the weeping willow with
little Grace, and was so much occupied in playing and chatting with
the- child, that she had not noticed the arrival of the gipsy pair. Grace
at last perceived them, calling Sissy's attention to Peninnah, whc
was now close at hand. On beholding her, Sissy started to her feet
with the half scream I have described. Ned Culcheth heard the cry
as w T ell as myself, and was instantly by her side, anxiously inquiring
what was the matter r
" There she is !" Sissy exclaimed, in accents of alarm. " That's the
black gipsy 'oomans who told me my fortunes, and said you would
kill me. How she looks at us ! I wish she would go away. She
frightens me."
" Shake off your fear, Sissy," Ned cried. " She shan't meddle
with you. Away with you, woman !" he added, with a menacing
look at Peninnah.
" I don't want to meddle with her," the gipsy woman replied. " I
bear her no ill-will. But my words came true, and she knows it. Let
her think over what I did say, and she'll find I was right. She has
had a narrow escape — but the danger is past now, and the rest of her
days will be free from trouble."
" Well, there's comfort in that, at all events," Ned said.
" Ay, but I have yet more comfort for her," Peninnah went on.
" The dearest wish of her heart will be gratified."
" What's that you tell me ?" Sissy cried, gazing eagerly at her.
" The wish nearest your heart is to possess a child like this — ben't
it ?" Peninnah said. " Let me look at your hand, and I will tell
you whether you will have your wish." And as Sissy extended her
hand — not without some misgiving — towards her, she added, " Ere
three years are flown you will be the mother of two children."
" You promise me this, my good 'oomans?" Sissy exclaimed, joy-
fully.
" Soh ! I am a good woman now," Peninnah cried. " But no matter !
good or bad, my words will come to pass."
While Peninnah was thus occupied, E-ue, who was standing a few
paces off, signed to me to follow her, and moved towards the edge of
the mill-pool. Struck by her manner, which seemed to indicate
that she had something to communicate to me, I complied, and soon
drew near her. Without appearing to notice my approach, or even
looking at me, she said, in a low tone, " Be cautious where you go!
you are in danger."
" Prom whom ?" I demanded.
" I dare not give you further explanation now," she replied ; " but
I will try to have a word with you before 1 leave."
Here we were interrupted by Peninnah, who, calling sharply to her
daughter, bade her to come back to her at once.
As soon as I could get an opportunity, I took Ned Culcheth aside,
and told him to keep an eye upon the gipsy pair. " But be careful not
to alarm them," I said. '• When they take their departure, follow them,
and find out where they go. 1 am concerned to give you all this trouble,
Ned. But I know you are willing — nay, anxious to serve me."
" 'Anxious' is the word, sir," the honest fellow replied. " 1 was
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 270
thinkin' of doiu' it of my own accord ; and I trust to bring you tidinge
before many hours of the whereabouts of Phaleg and his hopeful son
— perhaps of the sly old fox, Pownall himself. That gipsy girl is
woundy pratty — pity she comes of such a bad stock ! I'll just give
Sissy a hint of my plans, that she mayn't be uneasy when I go."
Another interruption. Busy Miss Hazilrigge comes up, and tells
me she has been looking for me everywhere. She urges me to call
for a country dance, and acting upon her suggestion, I at once en-
gage Ora, and then clapping my hands to attract general atten-
tion, bid the musicians strike up their merriest tune. The signal
causes an immediate stir amidst the assemblage, and in another mo-
ment some twenty or thirty young couples stand opposite to each other
on the green. Hopes of flowers are then distributed to the dancers by
Miss Hazilrigge, who is followed by Rivers, with a large basketful
of these wreaths, and the mode of using them is explained by the kind
lady. All the damsels are greatly pleased with the garlands, and of
course their partners cannot be behind them in admiration. In an
instant we are all in our places — Ora, who is full of animation and
delight, standing opposite to me. Mr. Mavis and Sissy Culcheth
form the second couple — and JNTed and little Grace, who is perfectly
wild with pleasure, the third. All being in order, the dance com-
mences — and in right earnest. If mistakes are now and then made
in the figure, and the ropes of flowers get occasionally entangled, and
bring somebody to the ground, or knock off a hat or a bonnet, our en-
joyment is not diminished by these incidents. On the contrary, they
add zest to the dance. After a little practice, and with Ora's
directions, the lads and lasses manage the ropes of flowers ex-
tremely well, and, when several couples are dancing, the effect is
uncommonly good. Instead of hands across, the ends of the garlands
merely are taken, and when goiug down the middle, the lads not
unfrequently twine the flowery ropes round their partners' waists, or
hold them above their heads. Ora is enchanted, for the idea of the
garlands has originated with her. Though flushed with exertion, she
declares she is not in the slightest degree fatigued, but will go down
the dance again. The tune is changed, at her request, and we are
just about to set off, when I become suddenly transfixed.
The musicians play on, but I heed them not. Mr. Mavis voci-
ferates, "Now, sir, push it!" — the worthy man means poussette.
Sissy stares, and Ora playfully chides me. But I do not stir.
I was transfixed in the manner I have described by the arrival of
a tall, gentlemanlike, military-looking personage, attired in black,
whom I instantly recognised as the stranger I had seen near the
grave in Marston churchyard. He was standing near Cuthbert
Spring, who was evidently pointing me out to him — and unless I was
mistaken, the stranger regarded me with peculiar interest. At all
events, I felt an interest in him for which I could in no way account.
T\ r ho could he be ? and how came he to be with Cuthbert Spring ?
Suddenly it occurred to me that he must be Major Atherton. Yet
why should Major Atherton take an interest in me, or 1 in Major
Atherton ? That remained to be seen.
How long I should have continued in this state, if Ora had not
280 LIFE A^U ADVENT UltES OF
roused me, I cannot tell. But at last she succeeded in diverting xy
attention from the stranger, and dragged me into the dance.
" Why, Mervyn," she cried, " what on earth is the matter with
you ? Don't you see we are all waiting ? Pick up your garland,
and come down the middle with me at once. How slow you are, to
be sure! You seem to have lost all your spirits."
I did my best, but my interest in the dance was gone, and I proved
so dull a partner, that Ora began to scold once more, and again in-
quired what had produced such an extraordinary change ?
" I can't account for it myself," I replied, " but a person has just
arrived, whose looks seem to exercise an unaccountable influence
over me. You can see him. He is there — standing near Cuthbert
Spring."
" I can see nothing extraordinary about him," Ora replied, " except
that he is very tall — and for a person of his years tolerably good-look-
ing. Who is he ?"
" I should think he must be Major Atherton, whom Cuthbert
Spring proposed to bring with him."
" Oh, no doubt !" Ora cried. " I hope he will prove an agreeable
acquaintance. But come ! Exert yourself, do sir ! Major Atherton,
I perceive, is watching us ! Let us show him that we can execute the
dance with spirit."
Stimulated by her remarks, I shook off the sort of lethargy into
which I had fallen, and acquitted myself so well, that I soon regained
my merry partner's good opinion. At last the dance was over, and
Ora then said, " Now let us go and take a nearer view of this mys-
terious individual. Upon my word," she whispered, as we approached
him, " for an elderly gentleman he is remarkably good-looking. He
has a distinguished bearing, and a very fine countenance."
Here we were greeted by Cuthbert Spring, who left his friend, and
came towards us. After shaking hands with us, and paying Ora a
few compliments in his usual gallant style, he congratulated me on
the success of the fete — saying that the arrangements were excel-
lent, and everybody looked happy.
" My friend, Major Atherton, is greatly pleased with the enter-
tainment," he went on. " You must allow me to present the major
to you, Mervyn, and to you, also, Miss Doveton."
1 expressed the pleasure I should feel at the introduction in
fitting terms, but inquired of Cuthbert whether he had known Major
Atherton long, as 1 did not remember to have heard him mention him
before.
" Perhaps not," Cuthbert rejoined, with an odd smile. " Atherton
is one of my oldest friends, and 1 have a very great regard for him. He
has been abroad for some years. But he shall speak for himself."
So saying, he called to his friend, who immediately complied with the
summons, and, stepping towards us, was formally presented to Ora and
myself. He certainly did seem very proud — this Major Atherton —
excessively proud, for he merely bowed — rather stilily, too, I
thought — on his introduction to me, and directed his conversation
chiefly to Ora. But though annoyed by his haughtiness, 1 was
resolved to make him talk to me, and I therefore remarked,
MEKVYN CL1THEE0E. 281
" I think I have seen you before, Major Atherton ?"
"Indeed, sir! where?" he exclaimed, quickly.
" In Marston churchyard," I replied, "and under somewhat sin-
gular circumstances."
" No more of this now, I entreat you, sir," he cried, with sudden
emotion. " I know to what you refer. But I did not suppose you
had been there. I now recollect that some one came upon me un-
awares. You were the person I suppose. I will give you an ex-
planation of the circumstance on a more fitting occasion."
"What is this?" Cuthbert Spring cried, quickly.
" Oh ! nothing — nothing," I replied, not willing to press ray in-
quiries further.
" Though you are unacquainted with Major Atherton, Mervyn,"
Mr. Spring said, after consulting his friend by a look, " I ought tc
tell you that he is an old friend of your family, and knew your
mother extremely well."
" Did he ?" I cried. " Then I understand it all, and require no
further explanation. We must know each other better, since this is
the case, Major xA_therton."
" We must, sir," he answered. " Tour mother was a most amiable
person — far too good for him she married."
" Hold ! major," I cried. " Praise one parent as much as you
please, but say nothing against the other."
" I merely meant to imply that your father was not worthy of so
much goodness," Major Atherton replied, with a grave smile, " and it
is perfectly true. Nobody knows his unworthiness better than I do."
" Unworthiness is a term I do not like," I said, rather sharply ;
"neither do I quite recognise your right to judge of my father's
conduct."
" I admire the feeling you exhibit," Major Atherton returned,
with perfect calmness; " but, if I am correctly informed, you do not
know your father. I do. I know him as well as I know myself;
and I am satisfied that his first wife was far above his deserts. He
thinks so himself — says so."
" That may be your opinion, and you are, of course, entitled to it,"
I rejoined ; " but it is not necessary to depreciate my father in order
to exalt my mother, and I really cannot allow such a course to be
pursued."
" On my soul, you are a warm-hearted young fellow," Major
Atherton cried. " I should not have thought you could entertain so
much regard for a father whom you have never beheld, and who, by
all accounts, doesn't appear to have done too much for you — eh,
Cuthbert ?"
"No," Mr. Spring replied, with a singular smile, " 1 can't say that
I think my friend Colonel Clitheroe has done overmuch for his son."
" I have no complaint to make against him," 1 returned, "and you
will allow that I am the person principally interested."
"No; I will do you the justice to say, Mervyn, that I never heard
you utter a word against your father," Cuthbert Spring remarked.
"It is much to your credit, sir," Major Atherton said, addressing
me. "Under such circumstances- T don't think I should have been
282 LIFE AND ADYENTUHES OF
equally contented. But Colonel Clitheroe has not been quite so
much to blame as might appear "
" I don't think he has been to blame at all," I interrupted ; " and
I must again observe, that these comments on my father's character
are anything but agreeable to me."
" Whom are you talking of, gentlemen ?" Old Hazy inquired,
joining the group.
" Of Colonel Clitheroe, Mervyn's father," Mr. Spring answered.
" The colonel, I must say, has a warm advocate in his son. It would
afford him great pleasure, I am sure, if he knew how prompt Mervyn
is to take his part."
"I am sure it would," Major Atherton rejoined. "Thus much I
can say for Colonel Clitheroe — and I say it from personal knowledge
— he takes great interest in his son. He fancied all was going
smoothly with him, and that he had been adopted by Mrs. Mervyn."
" I have not troubled my father much with my affairs of late," I
observed.
" There you were wrong — excuse my freedom in saying so," Major
Atherton cried. " It was your duty to let your father know exactly
how you were circumstanced. How can a father advise his son, or
assist him, if kept in entire ignorance of his proceedings ? It was
your bounden duty, I repeat, to acquaint Colonel Clitheroe with all
that has happened to you."
"Well, major, I admit the force of what you say," I replied, " but
such remarks do not seem to come with entire propriety from a
stranger."
"I am a stranger to you, sir," Major Atherton said; "but my
intimacy with your father warrants me in speaking freeiy. Pos-
sessed, as I am, of his opinions — more than any one else — I may
almost be considered as his representative here."
" In that light, I am willing to concede you perfect freedom of
speech," I rejoined, " and I promise not to take offence at anything
you may say."
A seasonable interruption was here offered, by Mr. Ponder coming
up to announce that refreshments were ready, if we chose to partake
of them, and we all proceeded to the table. On the way, Major
Atherton was introduced to John Brideoake and Apphia, and soon
fell into conversation with both of them. He seemed especially
pleased with the latter, and took a place on the bench beside her,
on sitting down to the collation. AVhile we were engaged in dis-
cussing the good things, Peninnah and her daughter approached the
table, and addressed themselves to Old Hazy.
" "What an uncommonly pretty girl!" Cuthbert Spring cried,
pointing to Hue. "Hoes she tell fortunes as well as her mother?
If so, I should like to try her skill. Come hither, my dear," he cried.
" Can you give me a glimpse into futurity r"
" To be sure lean, sir," she replied, stepping towards him. " You
are a gay and a lucky gentleman, I can see. Love will never break
your heart, sir."
" I should think not, indeed," Miss Hazilrigge exclaimed, gianciug
at her elderly admirer.
MEKVTN CLITHEEOE. 283
" Let me look at your hand, my merry gentleman," Rue con«
tinued, " and I'll tell you all about it." And as Cuthbert surren-
dered his palm to her inspection, she added, " You have been a gay
deceiver in your time, as I said just now, sir, and have given many a
fair lady a heartache."
" What's that I hear?" Miss Hazilrigge cried, turning scarlet.
" Take care !" Cuthbert Spring muttered. " Don't make mischief.
You're on tender ground — hum!"
" The poor ladies themselves were to blame, and not you, sir," Rue
went on. " You couldn't help it, you know, if they chose to pull
caps for you."
" But you said he was a deceiver, young woman ?" Miss Hazilrigge
cried.
" I ought to have said, that it was the ladies that took him too
much at his word, ma'am," Rue rejoined, "and thought he meant
more than he really did — poor deluded creatures! — but the merry
gentleman himself was too artful to be caught."
" I am afraid you give him a very bad character," Miss Hazilrigge
remarked.
" Lor' bless you, no, ma'am. The merry gentleman lias been a
great admirer of our sex in his time, but he's less of a rover than he
used to be, and will soon settle down quietly enough. He has fixed
his affections on some one who will make him a vast deal happier
than he has ever yet been as a bachelor. A country life will be his
portion "
" What's that I hear ?" Miss Hazilrigge cried, eagerly.
" I was observing, ma'am, that a country life will be the merry
gentleman's portion," Rue rejoined; "and fortunate it is for him
that it will be so, for his days will be prolonged thereby."
" Dear heart a day !" Miss Hazilrigge exclaimed. " How very,
very surprising, to be sure !"
" Bravo !" Cuthbert Spring exclaimed. " Never was truer fortune
told. You deserve a piece of gold, my dear, for the talent you have
displayed," he added, taking out his purse, and giving her a sovereign.
" ]N'ow try your skill on the lady."
" Permit me, ma'am," Rue said, taking Miss Hazilrigge' s plump
hand. "You have had your trials, I see, ma'am. Things have gone
counter more than once, and a match has been broken ofi' only two
days before it ought to have taken place."
"Dear me! aunt, is this true?" Ora cried. "I never heard of
any such match."
" Nor 1!" Cuthbert Spring added.
" The lady doesn't contradict me," Rue proceeded. " But it's
very well the marriage didn't take place, for she would have been a
widow now with ten children."
"A lucky escape, indeed!" Cuthbert Spring cried, with a forced
laugh.
" Well, this is very extraordinary, I must say," Old Hazy cried,
laughing heartily. (I half suspect he had given Rue a few hints in
private.) " I won't mention names, but the gentleman to whom my
sister was engaged is dead, and his widow has ten children."
284 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
General laughter followed this piece of information, and the merri-
ment was not diminished when Rue said, " You won't die single,
ma'am, that I can promise you. Ere six months are over, you'll
have a wedding-ring on your finger."
" There, aunt !" Ora cried to the blushing spinster, " I hope you're
satisfied now."
" Come, Atherton," Cuthbert Spring said to the major, " it is your
turn. Display your hand to the girl, and let us see whether she can
read your pas/t and future life from its lines."
" 1 can read either," Hue rejoined. " The gentleman has only to
choose."
" Keep to the past, then," Major Atherton said. "I don't desire
to know the future."
Upon this the girl took his hand, and studied it carefully for a
short space. At last, her features assumed an air of perplexity, and
she called to Peninnah, " Look here, mother ! Something puzzles me
about this cross-line."
"It's not often you are puzzled," the elder gipsy replied, bending
forward to examine the Major's palm. " Why, it's plain enough,
that cross-line denotes a death. The gentleman has lost his wife.
And look! here's another cross-line "
"Enough! enough!" Major Atherton cried, snatching his hand
hastily away. " I don't want to hear anymore of this idle nonsense.
Tou make a guess, and pretend you have hit upon the truth."
" At all events, you must admit that 1 have made a shrewd guess,"
Peninnah said.
" I admit nothing," Major Atherton cried, sternly. " The girl
confessed her ignorance, and you are no better informed."
" 1 didn't choose to speak out," Rue said — " that was why I consulted
my mother. But if you wish me to tell all I read," she added, with
marked emphasis, " I will do so. But don't blame me afterwards."
" Boh ! poh ! you can tell nothing that I should care to have con-
cealed," the major said, with affected indifference. But I could see
that he was not altogether free from uneasiness.
"Let me whisper a word to you," Hue rejoined, bringing her lips
close to the major's ear, and saying something to him in a low tone.
lie started on hearing her remark, and could not conceal his an-
noyance. Cuthbert Spring seemed, greatly surprised, and made a
sign to his friend, which I could not understand.
"Do you wish me to tell the company what I have told you, sir?"
Rue cried, with an air of triumph.
"On no account," Major Atherton rejoined, hastily; "not that
there is anything in it — but — in short, I don't desire it — so here's a
piece of gold," he added, taking out his purse, " to seal your lips."
" It will seal them effectually," she rejoined, dropping him a very
graceful curtsey.
"Well, major," Old Hazy exclaimed, with a laugh, "you must
own after this that there's more in chiromancy than you suspected.
I myself am a firm believer in the art, ami have a large collection of
writers on the subject. J dare say this pretty lass never heard of
Jean Itidagine, Taisner, Codes, or Romphiles."
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 285
" Never of one of them," Rue replied. " My mother was my sole
instructress in the art of palmistry. She knows all the secrets of
our people."
Meanwhile, dancing has been going on almost without interrup
tion, and a fresh country dance being now about to bo formed, Cuth-
bert Spring proposes that we shall all join it, and by way of setting
ns a good example, offers his hand to Miss Hazilrigge. The elderly
spinster simpers a little, but she does not refuse him, and is led forth
in triumph. Major Atherton prefers a similar request to Ora, and
is equally successful. Apphia naturally falls to my share. Old Hazv
has not danced for years, he says, but he won't remain idle on an
occasion like the present, so he looks about for the prettiest partner
he can find, and chooses Rue, who appears much flattered. John
Brideoake looks on with a kindly smile — pleased that we all seem
so happy. A right merry dance we have, for the performances
of Cuthbert Spring and Miss Hazilrigge afford us infinite diver-
sion. As they go down the middle and come back enchained in
a rope of flowers, their appearance is so comical that it is next
to impossible to help laughing. Ora puts no restraint upon her
mirth, and even Major Atherton's stern features relax into a smile.
Poor Miss Hazilrigge, who is rather stout, and wholly unaccustomed
to such violent exercise, finds it a little too much for her, and as soon
as she gets to the bottom of the dance, withdraws with her partner,
to cool herself and recover her breath. Old Hazy astonishes every-
body by his display of activity ; and Mr. Ponder lifts up his hands in
perfect amazement as he watches his master capering about — clapping
his hands, calling out to the rustic lads and lasses by name, and bid-
ding them bestir themselves, laughing, shouting, even singing. Rue
dances exquisitely — it is quite a treat to behold her. As she takes
my hand in the course of the dance, she slightly presses it, and
whispers something, but I cannot catch what she says. From
the direction of her glances I perceive that her mother's eye is
upon her — and I am careful. The old woman watches her like a
lynx. Encouraged by Old Hazy's example, and incited by his
shouts and gesticulations, the various couples he comes near do their
best to please him, and many are the vagaries in consequence. By
the time, however, that the old gentleman gets to the bottom of the
dance he has had enough of it, and, like his sister, retires to
recruit. The dance, however, continues for some time longer, for
the rustic couples have strong limbs and are not easily tired, but
at last the musicians cease to play — being unable or unwilling to go
on— and we come to a sudden stop. The lads and lasses then dis-
perse about the green, and separating from the throng, I walk with
Apphia towards the margin of the pool. Here we stand together for
a few moments in silenee. Words of tenderness rise to my lips, hut
I dare not give utterance to them. 1 cannot help, however, fixing
an impassioned glance upon her, which proclaims my meaning as
plainly as words could do. She makes no response, except a sigh.
But what is this ? John Brideoake comes towards us, bearing a
letter and, judging by his looks, he brings disagreeable intelligence.
"A special messenger has just arrived with a post-chaise, bringing
this despatch from our mother," he said, giving Apnhia the letter.
280 LIFE AND ADVENTUltES OE
Scarcely able to repress her agitation, she hurriedly broke the seal,
arid after glancing at the contents of the missive, returned it to John.
" Dear Mrs. Mervyn has become suddenly worse," she said to me,
"and desires to see me. My mother enjoins me to start without an
instant's delay, if I hope to see her alive, and has sent a post-chaise
for me. Oh! who would have expected this !" she exclaimed, burst-
ing into tears.
" It is indeed sad and startling intelligence," I cried. " Mrs.
Mervyn dying! — then all my hopes are at an end."
" What is this I hear F" Cuthbert Spring cried, hurrying up to
us. " Did you not say that Mrs. Mervyn is dying ?"
" A letter, this moment received from Mrs. Brideoake, announces
the sad intelligence," I replied.
" The attack must be very sudden, then," Cuthbert Spring re-
joined. " I saw Dr. Foam yesterday, and in reply to my inquiries
about the poor lady, he told me she was going on tolerably well."
"I cannot refuse credit to my mother's statement," John Bride-
oake said. " Her words are these : ' A sudden and dangerous change
has taken place in the dear invalid, and I fear she may not last many
days — perhaps not many hours. She speaks much of you, and
earnestly desires to behold you once again, ere her eyes are closed for
ever ; and if you have any affection left for her or for me, you will
come to her on receipt of this, without a moment's delay. The
messenger to whose care I entrust this note will bring a post-chaise
for you. I confidently expect you ere night. Farewell !"
" What if it be a device to get Apphia once more into her power ?"
I cried.
" It looks suspicious, I must own," Cuthbert Spring said. " And
yet we may be wrong. Miss Brideoake cannot refuse to go."
" Certainly not," John replied.
" But she must not go unattended," I cried. " Some one must
accompany her. I will ride by the side of the chaise, and escort her
safely to the Anchorite's."
" Your kindness is unnecessary, Mervyn," John said. " I myself
shall accompany her. We are both grieved to quit your pleasant
fete so soon — but it cannot be helped. Come, Apphia, there must be
no delay. Mervyn will excuse us, and explain our abrupt departure
to our friends."
I promised to do so ; and as I conducted Apphia to the post-
chaise, I told her I should certainly ride over to Cottonborough that
night, and present myself on the morrow at the Anchorite's.
"To what end ?" she cried. "You will not be admitted."
" Oh ! yes, I shall," I replied. " Comberbach will let me in, if
he knows I am coming. Direct him to be at the garden-gate pre-
cisely at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. I shall be there. It is of
the last importance to me to see my kind relative once more, and I
trust, through your assistance, to accomplish the object."
"I will give you all the aid I can, Mervyn," she replied, "but I
despair of success. Even if Mrs. Mervyn should be able to see you,
my mother will oppose the interview. But come by all means, and I
will see you if possible. If not, you will understand that I have failed
in my endeavours to help you."
MERVTN CLITHEHOE. 287
" To-morrow may decide our fate," I said.
" It may," she replied. " Our destiny is in Mrs. Mervyn's hands.
A word from her might remove the bar to our happiness. And yet,
I fear, the word will never be uttered."
There was a pause, after which Apphia said : " Strange, that gipsy
woman told me I should be suddenly summoned hence — and should go !
I didn't believe her at the moment — but it has come to pass, you see"
" Strange, indeed !" I replied, thoughtfully.
Little more passed between us, for though I tried to assume a
hopeful confidence, I could not help secretly sharing Apphia' s mis-
givings, and almost dreaded lest some fresh calamity might be at hand.
The messenger who had brought the post-chaise proved to be the
ill-favoured Fabyan Lowe, and aware that this man was devoted to
Mrs. Brideoake, and would report all he heard and saw to her, I
was careful in bidding Apphia adieu to make no allusion to my
expectation of seeing her again on the morrow. Brother and sister
having got into the post-chaise, it drove off, the postilion being
ordered to proceed in the first instance to Weverham, Apphia having
some few preparations to make for the sudden journey.
I then returned to the green, but the fete no longer afforded me
any amusement, and it was mainly owing to the untiring exertions
of Miss Hazilrigge and her niece that it was brought to a satisfactory
close. The gipsy women were still there, but I strove in vain to ob-
tain a word in private with Rue. Her mother's vigilance was not to
be baffled.
An hour before the fete broke up, I looked round for the pair
again, and not seeing them, ascertained that they had just left.
Ned Culcheth had also disappeared.
The fete concluded at eight o'clock. Many of my rustic guests of
either sex would have liked it to be prolonged, I make no doubt, but
I did not care to gratify their inclinations, and as soon as the more
important guests had taken their departure, I withdrew, leaving it to
Mr. Ponder to announce the close of the festivities. On a hint from
him, delivered with his customary politeness, the company began to
disperse immediately, and in less than an hour the green was as
quiet as it had been on the previous evening, all traces of the enter-
tainment having disappeared.
I must not omit to mention that, in taking leave of me, Major
Atherton said very kindly, that he should be delighted to be of
service to me, if I would show him how — and he trusted I would
consider him in the light of an old friend : " In that character, let me
observe," he said, " that I think Apphia Brideoake a very charming
girl — worthy of a life's devotion — and I sincerely hope you may obtain
her hand."
I thanked him heartily for his friendly offers and good wishes, and
we parted.
About nine o'clock on that same night I mounted my horse, and
started on my expedition to Cottonborough, where I hoped to arrive
by midnight. The few things I took with me were placed in my
saddle-bags. Had I been free from anxiety, I should have greatly
enjoyed my ride. But black care followed me like a shadow, and would
lot be dismissed. The night was fine and not dark, for though the
288 LTFE AND ADVENTURES OF
moon was invisible, the dee.p vault was without a cloud, and thickly
studded with stars. The roads were in good order, and I trotted on at a
brisk pace, and almost without stoppage, until I neared Dunton Park.
Arrived at the foot of the hill which is crowned by those lordly
woods, I drew in the rein, and was proceeding leisurely along, when I
heard the clatter of horse's hoofs, and soon afterwards perceived a
man galloping towards me. Something must have caught the animal's
foot, for he suddenly stumbled and threw his rider. Fearing mis-
chief might have occurred, I rode forward, but ere I got to the spot,
the man had regained his legs, and remounted his horse. I expressed
a hope that he was not hurt, but he answered in a most uncourteous
tone, " What is that to you, sir? Go on your way."
It was Malpas Sale. My enemy had already recognised me. After
addressing me in the rude manner I have described, he would have
ridden off, but I caught hold of his rein, and forcibly detained him.
" Stay !" I thundered. " Chance has brought us together, and we
do not part till you have rendered me an account of your villanous
proceedings."
" This language to me, sir!" he cried, foaming with rage. " Tou
must be drunk, or mad. Leave go the rein at once — or "
"Tou shall not stir, I tell you," I rejoined, in a determined tone,
" till you have rendered me an account of your infamous transactions
with Simon Pownall. I know the errand on which you are come from
Windsor. It is to buy the will from Pownall — the will constituting
me heir to our uncle's property."
" Who told you this ?" he demanded.
" No matter whence my information is derived," I rejoined — " it is
correct. But I will take such steps as will effectually stop your
nefarious design."
" Take any steps you please, sir," he rejoined, scornfully. " I defy
you."
" Tou are over-confident, methinks, with such a peril as this hang-
ing over your head," I remarked.
" There is no peril hanging over my head," he replied, with con-
temptuous audacity. " My position is perfectly secure, and it is not
in your power, or in the power of any living person, to shake it.
Mark what I say, and ponder upon it. I am beyond dispute — be-
yond dispute, I repeat, sir — heir to our uncle Mobberley's property."
And he again laughed defiantly.
" Then you would give me to understand that the nefarious trans-
action has been completed," I cried — "that you have obtained pos-
session of the will which was fraudulently purloined by Simon
Pownall. Is it so? Speak out, without equivocation."
" L will speak — if only to annihilate your hopes," he rejoined.
" No witnesses are present, so it matters not what passes between
us. Learn then, to your confusion, that the precious document, on
which your castles in the air have been built, is destroyed — de-
stroyed, I say. All evidence is for ever removed. How say you
now, sir ? Will the property be yours or mine ? — ha! ha !"
My hold of the rein involuntarily relaxed, and, finding himself free,
he awaited no reply, but striking his horse sharply with the whip,
galloped oil', leaving me utterly confounded.
MIRVYN CLITHEBOI. 289
CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH I APPEAR IN A NEW CHARACTER.
Some minutes elapsed before I recovered from the stupefaction into
which I had been thrown by Malpas's startling declaration; and by
this time the sound of his horse's hoofs had died away in the distance.
I did not attempt to follow him, but while pursuing my journey to-
wards Cottonborough, I set myself deliberately to examine the pro-
bability of his astounding statement. Little inclined as I was to
credit it, I could not but fear that it might be correct. A falsehood
of such magnitude could scarcely have been advanced without premedi-
tation, and with such unparalleled audacity. Neither, unless he had
felt perfectly secure, would he have ventured to defy me so insolently.
No, no ! he must have obtained possession of the will, and have de-
stroyed it, as he had affirmed.
And yet, on the other hand, it was difficult to conceive how the
bargain had been so expeditiously concluded between him and the
rapacious scoundrels with whom he must have had to deal. How
had their demands been satisfied ? Pownall had declared in my
hearing that he was resolved to have a large sum, and his confede-
rates would be little less extortionate. Malpas was not overstocked
with money. Rather the reverse, I fancied. How, at a moment's
notice, on his arrival from Windsor, had he managed to raise the
funds necessary to complete the iniquitous transaction ? Promises
to pay, written or otherwise, were not likely to serve his turn with
crafty rascals like Pownall and his associates. It must be cash down
with them. Since this was certain, how was the money procured ?
There was another view of the case. The robber might himself
have been plundered. Pownall might have been tricked out of his
expected gains. Phaleg and his son had plotted to steal the will,
and might have succeeded in their design. But admitting this latter
supposition to be the true one, the difficulty of the purchase-money
was not removed. Sold the will must hare been by Pownall or the
gipsies : in either case it must have been well paid for. Again, the
question arose — where did the money come from ?
The answer must be given by Malpas. His enforced reply must
needs throw some light upon the mysterious affair, and lead very
probably to his detection. If it could be proved that he had borrowed
a large sum at this particular juncture, he must either produce the
money, or show that it had been lawfully expended. Again, his
accomplices would find it difficult to conceal their spoil. Through
29U LIEE ASD ADVENTURES OS
them the dark plot might be unravelled. Pownall's meditated flight
to America must be prevented, and the gipsies be placed under the
surveillance of the police.
Meditations', such as these, occupied me during my ride to Cotton-
borough. Five miles off, the town became distinguishable through
the darkness by its many-twinkling lights. As I advanced, these
lights increased in number and brilliancy, until I began to fancy
there must be a general illumination in the town. But it was only
the cotton-mills lighted up for night-work. Where toil ceases not
during the twenty-four hours, gas cannot be stinted, and it is largely
consumed in the Cottonborough factories. The huge, ugly fabrics
glistened like fairy palaces. But it was with more sorrow than ad-
miration that I regarded them as I rode past.
I put up at the Palace Inn that night, as was my wont.
Next morning, at ten o'clock precisely, as I had appointed with
Apphia, I was in waiting near the garden-gate of the Anchorite's.
I did not ring the bell, or give any intimation of my arrival, but pa-
tiently awaited the appearance of Mr. Comberbach. At last he came.
The gate was partly opened, and the butler, peeping out, beckoned
me to him. My first inquiries were whether any improvement had
taken place in Mrs. Mervyn's health.
" She is rayther better, thankee, sir, but still dangerously ill," Mr.
Comberbach replied. " Yesterday, we all of us thought the poor dear
lady was going to pop oif the shelf altogether ; but she has rallied a
little since then. The sight of dear Miss Apphia did her a world of
good, and she slept tolerably well last night, and awoke somewhat
easier this morning."
" I must see her, Comberbach," I cried. " I know you can manage
to get me into her room, if you choose."
" Tou give me credit for a great deal more power than I possess,"
he replied. " It would have been an easy matter once, but now your
humble servant is of small account at the Anchorite's. However, a
plan has occurred to me, or rayther, I should say, it was suggested by
Molly Bailey — for accomplishing the desired object. But it's very
hazardous — very hazardous, indeed, sir."
" I care not. I will adopt it," I exclaimed.
" You mistake me, sir," he replied. " I mean that the plan is ha-
zardous to me and Molly Bailey, and may occasion the loss of our
places."
"I should be truly sorry for such a result as that," I said. " But
you must not run so great a risk for nothing. Divide that with
Molly Bailey." And 1 placed a five pound note in his hands.
"Excessively obleeged to you, sir, I'm sure," he replied, bowing.
" Molly and I always say you are a very generous young gentleman,
and deserve support. I'll try and get you into the room. But you
must be extremely cautious, and not say a word, if you can help
it, while Mrs. B. is by. Molly Bailey will use her best endeavours
to get her out of the room for a short time, so as to give you an
opportunity of saying a word to our poor dear lady."
MERVIN CLirilEKUE. 291
"That is all I require, Comberbach," I cried. "And ycu and
Molly may depend upon my gratitude if I can set matters right."
" Well, I hope you may, sir ; but I'm not remarkably sanguine,"
he replied, shaking his head. "Mind, if you're discovered, Mrs. B.
must never learn who let you in."
" She shan't learn it from me, you may depend, Comberbach," I
replied.
Satisfied with this assurance, he allowed me to pass through the
gate, and directed me to make my way through a side walk, which
was screened by a shrubbery, to the back of the house ; begging me
not to leave the covert of the trees until I heard him cough. I
complied with his instructions, and was soon summoned from my
place of concealment by the signal, when I perceived him standing
at an open door. In another moment I was in his pantry.
" And now the plan, Comberbach !" I cried. " What is it ?"
" I don't know that you'll altogether approve of it, sir," he replied.
" It's Molly Bailey's idea, not mine. You will have to personate
Captain Sale."
" Personate him !" I exclaimed, in disgust. " Eidiculous ! I shall
do nothing of the sort."
" I knew you would object, sir," he replied ; " but there's no
help. The part must be adopted, or your errand here will be fruit-
less. Mrs. B. has received a letter from the captain — so Molly
Bailey tells me — announcing that he will be here to-day. Conse-
quently Mrs. B. won't be surprised by your appearance."
" Nonsense, man, she will instantly recognise me," I cried, hastily.
"I don't think so, sir" he answered. "My poor dear lady's
chamber is darkened, and Mrs. B. generally sits at the further
side of the bed — so if you are careful you won't be detected.
Luckily, Captain Sale left a suit of clothes behind when he was last
here. If you will condescend to put them on, you'll look just like
him."
And as he spoke, he opened a press, and took out a braided, mili-
tary-looking frock-coat, and some other habiliments, which I recog-
nised as belonging to Malpas.
" Here you are, sir !" he cried. " Put on this coat and you'll
be the captain himself. Doctor Sale wouldn't know the difference
— though he might think his son improved. I'll remain outside
while you make the change. Call me when you're ready."
"With this he left me, closing the door after him.
My dislike to the part I was about to assume was overcome by the re-
sults that might possibly ensue from the scheme ; and I felt that if I
missed this opportunity of gaining admittance to Mrs. Meryyn, another
might not occur. Hastily throwing off my attire, I proceeded to put
on the dress laid out for me, and in a few minutes the metamorphosis
was complete. Malpas being about my height, and nearly of the
same make, his apparel fitted me exactly, and when Mr. Com-
berbach shortly afterwards came in, he exclaimed, with a laugh,
"You'll do, sir! If I had met you as you are now, I should have
u2
292 LIFE AND ADVENTURKS OV
though you were Captain Sale. Now you must take the trouble to
go back to the garden-gate by the same way you came here — then
ring the bell — and I'll be with you in a trice. This will prevent any
suspicion on the part of Pabyan Lowe, or of Mrs. B. herself, if she
should happen to see you. Here, take the captain's foraging cap,
sir, and keep your handkerchief to your face as you come towards the
house."
Obeying his instructions to the letter, I returned to the garden-
gate, and rang a lusty peal, as if I had just arrived. Mr. Comberbach
almost instantly answered the summons, and smiled approval. As
he preceded me along the broad gravel-walk, I kept my handkerchief
to my face, and adopted, as nearly as I could, the airy gait of Malpas.
As we approached the house, Pabyan Lowe presented himself, but,
without giving the prying rascal time to address me, the butler hurried
forward, and bade him take word to Mrs. Mervyn that Captain Sale
had arrived. The ill-favoured man-servant, evidently suspecting no-
thing, departed on his errand without delay, and Mr. Comberbach
ushered me up-stairs to the library, where he left me. I was under
great apprehension lest Mrs. Brideoake might come forth to speak
to me ; and my relief was proportionate when, as the inner door
opened, instead of the Gorgon visage I apprehended, I beheld the
good-humoured countenance of Molly Bailey.
" Please to step this way, Captain Sale," Molly said, smiling sig-
nificantly at me. " Mrs. Mervyn will see you, sir. Thank goodness,
/he is better this morning — much better! Mrs. Brideoake is with
her, and Miss Apphia. This way, captain."
Summoning up all my resolution, I followed her with gentle
tread. Crossing a passage, she paused before a partly-open door,
which I knew to be that of Mrs. Mervyn's chamber, and said, in a
tone calculated to be heard by those within, " Make as little noise as
you can, captain, and speak very low. My missis is easily dis-
turbed."
With this she pushed the door gently open, and I stepped softly
into the sick lady's chamber.
CHAPTEK VI.
SHOWING WHAT SUCCESS ATTENDED THE STRATAGEM.
As I had been apprised by the butler, the apartment was so much
darkened that the chances were against my immediate detection. The
window-curtains were closely drawn, and the only light afforded was
from a small shaded lamp, placed on the table in a remote corner
of the room, near to which Mrs. Brideoake was seated.
Keeping out of the influence of this lamp, I gently approached
MERV*li ULITHEROE. 2J3
the poor sufferer, who was propped up on her couch by pillows.
She looked very feeble and attenuated, but held out her hand
kindly as I drew near. I bent over her, as well to hide my emo-
tion as to conceal my features from Mrs. Brideoake, and in a low tone
expressed my satisfaction at finding her somewhat better. Apphia
had been seated near her, but moved away on my entrance, supposing
me to be Malpas.
" I am thankful you are come, Malpas," she said, feebly. " I much
desired to speak with you relative to your engagement with this dear
S irL "
" What of it, madam ?" I inquired, in a low tone, trembling with
emotion.
" Answer me, Malpas," she said. " Are you still in the same
mind ? Do you really wish the contract to be fulfilled ?"
"Why make these strange inquiries, dear Mrs. Mervyn?" Mrs.
Brideoake said, rising from her seat, and approaching the foot
of the bed. " No change, I am convinced, can have taken place in
Malpas' s sentiments towards my daughter ; neither can he desire to
break the solemn engagement into which he has entered with her.
Why should you suppose so ?"
" Do not be cross with me," Mrs. Mervyn returned. " I only
want an assurance from the young people that they continue attached
to each other."
" Take the assurance from me, dear madam," Mrs. Brideoake said.
" They do."
Apphia uttered an exclamation of dissent, which caught the ears
of the sick lady.
" What is that you say, child?" she cried, quickly. " Have you
any objection to make ? If so, speak ! You know how anxious I am
for your happiness."
" She has none, madam — she has none," Mrs. Brideoake re-
joined, glancing menacingly at her daughter.
" Come hither, my dear," Mrs. Mervyn cried. And as Apphia
timidly approached, she turned towards her, and said, " I may not be
long spared to you, and indeed I had begun to fear I should never
behold you again ; but my prayers have been granted, and I have you
beside me once more. During my illness something has whispered
to me that you are unhappy, and repent of your engagement with
Malpas. If it be so, it is not too late to retreat. Do not let any
consideration prevent you from avowing the truth."
" You distress me, and you distress Apphia by these doubts, my
dear Mrs. Mervyn," Mrs. Brideoake hastily interposed. " My daughter
is not so fickle as you imagine her ; and as to retreating from her en-
gagement, you may rest perfectly satisfied she will never do anything
of the sort. She will not venture to contradict me, I am sure," she
added, gazing steadfastly at Apphia.
" But speak, my dear child — speak!" Mrs. Mervyn cried. "Let
me have the answer I require from your own lips. Do you really
love this young man ?"
294 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
Tims exhorted, Apphia might have confessed the real nature of her
sentiments in regard to Malpas ; but, as I looked up at the moment,
our eyes met, and she recognised me.
" Yes, madam, I really do love him," she said.
Mrs. Brideoake, who had doubtless expected a very different re-
sponse, appeared surprised and greatly relieved.
" I hope you are convinced now, my dear Mrs. Mervyn," she said,
" though I do not see why my assertion should have been doubted."
" But what says the young gentleman?" Mrs. Mervyn cried.
" Surely, there is no drawing back on his part ?"
" None whatever, dear Mrs. Mervyn," Apphia exclaimed, eagerly.
" I will answer for him."
Mrs. Brideoake looked still more astonished, and smiled approv-
ingly on her daughter.
" Well, my dears," Mrs. Mervyn said, " I am truly glad to find
that my misgivings have been groundless. Had it been otherwise, I
meant to but it is scarcely worth while now to state what my
intentions were."
" Not in the least necessary, my dear madam," Mrs. Brideoake
said.
" Oh ! do pray let me hear them ?" Apphia cried.
Her mother looked at her, and slightly frowned.
" Well, then, since you desire it so much, I will tell you,"
Mrs. Mervyn said : " I had fully determined to revoke a certain deed
of settlement which I had made in your favour, but which ties you
to marry one particular person — namely, him to whom you are
engaged, Malpas Sale. The condition was made at your mother's re-
quest, and I had begun to fear, as I have just stated, that I had done
wrong in making it ; but you have now set my mind entirely at rest
on that score."
"And you had resolved to set me free, my dear Mrs. Mervyn?"
she exclaimed, joyfully. " How shall I thank you ?"
" But you do not want to be set free, my dear?" Mrs. Mervyn
cried, in surprise. " If you retain your regard for Malpas, and mean
to fulfil your engagement with him, what need of any change in the
conditions ? I would not fetter your inclinations, but since your
choice is made, where can be the harm of allowing the restriction
to continue ?"
" It is a very proper restriction," Mrs. Brideoake cried, " and I
would not have it removed on any account."
" I am perfectly aware of your feeling on the subject, my dear
madam," Mrs. Mervyn said, " and I yielded to it at the time, as you
know, though I thought the condition imposed upon your daughter
rather hard. You are quite content with what I have done, my
dear?" she added to Apphia.
I could not have helped giving utterance to the feelings that over-
powered me, if Apphia had not spoken.
" Quite content, dear madam," she replied, in a low tone.
" And you?" Mrs. Mervyn said, addressing me.
MERVYN CLITHEIIOE. 295
" How can be be otlierwise than content with you, madam, since
you have secured him a rich wife ?" Mrs. Brideoake said.
At this moment Molly Bailey gently entered the room, and signi-
fied to Mrs. Brideoake that she was wanted. After delivering this
message, she retired, directing an expressive glance at me. Mrs.
Brideoake followed her almost immediately, recommending the dear
invalid to our attention during her absence.
Apphia and I were thus left alone with Mrs. Mervyn. The mo-
ment I had so anxiously desired was come. Yet how to profit by it ?
The utmost caution was necessary, for I knew that a sudden shock
might be fatal to the poor lady.
" Have you anything further to say to me, my love ?" Mrs. Mervyn
inquired kindly of Apphia.
"Yes, madam, I have something of importance to say to you,"
Apphia replied, " which I did not like to mention while my mother
was by. I am sure you will pardon me when you know all — but
I wish that deed of settlement, which you referred to just now, could
be burnt."
"You wish it burnt, my dear! — why so, pray?" Mrs. Mervyn
demanded.
"Because — oh! forgive me, dear Mrs. Mervyn," Apphia ex-
claimed — " because I never can comply with its conditions. I never
can marry Malpas Sale."
" I am lost in astonishment ! You say this to his face ? What
must he think of you ?"
" Compose yourself, my dear madam, and you shall know all,"
Apphia rejoined. " A deception has been practised upon you, but I
trust you will think it venial. Whom do you imagine is near you?"
" Is it not Malpas Sale?" Mrs. Mervyn cried, trembling.
" It is Mervyn Clitheroe, who has put on this disguise in order to
approach you," Apphia said. " It is on his account that I wish the
settlement to be committed to the flames."
"I see it all now," Mrs. Mervyn rejoined, faintly. " I thought
his conduct strange. Give me the scent-bottle quickly, or I shall
faint."
" You forgive me, my dear Mrs. Mervyn, for the stratagem I have
practised, but I had no other means of gaining access to you," I cried.
" Yes — yes — I forgive you," she answered, pressing my hand
gently.
A crisis in my fate had arrived. Oh ! how I dreaded lest Mrs.
Brideoake should return before the needful explanation could take
place. Mrs. Mervyn herself seemed to feel equal uneasiness, for she
said in a low tone to Apphia, " My dear, is your mother coming back
soon ? I hope not — I hope not."
" Are you able to listen to me, dear Mrs. Mervyn ?" I asked.
Again she pressed my hand gently, and I went on: " Before saying
aught of myself, let me tell you how entirely deceived you are in
regard to Malpas Sale. He is not what you suppose him. I will
not characterise him as strongly as I ought for fear of shocking you ;
296 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP
neither will I pain you by a detail of his evil doings — but let me
say in a word that he is utterly unworthy of Apphia."
" Then he shall never have her," Mrs. Mervyn cried. " It will be
a difficult task to persuade Mrs. Brideoake that he is as bad as you
represent him, and in my present state I cannot attempt it. But at
any rate, the match shall not take place."
" Oh ! thank you, madam, for that promise!" Apphia cried, with a
look of inexpressible gratitude.
" Why did you not appeal to me before, my dear?" Mrs. Mervyn
replied, in a tone of tender reproach. " You know that my chief
desire is to contribute to your future happiness."
" I did not dare to do so, madam."
" Alas ! alas !" the poor lady exclaimed, with a look of great distress,
mingled with self-reproach, " I have been much to blame. I ought
to have seen with my own eyes, and not with the eyes of others. But
you forgive me I am sure. And you too, my dear Mervyn," she
added to me, " I fear I have done you great injustice."
" You have done me injustice only if you have supposed me want-
ing in gratitude and affection to you, madam," I replied. " But
you make ample amends by your present kindness."
" I will make all the amends I can for the error I have unin-
tentionally committed," she said. " Tell me what you would have me
do, my dear," she added to Apphia.
" The greatest favour you can confer upon me, dear Mrs. Mervyn,
will be to destroy that deed of settlement," Apphia said.
" I will do something better than that," the kind lady replied.
" I won't destroy it, but I will substitute another name for that of
Malpas Sale, and make it imperative upon you to marry the person
I shall designate. You understand me, I see. Nay, no thanks. I
don't know what your mother will say to me. But I must bear the
brunt of her displeasure as well as I can. It shall be done at once.
The deed is in yonder closet. Fetch it me, Apphia, and I will make
the needful alteration before Mrs. Brideoake returns."
" Why should you heed her, dear Mrs. Mervyn ?" I cried. " If you
have resolved to perform this generous action, she cannot prevent you,
and she must be made aware of it sooner or later."
"That's true," the kind lady replied; "but I would rather she
didn't know it just now. We should have a frightful scene. But
we are losing time in talking. Where have I put my keys ?"
" They are visually placed under your pillow," Apphia observed,
searching for them as she spoke. " Yes, here is the black silk bag
containing them."
" And here is the key of the closet," Mrs. Mervyn said, giving it
to her. " You will find the deed in the little case of drawers with
some other papers — the third drawer from the top, I think." And
as Apphia flew to execute her orders, the good lady said to me, " There
are writing materials on that table, Mervyn — bring me a pen. And
draw back the curtains and let some light into the room, that we may
see what we are about."
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 297
I hastened to obey her, praying internally that Mrs. Brideoake
might not arrive to interrupt us. After drawing back the window-
curtains as directed, I was proceeding to take up the other articles
she required, when Apphia called out from the closet that she had
opened all the drawers, but could not discover the deed.
" Not discover it !" Mrs. Mervyn cried. " It must be there. Search
more carefully, child. I am sure I put it in the third drawer."
" Perhaps this may be it," Apphia cried, coming forth with a
packet tied with red tape in her hand. " But it does not seem to
relate to me."
" Yes, yes — that's it !" Mrs. Mervyn cried, eagerly. " Give it me
directly, my dear. There's no occasion for you to read it."
And so eager was she to obtain possession of the packet, that she
leaned forward and almost snatched it from Apphia. She then pro-
ceeded to untie the tape, and, taking out the deed, motioned us to
stand aside, while she examined it in order to find out the place
where the alteration in the name ought to be made. Having succeeded
in her object, she bade me give her the pen, and she had scarcely
taken it from me, when the door was gently opened, and Mrs. Bride-
oake entered, followed by Dr. Foam. The pen dropped from the poor
lady's grasp, and she sank back, swooning, upon the pillow.
CHAPTER VII.
I AM WORSTED, AND DRIVEN INGLORIOUSLY FROM THE FIELD.
Full light being now admitted into the room, Mrs. Brideoake at
once recognised me. Her surprise and consternation were so great
that she started back, and nearly upset Doctor Foam, who was close
behind her. The spectacle, however, presented by poor Mrs. Mervyn
in her fainting condition saved me from the torrent of her wrath
which must otherwise have fallen upon my devoted head.
" What has happened ?" Mrs. Brideoake cried, rushing towards the
bed. " You have killed the poor lady between you. Ha !" she ex-
claimed, noticing the deed of settlement, as it had fallen from Mrs.
Mervyn's grasp, " I see what you have been about. Cunning dis-
semblers as you both are, you have failed in accomplishing your artful
design. Henceforth, this shall remain in my keeping."
And she snatched up the deed as she spoke.
By this time Doctor Foam had come up to the bed, and looking at
Mrs. Brideoake in a manner that showed he would not be disobeyed,
he said, " I insist upon your giving up that document to me, ma-
dam "
" But, doctor " she cried, as if disposed to resist him.
" I will have it," he continued ; " and as opposition will be useless,
298 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
you had better yield with a good grace, and not force me to take
it from you. Nay, madam," he added, as he picked up the deed,
which she tossed towards him, and put it into his pocket, " your anger
is wasted on me. I am simply discharging my duty to my dear patient.
It is evident that she intended to make some alteration in this docu-
ment; but sudden faintness must have prevented the execution of
her design."
" It is fortunate that it did so," Mrs. Brideoake returned. " Ad-
vantage has been taken of my poor friend's enfeebled state to en-
deavour to make her annul her own deliberate act ; but luckily the
scheme, however well contrived, has failed."
" That may be so, or it may not, for I won't stop to discuss the
matter with you now, madam," Doctor Foam rejoined. " On my
dear patient's restoration to sensibility I shall deliver the deed to her,
and it will then be for her to do with it as she pleases."
" Very proper indeed, doctor," Mrs. Brideoake sneered ; " but
you will find that while I am by to counsel her, dear Mrs. Mervyn
will never commit such an error as (o introduce Mr. Mervyn Clithe-
roe's name into that deed of settlement. For that was the object
aimed at I am persuaded," she continued, glancing irefully at me —
" that was what brought Mr. Clitheroe here — in this disguise. What
must the nature of the design be when such artifices as this are re-
sorted to? What must Mr. Clitheroe's notions of gentlemanlike
conduct be when he can put on the very attire of the person whom
he is seeking clandestinely to supersede? I blush to think that my
daughter should have abetted his base scheme — but it is enough that
it has failed."
" No more of this intemperate language, madam," Doctor Foam said;
" whether Mr. Clitheroe is to blame or not — whether your daughter
has acted properly or the reverse — cannot be discussed now. If you
have the regard you profess for Mrs. Mervyn, you will hold your
tongue, and assist me to revive her, but if you attempt any further
violence, I tell you plainly, madam, I shall order you out of the
room."
" This to me, Doctor Foam ?" the incensed lady cried.
" Bali !" cried the doctor, snapping his fingers. " Sit down on
that chair and calm yourself. Throw the window wide open, Mervyn,
and let us have plenty of fresh air. And do you, Apphia, let our pa-
tient inhale the spirits of hartshorn while I bathe her temples. We
shall bring her round presently. I knew it!" he exclaimed, after a
short interval, during which he and Apphia continued unremitting in
their eftbrts, " she revives."
Heaving a deep sigh, Mrs. Mervyn opened her eyes, and looking
at Apphia, said, in a low tone, " Where is he ? — where is my boy ?"
"1 am here, madam," 1 replied, advancing towards the bed.
"Ah! yes, I see you, my dear," she cried, in the kindest tone
imaginable. " You shall both be made happy. 1 shall never live to
see you united, but united you shall be. I have done all you desire,
have I not ? 1 have changed the name in the deed of settlement. It
MERVYN CLITHEEOE. 299
only now remains to obtain your mother's consent to the marriage,
and I am sure she will not refuse."
" You are mistaken, Mrs. Mervyn," Mrs. Brideoake said, rising
from her seat. " I do refuse — peremptorily refuse my consent. You
are mistaken, also, in supposing that you have made any change in
the settlement. Happily, you have not done Malpas Sale the great
injustice of superseding him for an unworthy rival. Neither, if I
have any influence with you, will you do so. Do not listen to the
false representations of this designing young man, but attend to
me. Naturally I must have my daughter's welfare and happiness at
heart, but I should consult neither the one nor the other if I gave her
to Mervyn Clitheroe. If after this Apphia marries him, she will
marry in opposition to my wishes and injunctions, and will violate her
solemn promise to me."
" "What is this I hear?" Mrs. Mervyn cried. "Have you given a
promise to your mother not to marry without her consent, Apphia ?"
" Alas! madam, I have," she replied.
"Oh! this is truly unfortunate ! — truly unfortunate!" the poor
lady groaned, sinking back upon the pillow.
Her looks frightened Doctor roam so much that he hurried to
the table for some fresh restoratives, saying to Mrs. Brideoake, as he
passed her, " You see what mischief you have done, madam. "Will
nothing keep you quiet ? You will compel me to put my threats into
execution."
" Do as you please, Doctor Foam," she rejoined. " On you will
rest the responsibility of any outrage. Force only shall make me
leave the room while this young man remains in it."
" Zounds, madam ! you are enough to make one forget the respect
due to your sex and your station," Doctor Foam cried. "I won't
answer for the consequences if my dear patient is further excited.
There is no help for it, Mervyn," he added to me, " go you must."
And as he led me towards the door, he whispered, " But don't leave
the house. Stay in the library. I will join you there anon."
I glanced towards the bed, and saw Mrs. Mervyn still almost inani-
mate, with Apphia tending her. I glanced towards Mrs. Brideoake,
who had resumed her seat with a look of exultation at my defeat. She
pointed to the door, and I felt half inclined to mortify her by remain-
ing, but an impatient gesture from Doctor Foam changed my design,
and made me quit the room.
Never, alas I to see my dear friend and benefactress again.
30C LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP
CHAPTER VIII.
MB. COMBERBACH HAS GLOOMY FOREBODINGS.
Anxious to get rid of the hateful attire in which I was dis-
guised without a moment's loss of time, on entering the library I
rang the bell, and the summons being answered by Comberbach, I
explained my wishes to him, and he conducted me to a dressing-room,
where he said he had placed my apparel. The change of habiliments
was speedily effected, and as I issued from the dressing-room, very
much more at my ease, I encountered the butler, who now inquired
how I had prospered in my interview with his mistress.
"I trust Mrs. B. didn't find you out, sir?" he said. "If so,
there'll be a pretty kettle of fish !"
I was obliged to confess that the stratagem had been discovered,
but I consoled the terrified butler by saying that I felt sure Mrs.
Brideoake would not visit her anger upon him, as she had too much
upon her mind just now.
" I hope it may prove so," he rejoined ; " but you don't know what
Mrs. B. is like when she's really put out of temper. Oh ! Mr. Mer-
vyn," he added, with a groan, "what a change there is in this house
to be sure, sir. It hasn't been like the same place since that woman
set foot in it ; and instead of getting better, things are likely to get
worse. We shan't have our dear missis long, and when she's gone,
what's to become of me and Molly Bailey ? We can't live with Mrs.
B., you know. But it will be a sore trial to both of us to leave the
old place where we have dwelt so long."
" Most sincerely do I hope, on all accounts, that you won't be
obliged to leave it, Comberbach," I said.
" It will be a sad day, indeed, for us, when Mrs. B. is undisputed
missis of this house, Mr. Mervyn," the butler continued, sighing
dismally.
" Why do you entertain that notion, Comberbach ?" I asked.
"Even if you should unhappily lose your dear mistress, it doesn't
follow that she will be succeeded by Mrs. Brideoake."
" It follows as naturally as night follows day," he rejoined. " How-
ever much things may be kept secret, servants generally have an
inkling as to what's going on ; and I have tolerably correct informa-
tion, that if Mrs. B. survives my dear missis, the Anchorite's, and all
belonging to it, will be hers."
" You don't say so, Comberbach ?" I cried, staring at him.
" Yes I do say it, sir, and I'll stand by it," he replied, confidently.
" Not before Mrs. Brideoake," I rejoined. " What can be the
cause of the extraordinary influence that this lady has acquired over
your mistress, Comberbach ?"
" Don't question me on that subject, sir," he rejoined, in alarm.
" I daren't answer you. I wish with all my heart she had never come
near the place ! It would have been better for my missis — better for
MKKVYN CL1THEU0E. 301
you — better for me and Molly Bailey — better for everybody — ex-
cept herself. Stay, sir! You are not going back to the library ?"
he added, noticing that I was proceeding in that direction.
" Tes I am," I replied. " No further harm can be done by my
staying here, since Mrs. Brideoake is aware that I am in the house."
The butler evidently would have preferred my immediate departure,
but he raised no further objection, and I entered the library and sat
down. Nearly half an hour elapsed before Dr. Foam made his
appearance, and I drew an unfavourable augury from his extremely
serious looks.
" Mrs. Mervyn is worse, I fear, doctor?" I said.
" I am sorry to tell you she is," he replied. "I have only quitted
her for a moment to speak to you. Go to my house, and remain
there till I return. I have no time now to enter upon a subject
which I desire to mention to you."
" Can I not see Mrs. Mervyn again?"
" Not to-day," he replied. " It will be useless to wait here with
any such expectation. To-morrow, perhaps but I can answer
for nothing. I have sent for Mrs. Mervyn's professional adviser,
Mr. Tester. The poor lady contemplates some new arrangements in
regard to the disposition of her property, and they must be made with-
out delay."
" Then you think danger is imminent ?" I said.
" Nothing must be neglected," he replied, equivocally. * As to
your seeing Mrs. Mervyn again to-day, it is out of the question.
Until this matter of business is settled I do not wish her to be dis-
turbed. Besides, the Sales are expected here immediately, and it may
be disagreeable to you to meet them. You will find a friend at my
house whom you will be pleased to meet, and I shall expect to see you
both on my return. Grood-by, for the present."
With this he left me, and as it appeared certain that I should gain
nothing by remaining longer where I was, but in all probability might
expose myself to annoyance, I acted upon his advice, and went down
stairs at once, with the intention of quitting the house.
I found Mr. Comberbach in the hall, in a very despondent state
indeed. Molly Bailey had brought word that his mistress was worse.
Fabyan Lowe had been sent off in haste for Mr. Tester— a proof to
Comberbach that the doctor thought her end approaching. " Heaven
grant she means to make a change in her will !" the butler cried ; " and
if so, I hope the lawyer won't be too late. I wish I was permitted
to advise her. I know who should have the largest share of her pro-
perty — and who the least." In taking leave of him, I told him I
should be there again on the morrow ; on which he answered, in a
very doleful tone, "All will be over before that, I fear, sir."
On arriving at Cottonborough, I repaired at once to Dr. Foam's
residence, which was in the centre of the town. After explaining
my business to the servant, he told me that another gentleman was
waiting for the doctor, and ushering me into the room where this
person was, I found, to my great surprise, that it was no other than
John Brideoake.
302 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
CHAPTEE IX.
IN WHICH JOHN BRIDEOAKE IS MADE ACQUAINTED WITH HIS FAMILY.
HISTORY BY DOCTOR FOAM.
John informed me that he had seen Doctor Foam on the previous
evening, after taking Apphia to the Anchorite's, and the worthy phy-
sician had urged him so strongly to remain over the following day,
alleging that he had an important communication to make to him,
that he could not refuse ; and he had now come to keep his appoint-
ment with the doctor.
"I am glad you stayed, on all accounts, John," I said. "Mrs.
Mervyn is in an exceedingly critical state, and it may be necessary
for you to consider what must be done, under such such circum-
stances, with Apphia."
And I then proceeded to relate to him all that had occurred at the
Anchorite's that morning. He listened to me with great attention,
and expressed infinite concern that Mrs. Mervyn had been unable to
carry out her kind intentions.
We were still occupied with this subject when Doctor Foam made
his appearance. He at once relieved my anxiety respecting Mrs.
Mervyn, by stating that she was somewhat better, and hoped that
all immediate danger was over. However, he should see her again
in a few hours, he said, and should then be better able to judge
Then turning to John Brideoake, he observed,
" I will now explain my object in begging you to come to me this
morning. I am glad that Mervyn Clitheroe is also present, as it is
desirable he should hear what I have to communicate. Be seated,
I beg of you, for I have much to say. Tou are little acquainted
with your family history, I think ? — indeed, I know you are not."
"You are right, sir, I am entirely unacquainted with it," John re-
plied. " My mother has kept me completely in the dark both as
to my father's position in the world and her own. As I have here-
tofore intimated to Mervyn, I am by no means satisfied that I am
really entitled to the very name I bear."
Dr. Foam smiled.
" The time is come when you must be let into the secret," he said ;
" and though I have no authority from your mother for making the dis-
closure, I am in no way bound to withhold it. It will doubtless surprise
you to henr that you are of the same family as the mistress of the
Anchorite's, and consequently a connexion of your friend, Mervyn
Clitheroe."
" This is gratifying intelligence indeed !" I exclaimed.
" I must request your particular attention to my recital, or it may
not be comprehensible," Dr. Foam pursued. " Stuart Mervyn, who
MERVYN CLITHEEOE. 303
suffered for his participation in the unfortunate Rising of '45, had
two children. Fulke, father of the present Mrs. Mervyn, and Ho-
noria. The latter was secretly married to a young nobleman devoted
to the Jacobite cause, and who, as well as Stuart Mervyn, perished
on the scaffold."
" You refer to the unfortunate Lord Wilburton, I conclude,
doctor ?" I remarked. " I always understood that Honoria Mervyn's
connexion with that nobleman was not particularly creditable to her,
I am glad to learn from you that her reputation is unsullied."
" Indisputable proof of her marriage with Lord Wilburton exists,"
Dr. Foam said.
" In what way does this concern me ?" John inquired.
" Tou will perceive anon," the doctor rejoined. " At the time
of Lord Wilburton' s arraignment and condemnation, his unhappy
lady expected to become a mother, and she died on the very day,
and I believe on the very hour, that her lord's head fell upon the
block. She died in giving birth to a son, who subsequently bore the
name of Gerard Wilburton. Attainted of high treason, Lord Wilbur-
ton's honours were necessarily forfeited, and his marriage with Ho-
noria Mervyn never having been acknowledged, nothing was done for
his supposed illegitimate offspring. I shall not pause to trace the
history of Gerard Wilburton, but will merely state that he married and
had one son, Scrope — a remarkably handsome fellow, who, although
he had neither wealth nor title to recommend him — won the affec-
tions of the youngest daughter of a noble house — the Lady Amicia
Leyland, fourth daughter of the Earl of Eossendale. This young
lady eloped with him, and they were married on the borders of Scot-
land, and the marriage was so displeasing to the proud earl her father,
that he refused to see her again, and left the pair to starve. And
well-nigh starve they did ; for having little means of support, they
were reduced to absolute penury. Six years after this marriage,
the grandson of the unfortunate Lord Wilburton died, leaving a
widow and two children wholly unprovided for. But destitute as was
Lady Amicia' s condition, she would have died rather than apply to
her family for assistance. They had disowned her, she said, and un-
less recalled she would never go near them. Fancy a lady who in-
herited all the pride of one of the loftiest peers of the realm reduced
to such a miserable state as I have described! But Lady Amicia
Wilburton would never drag her title through the mire, she declared,
and took the humbler designation of Mrs. Brideoake. jNow, sir,"
the doctor continued, addressing John, " the last Lord Wilburton
was your great-grandsire, and if the title were restored you would
bear it."
John made no reply, but seemed lost in thought.
" You must not forget that your great-grandame, Honoria, Lady
Wilburton, was Mrs. Mervyn's aunt, and this fact will explain to you
why the mistress of the Anchorite's (when made aware by me of the
real circumstances of the case) should have taken so much interest in
the so-called Mrs. Brideoake. I found all particulars of the secret mar-
riage between Lord Wilburton and Honoria Mervyn detailed in the
Jacobite correspondence entrusted to me some years ago by Mrs.
3CA LIJfE AND AD YEN TUBES OF
Mervyn ; and I have just succeeded in obtaining positive proofs of
it, together with indubitable evidences of the lineal descent of
Scrope "Wilburton, your father, from the unfortunate Jacobite peer."
" I well recollect the circumstance you have mentioned, doctor," I
said. " I felt certain at the time that you had made some singular
discovery in that Jacobite correspondence. But I suppose Mrs.
Brideoake, or, as I ought now to call her, Lady Amicia Wilbur-
ton, prevailed upon you to keep it a secret."
" You are right — she did," he replied.
During the progress of this narrative, I had narrowly watched
John Brideoake's countenance, but though deeply interested, he
manifested no elation. When Dr. Foam finished, he rose from his
seat, and taking a turn or two about the room, as if weighing over
what he had heard, approached the doctor, and pausing before him,
said,
" Tou have made all clear as regards my family history, sir. But
my mother's conduct appears wholly unaccountable."
" Her conduct is intelligible enough," Dr. Foam rejoined, " if the
peculiarities of her character are taken into consideration. Pride —
unyielding pride — has been the mainspring of all her actions — except
in the case of her marriage. Her father., the old Earl of Kossendale, is
as proud as Lucifer, and so is her brother, Lord Leyland — so are all
the house. Their reproaches on Lady Amicia's ill-assorted marriage, as
they termed it, galled her deeply. The first few years of her wedded life
were passed abroad. She then returned with her husband to England,
and for some time lived in great distress in the neighbourhood of
London ; but no pressure of circumstances could induce Lady Amicia
to apply to her father. After the birth of Apphia, the unfortunate
pair removed to Hull, with the intention of proceeding to Edin-
burgh, but they never reached the latter place, for the seeds of
consumption, long sown in Scrope AVilburton, now declared them-
selves, and in a few weeks he was gone. Then it was that, with the
scantiest resources possible, poor Lady Amicia had to provide for
herself and her children. But even though thus reduced she never
for a moment thought of humbling herself to her father. Her hopes
of reinstatement rested on her son "
" 1 see it all now !" John cried. " Go on, sir."
" Her hopes of reinstatement, as I have said, rested on her son.
Even as a child he gave evidences of ability that led her to expect
great subsequent distinction in him. After some debate she came
to this town, where she knew there is an excellent free-school — rich
in exhibitions and scholarships to both universities — one or more of
which the youth might obtain, and so the door to future eminence
would be opened to him."
"I feel for her disappointment," John cried, vainly striving to
repress his emotion.
" Do not repine," Dr. Foam said. " Tou did all your strength
enabled you to do — too much, in fact. It was about this time, if you
remember, that, in attending you at Dr. Lonsdale's request, I saw
your mother. I at once recognised her, for T had often seen her be-
fore at Lord liossendale's seat, Buckrose, in Yorkshire, when she was
WERVYN CLIT1IER0E. 305
the admired and haughty beauty, Lady Amicia Leyland. You may
imagine my surprise at meeting her again uuder such strangely-
altered circumstances. She imposed silence upon me by a look,
and sympathising with her misfortunes, I obeyed the injunction.
Subsequently, on imparting to her the discovery I had made in the
Jacobite correspondence, I offered to introduce her to her connexion,
Mrs. Mervyn. But her pride stood in her way, and she at first haugh-
tily declined my well-meant proposal. In the end, however, as you
know, her scruples were overruled, and she consented to become an
inmate of the house. Then apparently new schemes of ambition
dawned upon her. Disappointed in her son, upon whom her hopes of
restoration to dignity and power had been fixed, she turned to her
daughter. Doting upon Apphia, Mrs. Mervyn promised to give her
half her property if she married according to her inclinations. Tou,
Mervyn Clitheroe, were out of the way — you had given offence to
Lady Amicia, and had made her your enemy — and you had been
supplanted by Malpas Sale. By what arts Malpas had contrived to
get into her ladyship's good graces I cannot say; but that he was
successful, you have seen. The marriage was agreed upon — all was
settled — when you returned, and it was broken off. But Lady
Amicia still holds to Malpas, and will not give him up."
" A strange and most deplorable infatuation," John said.
" Strange indeed, and deplorable as strange !" Dr. Foam cried ;
" but her ladyship is as wilful and determined as she is haughty. She
is a warm partisan, as Malpas has found ; but a bitter enemy, as you,
Mervyn, have discovered to your cost. Her dislike to you has be-
come a rooted antipathy."
" How have I offended her ?" I cried. " I cannot tax myself with
showing her any disrespect."
" No doubt it was unintentional on your part," Dr. Foam replied ;
" but some offence must have been given, and she has keenly resented
it. She also conceives that her children have been guilty of gross
disobedience to her."
" Never, I solemnly declare, save when she has passed the limits of
parental rule, have either of her children resisted her authority,"
John rejoined.
" Well, sir, you now know the precise position in which you stand, "
Dr. Foam said, after a short pause. " Let me state in addition,
that I am firmly persuaded that your grandfather, Lord Eossendale,
and your uncle, Lord Leyland, have influence enough to procure the
restoration of your title."
" But at this moment, I suppose, neither of their lordships are
aware of my existence," John said ; " and I am not likely to remind
them of it. Honours have no attraction for me, doctor, and if offered,
I should reject them. I love a simple and retired life, and covet no
distinction."
" Then you have no pride — no ambition, like your mother ?" Dr.
Foam said.
" None whatever," he replied — " surprising as it may appear to you."
x
306 LIFE AND ADYENTUBES OF
" Still, though you look down with philosophic contempt on dig-
nities and honours, you may desire to be placed in an easy po-
sition," Dr. Foam said. "I must now put your scruples to the
test. Learn then, that it is good Mrs. Mervyn's intention to make
a will in your favour ; this will be done on my assurance that the old
Jacobite title shall be revived in your person."
John shook his head, and was about to speak, but Dr. Foam
interrupted him.
" Hear me out," he said. " This is no fanciful notion. I am con-
fident that if this property comes to you, a reversal of the attainder can
be procured, and that you will regain the honours of your ancestors."
" I should not wear them well," John replied, firmly. " I want no-
thing. If you have any influence with Mrs. Mervyn, urge her to pass
me over altogether, and leave the property to my sister and Mervyn."
"This must not be, John," I said. "You owe it to the noble
race from whom you are descended, and whose escutcheon has been
thrown down, to restore their name to its original eminence."
" You fail to convince me," he rejoined, shaking his head.
" But there is one argument which I can employ," I said, drawing
near to him, and speaking in a low tone, " and which ought to weigh
with you. Once Lord Wilburton, Ora is yours."
A deep flush overspread his pallid features. A severe struggle was
evidently going on in his breast.
" Possessed of this property, you can make an adequate provision
for your mother, and above all, for your sister," Dr. Foam said ; " and
can bestow the hand of the latter on whomsoever you please."
" In the event now contemplated, that deed of settlement will not
be acted upon, I presume, doctor ?" I said.
" It will not be acted upon," he replied ; " and for the best possible
reason — because it is no longer in existence. Mr. Tester recom-
mended its destruction ; and destroyed it was accordingly, in Mrs.
Mervyn's presence. Now, sir," he added to John, " I await your
decision ?"
" I consent," he replied. " I feel that I have no right to refuse an
offer which may be advantageous to others, though it may entail dis-
comfort upon myself."
" Wisely resolved," Doctor Eoam cried. " Dear Mrs. Mervyn's
last moments will be cheered by the conviction that an old title, lost
in the Jacobite cause, may through her instrumentality be revived in
the person of her relative. Poor lady ! she is as much devoted to
the good cause as ever. She has been brought up in Jacobite
principles, and has maintained them through life; and in Jaco-
bite principles she w r ill die. And now as to the completion of the
proposed arrangement. Mr. Tester is at present occupied in pre-
paring the will for which he has received Mrs. Mervyn's instructions.
It will be ready this afternoon, and at six o'clock he and I shall
proceed to the Anchorite's. It will be proper for you to accompany
us," he added to John ; " Mrs. Mervyn may desire to see you. Till
then, adieu ! Having other matters to attend to, I must perforce
dismiss you."
M1RTTN CLITHEROE. 307
CHAPTER X.
JOHN AN]) I REVISIT OUR OLD SCHOOL, AND PASS A FEW HOURS IN THE
CHETHAM LIBRARY. — ILL TIDINGS.
As we emerged from Doctor Foam's house, the din and confusion
of the crowded street almost distracted John, who was in a state of
great nervous excitement.
" Let us get out of this dreadful turmoil," he cried. " I am quite
bewildered by what has just passed, and seem to be in a troubled
dream."
" From which you will wake to wealth and rank," I replied.
" Come with me, and I will take you where you will find the quiet
you need."
And lending him the support of my arm, which he really needed,
we walked on together, passing through St. Ann's-squar-e and the
market-place, and never halting till we reached the precincts of the
noble old Collegiate Church. Without bestowing more than a mo-
mentary glance at this reverend structure, we crossed the churchyard,
entered Long Mill-gate, and soon stood before the old school. Yes !
there it was — there was the dear old F. Gr. S. — unchanged to all out-
ward appearance since the days of our boyhood. How many recol-
lections did the sight of this simple edifice — simple it was not in our
eyes — conjure up ! I saw John once more — a pale, sickly, shabbily-
attired lad — and heard unfeeling gibes and taunts addressed to him.
Little did those who jeered him for his mean habiliments and his
half-starved looks reck that he was of far more exalted birth than
themselves ! I saw myself — full of health, spirit, energy — hopeful of
the future, contented with the present — and I felt that I could not,
with entire regard to truth, say as much for myself now that I had
become a man.
After gazing for some minutes at the exterior of the school, we passed
through the gate, and stepped into the little court-yard — once so
familiar to us, and so often trodden by our juvenile feet. From
the open doors of the school came the buzz and hum of youthful
voices, and I would fain have taken a peep inside ; but John urged me
to come away, and we proceeded to the Chetham Hospital, which
I have already described as closely adjoining the Free Grammar
School.
A wicket in the ancient stone gateway admitted us to the large
quadrangular court used as a playground by Blue-coat Boys ; and as
we slowly crossed the wide area, my companion began to feel more
at ease. The monastic and college-like air of the buildings around
us delighted him. It was like coming home, he said. The happiest
x2
308 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
hours of his early life had been spent in the library we were about to
visit. Entering at the low-browed door of the ancient hospital,
snatching a glimpse at its huge kitchen, and passing the refectory,
\e ascended an oaken staircase, and gained a long gallery, with railed
enclosures containing shelves full of venerable tomes.
In one of these nooks we found the librarian, a grave, elderly
personage, attired in a rusty suit of sable, and John having ob-
tained from him two folio volumes of the " 1? aires Apostolici" in
Greek and Latin, while I contented myself with old Izaac "Walton,
we repaired to the reading-room, and finding it totally untenanted,
seated ourselves at an ancient oak desk placed in the depths of an
oriel window — John's favourite place of study in bygone days. Here
we remained during the whole of the afternoon — sometimes reading
— sometimes conversing in a low tone — but never interrupted, for we
were the sole occupants of the chamber. In this calm retreat John
gradually regained his tranquillity, and when the deep bell of the old
church struck four, warning us to depart, it was not without a pang
that he quitted the place.
Our next step was to proceed to my hotel, where we partook of a
little dinner, and our slender meal over, we went to Dr. Foam's re-
sidence. Afflicting news awaited us. Dr. Foam, it appeared, had
been again hastily summoned to the Anchorite's by Mr. Comberbach,
who had declared his conviction that his mistress would not live
through the night. Before setting out, the doctor had left a few
lines for John, begging him to await his return, and of course 1
bore my friend company.
For several hours we were kept in a state of most painful sus-
pense, and it was past nine o'clock ere the doctor returned. He came
into the room where we were at once, and, alarmed by his looks,
I rushed towards him, entreating him to relieve my anxiety by a
single wt>rd.
" Tell me she lives, doctor — that will suffice !" I exclaimed.
He shook his head mournfully.
" I am the bearer of ill tidings," he said.
" Shall I never behold her again ?" I cried, in a voice of anguish.
" Not in this world," he rejoined, solemnly. " Dear Mrs. Mervyn
has passed away from amongst us."
I sank backwards, and buried my face in my hands. I am not
ashamed to own that I wept bitterly, for I had lost the best friend
I had ever possessed — and one whom I dearly lcrved.
At last the worthy doctor came to me, and, after addressing a few
consolatory remarks to me, said,
" Bear up manfully against this affliction. All your firmness is
needed. I have not yet exhausted my stock of bad news."
" What more remains ?" I cried, looking inquiringly at him.
" You are chiefly concerned in what I have to tell," the doctor said,
addressing John, who was nearly as profoundly affected as myself.
" Mrs. Mervyn has not made the will 1 desired."
"All seems to go wrong at present!" I exclaimed, in a tone of
deep disappointment.
MEltYl'N CLITHEROE. 309
" Compose yourself, my good young friend, and hear me out," Dr.
Foam said, kindly. " Mr. Tester and I were too late. The will pre-
pared to-day could not be executed, and a will, previously made, must,
therefore, be acted upon. Lady Amicia Wilburton is now absolute
and uncontrolled mistress of the Anchorite's and all belonging to it."
" Nothing left to Apphia ? — nothing to John ?" I cried.
" Nothing to any one — except to the lady I have named," Dr.
Foam rejoined.
"Heaven be praised!" John exclaimed. "I have escaped this
snare. Apphia shall return with me at once to Weverham."
" Do nothing rashly, I implore of you," Dr. Foam returned.
" Weigh it well over, before you remove her entirely from her mother.
Tou are now too well acquainted with Lady Amicia' s character not
to be aware of the consequences of such a step."
"I shall return to-night," I cried. "My business here is ended.
Farewell, doctor !"
Dr. Foam made no attempt to detain me, but when John also rose
to depart, he begged him to stay, saying he wished to have some
further conversation with him.
CHAPTEE XI.
DELAMEEE FOREST.
I held to my resolution, and notwithstanding the lateness of the
hour, rode back that night to the mill. The exercise did me good.
If I had retired to rest at Cottonborough, I should not have slept a
wink. Mrs. Mervyn's death was a great shock to me, and the cir-
cumstances attending it made it doubly distressing. "What might be
in store for me I could not tell, but at present nothing but ill-luck
attended me, and it seemed as if I was doomed to disappointment.
Next day, during the afternoon, I walked over to Weverham, to
inquire after John and his sister, but nothing had been heard of
them. I did not extend my walk to Owlarton Grange, for I was
in no mood for society, and it would have been extremely painful to
me to enter into a detail of the distressing events that had just oc-
curred. Kind as friends may be, there are times w r hen we shun them ;
and at this juncture I grieve to say that I felt like a misanthropist.
But I did not indulge the feeling long.
On my return from Weverham, I found that a country lad had
brought me a note from Ned Culcheth. The missive was rather
strangely expressed and somewhat difficult to decipher, for Ned was
not much skilled in penmanship, but I made out that he wished ine to
meet him at nine o'clock that night, at the Headless Cross, in Dela-
mere Forest. He entered into no explanation as to the object of the
meeting; but I felt sure that it was not for any trifling cause that he
310 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
would summon me. It is needless to say that I at once decided to go ;
and the many conjectures which the note gave rise to offered a rea-
sonable distraction to my harassing thoughts.
Shortly after eight o'clock that evening I mounted my horse, and
proceeded along the Tarporley road, in the direction of Delamere
Forest. Though a general highway, the Tarporley road was little
frequented at this hour, and I do not think, in the course of five or
six miles which I traversed, that I encountered as many individuals.
The district I was approaching had a solitary character at all times.
The well- cultivated land about Weverham, with its orchards, its rich
pastures and large corn-fields, its thick hedgerows graced with
numberless detached trees, its beautiful copses, its deep doughs full
of hazels, its homesteads and larger habitations, had given place
to a sterile heathy tract, only partially reclaimed and but thinly in-
habited. For the last mile I had not discerned a single cottage. Planta-
tions of Scotch firs and pines had succeeded the beech-trees, the oaks,
and the elms, to be seen so frequently, and of such luxuriant growth,
in the more favoured locality I had left behind, while the hedges had
given place to rough palings or stone walls.
As I advanced, the country became even more dark and dreary-look-
ing, being, in fact, little more than a black, boggy waste — perilous to
any one who should attempt to cross it at night, from its numerous
pitfals, and treacherous quagmires and morasses. Whoso incau-
tiously approached too near one of the latter would be infallibly
engulphed in its oozy bed.
This black and sterile waste, which of the vast woods that had
once covered it could only now boast a few stunted trees, was, in
fact, the famous Delamere Forest. To me it had a special attraction,
as being the scene of many of the strangely-fulfilled prophecies of
Robert Nixon. "Weird traditions of all kinds were attached to it.
In its coverts and thickets in olden days the royal hart had often
been unharboured by the huntsman, and the wild boar speared;
but all beasts of venery had long since vanished, and the only
creature left, indigenous to the soil, was the rabbit that burrowed
in the sand-banks. For centuries neglected and undrained, the
mighty forest had become a pestilent marsh, and such of its
ancient trees as had been spared by the woodman's axe had sunk
into the pools and mosses, whence huge blocks were occasionally
recovered, looking as if charred by fire.
A change, however, came at last. Many hundred acres of the
waste had been enclosed and cultivated, and it was evident that
in due time the whole would be reclaimed. Meanwhile, that part
of the heath at which I had arrived was left very nearly in its
pristine wild state, and furnished little occupation save to the turf-
cutter. About half a miie off, in the midst of the moor, lay a little
]ake, or tarn, called Oak Mere, whose inky waters were much re-
sorted to by wild-fowl. Further on was a curious group of small
hills, known in the district as the Seven Lowes, and not far from
these mounds was another pool.
In this direction the heath was bounded by a long and high ridge
MERTTN CLITHEROE. 311
running on towards the beautiful village of Kelsal, and the summit of
the furthest point of this mountainous barrier was crowned by an an-
cient British camp, popularly known as Kelsborrow Castle, whence a
magnificent view might be obtained. Beyond Oak Mere were several
morasses, designated respectively, from persons or circumstances con-
nected with them, Riley Moss, Thieves' Moss, Edicts' Moss, Crap Moss,
and Blakeford Moss. Further on there were two more morasses —
Pinney Moss and Midgel Moss. Between these two last-named
marshes was a large dismal-looking swamp — for pool it scarcely de-
served to be called — full of sedges and reeds, known as Great Blake
Mere; and not far from it was another piece of water, called Hatchew
Mere. There were four wells in the forest, each with a legend attached
to it, the most noteworthy being Hind's Well and Swan's Well, and
two ancient crosses, both referred to in the prophetic rhymes of Nixon,
namely, the Headless Cross and the Maiden's Cross. On the side of
the forest opposite to Kelsborrow Castle rose two eminences, respec-
tively known as Castle Cob and G-lead Hill Cob ; and when I have
mentioned the two large enclosures called the Old Pale and the New-
Pale, the chief features of this singular district will have beeu
specified. Beautiful heaths of various kinds bloomed in the forest,
and among the plants that grew there were the bilberry and cranberry,
the asphodel, the bog myrtle, and the marsh-cistus.
The night was fine, but cloudy, with a soft southerly breeze, and
generally speaking no very great extent of the forest was discernible.
All distant objects on the black heathy tract were plunged in ob-
scurity, while even those near at hand could hardly be distinguished.
But when light was suddenly thrown on the scene by an outburst of
the moon, the waste was revealed in all its gloomy grandeur. The
predominant colour of the moor was a rich dark purple, caused by the
heath covering its boggy soil ; but here and there streaks of white
glistening sand crossed it, while patches black as jet told where
the turf had been cut. The surface of the moor was irregular and
uneven — now swelling into heathy uplands, now sinking into little
dells and valleys, in the midst of which lay the tarns.
The sky was overcast as 1 approached the place of rendezvous, and
when within a hundred yards of the Headless Cross, I strained my
eyes through the gloom in the vain hope of descrying Ned's stalwart
figure. The darkness was too great to allow any object to be dis-
cerned at that distance. All at once the clouds drifted past, and, the
welcome radiance streaming down, showed me Ned seated on the
ancient stone. On the same instant I became visible to him,
though my horse's hoofs must have long since admonished him of my
approach.
Springing up at once, he advanced to meet me, and, on Hearing
him, I cried out,
" Well, here I am, Ned, punctual to the appointment. On what
sort of errand have I come ?"
" It isn't from me that you'll gain an answer to that question, sir,"
he replied, " but from the pretty gipsy girl, Kue. She it was who
commissioned me to bring you, between nine and ten o'clock to-night,
312 LIFE AND JiDYENTUEES OF
to a secluded spot in the midst of the heath, which I dare say you
know, called the Chamber of the Forest; promising to meet you
there, and give you some important information. If you failed to
keep the appointment, she said, you would ever after regret it ; and
she impressed caution so strongly on me, that I judged it safest
only to write a few words to you, feeling sure you would guess my
meaning."
" You did quite right, Ned," I replied. " But let us haste to the
Chamber of the Forest. I am all impatience to learn what Hue
has to communicate. She won't disappoint me, you think ?"
"No fear of that, sir," he rejoined. "Her manner showed she
was in right earnest. She seemed to be roused by some strong
passion — revenge, mayhap."
"Bevenge against whom, Ned?" I asked.
" Nay, that is more than I can tell, sir," he replied. " She didn't
take me into her confidence. I only judge from her looks."
Our brief colloquy over, we left the high road, and, entering upon
the heath, proceeded towards the spot mentioned by the keeper. Our
shortest way of reaching it would have been to pass by Oak Mere,
and cross the marshy tract adjoining it ; but this part of the forest was
much too dangerous to traverse at such an hour, and we were there-
fore obliged to diverge considerably to the right, to make sure of firm
ground. This devious route brought us within a short distance of an
old pit, where some victims of the Great Pestilence had been buried,
and which is known as the Plague Hole. After this we pushed on in
silence, not without risk, but fortunately without further hindrance
than was caused by the necessity of making an occasional detour
in order to avoid a quagmire, until at last we were within a bowshot
of the place we sought.
The Chamber of the Forest, once the centre of the vast woods of
Mara or Delamere, was now nothing more than a scanty group of
venerable trees, looking like the remains of an ancient Hruidical
grove. On beholding these scathed and hoary denizens of the wood,
I jumped from my horse, and consigning the bridle to Ned, walked
forward alone towards the grove. I did not observe Rue at first,
but, as I advanced, a female figure, wrapped in a cloak, detached
itself from the trunk of one of the largest of the trees, and stood
before me.
" So you are come," Eue said. " An eventful night this may prove
to you."
I inquired in what way.
" Have you no guess ?" she rejoined. " But I won't keep you in
suspense. Do as I bid you, and you may chance to recover the
property of which you have been unjustly deprived."
" You promise me this ?" I exclaimed, joyfully.
" Hush ! not so loud !" she replied. " 1 don't promise it. How
can I ? I can only point out the way to you. "What you want you
must win. If you fail, it will be from lack of prudence and courage."
" Then I hope I shall not fail," I replied. " How can I reward
you for the service you are about to render me ?"
MERYYN CLITHEliOE. 313
" I claim no reward," Rue returned. " All I require is, that two
persons whom I shall presently name to you, shall be exempted
from harm. Will you promise this — on the word of a gentleman ?
I have little reason to place faith in a gentleman's word — neverthe-
less, I will take yours."
I reflected for a moment before making an answer.
" Tou hesitate!" she cried, angrily. "Then my lips are closed.
Depart as you came."
" Xay," I replied, " I was bound to consider your proposal before
acceding to it. I will give the promise you require, and keep it faith-
fully. I do not mean to imply auy doubt as to the sincerity of your
intentions towards me, but I would fain learn the motives that in-
duce you to render me this great service ?"
"My motives are mixed," she rejoined — "partly, the desire of ven-
geance ; partly, anxiety to prevent the perpetration of a crime. You
may not give me entire credit for the latter feeling, but it is so. He
who has wronged you has also wronged me, and I know that by foiling
his present purpose, I shall inflict the severest punishment on him,
while I shall prevent those I love from committing a great offence. Do
you apprehend me, or shall I speak yet more plainly ?"
"I think I understand you," I replied. "Have you, then, been
ensnared by the arts of Mai pas Sale ?"
"Ay," she cried; "I will make no secret of my shame. I was
foolish enough to listen to him, and to believe that he loved
me. But I soon found out that I had been deceived, and bitterly
repented my error. "When the charms he feigned to perceive
in me no longer pleased him, he slighted me, and, at last, abandoned
me altogether. I might have expected as much, but I did not, for,
blinded by passion, I placed confidence in his protestations of lasting
regard. Lasting regard, forsooth!" she repeated, with bitter scorn —
" regard, that barely endured for a month. He soon tired of me, cast
me aside, and sought a new object of diversion. Sissy Culcheth's turn
came then. Tou know what happened to her. My mother strove to
save her from the net spread for her, but in vain. She was caught as
easily as I had been, and would have shared my fate, if chance had not
befriended her. But for me there was nothing left except revenge. I
am not of a nature to brook such treatment as I have experienced.
With the same degree of fervour that I loved Malpas once, I hate him
now. It is to revenge myself on him that I serve you. It is through
you that I mean to strike the blow that shall crush him. Have I
made myself clear now ?"
" Perfectly so," I replied. " Tou have cause enough to justify your
vindictive feeling ; and yet "
" Tou would advise me to spare him," she cried, with a fierce and
scornful laugh. " Were I to do so, how would you be righted ? Have
you now no sense of injury ? Do you not know what an outraged
woman becomes ? If I listened only to the promptings of my heart, I
should stab him. But I prefer the mode of vengeance I have adopted."
Feeling it would be in vain to argue with her, I did not attempt it.
She went on :
814
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
" I have said that in serving you I am not entirely actuated by
feelings of vengeance. I would not have those I love become my
betrayer's accomplices in villany. I would save my father and bro-
ther from the commission of a crime. I would shield them from
harm. It is on their behalf that I require the promise you have given
me."
" Eear nothing," I replied. " They are safe so far as I am con-
cerned. But in what way do you propose to right me ? Malpas
himself told me that the will is destroyed."
" He lied," Eue rejoined. " Falsehood is ever on his tongue. The
will is still in existence. He affirmed the contrary, because he ima-
gines it can never be produced against him. But he is in error. I
will help you to find it."
" Tou will for ever make me your debtor," I cried.
" Spare your thanks till you have gained the prize," she said.
" You shall now hear how matters now stand in regard to Simon Pow-
nall. He is in great jeopardy. He expected to make a good bargain with
Malpas for the surrender of that will, but he was indiscreet enough
to impart his design to my father and brother. Their cupidity was
excited, and a plan, contrived by Obed, was put in execution, by
which they hoped to gain possession of the document, and make
their own terms with Malpas. They managed to drug Pownall's
drink, and while in a state of stupor they conveyed him to a place
of security, and shut him up within it. When he came to him-
self, they demanded the will, threatening, if he refused, to make away
with him. But he proved more obstinate than they expected. He
told them they might find the will, if they could, but they never
should do so with his aid — adding, that if they harmed him they
would get the worst of it. My father said that a few days' confine-
ment would make him alter his tone, and so they shut him up again."
" And he is still in their hands ?" I inquired.
"He is still a prisoner," she replied, "and as impracticable as
ever. My father and Obed have entered into a negotiation with
Malpas. What terms they have made with him I know not, for
they have kept the transaction secret from me, but to-night the busi-
ness will be brought to an end. A last effort will be made to shake
Pownall's resolution, and, unless he yields, fatal consequences may
ensue. This my father has sworn, and I much fear he will keep his
oath. The crime must be prevented."
" It shall be prevented, if you will take me to the place where
Pownall is held captive," I said.
" The place is not far off*," she rejoined ; " when I have brought > on
to it, you will act according to circumstances — but I rely upon your
promise to do no injury to those dear to me. Tell my father that I
have sent you — and why I have sent you. It may check his wrath.
Have you no other arms except that hunting-whip ?"
" No," I replied ; " if I had been aware that I was about to embark
on a service of danger, I would have come better prepared. But this
hunting-whip will suffice. The handle is as heavy as a hammer. And
Ned Culcheth is provided with a stout cudgel."
MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. 315
" Enough !" she cried. " Bid Ned follow us. You will need his
assistance. I will show you where to leave your horse."
With this she started off in the direction of the marshy tract ad-
joining Great Blake Mere, skimming over the ground so lightly that
her footsteps seemed scarcely to make any impression on the heath,
and moving so fleetly that Ned and I had enough to do to keep up
with her.
CHAPTER XII.
THE TUBE-CUTTER'S HUT.
Eee long, a black boggy tract opened upon us, intersected by deep
dykes, cut in order to drain the morass, and giving abundant evi-
dences, from its shaven surface and its pits, that the turf-cutter had
been at work upon it.
On gaining this sombre region, Hue stopped near a couple of
shattered and almost branchless trees, and waiting till Ned Culcheth
came up with the horse, bade him to tie the animal to one of them.
Her order obeyed, the gipsy girl bade us stay where we were for a
moment, and keep behind the trunks of the trees. She then almost
instantly disappeared.
Of late, the clouds had thickened in the sky, and it had become
totally dark. But at this juncture the moon suddenly burst forth
and revealed the whole scene. As I have said, we were now on
a black bog, hardened by deep drainage, but yielding nothing at
present except turf, stacks of which, cut and dried for fuel, were
grouped around us in various fantastical shapes ; while low walls of
the same combustible substance, in various stages of preparation,
were reared on all sides. Beyond us was a dismal-looking swamp,
which I knew to be Great Blake Mere.
My attention, however, was chiefly directed, during this momen-
tary illumination of the moorland, to the gipsy girl. Catching sight
of her figure as it reappeared from amidst the turf-stacks, I discovered
that she was hastening towards a low hovel, situated at the edge of
the bog on which we were standing, and within a stone's throw of the
mere. No other habitation was visible except this lone hut. Stealing
cautiously towards the little hovel, Rue paused close to it, listened for
a moment, and then, apparently satisfied with her scrutiny, flew back
towards us.
" Our business lies in yonder hut, I suppose, sir?" Ned inquired.
Like myself, he had been watching Rue's proceedings.
" It does," I replied. " From what I have learnt, the four scoun-
drels we have so long sought are there. But I have given my word
to this gipsy girl not to meddle with two of them — namely, her father
and brother."
"Well, it's nat'ral she should wish to save 'em," Ned rejoined.
316 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
" It's a pity two such rascals should get off — but better them than
t'other two."
I then briefly related Bue's story to him, and had scarcely done,
when she again stood before us.
" They are there," she said, pointing to the hut. " Are you ready ?
Have you cautioned Ned Culcheth ?"
" Ay, ay," Ned replied. " Your kin shall come to no harm from me."
" Follow me, then," she replied.
Hastily making our way through the stacks of turf, and stepping over
a plank thrown across a wide and deep dyke, we soon approached the
hut. By this time the moon was again hidden, and all around had
become dark and blank as before. Bue led us on with so much
caution, that, had any one looked out, our approach would hardly have
been perceived. When close to the hut, she stopped, and pointing
towards it, said, " Your adversary is there. I heard his voice. Gro
and revenge yourself — and revenge me."
As she hissed this stern injunction in my ear, I could perceive, even
by that imperfect light, that her beautiful features were so distorted
by passion that they scarcely looked human. "Without another word,
sbe darted back, and disappeared on the instant.
The hut was a small clay-built tenement, with a grey thatched roof.
There was a still smaller out-building, or shed, attached to it. Even
where we stood voices could be heard proceeding from the dwelling, and
amongst them I had no difficulty in distinguishing the tones of Malpas
Sale. Stepping cautiously forward, I approached the hut, desirous,
if possible, to ascertain what was passing inside it. A little broken
window, placed at a very convenient height from the ground, would
have served my purpose perfectly, but I did not venture to avail
myself of it, for, if I had done so, my presence must have been
instantly detected. I was saved further search for means of investiga-
tion by Ned Culcheth, who pointed out a crack in the clay wall, and
placing my eye to this crevice, I found that I commanded the whole
interior of the cabin.
It was a wretched-looking place, and the only piece of furniture it
afforded — a rude three-legged stool — was appropriated by Malpas, who
sat with his back towards me, smoking a cigar. He was habited in a
dark riding-dress and boots. Opposite him, on a block of wood, sat
Simon Pownall, in the most miserable plight imaginable, his apparel
torn and disordered, his visage blackened and begrimed, beard
unshorn and grizzly, hair unkempt, and looks betokening abject
terror, spiced with malignity. So changed was he by the treatment
he had experienced, that 1 scarcely recognised him. Between the
prisoner and the principal personage of the party was an old tub,
turned upside down, serving the purpose of a table ; and on this lay
Malpas's cigar-case, and a pocket-flask containing spirit.
Light was afforded by a peat fire burning on the hearthstone, which
Obed, at the moment I looked in, was fanning into a flame with his
cap. Its light fell upon the swarthy and savage lineaments of Phaleg,
who was seated upon a heap of turf, in close proximity to Pownall.
Both gipsies had short pipes in their mouths, and puffed away at them
■ ,/ \
MERVYH CL1THEE0E. 317
with as much composure and unconcern as Malpas himself. I did
not fail to remark that they had their bludgeons with them as usual,
and I also noticed that Malpas was armed, for I saw the butt-ends of
a brace of bull-dogs peeping out of his coat pockets, and it struck me
that the weapons were rather ostentatiously displayed.
" Well, Pownall," Malpas said, " you must have found out by this
time that your obstinacy is useless. Tou will be obliged to give in
in the end, and may as well do so now as later on. Act like a man
of sense, and tell us, without more ado, where to find the will."
" But what am I to have if I do tell you ?" Pownall rejoined.
" Ask your friends here," Malpas returned, with a laugh. "My
bargain is with them. They have engaged either to produce the will,
or keep you out of the way. I don't deny that I should prefer the
former arrangement, but so long as you are in safe custody I am per-
fectly easy."
"You hear what the capt'n says, Pownall," Phaleg remarked.
" He knows you're safe in our hands. If he saw your place of con-
finement, he wouldn't think you had much chance of getting out of
it without our permission."
" What is it like, Pownall ?" Malpas inquired.
"The capt'n asks you a question," Phaleg said. "Describe your
underground lodging, man."
" If s a dark, damp, unwholesome vault, lying under the shed ad-
joining this hovel," Pownall cried. " The place is unfit for the vilest
criminal — let alone a decent, well-behaved man like me. Look at it
yourself, Captain Sale, and it will make your heart sick. I will never
believe you could authorise such cruelty as is practised upon me."
"Who's to blame for the cruelty but yourself?" Phaleg roared.
" I'll set you free in a moment if you'll only tell where that will is
hidden."
" Come, don't be obstinate, Pownall," Malpas said. " You'll gain
nothing by standing out. Your chance is gone by. The document
can be of no use to you now."
" I don't know that, Captain Sale," Pownall rejoined, sullenly.
" Perhaps it may."
" Don't you heed him, capt'n," Phaleg cried. " It never shall be
of any use to him. Sooner than that, I'll tie a stone round his neck
like a dog, and drown him in one of these black meres."
" Nay, that would be going a trifle too far, Phaleg," Malpas re-
marked. " I only want him kept out of the way."
" All right, capt'n," the ruffian rejoined. " He shan't trouble you
again, I'll warrant him."
" You will do well to listen to what I have to say, Captain Sale,"
Pownall cried, in a half-menacing tone. " I am not about to beg my
life of these men, for I know 1 am in their power, and it appears
they will show me no mercy. But understand this, if I am put out
of the way as I am threatened by this villain — or even if I am de-
tained a prisoner much longer — that document will be taken tc
Mervyn Clitheroe."
318 LIFE AND ADVENTUBES OF
Malpas sprang to his feet, and clapped his hands to his pistols.
" Poh ! poh ! this is mere idle talk," Phaleg cried. " I should like
to know how that can be done ?"
" You will find out the truth of what I assert if you proceed to ex-
tremities with me," Pownall continued, evidently trying to heighten
the impression he had produced ; " and so will Captain Sale. I took
these precautions in case of some such mischance as has befallen me.
You are now warned, Captain Sale, and will know what to expect."
"Curse the fellow!" Malpas exclaimed. " If this should be so!
— but no ! I cannot believe him," he added, sitting down again.
" A mere trumped-up story, capt'n," Obed remarked. " He never
said a word of the sort afore."
" Because the occasion never arose before," Pownall said. " I ad-
dress myself to Captain Sale — not to you. He knows what the con-
sequences will be to himself if the will is produced."
Malpas only gave utterance to a deep oath, but his troubled coun-
tenance showed what was passing within. Pownall contemplated him
with a malignant grin. The cunning knave began to feel secure.
"Harkee! Phaleg," Malpas cried, at length, "this rascal is too
much for us. "We had better make terms with him."
" If you don't, you'll never have that property," Pownall said, dog-
gedly. " Detain me a prisoner, or put me out of the way altogether, and
as sure as I stand here, that will will be taken to Mervyn Clitheroe."
Both gipsies laughed incredulously.
" Don't mind him, capt'n," Phaleg cried. " It's merely an artful de-
vice to get out of our clutches. We've got him safe enough, and
mean to keep him. He accounts himself a rare conjuror, but with
all his tricks he won't get out of our black-hole."
" After the warning I have given him, Captain Sale, I am sure,
will never be so blind to his own interests as to allow me to be sent
thither again," Pownall said.
Malpas looked perplexed.
"I tell you what it is, Pownall," he cried, at length. "I don't
attach much faith to what you say, but it's best to be on the safe side.
Just talk over the matter with your friends there, and when you've
agreed together, I'll see whether I can meet you."
" I'm agreeable," Phaleg said.
" But I am not," Pownall cried. " I will have nothing more to do
with these men, Captain Sale. They have both played me false, and,
so far as I can help it, they shan't derive any benefit from their trea-
chery. They can't produce what you require. Why should they be
parties to any bargain between you and me ?"
" What game is t' owd fox tryin' to play now, I wonder, father ?"
Obed remarked to the elder gipsy.
" I can't tell what he be after," Phaleg rejoined, with a tremendous
oath ; " but this I know — he never sees daylight again unless the
will be forthcoming."
" Captain Sale, 1 appeal to you," Pownall cried. "You are a gen-
tleman, and will protect me. You won't suffer me to be murdered
by these ruffians."
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 319
And as he spoke, be made an effort to rush towards Malpas, but
he was forcibly held back by the iron grasp of Phaleg.
" A word will procure your liberation, Pownall," Malpas observed,
in an impassive tone. "You have only to thank yourself if any
harm befals you. But since you refuse to listen to me, I must wish
you good night. Perhaps you may be more reasonable when I see
you next."
And he proceeded deliberately to light another cigar, as if preparing
for departure.
" Captain Sale ! Captain Sale !" Pownall cried, in extremity of
terror. " You won't leave me to these merciless ruffians. I shall
never survive it, if I am thrown into that black, stifling hole again,
and my death will lie at your door. Save me ! save me !"
" Speak the word, then," Malpas rejoined. " The will ! where is it ?"
" Take me with you, and I will find it for you."
" Don't trust him, capt'n," Phaleg said, still maintaining his hold of
the trembling caitiff. " Besides, he shan't go, unless we go with him."
"Another night's confinement won't do you any great harm,
Pownall," Malpas replied, with a savage laugh.
" It'll bring him to his senses," Phaleg roared.
" It'll kill me !" Pownall shrieked. " You won't find me alive when
you come back, Captain Sale."
" Oh! yes, I shall," Malpas rejoined, indifferently. " And I've no
doubt by that time you'll have settled your differences with honest
Phaleg and his son. Good night !" And he rose as if to depart.
" I beseech you, Captain Sale, do not abandon me !" Pownall cried.
" As I live, I have told you the truth."
" We'll talk more about it to-morrow night," Malpas rejoined.
" But I won't be left here," Pownall cried, struggling ineffectually
with Phaleg. " Help ! help !"
" Shout till you're hoarse," the gipsy said. " No one will hear you."
The poor wretch continued his outcries.
" Better thrust him into the vault, Phaleg," Malpas said. " He
may give the alarm."
" No fear of that, capt'n," the gipsy rejoined. " Hold your tongue !
will you, you cursed warmint," he added, with a fearful imprecation.
Meanwhile, I had whispered some directions to Ned, and now,
judging the fitting moment come, I gave him the word of attack.
Ned, begged me, in a whisper, to let him go in first, and without
tarrying for my consent, dashed himself with all his force against
the "door, bursting it at once from its hinges, and before the occupants
of the hut could recover from the surprise caused by his unexpected
intrusion, I had sprung over the tub, and forced Pownall from
Phaleg's grasp. The miserable caitiff instantly saw that there was a
chance of his liberation, and eagerly caught at it. He dexterously
tripped up Obed's heels, as the latter rushed forward to intercept
his flight, and would have made a prompt exit from the hut, if the
doorway had not been blocked up by Ned Culcheth, who had seized
and pinioned Malpas. All this was the work of a moment, but in
that space of time I had got clear of Phaleg. My hunting-whip
320 LIFE AND ADVENTUBES OF
enabled me to ward off a desperate blow which he aimed at my
head, but I forbore to strike him in return, though I could have
brained him, if I had pleased, with the handle, but shouted out —
" Hold your hand, Phaleg ! I don't want to harm you or your son.
I am sent here by Rue."
" What ! has she sent you here ?" he cried, taken completely aback.
" Has she sold her own father ? Curses upon her !"
" Turn your wrath against him who deserves it, and not upon her,"
I cried. " You are not so lost to shame that you will aid the man
who has ruined and abandoned your daughter."
" Abandoned Rue !" Phaleg vociferated. " Whom do you mean ?"
" There stands the betrayer," I rejoined, pointing to Malpas, who
was ineffectually struggling to free himself from Ned. " Let him deny
what I say if he can."
" Speak, capt'n," Phaleg roared, "and give him the lie."
" He can't speak," Ned rejoined. " The words would choke him if
he tried."
" He now feels the effects of an injured woman's vengeance," I
said. " Eue's hand strikes this blow."
" This may be true, father," Obed cried ; " and we will settle the
account with the capt'n by-and-by. But, meanwhile, we mustn't let
these chaps take Pownall away."
" If I had only known this sooner, I'd have strangled the false-
hearted villain rather than have had anything to do wi' him," Phaleg
cried.
" Take him, and deal with him as you see fit," Ned Culcheth cried,
hurling Malpas with such force against the elder gipsy that they both
fell to the ground, and following me as I rushed out of the hut with
Pownall.
"Take me away from them, Mr. Clitheroe! — take me away !" the
miserable wretch cried. " Promise not to deliver me to justice, and
you shall have the will. I will show you where it is hidden."
" I can make no promise now," I replied. " Come along!"
By this time we had reached the deep dyke already described, and
after we had all crossed it, in order to check pursuit I kicked the
plank into the chasm. Scarcely had I done so, when Malpas rushed
out of the hut, and on seeing us he gave vent to ejaculations of rage.
Fancying himself now in security, Pownall could not help gratifying
his malicious feelings, and called out,
" You have lost the will, captain. I shall now deliver it to him for
whom it was rightfully intended."
" Ha ! say you so, rascal ?" Malpas cried. " That shall be prevented,
at all events."
And as the words were pronounced he drew a pistol, levelled it at
Pownall, and fired with such good effect that the unfortunate man
uttered a sharp cry, threw up his arms, and fell backwards into
the dyke.
"Lie there with your secret!" Malpas cried, hurrying back to the
huli
MERVYN CLIT1IEB0E. 321
CHAPTER XIII.
THE CHASE ACKOSS THE MORASS.
Ois" seeing Powuall drop into the dyke, my first impulse was to jump
across the chasm and endeavour to arrest his murderer ; but as I ran
back a few paces in order to give impetus to the spring, Ned Cul-
cheth caught me by the arm, and strove to dissuade me from the rash
attempt.
"Whiie I was struggling to free myself from his friendly grasp,
Malpas again burst from the hut, followed by the gipsies. I could
not make out at first whether the intentions of the two latter were
hostile to him or the reverse ; but I was not long left in doubt, for in
another minute all three stopped near a stack of turf, from behind
which Obed brought a horse, while Malpas placed what appeared to
me to be a pocket-book in the hands of the elder gipsy. This done,
Captain Sale mounted and rode off.
" By Heaven, he shall not escape in this manner!" I exclaimed.
And I flew to the spot where my own steed was secured, unloosed
him, and was on his back in a moment.
Ned made another effort to detain me, but I was too much excited
to heed his remonstrances, and dashed off instantly after the fugitive,
whom I could just descry scouring across the waste in the direction
of the most perilous morasses. But this did not deter me from the
pursuit, but rather encouraged me, as I felt the more certain of his
capture. Clearing the dyke, I put my horse to the top of his speed,
and was glad to perceive that the distance between me and my flying
foe began rapidly to diminish.
Very soon Malpas was scarcely a hundred yards in advance of me.
"Wherever he went I unhesitatingly followed ; and it was a marvel
that either escaped the many pitfals by which the way was beset.
A region was now at hand where the utmost caution was necessary.
Yet Malpas did not slacken his pace, or deviate in the slightest
degree from a direct course. I expected every moment to see him
disappear in the bog, but, astonishing to say, the ground still conti-
nued firm beneath his horse's feet, and he must either have known
where to find the narrow causeway across this part of the morass, or
have accidentally hit it off. By following in his track, I came off
equally well.
But bad as this place was, we had greater risks to encounter. We had
leaped a brook issuing from Edict's Moss, and were passing between
Crap Moss and Blakeford Moss. In front was a small reedy tarn,
322 LIFE AND ADYENTTJBES OF
called Shipley Mere. The whole place, in fact, was a marsh. The
ground quaked beneath our horses' feet as we splashed on. Still
through all these difficulties and dangers Malpas held on, and I
followed.
Shipley Mere was passed in safety. But another dangerous mo-
rass was at hand, Thieves' Moss. I never expected Malpas would
reach it, or, if he did, that he would be able to proceed further. To
my surprise he went on, and though he occasionally floundered, he
did not stop. I also got on without material hindrance. AVe were
now close upon the high road across the forest between North wich
and Chester, and before Captain Sale could clear the palings that
skirted it, I was within twenty yards of him.
Finding himself hard pressed, he did not attempt to pursue this
road, but leaping the fence on the further side, again plunged into the
heath, taking the direction of Oak Mere. I after him, of course.
Once more we were on a shaking bog — once in fearful proximity to
treacherous quagmires. Immediately on our right was Eiley Moss :
on the left mere a smaller, but yet more perilous marsh. The swampy
nature of the ground no longer allowed Malpas to keep up the head-
long pace he had hitherto maintained. It was with difficulty he got
on at all. His horse sank in the oozy bog at every step. I was in
equal jeopardy, and at last had the mortification of seeing Malpas reach
a firm piece of ground, while my horse stuck quite fast.
All danger was now over with Captain Sale. After carefully con-
sidering the course to be pursued, he rode off, laughing derisively at
my situation, and I soon lost sight of him.
My efforts to free myself from the quagmire in which I was caught
only made matters worse. My horse got more and more inextricably
involved at every plunge, and at length seemed to be sinking altogether.
In order, therefore, to save myself from inevitable destruction, I was
compelled to abandon him. The poor animal seemed conscious of the
terrible fate awaiting him, and struggled violently to free himself, but
his efforts only hastened his doom. Each moment he sank deeper and
deeper — until at last, with a shrill cry — he entirely disappeared.
My own position was fraught with too much peril to allow time
for reflection on this disastrous event. Grieved as I was to lose my
horse, preservation of my own life was the main point to consider.
With great difficulty I managed to extricate myself from the morase,
and this accomplished, I soon reached a part of the heath where the
sod was firm, and there w T as no longer any risk. I was shaping
my course towards the Tarporley road, which was not very far off,
when I heard shouts in the distance, and descried Ned Culcheth run-
ning towards me. I waited till the honest fellow r came up. lie had
been searching for me, and had been greatly alarmed at my disappear-
ance. After I had explained to him what had happened, he said,
" Tou've had a lucky escape, sir, I can tell you. These bogs are
like quicksands, and when once man or beast gets involved in them,
they are never seen again. I wish that confounded Captain Sale
were beside your poor horse. But his day of reckoning can't be far
MEBVYN CLITHEEOE. 323
off, and he may meet with a worse fate than being smothered in a
bog."
We then made the best of our way to the mill, where my compa-
nion tarried with me during the few hours left of the night.
CHAPTEE XIV.
THE SEAECH FOE THE BODY.
Next morning Ned set off betimes for Marston. He had instruc-
tions from me to lay all particulars of the dark deed that had occurred
overnight before Mr. Mapletoft, a neighbouring magistrate, and to
obtain from that gentleman a warrant for Malpas's immediate arrest.
I proposed to be at Marston myself in the afternoon, when the
accusation against Ma] pas could be heard by Mr. Mapletoft, but the
morning must be devoted to a search for the murdered man. Charged
with these instructions, Ned departed.
I should now have been badly off for a steed, but luckily, Mr.
Mavis had a stout young horse which he kept for his own use, so I
was able at once to supply the place of the unfortunate animal I
had lost in the bog.
An impulse not to be resisted drew me in the first place to We-
verham. On reaching John's cottage, I found that he had returned
from Cottonborough at a late hour on the night before — much to my
chagrin, also, I learnt that he had returned alone. I sat down to wait
for him in his little parlour. He soon made his appearance, and
in a few words made me acquainted with what had occurred since I had
left him with Dr. Foam. The doctor, he said, whose goodness of heart
and excellence of judgment could not be doubted, had strongly ad-
vised him not to remove Apphia from her mother for the present,
and had given such good reasons for his counsel, that in the end he
had yielded.
By taking away your sister at once, Dr. Foam had said to my
friend, you will naturally offend your mother, with whom further dis-
agreement ought sedulously to be avoided. Tou cannot foresee how
Lady Amicia may act. Very probably her character may be softened
by her improved circumstances. At all events, give her a fair trial.
Consider the importance of a wealthy and titled mother's protection
to Apphia, and do not rashly deprive her of such great advantages.
" I could not deny the force of much that the worthy doctor ad-
vanced," John said, " and I felt that it would be sellLsh in me to de-
sire to have my sister with me, since it was so much more to her own
interest to remain with our mother. "Whether I have done right,
time will show. I shall have this consolation at least, that I have
t2
324 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
acted for the best. Before leaving Cottonborough, I made a point
of seeing Apphia in order to ascertain her sentiments. As you may
imagine — for you know how devotedly attached my sister was to dear
Mrs. Mervyn — I found her plunged in deep affliction, but she herself
thought it would not be right to leave our mother at a time like
the present. Prudential motives may have swayed her, for all par-
ticulars of our family history had been imparted to her by Lady
Amicia, but she must have been mainly influenced by the change in
our mother's manner. Subsequently I had an interview with Lady
Amicia, and am bound to say that she produced a very favourable
impression upon me — so favourable, indeed, as almost to warrant me
in hoping that the improvement in her character may be permanent.
In all respects, indeed, the interview was satisfactory."
Whatever opinion I might entertain as to the probable duration
of Lady Amicia' s present amiable frame of mind, I made no remark
to my friend, but proceeded to recount to him the fearful occurrences
of the previous night. He heard me with profound attention, and
seemed greatly shocked by the details of Malpas's criminality.
" Badly as I had thought of him," he said, " this far exceeds any
notion I had formed of his villany. His base conduct towards
that young gipsy girl would suffice to stamp him as an unprincipled
profligate — and now he has dyed his hands in blood. What would
have been Apphia' s fate if she had been united to such a wretch !
We may, indeed, congratulate ourselves on her escape."
Soon after this I took leave of my friend, and rode on to Owlarton
Grange.
Tidings of Mrs. Mervyn's demise had preceded me. Intelligence
of the sad event had been communicated by Dr. Foam to Cuthbert
Spring, who, with Major Atherton, was still staying at the Grange.
The doctor had imparted full particulars of the poor lady's disposition
of her property, mentioning, of course, that the so-called Mrs. Bride-
oake had assumed her real name and title of Lady Amicia Wilburton.
Aware of all this, Miss Hazilrigge and Ora overwhelmed me with
inquiries about Apphia and John. Ora was in despair that the pro-
perty had not been left to the latter, and could scarcely find words
strong enough to express her vexation at Lady Amicia's success.
"I hope John will get the title, in spite of her," she cried. "I'm
sure if we have any means of helping him to do so, they shan't be
wanting." Good-natured Mrs. Hazilrigge was nearly as much annoyed
by the untoward event as her niece, though she did not exhibit her
disappointment with so much vivacity. I was obliged to tell them
that the object of their sympathy was quite indifferent to the loss
he had sustained, and that when the title had been offered him, he had
been most reluctant to accept it.
" Ah, indeed ! he has less selfishness than any one I ever met
with," Miss Hazilrigge exclaimed. " I have always declared that he
is too good for this world."
" Don't you recollect the discussion we had upon this subject some
time ago, Mervyn ?" Ora said to me. " It now appears that Mr.
MERVYN CLITHEROB. 325
Spring was in the secret all the time, and knew that by good right
John ought to be Lord Wilburton."
" Yes, I must own that Dr. Foam had taken me into his confi-
dence," Cuthbert replied ; " but then I was bound to secrecy."
" Do you think Appbia will remain with her mother ?" Miss
Hazilrigge inquired.
" Impossible to say," I replied; "but there seems every proba-
bility of her doing so."
"What will become of John?" Miss Hazilrigge cried. " Posi-
tively, we must have him here."
" Call him Lord Wilburton, aunt, if you please," Ora said. "He
must have the title, and we may as well, therefore, give it him at once."
Not wishing to disturb the ladies by any allusion to the errand on
which 1 was bound, I begged a word in private with Mr. Hazilrigge
and my two friends, upon which they at once adjourned with me
to another room. My relation astonished them all, and no one more
than Old Hazy, who could not help expressing great concern for the
fate of the luckless Thaumaturgus.
All three immediately volunteered to accompany me to Delamere
Forest ; and professed their anxiety to assist in the needful inquisition
there, and then go on with me to Marston. I gladly embraced the
offer, whereupon Old Hazy ordered the carriage to be got ready with
the utmost expedition, telling Ponder, at my suggestion, that Stephen
Blackden must go with us, and be provided with an eel-spear, a couple
of long poles, and a coil of rope. These arrangements made, Major
Atherton and 1 went round to the stables, and, mounting our horses,
rode off, leaving the others to follow. As we proceeded on our way,
the major fell into discourse with me, and assumed a far more kindly
and confidential manner towards me than he had hitherto adopted ;
expressing great concern at my disappointment in my expectations in
regard to Mrs. Mervyn, but hoping that I might still recover my uncle
Mobberley's will, which would make amends for all. As to my chance
of obtaining Apphia's hand, he thought that the difficulties were
certainly increased by the present perplexed state of affairs, but if the
young lady remained constant, all must come right in the end.
We had reached the confines of Delamere Forest before the carriage
overtook us. Instead of proceeding to the Headless Cross as I had
done on the night before, we turned off about half a mile short of it,
at a point where the Tarporley road is crossed by the road from JNorth-
wich to Chester, and, pursuing the latter, soon got into the heart of
the forest.
Here we were compelled to take to the turf, and as the carriage
could proceed no further, Old Hazy and Cuthbert Spring alighted,
and followed by Stephen Blackden, bearing the eel-spear, rope,
and poles, we proceeded towards the hut, which was about a mile
distant. A couple of poorly-clad men, with spades over their shoul-
ders, who proved to be turf-cutters, were standing near the little
tenement, but noticing our approach, they hastened to meet us. We
had no difficulty in crossing the dyke, for the plank had been restored
326 LIFE AND ADTENTTJRES OF
to its original position. On explaining our errand to the turf-cutters,
they appeared extremely surprised, but readily promised to aid us
in our search, declaring at the same time that they had seen nothing
except the plank in the dyke. " To be sure we never expected to
see a murdered man there," one of them remarked.
" Whom does the hut belong to ?" I asked.
" It was built by one Dick Hornby," the turf-cutter replied ; " but
he has been dead more than a year, and latterly the hovel has only
been used by vagrants. I have seen a couple of gipsies hanging about
it for the last three or four days, and I thought they might have
taken up their quarters in there, and so I told Tom Tarvin."
" Ay, so you did, "Will Duddon," the other replied. " Tou said you
were quite sure the gipsies lodged in old Hornby's hut."
Meanwhile, we had approached the edge of the dyke, and the two
turf-cutters, quickly divesting themselves of their shoes and stock-
iugs, let themselves drop into the channel, which in this place was
about two feet deep in water. The depth of the dyke was about twelve
or fourteen feet. The eel-spear and a pole were then handed down to
the men, and we watched their proceedings from the brink. I indi-
cated the exact spot where Pownall had fallen, and the turf-cutters
carefully searched the channel at the point, but made no discovery.
There was a slight — very slight — current in the inky water, and
it was possible that the body of the unfortunate man might have
been carried on, so they waded along for at least a hundred yards,
using pole and spear as they went, but without finding anything
— we watching them all the time from above — until they came to
a spot which it was impossible the body could have passed. This
was a small pool, into which the water flowing along the dyke
emptied itself. Beyond, there was another outlet, but it was pro-
tected by stakes planted closely together. Here, then, the body
must be, if at all, and here a most careful search was made by the
two men ; but nothing was found, and after some time spent in
useless exertion, they were obliged to give up the job.
" He's not here, masters, that's sartin," Will Duddon cried.
" We'll hark back, and see whether he be further up ; though he
must have come down the stream if no life were left in him."
With this they retraced their steps, and proceeded to a consider-
able distance beyond the place where Pownall had been shot, until
they reached another pool, somewhat larger than the one they had
just explored. There seemed little likelihood that the body would be
found here, but this was the last chance, and accordingly the men
set to work again, splashing about, plying spear and pole as actively
as before, and leaving not a hole or corner unvisited, but with no
better success than heretofore. At last, they both came out.
" Well, we've done our best to find him for you, masters," Will
Duddon said ; " and if he had been in the dyke, or in either of these
pools, we couldn't have missed him. But the man has either got out
himself, or been taken out — that's clear."
MEItVYN CLITHEROE. 327
We could not contradict the assertion. Further search seemed
hopeless.
At this juncture Tom Tarvin shouted out, " What's that ?" and
ran towards a sloping bank through which the dyke was cut in its
junction with the pool.
We all thought that the object of our scrutiny was at last discovered,
but it proved to be only an old shoe which was left sticking in the
soft boggy soil. On examination of this shoe, I felt almost sure that
it had belonged to Pownall. If the supposition were correct, how
came it there? Had Pownall only been severely wounded, and
had he managed to creep out of the dyke at this point ? or had the
shoe been dropped by those who bore away the body ? The former
conjecture seemed the more probable, for it was evident that the
shoe had been plucked from the foot of the wearer by the tenacious
soil of the bog. Further search resulted in our finding an old coloured
neckerchief, which I identified as belonging to Pownall, for I had
seen him wear it on the previous night. We continued our investi-
gations around and about the place for some time longer, but without
further result.
We next proceeded to examine the hut. The interior was left
in precisely the same state as I had seen it on the night before. The
peat fire was still smouldering on the hearthstone. In searching the
shed we made a singular discovery. After removing a quantity of dry
fern and gorse, with which the little out-building was filled, we found
that the floor was paved, and it presently appeared that one of the
flags had an iron ring fixed in it by which it could be lifted, as well
as a bar to fasten it down. Eaising this flag, which moved on
hinges like a trap-door, a dark, damp vault was disclosed. On de-
scending into this subterranean chamber by a short ladder, reared just
underneath the opening, we found that it was entirely constructed
of stone, and was evidently of great antiquity. Most probably the
vault had been an underground cell used by a recluse in old times,
and might have belonged to the Monastery of Saint Mary in Yale
Royal. A light was kindled, and we were then enabled to examine
the spot more carefully. The roof was arched and groined, and the
masonry was but slightly dilapidated, but as maybe supposed, the place
was excessively damp from the constant moisture dripping through the
stones. The floor was an inch or two deep in black ooze. Nothing
could be more wretched than the aspect of the vault, and the
austerest penitent would have shrunk aghast if enjoined to occupy
it. And yet Pownall had been thrust into this dismal hole by his
confederates ! A few trusses of straw were thrown in one corner, on
which he had found refuge from the damp floor. The chamber
»ust have been perfectly dark when occupied by the captive, but
air was admitted by a small grated aperture at one end of the roof.
If this aperture had been choked up, the poor wretch must in-
evitably have perished. Indeed, it was a marvel that he had sur-
vived his confinemen:. A broken pitcher set on the ground near
328 LUTE AND ADVENTUBES OF
the trusses of straw was the only memento left of him. "We were
glad to get out of the place, and breathe the fresh air once more.
" Poor wretch !" Major Atherton exclaimed, " if he was immured
in that vault for three or four days, he must have suffered enough for
his offences, be they what they may."
" It is very odd we can find no traces of the body," Cuthbert
Spring remarked. " The man may have only been wounded after all,
and have crept out of the dyke."
" I begin to think so," I said.
" I tell you what, my young friend," Old Hazy observed, gravely.
" You need not go so far to find a solution of the mystery. Tou
have been beguiled by evil spirits, and the whole scene you have
witnessed has been merely a phantasm conjured up to perplex you.
Delamere Forest is notoriously infested by elves, sprites, and fairies,
and these mischievous beings have made you their sport. When we
get back to the Grange, I will find you several instances of similar
delusions in Thirseus and Eobert de Triez."
Serious as the subject was on which we were engaged, I could
scarcely help smiling at this singular view of the case, and I saw that
Major Atherton's gravity was a good deal disturbed, while Cuthbert
Spring was at no pains to repress his laughter.
" So then, sir," I said, " your opinion is that evil spirits assumed
the forms of Malpas Sale, the two gipsies, and Simon Pownall ?"
I have no doubt of it whatever," he replied. "I will cite you a
assage presently in confirmation of my opinion from Pere Jacques
"'Autum's ' Learned Incredulity? "
" I wish I could think so," I said, " but unluckily I cannot help
believing in the reality of the scene ; and I feel as certain as I do
of my existence that I saw Pownall shot by Malpas Sale, and fall —
lifeless, it seemed to me — into that dyke."
" If that had been the case, we should find his body," the old
gentleman cried. " But we can't, sir — we can't. No ; it is evidently
a delusion. Eead Pere Jacques, and be convinced."
No more could be said in refutation of such an argument, so having
rewarded the poor turf-cutters for the assistance they had rendered,
we returned to the carriage.
It was then decided that we should proceed to Marston by the
most direct road, which from this point was by Northwich, and not
by Weverham. Old Hazy would fain have had us call at the Grange,
saying he was sure we must stand in need of refreshment after our
exertions, but this we declined, as we suspected him of a design of
producing Pere Jacques. Stephen Blaekden, however, was dismissed
with the implements we had used in the search, and enjoined to make
the ladies easy in case of our noc-«*ppearance.
B
MBHTYN CLITHEROE. 329
CHAPTEE XV.
THE EXAMINATION BEEOEE THE MAGTSTBATES.
"We halted for half an hour at Northwich, and the afternoon wa8
advancing ere we reached Marston. Major Atherton and I had ridden
on before the carriage, and we dismounted at the Nag's Head.
" Please to step into the parlour, gentlemen," Mr. Hale, the land-
lord, said, opening the door of a small room, and ushering us into it.
" You'll like to be private, I make no doubt. Mat, the ostler, will
see to your horses. Ned Culcheth has only just stepped out, and will
be back presently."
" I suppose you know what has happened, Mr. Hale ?" I said.
" I do, sir," he replied ; " Ned has told me all about it. But you'll
excuse me for saying that in the present stage of proceedings I would
rather not give an opinion on the subject. There are two sides to every
question, you know, sir, and I like to be on the right side."
" Very prudent, Mr. Hale. Can you inform me whether Captain
Sale has been arrested?"
" Oh ! yes, sir, he's in custody of Bryan Peover, the constable,"
the landlord replied. " The examination is fixed for five o'clock, for
Ned said you were sure to be here by that time, and will take place
in the justice-room at the vicarage. It's half-past four now. So
you fancy you can bring the matter home to the captain, eh, sir ?"
" I'm sure of it, Mr. Hale," I replied.
" Well, they think differently at the vicarage. They say it's a
trumped affair. Excuse me, sir — but that's their opinion — not mine.
/ have no opinion at present. Anything more to say to me, sir ? If
not, I'll go and send a messenger to Mr. Twemlow, the magistrate's
clerk, to let him know you are come."
"With this he went out, but almost instantly returned to say that
a young woman wanted to speak to me outside. On hearing this, I
accompanied him to the outer door, where, to my great satisfaction
— for I felt how important her testimony might be in the exami-
nation — I beheld Rue.
"I thought you would want me," she said, "so I have come. I
have seen Ned Culcheth, and have heard all that has happened.
You managed the affair badly last night — but you mustn't fail to-
day."
" I don't intend to fail, if I can help it," I replied. " But your
evidence is material, and must be given."
" It shall," she answered.
At this moment the carriage drove up to the door of the little inn,
and as Old Hazy and Cuthbert Spring alighted, she retired.
Shortly afterwards, Ned Culcheth made his appearance, and we
S30 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
set out in a body for the vicarage. The whole village was astir.
Women and children stood at the doors of the cottages to see us pass,
and a crowd followed in our train. Amongst those who attended us
thus, and whom I recognised, were Job Greaseby, the smith ; Far-
mer Shakeshaft ; "William Weever, from Nethercrofts ; and Chetham
Quick. Loud and angry discussion was going on amongst these
personages as to the probable result of the examination, and I
could hear Chetham Quick roundly declare that he was confident the
charge would fall to the ground.
The vicarage, as I have already mentioned, closely adjoined the
church. It was a large, comfortable old house, surrounded by a
grove of fine trees, with a delightful garden at the back, having a
smooth-shaven lawn sloping down to the mere. As we turned
up the little lane leading to this ordinarily quiet residence, our num-
bers had greatly increased, and we must have been at the head of a
troop of thirty or forty people, all curious to hear the inquiry.
Of course, we could not dismiss them, but it was evident that
so many persons could not be admitted, and a stoppage took
place at the garden-gates, where Ben Tintwisle, the fat old beadle,
was stationed. Ben looked very big and portentous, being arrayed
in his scarlet cloak, and having his laced cocked-hat on his head, and his
rod of office in hand. Twelve persons were only allowed to pass him.
Ned Culcheth tarried at the gate for Rue, who had not yet come
up, and I went on with the others. A footman was standing
at the door, who ushered us into the dining-room, begging us
to be seated, and saying he w r ould let us know when all was ready.
We took the seats assigned us, and had not occupied them more
than a few minutes when the man returned, and requested us to
follow him.
The justice-room, whither we were now conducted, was situated at
the rear of the house. It was a large, plainly-furnished apartment,
with a desk at the upper end, at which the doctor sat when he
heard complaints, signed warrants, arranged disputes, or otherwise
exercised his functions as a magistrate. On either side of the old-
fashioned chimney-piece were bookcases, and facing it was a large
bow-window, commanding a beautiful view of the mere. Portraits
of some of the Vernon family — Mrs. Sale, it will be recollected, was a
Vernon — hung against the walls, and there was also a portrait of
my uncle Mobberley, which, though painted after the good old man's
death, and copied from a miniature, was exceedingly like him. No
attempt had been made to flatter the unpretending old farmer. There *
he was as I had known him, in his simply-cut blue coat, with his pro-
minent nose and chin, his right eye covered with a great black patch,
and his left orb blazing fiercely. Beneath this portrait was suspended
a plan of Nethercrofts and the property thereunto appertaining, and I
could not help thinking there was a kind of dramatic propriety in the
circumstance of this portrait and plan being brought in juxtaposition
on the present occasion. Who so fitting to be a silent witness of the
scene about to be enacted — a scene arising out of the disappearance of
MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 331
his own will — as John Mobberley ? What accessory so appropriate
as a plan of the property in dispute ?
Ned Culcheth and I were the last to enter the justice-room. Casting
my eyes around, I saw that all the rest of the assemblage had taken
their places. In the chair usually occupied by Dr. Sale sat Mr.
Mapletoft, of Birkinfield Hall, an elderly gentleman, with a quick
grey eye, and a keen expression of countenance. He was tall,
rather high-shouldered, and of a spare frame, and his silvery white
hair contrasted with his ruddy complexion. Mr. Mapletoft's inva-
riable attire in a morning was a green Newmarket coat, buck-
skins, and top-boots. On the right of the senior magistrate sat Mr.
Yernon, of Pitton Park (Dr. Sale's brother-in-law) — a very aristo-
cratic-looking personage, with fine, though rather prominent, fea-
tures and a very stately deportment. Like Mr. Mapletoft, Mr. Yer-
non wore a riding-dress and boots. Mr. Hazilrigge, who was in the
commission of the Peace, had a place assigned him on the left of the
principal magistrate, and next to him — though with a little interval
between them — sat Dr. Sale. On the other side of the seat of justice,
and close to Mr. Yernon, was placed a small table, at which sat the
magistrate's clerk, Mr. Twemlow — a bald-headed man, attired in
black — with pens, ink, and paper, and a few law-books before him.
Behind the magistrates sat Cuthbert Spring, and a few paces behind
Mr. Spring, and in a corner of the room, to which he had retired as
if to avoid observation, stood Major Atherton.
One feature in the arrangements of the room did not fail to at-
tract my attention. In the vicinity of Dr. Sale a large Indian screen
was placed, so disposed as to conceal the person who sat behind
it, and who was no other than Mrs. Sale, from general observation, but
revealing her presence to the magistrates, and to all those who, like
myself, were stationed near them. After glancing at her for a mo-
ment, I did not dare to look at her again, for the sight of her distress
quite unmanned me. At the lower end of the room, on the right,
were grouped together some ten or a dozen yeomen, amongst whom
were Farmer Shakeshaft, William Weever, and old Job Greaseby.
A clear space in front of the magistrates was preserved by the fat
beadle, who kept continually knocking upon the floor with his wand.
Such were the general arrangements of the room. I ought to
mention that there were three doors : one on the right of the chimney-
piece, near which sat Mrs. Sale, partially hidden, as I have described,
by the screen ; and two others at the lower end of the room. One
of the latter communicated with the offices, and the other with
a little passage leading to the back staircase, and it was through
the last of these that Malpas was introduced, as I shall now proceed
to relate.
After the senior magistrate and Mr. Yernon had conferred to-
gether for a few minutes in a low tone, the former signified to Air.
Twemlow that they were ready to hear the case ; whereupon silence
having been authoritatively imposed upon the group of talkative
LIFE AND ADVENTUKES OF
yeomen in the corner by the fat beadle, who thumped his wand upon
the floor, the magistrate's clerk rose and directed that Captain Sale
should be introduced. Upon this, Tintwisle marched to the door I
have described, and opening it, delivered the summons in a loud voice.
In the profound silence that ensued, steps could be distinctly
heard outside, and in another moment Malpas entered into the
room, closely attended by Bryan Peover, the constable, a stout-built,
hard-featured man. Stepping lightly forward into the centre of
the open space reserved in front of the magistrates, Malpas entered,
bowed gracefully and deferentially to Mr. Mapletoft, and those on
either side, and then, drawing up his fine figure to its full height,
fixed his gaze sternly and steadily on me. He looked extremely
pale, but determined. Though it was quite evident from his manner
that he did not underrate the peril in which he stood, yet it was
equally clear that he was not in the slightest degree cast down by
it, but felt confident of acquittal. There was nothing of insolence
or bravado in his manner, but he appeared as if deeply hurt and
indignant at the charge brought against him, and eager to justify
himself. His attire was studiously elegant, and nothing had been
neglected likely to heighten the effect he desired to produce. As
he entered the room, poor Mrs. Sale started up with a faint cry,
and leaned forward from behind the screen to look at him, but Dr.
Sale took her hand, and induced her to resume her seat. Major
Atherton, also, who had hitherto kept in the background, came for-
ward, as if moved by curiosity. Bryan Peover thought it behoved
him to stand close by his charge, but at a sign from Twemlow he
now T moved back, and Malpas stood alone in the midst of the as-
semblage.
After the customary oath had been administered to me by the
magistrate's clerk, I commenced my narration ; but as the reader is
already familiar with the particulars of the case, it will be unneces-
sary to recapitulate them. When I had concluded, Malpas emphati-
cally denied the charge, which he characterised as utterly false and
malicious, and declared he should be able completely to disprove it.
The first witness whom I called in support of my statement was Ned
Culcheth, and he confirmed it in every particular, but the weight
which might have been attached to his testimony was a good deal
shaken, when Malpas, addressing himself to the bench, said, " You
have heard, gentlemen, what this man has stated. Have I your per-
mission to ask him a question, which w T ill throw some light on the
motive by which he has been actuated in coming forward against me
in this manner ?" Permission being granted, he then turned sharply
to Ned, and said, " Now, fellow, will you declare upon your oath that
you have not sworn to be revenged upon me for some imaginary
wrong ?"
" It was no imaginary wrong," Ned rejoined.
" That is not an answer to the question," Mr. Mapletoft said.
" We do not want to know the nature of the provocation you have
received, nor whether it be real or imaginary. But we desire to be
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V
MERVYN CLITHEEOE. 333
informed whether you have ever nourished ill-will towards Captain
Sale, and uttered threats against him ? In a word, have you borne
him a grudge ?"
" I can't deny it, your worship," Ned replied.
Mr. Mapletoft lifted up his eyebrows, and glanced at Mr. Vernon.
" May I ask you, gentlemen," Malpas continued, " to call "Wil-
liam Weever, Thomas Shakeshaft, and Job Greaseby, all persons of
undoubted veracity, and here present, and inquire from them whether
they have not heard Culcheth openly threaten my life ?"
" You can call them presently for the defence, if you think it ad-
visable," Mr. Mapletoft replied ; " but it is scarcely necessary, since
the man admits the fact."
" I admit that I dislike him, your worship," Ned cried, " and I won't
deny that at one time I should have thought it no great crime to send
a bullet through his head. But when I hated him worst I would
never have brovght a false charge against him, or against any man.
I have told nothing but the simple truth."
" Mere assertion," Malpas cried. " I will presently demonstrate
to you, gentlemen, not only the improbability, but the impos-
sibility of the charge brought against me. It is a tissue of lies which
I shall rend in pieces without difficulty. I will show you that I am
the victim of a conspiracy between Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe and this
man Culcheth, both of whom are my avowed enemies, and are seek-
ing in this manner to blast my character and injure me. Mr.
Clitheroe has declared that he obtained information from a gipsy
girl of the supposed meeting at a turf-cutter's hut in Delamere
Forest. Where is the girl ? Can she be produced to corroborate
his assertion ?"
" She can," I replied. " She is without."
" Call her," the senior magistrate said.
At this announcement, for which he seemed wholly unprepared, a
great change took place in Malpas. His limbs trembled, and he
took out his handkerchief to wipe his brow. As Tintwisle pro-
ceeded to summon the witness, he gazed anxiously at the door, and
when, after a short interval, Rue entered, he addressed a suppli-
cating glance at her, which she answered by an inexorable look.
Malpas's discomposure was too evident not to attract the attention
of the whole assemblage. The magistrates regarded him with anxiety,
and Dr. Sale could not conceal his uneasiness. As to poor Mrs.
Sale, she again leaned forward from behind the screen, shud-
dered, and could scarcely repress a cry of terror as she beheld the
fiercely-vindictive look which the gipsy girl fixed upon her son.
Every one appeared instinctively to feel that on Hue's testimony
Malpas's fate depended; while no one doubted — not even Malpas
himself, I am sure — that her testimony would be adverse to him.
" What questions have you to put to the witness ?" Mr. Mapletoft
said to me, after Eue had been duly cautioned by Twemlow.
" Let me speak wi' her first, your worship," Ned Culcheth interposed,
" seein' as how the matter began \u' me. Did you not meet me," he
834 LIFE AND ADVENTUEES OP
added to Bue, " on the afternoon of the day before yesterday, at
Hob's Hillocks, near Garland Hall ?"
" Yes, I saw you there," Rue replied.
"And you told me to convev a message to Mr. Mervyn Cli-
theroe ?"
" I told you to bid him meet me at a certain spot in Delamere
Forest, between nine and ten o'clock on the following night," Eue
answered.
" Tor what purpose ?" I demanded.
" Stop ! stop ! not so fast," Mr. Mapletoft cried, checking me.
" I did not mention any purpose," Eue observed ; " but I told
Ned to say to you, that if you failed to keep the appointment, you
would ever after regret it."
" Then you led Culcheth to suppose it was on a matter of importance
that you wished to see Mr. Clitheroe?" Mr. Mapletoft asked.
" The matter was important — to me," Eue replied.
" I have no more questions to ask the young woman, gentlemen,"
Ned observed. " I undertook to convey her message, and I per-
formed my promise. We both went together to the place of meet-
ing she had fixed — the Chamber of the Forest — at the hour appointed.
She was there, and had some discourse with Mr. Clitheroe."
" Did you hear what passed between them ?" Mr. Mapletoft in-
quired.
" I did not, your worship," Ned replied. " I was too far off. I could
only catch a word here and there ; but the young woman seemed
wild and angered."
"Angry with Mr. Clitheroe ?" the senior magistrate demanded.
" No, not wi' him — wi' Captain Sale," Ned rejoined.
" How do you know that, fellow, if you did not hear what was
said ?" Mr. Mapletoft cried, sharply.
" I judged so, your worship," Ned returned.
During the progress of the investigation, Eue's gaze never for a
moment quitted Malpas, and, judging from the fierce smile that curled
her beautiful lip, she revelled in the torture he endured, and would
willingly have prolonged it. He still addressed a supplicating look
to her, but her glance was unpitying.
" Now, young woman, attend to me," Mr. Mapletoft cried. " What
took place during your interview with Mr. Clitheroe ? What did you
say to him ?"
" Much that I cannot relate," she replied.
" That won't do. I must have a direct answer. Ned Culcheth
has declared that you appeared angry. Against whom was your
anger evinced ?"
"Against one who has done me an injury," she returned.
" But you must name the person," Mr. Mapletoft cried.
" I decline to do so," she answered. " It is a matter which relates
only to myself."
Malpas was visibly relieved. But his suddenly-awakened hopes
MEBYYN CLITHEEOE. 335
were crushed by her looks, which seemed to say, " I have not done
yet."
" Harkee, young woman," Mr. Mapletoft called out. " Do you not
see, that by leaving the matter in doubt, you create a prejudice against
Mr. Clitheroe ? You lead us to suppose you were reproaching him,
and we may put an entirely erroneous construction on the object of
the meeting."
" Tou may put what construction you please upon it, sir," she re-
joined. " He who has injured me stands before you, but I won't
name him."
" Come, woman ! speak ! Is it Mr. Clitheroe, or Captain Sale ?"
the magistrate demanded.
" Tou will get nothing from me on that head," Eue returned.
" Take care, or I will commit you," Mr. Mapletoft cried, angrily.
I now thought proper to interpose. "Allow me," I said to the senior
magistrate, " to ask this young woman whether, after our interview, she
did not take me and Culcheth to a turf-cutter's hut in the forest ?"
" I pointed out the hovel to you," Eue replied, " but I left before
you entered it."
" True," I rejoined. " Tou had previously told me whom I should
find there, and the business on which he was engaged ; but in order
to make sure, you went forward to listen, and returned with the in-
telligence that he was within."
" I said, ' They were there' — those were my exact words. Ned
Culcheth heard me," she rejoined.
" I did," Ned cried. " And I understood you to mean "
"Never mind what you understood, fellow," Mr. Mapletoft in-
terrupted. " Keep to facts."
Seeing that Eue was unwilling to answer, and attributing her
reluctance to a natural desire not to utter anything to criminate her
father and brother, I said,
" I will betray no confidence you have reposed in me, and will
ask no question that you may not desire to answer, but on one point
you must speak out plainly — Did you not take me to that hut to re-
venge yourself on Captain Sale ?"
As I put this question, there was a profound silence, broken only
by a half-suppressed sob from Mrs. Sale. Looking in the direction
whence this sound had proceeded, Eue was made aware of the poor
lady's presence, and became violently agitated. A sudden revulsion
seemed to take place in her feelings.
" It is his mother !" she exclaimed, distractedly. "What have I
said ? — what have I done ?"
"Tou have said nothing, my poor girl," Mrs. Sale cried. "Tou
will not join in this conspiracy against my son — you will not harm
him ?"
" For your sake, I will not," Eue rejoined. " Let me go. Tou
will get nothing more from me."
" We will see that anon," Mr. Mapletoft cried. "Madam," he
336 LIFE AND ADYENTUBES 03?
continued, addressing Mrs. Sale, " this interruption is highly im-
proper, and I am obliged to request you to leave the room. Dr.
Sale, you will be good enough to take your lady hence." The vicar
complied, and opened the door for Mrs. Sale, but ere the poor lady
disappeared she threw a look of inexpressible gratitude at the gipsy
girl.
In vain after this were interrogations addressed to Rue by the
magistrates and myself. She continued obstinately silent, and Mr.
Mapletoft's threats to commit her for contumacy were productive
of no effect. At last she was removed, but was ordered to be kept
in custody by one of the constable's assistants until the examination
had concluded.
This peril over, Malpas entirely recovered his courage. Address-
ing himself to the magistrates, he said it must be sufficiently evident
to them that the accusation brought against him was utterly baseless,
and made with malicious intent. I had asserted that he was at a
hovel on Delamere Forest on the previous night, but I had been unable
to prove it, and he could show that the statement was an entire fabri-
cation. He then called John Baguley, Doctor Sale's butler, who de-
clared that to the best of his belief the captain was in his own room
between nine and ten o'clock on the night before. Baguley had not
seen the captain — but he had seen a light in his room. Moreover,
he had not seen the captain leave the house at all overnight, or heard
him return at a late hour. Jem Millington, Malpas's groom, was the
next witness, and he swore positively that his master's horse had
never been out of the stable on the night before, and he didn't believe
his master had gone out at all.
" Now, gentlemen," Malpas said, when the groom had given his
evidence, " I have proved, I trust to your satisfaction, that I could
not have been out on horseback last night at the time mentioned by
my accusers, unless I were possessed of a principle of ubiquity, but
what will you say when I venture to affirm that the man I am re-
ported to have shot — Simon Pownall — is alive and unhurt at this mo-
ment?"
At this assertion, which was made with surprising audacity, and
which perfectly confounded Ned Culcheth and myself, great sensation
was created amongst the assemblage.
" Prove that, and there is an end of the matter," Mr. Mapletoft
said.
" I will prove it," Malpas cried. " Call Chetham Quick," he added,
to the beadle.
Tintwisle went to the door, summoned the witness, and the next
moment Chetham stepped into the room. After bowing to the bench,
the impudent rascal looked at me and Ned as much as to say that he
would speedily extinguish us. And so he did ; for he swore most
positively that Pownall was alive, and to the best of his belief unin-
jured. "I have received a letter from him this very day," Chetham
said, " and he makes no mention of an accident of any kind having
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 337
happened to him, and certainly does not write like a man who had re-
ceived a mortal wound. He has reasons for keeping out of the way,
or I could produce him at this moment."
"What say you to this, sir?" Mr. Mapletoft called out to me.
" I don't believe a word of it," I cried. " No such letter as de-
scribed could have been written by Simon Pownall. I am quite sure
that the shot fired at him by Captain Sale took effect, and both myself
and Ned Culcheth saw him drop into the dyke."
" Where you found him, no doubt, this morning ?" Malpas re-
joined. " You accuse me of assassination, where is the proof that any
crime has been committed ? — where is the body of the man I am
said to have murdered ?"
" Has the body been found ?" Mr. Mapletoft inquired.
" It has not, sir," I replied. " We carefully searched the dyke this
morning, but were unable to discover any traces of the unfortunate
man we had seen fall into it — except two articles which probably be-
longed to him. But these relics were found at some distance from
the spot where the crime was committed. The body may have been
removed — or Pownall may only have been wounded, and crept out of
the dyke — that is possible."
" Pownall is alive, and fully able, I repeat, to contradict this report
of his murder," Chetham Quick cried. " There can be no difficulty
in producing him if their worships think it necessary, and this inquiry
should be adjourned."
" Well, really, gentlemen, I do not think that any case has been
made out," Mr. Vernon said. " An alibi has clearly been established
by Captain Sale, and the man said to be shot proves to be alive, and
most likely unhurt. I will not make any comment on Mr. Clitheroe's
conduct, or impute motives to him which may not exist, but certainly
he has made a charge which he cannot sustain."
" My opinion is, Mr. Vernon," Mr. Hazilrigge remarked, " that
both my young friend Mervyn Clitheroe and Ned Culcheth have been
beguiled by evil spirits. You may smile, gentlemen, but I could
adduce many instances of similar delusions as related by learned
writers — notably, by Thiraeus and Eobert de Triez. I was present
when the dyke was searched this morning, and I came to this conclu-
sion at the time. My opinion is confirmed by what has since occurred.
How otherwise, let me ask, can you account for Mr. Clitheroe's con-
duct ? I know him to be utterly incapable of making any false state-
ment — far less of bringing forward a charge like the present, know-
ing it to be false. Take my word for it, that both he and Ned
Culcheth have been deluded. I am glad to find that the individual
supposed to be shot is safe and sound, and I hope to see him again."
Old Hazy's observations elicited a smile from the magistrates, but
neither of them made a remark. After a few minutes' conference in
an under tone, with Mr. Vernon, the senior magistrate said, " We
are of opinion that no case whatever has been made out against
Captain Sale, and we dismiss the inquiry."
Upon this, the magistrates rose and left the room by the side door,
z
338 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
shaking hands with Dr. Sale, and congratulating him as they passed
by. The beadle threw open one of the doors at the lower end of
the room, and the yeomen went out by it. Old Hazy and Cuth-
bert Spring had followed the magistrates, and only Major Atherton
and myself were left. By this time the vicar had joined his son, and
after shaking hands with him, said in a low tone, glancing at me as
he spoke,
" If you will follow my advice, Malpas, you will indict your accusers
for conspiracy and perjury."
Stung by the remark, and unable to contain myself, I rejoined with
some warmth, " Do not imagine that the matter will be allowed to
rest here, Dr. Sale. But the next examination must be in a public
court."
" It must," Major Atherton cried, coming quickly back from the
door, through which he was just about to make an exit — "it must ;
and I will venture to predict, if the matter is thoroughly sifted, and
careful investigations are made in the interim, that if any parties have
to be indicted for perjury and conspiracy, it will not be Mr. Mervyn
Clitheroe and Ned Culcheth. On the next occasion there must be
no suborned hirelings for witnesses. Of Captain Sale's guilt — not-
withstanding all that has been alleged to the contrary — I do not
entertain the slightest doubt, and I am sure he will not eventually
succeed in evading justice."
To this address, which was uttered with stern composure, Malpas
seemed disposed at first to make an indignant rejoinder, but he mani-
festly quailed beneath the major's eagle eye.
" Who are you, sir, that venture to interfere in this matter ?"
Captain Sale demanded.
" Inquire from your father who I am," the major rejoined, regard-
ing him scornfully. " He will tell you, and will tell you also by what
right I interfere. I am a soldier, sir, and have ever borne myself with
honour in my profession. No stain attaches to my name. It would
be well for you if you could say as much."
" Tou may be all you assert, sir," Malpas cried, " though as your
honour has not been called in question there seems no need to vaunt
of it. But whoever you are, you shall answer with your life for the
imputations you have thrown out against me."
" Tou must first clear your character before you are entitled to
demand satisfaction from any man," the major replied. "I should
refuse to go out with you."
So saying, Major Atherton turned upon his heel, and was about
to leave the room, when Dr. Sale hurried after him and arrested him.
" Stay a moment, sir," he cried — " I did not know you were present.
I had not heard of your return." And he then added, in a lower
tone, but which, however, reached my ear, "I wish you would come
to me. Perhaps this unpleasant matter may be adjusted. Nay, I.
am sure it can, if we only meet to talk it over. There shall be no
difficulty on my part. Even if a great sacrifice is required, it shall
be made. Anything is better than the scandal which an inquiry
MEEYYN CLITHEEOE. 339
like this must occasion. I am sure you will agree with me, on re-
flection, that on all accounts — on all accounts," he repeated, " this
affair had better be hushed up. You would not, I am sure, wish to
blast my son's prospects in life."
"The affair cannot be hushed up, sir," the major rejoined, in an
inflexible tone — " it has gone too far. But were it in my power to
stay further inquiry, I would not. Have you exhibited such gene-
rosity yourself as to be entitled to ask for consideration towards your
son? I will show him none. Come, sir," he added to me. And
taking my arm, we left the justice-room together.
CHAPTEE XYI.
THE THATTMATTTEGUS AGAIN APPEAES ON THE SCENE.
I must now press on with my story. Momentous events await me.
Nearly a month must therefore be passed over, with a rapid glance
a,t what has occurred during the interval.
Poor Mrs. Mervyn had been laid in her family vault at the Colle-
giate Church. Though not invited to the funeral, I, nevertheless,
attended it, wishing to pay the last mark of respect to one who
for years had almost supplied to me the place of a mother. Many
sincere mourners were there besides myself — many who had bene-
fited largely by the good lady's generosity and charity, and who
deeply deplored her loss, fearing that little was to be expected from
her successor. All her old servants and dependents followed her to
the grave, and bade a tearful adieu to the best and kindest of mis-
tresses. Poor Molly Bailey wept bitterly, and Mr. Comberbach was
quite as much affected.
The butler's apprehensions, however, that he and Molly Bailey
would be summarily dismissed, were soon dispelled. On the day after
the funeral, Lady Amicia announced that she meant to make no
change whatever at present in the establishment, but should maintain
the house on precisely the same footing as heretofore. The arrange-
ments, therefore, of the Anchorite's remained entirely undisturbed ;
and whatever might be its new mistress's future plans, she allowed no
intimation of them to escape her. No increase of servants was made
— no carriage ordered — no display of pomp or state attempted.
Lady Amicia and her daughter led a life of strict privacy; and
during the short period I have mentioned, there were no visitors to
the house that I heard of, except Dr. Foam and Mr. Barton Lever.
But what was most agreeable to Apphia, and reconciled her more
than anything else to her new position was, that all intimacy had
teased between her mother and the Sales. Malpas waited until Mrs.
z2
340 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OE
Mervyn's funeral had taken place before presenting himself at ttie
Anchorite's, but when he did come, Mr. Comberbach (as the butler
subsequently informed me) had the pleasure of saying that her lady-
ship was not at home to him, and of adding that he needn't give
himself the trouble to call again, for her ladyship never would be at
at home to him — neither would Miss Apphia. Deeply mortified, as may
be supposed, Malpas retired, but he attributed the rebuff he had met
with, no doubt, to the scandal occasioned by the charge which I had
brought against him. On the next day, Dr. and Mrs. Sale drove
over to try and explain matters, but with very indifferent success.
Lady Amicia gave them at once to understand that a person on whom
such grave suspicions rested, as was the case with their son, was
wholly unsuited to her daughter, and the match must be peremptorily
broken off. Dr. Sale vainly employed all the specious arguments in
his power — and Mrs. Sale used true maternal pleadings — Lady
Amicia continued inflexible. But though my opponent was thus
removed, my own cause did not seem to be materially advanced by his
defeat.
Poor John's love affairs were in a more desperate state than mine.
Ora's disappointment was excessive when she found that he would
not stretch out his hand to grasp the prize offered him. She could
not believe in such absurdity and nonsense, and tried to rally him out
of his determination. In vain. Then she pouted, grew piqued, and
at last fairly quarrelled with him. As to kind-hearted Miss Hazil-
rigge, she sided in this instance with her niece. She was sorry for
John, but provoked at his stupidity. And I did not wonder at her
being so. I felt provoked with him myself. And if he should lose
Ora altogether for his folly, I am sure not one young lady in a hun-
dred would sympathise with him. JNot be a nobleman when he might,
but prefer remaining a poor curate, besides giving up a beautiful
heiress ! AVas there ever such a crazy being ?
Since the Anchorite's had passed into Lady Amicia' s hands I had
never been near the place, neither had I heard directly from Apphia,
but I had received many kind messages from her, conveyed through
John, to whom she wrote constantly. During the whole of the
period I am thus hastily surveying, I had remained in the country, in
accordance with the advice of Major Atherton and Cuthbert Spring.
After Malpas's examination before the magistrates, we all returned
to Ow T larton Grange, and on the following day the two gentlemen
I have mentioned were closeted with me for some time, and at last
the major said, in reply to some rather too hasty remark of mine,
" You must have a little patience, my young friend. Mr. Spring
and I have thought the matter well over, and I trust that in a short
time we may be able to settle everything satisfactorily for you."
" Say in a month, major," Cuthbert Spring cried. " I am pretty
sure that by that time all may be accomplished. And with the con-
viction that his friends are at work for him, I think this eager young
gentleman may be well content to keep quiet for so short a period, and
get into no fresh scrapes — if he can help it," he added, with a laugh.
" Well, gentlemen," I replied, "I can only say that I am infinitely
MERVYN CLITHEBOE. 341
obliged to you. Act as you please. You shall have no interference
from me ; and I will do my best not to get into any fresh scrape."
" Enough !" the major cried. " In a month's time we hope to have
a good account to render you. Eemember, you are to be perfectly
quiet, or you may mar our projects."
I gave them a fresh assurance on this head, and our colloquy then
ended. Later on in the same day the two gentlemen left Owlarton
Grange for Cottonborough, where the major told me he should take
up his quarters with his friend. While taking leave of me, Cuthbert
Spring recommended me to pass as much of my time as I could at the
Grange.
" You are always welcome, I know," he said, " and you will find
the society here agreeable. I do not wish you to play the spy upon
our worthy but eccentric host, but if you observe anything very un-
usual about him, drop me a line."
I promised compliance with the request.
Major Atherton also took leave of me very kindly, but he rather
surprised me by requesting, almost in the same terms as Cuthbert
Spring, that if Old Hazy indulged in any unusual eccentricities, I
would let him know.
I again promised compliance, though I wondered what they wanted,
and began to fancy they must apprehend that the old gentleman was
going out of his mind.
And here it may be asked whether the matrimonial arrangement
between Cuthbert Spring and Miss Hazilrigge had approached any
nearer to a conclusion ? Apparently not. Soon after the old bache-
lor's departure, I happened to be left alone with Miss Hazilrigge,
and took the opportunity of inquiring whether Mr. Spring had made
up his mind to leave Cottonborough.
" I really can't tell," she replied. " Whenever I press the ques-
tion, he returns an evasive answer, but he has promised to come
to a positive decision within a month. I have given him clearly to
understand that I will never leave the country ; so the affair will then
be settled, one way or the other."
"Everything, it appears, will be settled in a month," I thought,
struck with the coincidence of the time.
As counselled by the two friends to whom I had confided the
management of my affairs, I passed the greater part of my time at
the Grange. I endeavoured to accommodate matters between Ora
and John, but did not find the task very easy of accomplishment.
She could not be made to understand that John's reluctance to move
out of his present sphere arose partly from extreme humility of
character, and partly from a delicate state of health, which made him
shrink from mixing with society. Whatever his own feelings might
be, she declared, he was bound to sacrifice them for her. He might
prefer to remain a poor curate, and if such were his choice, he might
continue in a state of single-blessedness so far as she was concerned,
for a poor curate she did not intend to marry. She would give him a
month to decide. And if at the end of that time he retained his
present opinions, she would think no more of him.
34-2 LIFE AND ADVENTTJBES OF
So John's fate was to be decided in a month — a term, it seemed,
assigned to us all.
Poor John's cottage was no longer the cheerful abode that it had
been before his sister's departure. It was brightened by no female
presence — and there was no ministering angel at hand to watch over
and nurse him. Yet he uttered no murmur, but discharged his duties
zealously as ever. He now and then walked over with me to the
Grange, but as Ora now received him with great coldness he derived
little pleasure from these visits.
And how was Malpas going on all this while ? Did he seem
affected by the critical position in which he stood ? Not in the least,
— so far as I could learn. But, in truth, I knew very little about
him. An occasional rumour of his proceedings reached the Grange,
and the last thing I heard of him was that he had made a match for
five hundred guineas with a certain Captain Brereton, : young gentle-
man quite as much addicted to sporting pursuits as himself, and that
they were to ride a steeple-chase together between Ashley and
Nethercrofts. This match, which had excited great interest among the
gentry of the neighbourhood, was on the eve of coming off. I rode
over to Marston on the very day before it was to take place, and
found everybody talking about it.
But before explaining what took me to Marston, it will be neces-
sary to make some mention of Old Hazy, whose proceedings had
begun to attract my attention.
The old gentleman often expressed regret at the loss of the Thau-
maturgus. JNo one had ever suited him so well. Despite the many
proofs he had received of the rascal's mal-practices, he still clung to
him, and made excuses for him. According to Old Hazy's showing,
Dr. Hooker was an injured man ; and so infatuated was the credulous
old gentleman, that I felt that the rogue would be able to impose
upon him again if he only got the opportunity.
Eather to my surprise, Major Atherton did not write to me at all,
the correspondence from Cottonborough being conducted by Cuth-
bert Spring. One day there came a letter from Mr. Spring, stating
that though the police had now been actively employed for more than
three weeks, they had failed in discovering Simon Pownall's retreat.
On reading this letter to Old Hazy, I observed a singular smile cross
his countenance, and he remarked — "Ah! they'll never catch Dr.
Hooker."
" I shouldn't care if the rascal did get off," I said, " provided he
left the will behind him."
" Give yourself no concern about that," he observed. " The will
will turn up soon. I am sure of it. There are more ways than one
of discovering lost treasure," he added, significantly. "And I flatter
myself that I am quite as likely to hit upon the right plan as Cuth-
bert Spring or Major Atherton."
On that same day another circumstance occurred, which confirmed
the suspicions aroused within me by the old gentleman's observations,
lor a long period — ever since the disappearance of the Tliaumatur-
MERVTN CLITHEROK. 313
gus, in fact — no nocturnal disturbance had occurred at Owlarton
Grange ; but Mr. Ponder now imparted to me in confidence that he
had heard mysterious sounds in the haunted chamber, and he was
afraid Jotham Shocklach was about to resume his midnight knockings.
At this time, though I passed the greater part of the day at the
Grange, I invariably slept at the mill ; but after what I had just
heard from Ponder, I thought I would try the effect upon Old Hazy
of a proposal to occupy the haunted room that night. As I expected,
he did not like it at all, made several absurd excuses, and ended
by saying that I could have the room to-morrow — but not that
night. I felt sure then that my suspicions were correct, but de-
termined to satisfy myself before taking any decided steps.
I took leave of the old gentleman at the usual hour in the evening,
but, instead of starting for the mill, I remained in the garden, and
concealing myself in the yew-tree alley, did not issue from this re-
treat till I judged that the inmates of the house had retired to rest.
I then came out upon the lawn, and took up a position commanding
the large bay-window of the haunted chamber. The night was per-
fectly dark, so it was not likely I should be perceived. All the
lights in the house seemed to be extinguished, and apparently no one
was astir.
This state of things continued for more than half an hour, until I
heard a clock strike the hour of midnight. Scarcely had the sound
ceased, than the window at which I was gazing became suddenly illu-
minated. Unluckily, the thick curtains, which I have already men-
tioned in my description of the room, were partially drawn across the
deep embrasure, so I could not distinguish what was passing inside.
But careful watching soon convinced me that there were two persons
in the chamber. One of them, unquestionably, was Old Hazy ; and
the other, or I was greatly mistaken, was the Thaumaturgus.
But as I could not leave the matter in doubt, I considered how I
could ascertain the point without giving the alarm. There was no
ladder at hand to aid my investigation as on a former occasion, but
I soon found that, by taking advantage of the branches of a large
pear-tree which had been trained against the wall, I could reach
the window, and I at once put the idea into execution. Pro-
ceeding with great caution, I quickly ascended so high that, by
grasping a branch of the pear-tree with my right hand, and planting
the point of my foot on the window r -sill, I was enabled to peep into
the room. Still the thick curtain defied my scrutiny. But though I
could not see, I could hear ; and the voice which reached me was
that of Pownall. The rascal was evidently concluding some arrange-
ment with his dupe.
" Well, then," he said, " I am to have the money to-morrow night,
provided I put you in possession of all my magical treasures "
" Not forgetting the will," Old Hazy interrupted. " You mustn't
omit that.
" Oh ! yes, you may count upon the will," Simon rejoined. " I
shan't be sorry to be rid of it. But mind ! you are not to deliver it
344 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
to young Clitheroe until a month after I am gone. You will
pledge your word to that effect ?"
" I will," the old gentleman rejoined. " To-morrow night, at the
same hour, we will meet again for the last time — but not here — in
the summer-house. If you are ready to fulfil your part of the bar-
gain, I will fulfil mine."
" Oh ! you needn't be afraid of me," Simon rejoined. " I'm sure
to be ready. I'm only too anxious to be off. Though I oughtn't to
say so, for you have afforded me a secure asylum."
" Yes, yes, they never thought of looking for you here," the old
gentleman replied, with a laugh. " I am not quite sure that I am
right in affording you a hiding-place, but I couldn't betray a professor
of the occult sciences."
" Of course not," Simon rejoined. "But as I was saying, I want
to be off. The wound in my side caused by the pistol-shot is quite
healed, and I feel strong enough for the voyage I contemplate
to the New "World. Ah ! if that ball hadn't glanced off my ribs, all
would have been up with me. Captain Sale thought he had laid me
low, and fancied he had buried his secret in the dyke ; but it will rise
up against him, when he least expects it. Even now he persuades
himself that I will make terms with him, but I will never do so.
That will shall never come into his hands. Money shan't buy it
him. I will only use it as an instrument of revenge. It will hit more
sharply than his pistol-shot. He tried to take my life, and though I
won't take his life in return, I'll ruin him."
There was a short pause, during which he no doubt perceived that
he had gone too far, and that this injudicious manifestation of his vin-
dictive feelings had startled his companion, for he added, by way of
mollifying the old gentleman — " But such sentiments as these are
unworthy of a philosopher, and must be repressed. I will strive to
bear no man malice — not even Captain Sale."
" I am glad to hear you say so," Old Hazy replied. " But you
have never explained to me how you escaped that night. How did
you contrive to get out of the dyke ?"
" It was a wonderful escape to be sure, sir," Pownall replied ; " in-
deed, it would almost appear that I was born neither to be shot nor
drowned. Luckily for me when I fell into the dyke my head remained
above water, for I couldn't stir for some minutes. When I could
use my limbs once more, I crawled slowly along the bottom of the
trench, until at last I reached a pool, where I crept out, and in doing
so lost one of my shoes "
" Which we found, together with your neckerchief," Old Hazy
remarked. " Pray go on."
" After resting myself for some time upon the bank, I mustered up
strength enough to carry me across the moor, staggering on till I
reached the Chester road, where, as good luck would have it, a waggon
chanced to be passing at the time on its way to Cottonborough, through
North wich. I told the waggoner I had missed my way across the forest
and had got into a bog, and, my appearance confirming the statement
MERYYN CLITHEROE. 346
the man believed me, took compassion upon me, and allowed me to
get into the back of his wain, and rest myself amidst the straw. He
left me at a little roadside inn about a mile from Marston, whence I
despatched a messenger with a note to Chetham Quick, who came to
me at oDce."
" Chetham Quick could safely swear, then — as he did in giving his
evidence — that he knew you were alive," Old Hazy remarked ; "but
he declared you were unhurt."
" Chetham would swear black is white if he thought anybody
would believe him," Pownall replied. " The double-dealing rascal
is in Captain Sale's pay. However, I won't say anything against
him, for he behaved kindly enough to me on that occasion — con-
cealed me in a place of security — dressed my wound — gave me re-
storatives — supplied me with clothes — money — and whatever else I
required. In return, he wanted me to give up the will to Captain
Sale. But that wouldn't do. So I took French leave of him a few
nights ago, and came to you. And now, sir, I think we had better
separate. I am fearful of being discovered. To-morrow at mid-
night — in the summer-house— all shall be concluded. Then I'll
trouble you no longer." And I could tell from the sound that be
was moving off.
" Tou can find your way in the dark ?" Old Hazy demanded.
" As easily as a cat," the Thaumaturgus replied.
Listening attentively, I then heard the trap-door let down, and
knew which way he had gone. I waited for a moment or two longer,
until the closing of the door told me that the chamber was deserted,
and then descended.
This was the business that took me to Marston.
346 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
CHAPTEE XVII.
FOETUNE AT LAST FAVOUBS ME.
Next morning I rode to Marston, as I have stated, and despatched
Ned Culcheth to Cottonborough with a letter to Major Atherton,
acquainting him with the discovery I had made, and begging him to
come over that evening with Cuthbert Spring. I requested them to
meet me at the mill at ten o'clock, and to bring an officer with them.
I felt sure they would not disappoint me.
Before starting for Marston I had taken the precaution of making
such arrangements with Ponder and Stephen Blackden that Pownall
could not escape ; though indeed I had little uneasiness on that score,
for I felt sure the rascal would keep his appointment with Old Hazy.
No doubt we could have discovered his h'iding-place, but the grand
object was to secure the will, and this might have been defeated by
any precipitate measures.
On my return, I thought it best to prepare Miss Hazilrigge and
Ora for what might occur at night, and very much surprised they
both were by my relation. Many odd and unaccountable things as
her brother had done, Miss Hazilrigge said, this was the oddest and
most unaccountable of all. This juggling Pownall had bewitched
him. " However," she said, " I am rejoiced that the rascal is likely to
be caught at last, and I sincerely hope that the ridiculous position in
which my brother will find himself placed will serve him as a lesson for
the rest of his life."
The kind lady then expressed her willingness to act in any way that
I might direct her, and I recommended that nothing whatever should
be done to excite the old gentleman's suspicions. She promised to
keep watch over the household. Ponder, old Pinch, and Stephen
Blackden had already been taken into my confidence, and could be
safely relied upon, but none of the others were to be let into the
secret.
In the course of the afternoon I took an opportunity of examining
the summer-house. It was a pretty octagonal structure, situated, as
I have already mentioned, on the top of a small mount, and had
large windows looking in every direction over the gardens. Inter-
nally, this pleasant little structure had a coved ceiling, moulded and
painted with frescoes, and the spaces between the windows were
decorated in a similar manner. Its sole furniture consisted of some
half-dozen rustic chairs and a table ; and the latter being covered with
a piece of old tapestry which hung down nearly to the ground, imme-
MEEVYN CLITHEEOB. 347
diately suggested a place of concealment to me. The summit of the
mound outside the summer-house was flagged, the sides being co-
vered with shrubs, and access was gained to the building by a flight
of stone steps.
The rest of the day seemed to pass very slowly, and I wandered
about the garden, longing for the arrival of night. Old Hazy did not
show himself till dinner-time. He was in particularly good spirits,
and while we were sitting together over our wine, after the departure
of the ladies, he told me, with a very mysterious look, that he felt sure
he should soon have good news for me.
" A month hence, I prognosticate you will be a rich man, Mervyn,"
he remarked, with a laugh.
" Why do you fix that precise time, sir ?" I demanded.
" Because I have been casting a horoscope," be replied ; " and I
find from the configuration of the planets that your uncle's will will
be certainly recovered at that time."
" If recovered at all, it will be so before then," I rejoined.
" No it won't !" he cried, with great emphasis. " Mark my words,
it will be found this day month — not a day — not an hour sooner. My
calculations never err. If you get it before the period I have named,
write me down an ignorant pretender."
" If I should chance find it before," I ventured to reply, with a
certain significance, " I hope you will never place faith in impudent
pretenders again, sir."
"Ha! what's that?" he exclaimed, quickly. "But I know you
look upon all professors of occult philosophy as impostors."
" Not without good reason, sir," I rejoined. And here the con-
versation dropped.
Everything was favourable for the scheme. The night was dark
but fine, so the ladies could venture forth into the garden, without
any kind of discomfort. Before ten o'clock I went away, having
previously arranged with Miss Hazilrigge that a little before mid-
night she and Ora, accompanied by the three men-servants, should
repair to the alUe verte, where they would find Cuthbert Spring
and Major Atherton. As soon as I gave the signal, which I had
agreed to do by sounding a dog-whistle, the whole party were to
hurry up to the summer-house, where I doubted not all would be
accomplished.
I made haste to the mill, and found that my friends had already
arrived, and had brought an officer with them. In anticipation of a
successful result, they had given Ned Culcheth orders how to act on
the morrow. If the gipsies could be found they were to be secured,
and a warrant was to be obtained for Malpas's arrest, but not to be
put in execution until our arrival.
As the night was now advancing, and I was anxious to be at my post,
I soon set off back again to the Grange, leaving the others to follow
more leisurely. Avoiding the stone bridge in front of the house, I
pursued a circuitous route to the stables, where I found Stephen
Blackden, and committed my horse to his care. In another moment
348 LIFE AND ADYENTURES OF
I was in the garden, and speeding through the dark alley in the di-
rection of the summer-house.
The night was pitch dark. Not a star shone down upon me, but I
wanted no guidance, for I knew every inch of the ground, and very
soon gained the top of the mount, and entered the little building.
It was almost too dark to discern any object in the interior, but
after stepping quickly round the room to make sure that no one was
there, I proceeded to ensconce myself under the table.
If time had passed slowly before, it now seemed not to move at
all, and I do not recollect in the whole course of my life a half-hour
so long as that passed under the table in the summer-house.
At length, to my indescribable delight, I heard the stable clock
strike twelve. In another moment footsteps were audible outside,
and then the door was opened. One of them was come. My heart
beat so violently that I had to hold my hand against my side to
still it.
After entering the room, the new-comer stood still for a moment,
and called out, " Are you here, Dr. Hooker ?" Receiving no answer
of course, the old gentleman uncovered a dark lantern which he had
brought with him, and which he must have hitherto carried under his
cloak, and suddenly lighted up the place. I was afraid he might be
tempted to look under the table, and so detect my presence, but no
such thought crossed him. Having surveyed the room for a moment,
and muttered something to himself, he closed the cover of the lantern,
and all became dark again. Then I heard him approach the table,
and sit down upon one of the chairs beside it.
For a minute or two he remained perfectly quiet, but after that
he began to manifest his impatience in various ways, drummed upon
the table over my head, and exclaimed, " Why doesn't he come ? It
is past the hour. "What can have detained him ?" Two or three mi-
nutes more elapsed, and my neighbour's impatience seemed to increase,
while mine most undoubtedly did not diminish. At last a noise was
heard outside, and Old Hazy started up, exclaiming, " Ah ! here he
comes at last !"
Oh ! how overjoyed I felt when Pownall's quick step resounded in
the room, and I distinguished his voice. My first impulse was to
spring from my concealment and seize him, but anxiety to ascertain
that he had brought the will with him restrained me.
" Are you there, sir?" he inquired.
"Yes, here I am," Old Hazy replied ; " and here I have been for
the last quarter of an hour. You're behind time."
" I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, sir," Pownall rejoined ; " but
I couldn't come sooner. However, I'm quite ready for you."
" I'm glad to hear it," the old gentleman rejoined. " I'm quite
ready too. Let me hear what you have got."
" Open wide your ears then, w r orthy sir, while I particularise the
marvellous contents of this wallet," the other replied. " In it you will
find a scroll drawn up by the great Cornelius Agrippa himself;
another scroll covered with magical characters for raising spirits, in
MERVYN CLITHEKOE. 349
the handwriting of Dr. Dee. Also Dr. Dee's wondrous piece of
crystal."
"Are you sure it is Dr. Dee's crystal?" Old Hazy cried. "I
have seen an extraordinary stone belonging to the illustrious doctor
in the possession of a learned friend of mine — the President of the
Chetham Society — but I never met with the crystal."
" Here you will find it, then," Pownall replied ; " you will also find
Pope Leo's magical speculum, and the original compact between Dr.
Faustus and the Prince of Darkness, with the doctor's signature
traced in his own blood, and the sign-manual of Satan, with which
you are sufficiently familiar, I know, to be able to identify it."
" But how did you obtain the latter remarkable document?" Old
Hazy inquired.
" It is a long story, and I have not time to relate it now," the other
rejoined. " But you may rely upon its authenticity. Then there are
curious secrets by Albertus Magnus — secrets never yet revealed to
the world ; undiscovered treasures by the Lesser Albert ; treatises,
that have never yet seen the light, by Paracelsus, Cardan, and Michael
Scott."
" Amazement !" the old gentleman exclaimed. " What a wonderful
collection you have got together ! — and all in that wallet!"
"I have not enumerated half — not a third," Simon replied; "there
is an original treatise on Judicial Astrology by Joseph de Tertiis ;
and another most remarkable discourse on the interpretation of dreams
by the great Artemidorus."
" Tou don't say so ? — an unpublished work by Artemidorus !" Old
Hazy exclaimed. " Oh ! if you had anything unknown to the world
by Psellus, or my favourite Eobert de Triez !"
" You will find short treatises by both of them," Pownall re-
plied.
" I am eager to inspect them," the credulous old gentleman cried.
" Dear me ! to think that such treasures should exist !"
" You will possess some of the greatest curiosities in the world,"
Pownall returned. " Necessity alone compels me to part with the
collection."
"No doubt of it," Old Hazy said. "Well, I have brought a
pocket-book with me containing the sum you require — namely,
5001., — but there is one thing more which you have not yet men-
tioned, but which I shall require before the money is paid — the
will." '
" Old Mobberley's rightful will, constituting Mervyn Clitheroe
his heir," Pownall cried. " It is here."
And lie clapped the parchment upon the table with a report that
made every fibre in my frame quiver.
Was the will really there ? or did it only belong to the string ot
fables with which he had been deluding Old Hazy ? My misgivings
were soon dispelled.
" I must look at that will," the old gentleman said, uncovering the
dark lantern, and once more throwing a light upon the scene.
350 LIFE AND ADVENTUBES OF
" Yes, look at it, sir ! — satisfy yourself that it is all right," Pownall
cried ; " but pray "be quick ! The light may betray us."
" I won't belong," Old Hazy rejoined. "Tes, yes, there is no
doubt about it. This is the document we have been in quest of so
long. This is old Mobberley's rightful will."
Scarcely were the words uttered than I sprang from beneath
the table, and stood before the startled pair. The lantern had not
been darkened, and the first object that met my view was the will
lying partly open upon the table. I instantly seized it, and having
secured it, placed the whistle to my lips, and blew a loud call.
Hitherto, not a word had been spoken. Both Pownall and Old Hazy
were stupified by my unexpected appearance ; but the sound of the
whistle recalled Pownall to a consciousness of danger, and he made
an effort to fly. In vain. Instantly seizing him, I forced him into
a chair. At the same moment lights could be seen without, and
several figures appeared at the windows.
" What does all this mean ?" Old Hazy cried.
" It means that I am betrayed by you," Pownall cried, in a rage.
"I see through it all. I took you for an old idiot— but you have
wit enough, it seems, to circumvent me."
Before the old gentleman could make any answer, the door of the
summer-house was thrown open, and the interior of the little build-
ing was filled by the party I had summoned. The first to enter were
Major Atherton, Cuthbert Spring, and the officer.
" Here is your prisoner," I said, consigning Pownall to the latter.
" Don't let him slip through your fingers."
"No fear of that, sir," the officer rejoined, putting a pair of hand-
cuffs over Pownall's wrists. " I'll forgive him if he gets away from
me."
" Have you got the will ?" Major Atherton eagerly demanded.
" Yes, here it is," I answered, producing it. " I am righted at last.
Here is my title to my uncle Mobberley's property."
" Huzza !" Cuthbert Spring exclaimed. And the joyful shout was
repeated by Ponder and the others, while the two ladies clapped
their hands.
"Most sincerely do I congratulate you, my dear boy," Major
Atherton said. " And I trust that fortune, who has so long regarded
you with frowns, will henceforth only smile upon you."
" Let me look at the will for a moment," Cuthbert Spring said.
" Tes, I see it's all right. Well, you are a lucky fellow, Mervyn. Two
thousand a year — that's your income."
Old Hazy did not say a word, but seemed overwhelmed with con-
fusion. Miss Hazilrigge now addressed him.
" Brother, brother !" she cried, " are you not ashamed of your-
self to have been so long the dupe of such a miserable juggler as
this ?"
The old gentleman made no reply, but hung his head.
" Are you not ashamed of yourself, I say ?" his sister repeated.
" I'm not quite such a miserable juggler as you suppose, madam,"
MEEVTN CLITHEBOE. 351
Pownall cried : the rascal had by this time recovered his assurance.
" Your brother is not the only person who has taken me for a conjuror,
though I must say," he added, with a laugh, " that he is the most
credulous gull I ever met with."
"You hear that, brother?" Miss Hazilrigge cried. "You hear
what the impudent rascal calls you?"
" Yes, I hear it," the old gentleman groaned.
" I could make him swallow anything," Pownall cried, chuckling.
" He believes that yonder wallet contains Dr. Dee's crystal, Pope
Leo's speculum, Dr. Faustus's compact with Satan, together with
unpublished treatises by all his favourite writers on occult philosophv
—ha! ha! ha!"
" "What! you have told me a pack of lies, eh ?" Old Hazy cried.
" There are no magic scrolls — no crystal — no speculum — no diabolic
compact — no treatises by Artemidorus, Psellus, Eobert de Triez, and
the others ?"
" You had better look for them," Pownall rejoined, coolly.
" Oh ! you prodigious villain ! Oh ! you arch deceiver ! I'll
strangle you !" the old gentleman cried, with an explosion of rage.
And he might have executed his threat if we had not stopped him.
" Oh, sister !" he added, " how egregiously I have been duped. "Well
may this rascal call me an old idiot. I merit the appellation."
" You will be a wiser man in future, I am quite certain, brother,"
Miss Hazilrigge replied, kindly. " I have hopes of you now."
" If my good friend will only forswear his books of magic, witch-
craft, and judicial astrology, and avoid such society as he has here
formed, his cure will be complete," Cuthbert Spring remarked.
" I'll do it !" Old Hazy exclaimed. " I'll burn all my books to-
morrow. I won't keep one of them."
" Not even Eobert de Triez ?" I asked, with a smile.
" Not even Eobert," he answered, firmly.
" I shall hold you to your promise, brother," Miss Hazilrigge said.
" You hear what your master says, Ponder. All the books in his
study are to be burnt." And she gave him some private directions
in an under tone.
" I shall be very glad to do it, ma'am," the butler replied ; "and
to clear the house of all such vermin as have so long infested it," he
added, with a glance at Pownall.
" Since things have taken this turn," Cuthbert Spring remarked,
" any objections I might have had to a country life are removed. I
shall give up Cottonborough."
" And come to Owlarton Grange. Delighted to hear you say so !"
Old Hazy exclaimed. " I hope soon to call you brother-in-law."
" Oh ! pray don't talk in that way ?" Miss Hazilrigge cried.
" You can't expect my uncle to spare your blushes, aunt," Ora
said, "after taking him to task so sharply as you have just done."
" Hold your tongue, you saucy minx !" the elderly spinster re-
joined.
"Well, gentlemen," Old Hazy said to the major and Mr. Spring,
352
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
" you have taken me a little by surprise, but you shall have the best
accommodation I can offer you. You will sleep at the Grange, of
course ?" .
" Of course they will, brother," Miss Hazilrigge interposed. "I
expected them, and have provided accordingly."
" Yes, we must trespass upon your hospitality to-night, Mr. Hazil-
rigge," Major Atherton observed. " Our work is not ended. "We
have more to do to-morrow."
" I hope you won't let Captain Sale and the two gipsies escape, gen-
tlemen," Pownall cried. " Only confront me with them, and you
shall hear what nice disclosures I will make."
" You shall have an opportunity of speaking out, depend upon it,"
Major Atherton rejoined. " Mr. Hazilrigge, I must beg your per-
mission to keep this rascal here to-night in custody of the officer. By
this time to-morrow, he will be lodged, I trust, with his three accom-
plices, in Chester gaol."
" Stephen Blackden shall put him in the farm-house, and keep watch
over him with the officer," the old gentleman replied. " And now,
since we have nothing more to detain us here, suppose we adjourn to
the house."
" You will find supper ready for you," Miss Hazilrigge said. "I
am sure dear Mr. Spring will be all the better after his journey for a
slice of cold chicken and a glass of champagne — and so will the
major."
" Upon my word, you are very considerate, my dear Miss Hazil-
rigge," the old bachelor rejoined, gallantly offering her his arm.
We had a very merry supper that night, and my health was drunk
in foaming bumpers of champagne by all the party.
I slept that night in the haunted chamber — and haunted I was, not
by Jotham Shocklach, but by my uncle Mobberley. Before retiring
to rest, I had read over the will and placed it for better security
under my pillow — so no wonder I dreamed of him who made it.
MERVTN CLITHEROE. 353
CHAPTEB XVIII.
THE STEEPLE-CHASE.
I awoke next morning in a very strange state of mind. For a
few moments I could not believe in the occurrences of the previous
night. Had I indeed become suddenly wealthy? "Was I reallv
possessed of two thousand a year ? Was Nethercrofts mine at last?
The will might have disappeared like a fairy favour. To satisfy myself,
I thrust my hand beneath the pillow, and brought it forth. Yes, there
it was beyond all question. I opened it and began to read it again,
though by this time I was perfectly familiar with its contents.
Blessings on him ! my dear old uncle Mobberley had constituted me
his heir. In all other respects the will corresponded with that which
had been acted upon — the various bequests made in both instruments
being identical, with one material exception. I hugged the precious
parchment to my bosom, and thought 1 would never let it out of my
possession. I am ashamed to relate the follies I committed. I sang,
laughed — even wept — -with delight. Springing out of bed, I began
to caper about the room, and was still exercising my limbs in this
manner when the door suddenly opened and Ponder entered. As 1
did not immediately desist from my saltatory performance, but even
bounded about with increased vigour, the sedate butler gazed at me
in perfect bewilderment, showing by his countenance that he thought
I must have taken leave of my senses.
" Give me joy, Ponder !" I exclaimed — " give me joy ! I am just
come into two thousand a year."
" I am quite aware of it, sir," the butler replied ; " and the for-
tunate circumstance may account for your exhilaration."
" I mean to make everybody about me happy and comfortable,"
I continued. " I have a great regard for you, Ponder — a particular
regard — and shall evince it by making you a handsome present."
" Very much obleeged to you, I'm sure, sir," he replied, bowing
respectfully. " But excuse me for saying, that I hope now you've come
into your property that you'll take care of it."
" I mean to do so, Ponder," I replied. " But I thank you for your
excellent advice, and will double the gratuity I intended to make
you."
The butler again bowed, and I executed a pirouette before him.
" Shall I open the window, sir ?" he asked, beginning to be slightly
alarmed.
" By all means, Ponder," I replied. " A little fresh air will be
agreeable. Bv-the-by, has he escaped ?"
2a
354 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
" Who, sir — the prisoner ?" he exclaimed. " Oh, no ! we have him
safe enough."
" I'm sorry for it," I rejoined.
" What ! sorry he has not escaped, sir ?" he cried, staring at me.
"Well, it is odd, Ponder," I said, rather more calmly; " but I feel
so uncommonly happy just now, that I can't bear to think of anybody
being miserable. I wish Pownall had got off."
" That would never do, sir," he replied, gravely. " Such a rascal
mustn't be allowed to go at large. He doesn't seem to be much con-
cerned at his position, and his main anxiety appears to be that Captain
Sale and the gipsies should be taken. He talks of all he has done
with great freedom to the officer, and says he means to make a clean
breast of it. By-the-by, you'll be glad to hear, sir, that all my mas-
ter's books of magic and witchcraft are burnt."
" What, all his treasures, Ponder ?" I cried, becoming suddenly
tranquil.
"Everyone of 'em, sir," he replied. " Not a single volume has
been spared. Miss Hazilrigge was fearful he might change his mind,
and bade me set to work the first thing, so I called up the men at
four o'clock this morning — long before the old gentleman opened his
eves — and we made a great bonfire in the yard, and threw all the
abominable rubbish into it. A precious lot of musty old books there
was, sir. We filled a large clothes-basket choke full wi' 'em more than
a dozen times. One of the last we threw into the fire was that big
black book, which he used to call the Devil's Grammar" (Mr. Ponder
meant the Grimoire), "and you should have seen how it hissed and
crackled. You'd ha' thought it had got into its natural element.
Tou may smell the smoke of the bonfire even here. My master will
never behold his treasures again — and a good job too ! — but Pownall
saw the last of 'em, for the window of the room in which he is con-
fined looks out into the yard, and he and the officer perceiving the
blaze, came forward to ascertain what we were doing. Tou should
have seen how the old rascal grinned as we cast basketful after
basketful of books into the fire."
" Well, I hope your master won't be angry, Ponder," I said.
" No fear of that, sir," he replied. " When I went into his room
just now I told him what I had done, and he said it was all right.
He would never have had the heart to give the order for the execution
himself, he declared, but he was glad it was over. I do verily be-
lieve, sir, that henceforth my master will be a very different person.
His eyes seem fairly opened at last, and if he gets rid of his eccen-
tricities and oddities, he will be one of the best and kindest men
breathing."
" He is that already, Ponder," I replied. " But I am delighted
with what you tell me about him."
Shortly afterwards, the butler left me, and as soon as my toilet was
completed I came down stairs, having by this time regained my cus-
tomary composure. I could not make up my mind to part with the
win', but kept it in a place of safety about my person.
MERYYN CL1THER0E. 355
"When we met at breakfast I received the warmest congratulations
from the whole party, and little else was talked about except my
good luck. Miss Hazilrigge and Ora laid out the most delightful
plans for my future life, in which, as a matter of course, Apphia was
included, and I was so intoxicated with success, that I begau to
fancy that everything would turn out exactly as they arranged it.
"I despair of nothing now, my dear Miss Hazilrigge," I said.
" Still there is a great difficulty to be overcome in the person of
Lady Amicia AVilburton."
I observed Major Atherton and Cuthbert Spring exchange signi-
ficant looks when I made this observation, and the latter remarked,
with a smile,
" I don't think your case quite so hopeless now as heretofore,
Mervyn. As possessor of INfethercrofts, Lady Amicia may be more
favourably disposed towards -you. Let us get over the business of
to-day, and we will then turn our attention to that important point."
Old Hazy was in excellent spirits. I had never seen him more
cheerful — so it was evident that the destruction of his once-beloved
books did not weigh upon his mind. I should not have ventured to
say anything to him on the subject, but he referred to it himself, de-
claring that he would never again read a treatise on the occult sciences.
And I may add that he has kept his word.
This being the day appointed for the steeple-chase, we knew where
to find Malpas. The race was to be run at three o'clock, and before
that hour we meant to be upon the ground. From what Ned Culcheth
had stated to my two friends there was little doubt that Phaleg and
his son would be captured at the same time.
At noon we started for Marston — Old Hazy in his antiquated ba-
rouche, with Major Atherton and Cuthbert Spring ; Pownall and the
officer in the post-chaise, which had been retained for the purpose. I
rode on before the others, wishing to call at Weverham, and acquaint
John with the good news. He was equally surprised and delighted
by my relation.
" You are, indeed, most fortunate, Mervyn," he said, " and I pray
that you may live long to enjoy your newly-acquired property."
I thanked him heartily, and said that I only required one thing
now to make me entirely happy — his sister's hand.
" If that is all you lack to complete your felicity," he replied,
with a kindly smile, " I do not think it will be wanting. Do not
question me further. I may not speak."
I left my friend full of joyous anticipations— the only drawback
to which was my incertitude as to the conclusion of his own love
affair. I had not ventured to introduce the topic, having nothing
satisfactory to communicate.
As I returned to the highway, on quitting the village of Wever-
ham, I came upon the barouche and post-chaise, and after chatting
for a short time with the occupants of the former vehicle, galloped on
in advance.
Oh ! how I enjoyed that ride ! Everything took a colour from
2 a2
356 LIFE A1SD ADVENTURES OF
the sunshine in my breast. The landscape brightened and revealed
beauties and picturesque combinations which I had not hitherto
discerned in it. Not a sound — not an object but yielded me delight.
All seemed in harmony with my own blissful feelings. Even the
consideration of the unpleasant task on which I was bound did not
obtrude itself upon me, until I came within half a mile of Marston,
when I was reminded of it by seeing Ned Culcheth.
The trusty fellow was seated on a bench in front of a little wayside
inn, and as I came in sight, he started up and ran towards me.
On learning that I had got the will, he took off his cap, and waved it
over his head with a prolonged and joyous shout. After this demon-
stration of delight, he held out his honest hand to me, and I grasped
it cordially. He then tried another shout, but this time his voice
failed him, and he was obliged to brush the moisture from his eyes.
" Hang it !" he exclaimed, " I don't know how it be. I never felt
so glad in all my life, and yet I must needs be snivelling. This will
be rare news for Sissy, and for all Marston, when they come to hear
it."
" I dare say they can give us a glass of good ale yonder, Ned ?" I
said, pointing to the little inn.
" As good as any in Cheshire," he responded.
" We'll try it, then," I said. " You must drink my health."
Upon this we repaired to the inn, where I alighted, and Ned
emptied a glass of the nut-brown beverage to my health and happi-
ness. When the honest fellow's enthusiastic delight had somewhat
abated, I questioned him as to the steeple-chase. He told me that
no change had taken place in the arrangements, but that the match
was to be run at three o'clock, as appointed, and that Captain Sale
was expected to win it.
" He may win the race, Ned," I remarked, "but he will lose all
else — honour and liberty. "What of the gipsies ?"
" Captured by this time I make no doubt, sir," he replied. " They
have been seen this morning, and the officers are after 'em."
" And Malpas has no suspicions, you think, Ned, that a warrant
has been obtained for his arrest ?"
"None whatever, sir," he rejoined. "I wouldn't trust Bryan
Peover, so I placed it in the hands of Mike Heron, the Knutsford con-
stable. Mike won't hesitate to do the business. Captain Sale has been
stayin* for the last week wi' his uncle Squire Vernon, at Fitton Park,
and not half an hour ago I met one of the squire's keepers, who
told me the captain is in wonderful spirits, and makes sure of winnin'
1000Z. by the match."
While we were thus conversing, the barouche came up, and was
brought to a halt, as was the post-chaise that followed it containing
the prisoner. Pownall was at once recognised by the keeper of the
wayside inn, which proved to be the house where the caitiff had been
left by the waggoner on the night of his escape from the dyke.
A brief consultation was then held as to the course to be pursued.
Major Atherton and Cuthbert Spring were for arresting Malpas at
MEBVYN CLITIIEROE. 357
once, but Old Hazy pleaded hard that he should be allowed to run
the race.
" Don't deprive him of the amusement," he said. " It may be the
last race he will ever run."
The last race he would ever run ! Little did the old gentleman
deem how prophetic were the words he uttered.
After a short halt, we went on, Ned getting up in front of the
post-chaise. Very few persons noticed us as we passed through
Marston. The village was almost deserted, the majority of the in-
habitants having gone to witness the race. Simon Pownall, who was
anxious to elude observation, leaned as far back as he could in the
chaise, but he was recognised notwithstanding by more than one old
acquaintance.
Our road took us past Nethercrofts. As we passed by the old
farm-house, I saw Hannah standing at the orchard gate, and could
not help stopping to tell her of the extraordinary changes that had
taken place. When she heard that my uncle Mobberley's rightful
will had been found, and that I was now incontestable heir to the
property, she held up her hands and screamed with delight, calling
out, "Well, to be sure! Who'd ha' thought it?" Her husband,
William WeeVer, she told me, was gone to see the race, and I should
most likely meet him on the ground. She would answer for it he
would be rarely pleased with the news.
After bestowing a glance at the dear old farm-house, enchanted
to think that I could now call it my own, I hastened after the
others, and overtook them at the bottom of a gentle descent which
had brought them within a short distance of the mere. My breast
swelled, for all I saw was mine — those rich meads and pleasant pas-
ture-land, and that picturesque coppice, running down to the borders
of the lake, all belonged to me.
We went on for nearly a quarter of a mile further, and I was still
on my own ground, when we came to the locality of the steeple-chase.
On the summit of a gentle eminence on the right, about half a mile
off, which eminence commanded a complete view of the whole line of
country marked out for the race, a stand had been erected. Close
to it were three or four booths. The entire crown of the hill and
part of the sides were occupied, as at a regular race, by a throng of
spectators on horseback or on foot, mixed up with vehicles of various
kinds, from the landau and phaeton to the gig and taxed-cart. Of
horsemen there could not have been fewer than three or four hundred,
while of persons on foot there must have been double that number.
Plenty of witnesses, I could not help thinking, of Malpas's approach-
ing disgrace.
The stand was filled with spectators — chiefly ladies, most of them,
no doubt, wives and daughters of the neighbouring gentry — and above
ft floated a large flag. The course to be taken by the riders in the
race was indicated by tall flagstafis planted at various points, and
seemed to have been skilfully planned, as it offered many difficulties,
while at the same time there were plenty of open spaces left, ovei
358 LIFE AND ADVENTUKES OP
which the horses could stretch well out, and make good trial of
their speed. As we came in sight of the hill loud shouting was heard,
and great commotion was perceptible among the horsemen, several of
whom were riding to and fro, proving that the race was just about to
begin.
Both vehicles were at once brought to a halt, and while the others
were alighting I dashed through a gate into a large field on the
right, at the bottom of which flowed a brook, forming the boundary
of the Nethercrofts estate. This brook, as was shown by the flag-
staff on the opposite bank, had to be crossed by the riders, and at a
place of great hazard. Not only was the stream upwards of thirty
feet wide at this point, but its banks were broken, while there were
several old pollard-willows that seemed to stand right in the way, and
great caution would be required to avoid these trees while making a
jump. Altogether it was a most awkward spot, as I saw at a glance.
Indeed, I knew the place well, having often angled in the brook.
In anticipation of mischief, a number of lookers-on had collected
on the further side of the brook, while some adventurous country
bumpkins and lads had clambered up the pollard-trees in hopes of
obtaining a better view. I was about to ride down the field, when
my attention was directed to a group consisting of some half-dozen
men, with a woman near them. In the latter I at once recognised
Rue, and I knew who the others must be.
A s I advanced, I descried Phaleg and his son with an officer on either
side of them. Both gipsies were handcuffed. Poor Rue, who was
evidently much cast down, looked reproachfully at me, but did not
speak. I could not but feel compassion for her. The constables told me,
with a laugh, that they had pounced upon the ruffians the moment
they entered the field. Mike Heron, the Knutsford constable, now
came forward, and touching his hat, asked if I had any orders to give
him. I told him to go up to the stand, near which the winning-
post was situated, and as soon as the race was over, to arrest Captain
Bale. Mike departed on his errand forthwith.
By this time Major Atherton and the others had come up, bringing
Pownall with them in charge of the officer. On finding that his ac-
complices were captured, Pownall testified his extreme satisfaction,
and commenced jeering them bitterly. The gipsies scowled at him,
but made no reply to his taunts.
After a moment's debate, it was decided that we should station
ourselves near the pollards, so I dismounted, and leaving my horse
in charge of a farming lad, we moved down in a body towards the
brook, the officers following us with the three prisoners.
Scarcely had we taken up a position, when a bell was rung, inform-
ing us that the riders had started, and we presently caught a glimpse of
them speeding across the clear space on the near side of the mill. At
this moment Captain Brereton took the lead, though Malpas was not
far behind him. Both w r ere in jockey-dresses, Malpas wearing a blue
cap, with a white jacket crossed by a broad sky-blue stripe, and hia
opponent a white cap and pink jacket. As far as could be judged, they
MEEVYN CLITUEROE. 359
seemed pretty well matched in regard to horses, and botli rode
remarkably well. Two flights of hurdles were cleared in no time,
and then we lost sight of them both for a few moments. Over a stiff
fence they both came at last, doing their work in gallant style, but
Malpas was now ahead, and kept his place as they flew across the
open. On — on — on. They were now within a hundred yards of the
brook, and were greeted by the cheers of the spectators. Malpas'g
name was chiefly coupled with the shouts. He still led, and the
cries were that he would win.
Despite the peculiar circumstances in which I stood in reference
to one of the riders, it was impossible not to be interested in
so well-contested a race. I approached the side of the stream the
better to observe them, and my example was followed by Major
Atherton and Cuthbert Spring. In this position I think I must
have caught the eye of Malpas, though I cannot be sure, but it
seemed to me that he noticed me, and slightly swerved. Be this as
it may, a sudden flush overspread his countenance, which had hitherto
been pale with excitement. However, he held on unfalteringly. He
was now full twenty yards in advance of Captain Brereton, and the
crowd of spectators collected at this point cheered him as winner.
With these shouts ringing in his ears he charged the brook.
'From the style in which his horse jumped I thought the animal
would have landed him in safety — but I was mistaken. A terrible
crash told me that an accident had happened. But I scarcely saw it,
for all passed like a vision before my swimming eyes. The horse
was down, and Malpas was lying, stunned and bleeding, and with
fast-approaching death written in unmistakable characters on his
countenance, at the foot of one of the pollard-trees, against which he
had been dashed. A moment before he had been full of power,
pride, triumph — now he lay there helpless as a crushed worm —
dying !
In the midst of the fearful outcries occasioned by this disastrous
occurrence, Captain Brereton, who could not, of course, check himself,
leaped the brook, and with better luck than Malpas, landing upon a
firm spot on the bank, and, avoiding the pollards, went on, shouting
that he would bring medical aid directly. But it would be of
no use. All the surgeons in Cheshire, or in England, could not help
Malpas now.
As soon as Captain Brereton was out of the way, we rushed to
Malpas, but he besought us not to move him, for his agony was ex-
cruciating. At this moment, a piercing shriek arose, and Hue rushed
forward. Her wrongs were forgotten, and all the tenderness she had
once felt for her betrayer returned to her breast. Kneeling beside
him, she took his head gently upon her lap, and strove by every means
in her power to alleviate his sufferings. Aware who was near him, the
dying man thanked her by his looks.
The scene, which produced an ineffaceable impression upon me, now
rises before me with its minutest details. I see Malpas stretched
npon the bank, at the foot of the pollard-willow, groaning with
360 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
agony — with no power of movement in his well-shaped limbs. What
a contrast does his gay attire offer to his ghastly looks! He is
supported by the poor gipsy girl whom he has wronged, who watches
him with intense anxiety, and would lay down her life to save him.
Behind, stands his groom, holding his unlucky steed, which is but
slightly injured. Amongst the spectators of the accident are many
who have known the dying man, and are. affected in various ways.
Cuthbert Spring and Old Hazy, who are standing near the sufferer,
seem quite horrified by the dreadful occurrence, and so does ]N"ed
Culcheth, but Major Atherton looks grimly on. He has seen death
too often on the battle-field to be moved. But there is another group
on which the spectacle might be expected to produce a powerful effect
— a group consisting of the reckless young man's evil associates,
Simon Pownall and the gipsies. How are they affected ? Phaleg and
his son look on with sullen unconcern, and the vice-hardened counte-
nance of the elder gipsy displays no emotion whatever. Obed is not
quite so stoical, but even he has a callous look. But Pownall, who is
seated on the ground, averts his gaze, and tries to stop his ears with
his manacled hands. All his cynicism is gone.
Such was the aspect presented by the various groups gathered
around the dying man. Por myself, I can affirm that I was dreadfully
shocked, and that feelings of commiseration were paramount to all
others in my breast.
Malpas at last made me out, and fixing his glazing eyes upon me,
faltered forth :
" Have you got it ? — the will!"
"It is here!" I cried, exhibiting the document to his failing gaze.
His looks expressed satisfaction, and he said faintly,
" It is well. I shall die easier for your forgiveness, Mervyn."
" You have it, Malpas," I rejoined, taking his helpless hand in
mine. " I forgive you from the bottom of my heart."
He thanked me by a look, for his stiffening fingers could not return
my pressure.
" Let me have yours too, Rue ?" he said, with a last effort.
She gave it him at once, and with a passionate outburst of grief
that attested the depth of her affection.
Unwilling to behold this heart-rending spectacle, I looked away for
a moment, when a piercing cry smote my ears, and told me what had
occurred. Malpas was gone to his account.
Shriek after shriek followed from the unfortunate gipsy girl-
each more harrowing than that which had gone before it. At last she
flung herself despairingly upon the lifeless body of her lover.
Even the rugged breast of Phaleg was touched by his daughter's
affliction, and he implored the officers to let him go to her. As to
Obed, he was so violently excited that he broke from the constable
who held him, and rushed towards Rue, when he was again seized.
It was a frightful scene, and I felt so iieart-sickened that I rushed
away.
MERVTX CLITHEROE. 361
Seeing how painfully I was affected, Major Atlierton immediately
followed me, and by the kindest solicitude tried to restore me. He
remarked that, distressing as the occurrence might be, it was better
for himself — better for all connected with him — that Malpas had
died thus. The major then recommended me to go to Nether-
crofts.
" Go and take possession of the old house at once," he said. " Stay
there to-night. Your tenants will make you up a bed — and they
must manage to make up a bed for me as well, for I intend to claim
your hospitality. Don't remain any longer here. I will take all
disagreeable business that remains to be done off your hands, and
will explain to Mr. Iiazilrigge and Cuthbert Spring that I have sent
you away."
" But I shall see you again soon ?" I said.
" Tou shall see me to-night," he replied. " Tou remember where
you first beheld me ?"
" Perfectly. At my mother's grave in Marston churchyard."
" Come to that hallowed spot at nine o'clock this evening," he re-
plied. " Tou will find me there. I have a secret to reveal to you."
And without another word, he turned away and rejoined our friends.
I had just mounted my horse, and was about to ride off to Nether-
crofts as I had been enjoined by this singular man, who exercised
such an extraordinary influence over me, when Ned Culcheth came
up, and after a few remarks, said,
" "What a strange thing it be, sir, that Captain Sale should meet
his death at yonder spot."
" Why stranger there than elsewhere, Ned ?" I asked.
" Because the Nethercrofts estate begins at that point," he re-
joined. " No sooner does he touch the land he has coveted, and has
striven to wrest from the rightful owner, than his horse dashes him
against a tree, and he dies at the foot of the man he has wronged.
It looks like a judgment."
I made no reply, but the words sank deep into my breast.
362 LirE AND ADVENTURES OF
CHAPTER XIX.
ONCE MORE AT THE GRATE.
While crossing the fields that night from jSTethercrofts to keep my
appointment with Major Atherton, I was strangely agitated. What
was the nature of the revelation to be made to me ? Certain notions
had sometimes crossed me in regard to this inscrutable personage,
but they seemed so wild and extravagant that I did not dare to
indulge them. Accordingly, I had dismissed them as soon as formed.
But now they came back upon me with greater force than ever.
The truth seemed suddenly to flash upon me. And I hurried on,
eager to turn my conjectures into certainties.
Pull of hope, and with a breast beating with new-born emotions, I
passed through the little gate opening upon the churchyard. A wan
moon, struggling through passing clouds, feebly illumined the place.
By this scanty light I could distinguish that he was standing near
the grave, and I flew towards him.
He did not keep me a moment in suspense, but held out his arms
as I approached.
" My son ! my dear son !" he exclaimed.
"My father! my dear father!" I rejoined, rushing into his em-
brace.
Profound emotion kept us silent for some minutes. He then
spoke :
" When you beheld me that night — though I little thought you
were present at the time — I registered a vow on this spot that the
rest of my life should be devoted to my son. Since then you have
been the sole object of my thoughts. But wishing to study your
character and disposition from a point of view which circumstances
enabled me to take, I presented myself to you as a stranger ; and I
continued the part I had commenced, because I desired to see how
you would act at a critical conjuncture — contenting myself with
looking passively on, but ever ready to come to your assistance in
case of need. Had not your mind been greatly engrossed by other
matters, you must have discovered me. More than once I have been
on the point of acknowledging myself to you, but I have checked my-
self, because I had determined that the disclosure — which has been,
MEKVTK CLITHEROE. 303
perhaps, too long delayed — should be made on this spot — that here, in
your dear mother's presence, as it were, I would avow myself your
father, and give you my benediction. Take it, my son," he added,
spreading his arms over me, " and if a blessed spirit can be permitted
to hover unseen over the living, be assured that your mother is near
us now. Kneel down, my son — kneel down — and let us pray !"
On this we both bent the knee reverentially, and continued for
some time occupied in fervent devotion. Perchance a gentle spirit
did look down upon us the while.
My lather was the first to rise. "When I quitted my kneeling
posture, and gazed into his countenance, its habitual sternness had
given way to an expression of mildness and benevolence. He again
embraced me, and with increased affection. We remained for some
time longer near the grave. He had much to say, and wished to
say it there. Eor it seemed to both of us that there was an un-
seen listener to our converse.
My fattier told me what had brought him back to England.
Death had been busy around him in the burning land he had quitted.
Wife and children had all perished from one of those dire scourges
that in India decimate a city. He was away from them at the time,
and when he returned to Lahore, where he had left them, all were gone.
His thoughts then naturally reverted to his son in England, and feel-
ings of affection, hitherto repressed or diverted into other channels,
sprang up at once in his bosom. Of his son's precise position he was
almost ignorant, for of late the young man had failed to write ; while
the accounts he received from his ever-active correspondent, Cuth-
bert Spring, were neither very clear nor very satisfactory. He would
go to England. "Why should lie stay longer in India ? He had wealth
enough, and had seen service enough. He would retire from the
army. His resolution was acted upon ; and as soon as the necessary
arrangements for his departure could be completed — and they were
got through with all possible despatch — he returned to his native
land. He had given no intimation of his return to any one — not
even to Cuthbert Spring ; but on his arrival in London he wrote to
his friend, begging him to come up to him. Erom Cuthbert he learnt
all particulars of his son, and what he heard brought him quickly to
Cottonborough with his friend. His first visit had been paid to
the grave in Marston churchyard, where I had seen him. The rest
I knew.
Such was the recital made to me by my father as we stood together
on that hallowed spot.
At its close, he knelt down again, pressed his lips to the mo-
numental stone, and walked slowly away, motioning me to follow
him. He did not proceed towards the little gate by which I had
entered the churchyard, but moved in the opposite direction, until at
last we stood opposite the vicarage.
"There is the house of mourning," he said; "and if you could
enter it, you would find a mother wailing for her only son— a father
364 LIFE AND ADVENTUBES OF
prostrated by affliction. I have little commiseration for the worldly
vicar whose pride has been thus humbled, but I sincerely pity
Mrs. Sale. A worse calamity might, however, have befallen her.
If she knew, all, she might not deplore her son's death. I saw the
lifeless body borne home upon a hurdle, and heard the mother's cry of
anguish on beholding it. It wrang my heart as much as that poor
gipsy girl's frantic ejaculations had wrung it before to-day, and I
was glad to get away."
What he said conjured up such a painful scene to my imagination,
that I involuntarily made a movement to depart, and he withdrew
with me at once.
On our way to Nethercrofts, where we were both to pass the night,
my father informed me that Pownall and the gipsies had been
taken to Chester. And I may add, as this will be the last time of
mentioning them, that all three met the punishment due to their
offences. The gipsies got two years of imprisonment with hard la-
bour ; while the Thaumaturgus had an opportunity offered him of
visiting Australia — free of expense.
MERVYN CLITHEROE. 365
CHAPTEE XX.
AT HOME AT THE ANCHORITE'S.
Abotjt a week after the events last recorded, between two and three
o'clock in the afternoon, my father and myself drove from the hotel
at which we were staying in Cottonborougb to the Anchorite's. We
made rather a gay turn out, for we occupied a stylish chariot which
Colonel Clitheroe had just received from town, with a footman on the
box in a dark undress livery, and with a cockade in his hat. A pair
of spanking greys, driven by a smart-looking postilion in a scarlet
jacket and irreproachable leathers, soon made their way through the
crowded streets, rattled across the iron bridge over the Ater, bowled
along the Broughton road at the rate of ten miles an hour, and
almost before we had time to think of it, brought us to our
destination.
There were two other carriages under the trees at a little distance
from the entrance to the Anchorite's, one of which I recognised as Dr.
Foam's old-fashioned yellow chariot, but the other was a very hand-
some equipage indeed, with a remarkably stout, consequential-looking
coachman, and a powdered footman, both in rich liveries, seated on
the hammercloth. I noticed that this carriage had an earl's coronet
on the panels.
Meantime, our footman had rung the bell, and the summons was
answered by Mr. Comberbach, arrayed in a handsome suit of sables,
with aiguillettes on his shoulder, and having an important and almost
majestic air. The butler was attended by two other men-servante,
likewise attired in black, but I was glad to perceive that the inaus-
picious-looking Fabyan Lowe was not one of them. Mr. Comberbach
advanced towards my father as he alighted, and having respectfully
saluted him, accorded me a most smiling welcome.
Ah ! how different were my feelings as I now entered the gate of
the old house from those I had experienced when passing through it
last ! Now all looked bright and smiling. As Mr. Comberbach
marched with more than his usual pomp along the broad gravel-walk,
he ever and anon cast a bland and benign look at me, and just before
reaching the porch, he stayed his stately step, and said,
" Her ladyship is on the garden terrace near the river, Colonel
Clitheroe, and if you please, sir, I will conduct you to her at once.
But perhaps," he added, with a glance at me— " perhaps it may be
agreeable to you, Mr. Mervyn, to see Miss Apphia first."
" By all means, Comberbach," I replied, eagerly. " You anticipate
my wishes."
36G LIFE AND ADYENTURES OF
" Have the goodness to come up-stairs with me to the library, then,"
he said. " No necessity for disguise now," he added, in a low tone.
" I will w r ait here for you, Mervyn," my father remarked, with a
smile. " You can dispense with my company, I am sure. Gro, my
boy. Success attend you!"
I thanked him with a smile, and while he walked into the dining-
room, I followed the butler up-stairs, and was ushered by him into
the library. As soon as we had entered the room, Mr. Comberbach
unbosomed himself in this wise :
"Well, sir, things have turned out much better than I expected. Her
ladyship makes a very good missis — a little overbearing at times, but
nothin' to complain of. We've got rid of that prying rascal, Fabyan
Lowe. Molly still keeps her place, and is likely to keep it, for she
has got used to her ladyship's ways, and knows how to please her.
We shall never have such another missis as dear Mrs. Mervyn — but
it's no use grievin'. We must make ourselves as comfortable as we
can in this Yale of Tears. And talkin' o' that, sir, I have at last
made up my mind to marry "
" Molly Bailey," I suggested.
" Eight, sir," he replied — " right. Miss Apphiahas kindly obtained
her ladyship's consent to our espousals — so as there is now no impe-
diment we shall soon be man and wife. We have been already asked
at the Old Church. Ours has been a longish engagement, Mr.
Mervyn, — well-nigh thirty years. I wouldn't recommend you to wait
so long, sir," he added, with a knowing look.
" I don't mean to do so, Comberbach," I replied. "You must
look quick, or I shall be married before you. But tell me ! — who is
with her ladyship in the garden ?"
"Lord bless me, sir! don't you know? I thought Colonel Cli-
theroe would have told you. Didn't you see the carriage at the
gate? It's her ladyship's father, the old Earl of Eossendale, and
her brother, Lord Leyland. They've been staying in Cottonborough
for the last three days. Dr. Foam is with them in the garden.
Other company are expected, and a cold collation is laid out in the
dining-room. The Rev. Mr. Wilburton is here, sir."
What else he might have informed me I know not, for at this
moment the inner door opened, and as Apphia and her brother
entered from it, the loquacious butler took flight.
She was dressed in deep mourning, which seemed to suit her some-
what serious style of countenance and sedate deportment better than
gayer apparel w r ould have done. When I say serious, I am almost
afraid of conveying a wrong impression of her looks, which wore a
gentle pensiveness, very far removed from gravity, and still further
from gloom. Nothing, indeed, could be sweeter than the smile with
which she greeted me — nothing more affectionate than her manner.
For a few moments I saw only her. John seemed to vanish from
my sight. I told her I \Vas come to claim her as my bride, and that
if I were refused, I was resolved to carry her off in spite of all oppo-
MEltVYN CL1TI1ER0E. l'S7
sition. She answered, with a smile, that happily such extreme mea-
sures, which she herself might feel compelled to resist, did not need
to be resorted to, for she thought, if a formal claim for her hand were
now made to her mother, that it would not be rejected.
"Then there is no longer any impediment," I exclaimed, joyfully.
" Tou are mine, dearest Apphia — mine for ever !"
"Yes, yours for ever, dearest Mervyn," she rejoined, with inex-
pressible tenderness — " yours for ever!"
I drew her towards me as the words were uttered, strained her to
my bosom, and sealed our marriage-compact on her lips.
" Heaven bless you both !" John ejaculated, fervently. " My
dearest wish on earth is gratified."
"We must join the party in the garden," Apphia said, gently ex-
tricating herself from my embrace. " Recollect, dear Mervyn, you
have my mother's consent to obtain. You know the promise I gave
her ?" she added, with a smile.
" A most unfortunate promise I thought it," I cried.
" You need not mind it now," she replied. " Come ! I long to hear
what you think of my new relations — though I am sure you will like
them."
We then went down stairs, and ere we had reached the hall, my
father, hearing our voices, came out of the dining-room to meet us.
Apphia sprang affectionately towards him.
" Is it as I hope ? Am I to call you daughter, my dear child ?"
he inquired.
She answered gently in the affirmative, and the colonel, enchanted,
pressed his lips to her forehead.
We then went forth into the garden. My father offered Apphia his
arm, and I did not dispute the privilege with him, but contented myself
with walking on her other side.
At an earlier period of my history, I have mentioned that a long,
sheltered walk through the garden conducted to the banks of the
Ater, where the green slopes, shaded by fine old beech-trees, growing
on a dry sandy soil, formed a delightful place of promenade in warm
weather. Towards this spot we now shaped our course, as we under-
stood that Lady Amicia was there with her guests.
We found the party seated beneath the trees. The Earl of Kossen-
dale was a venerable-looking man, with snow-white hair, and a truly
noble cast of countenance. Years ago he must have had a very
stately presence ; even now there was an air of infinite dignity about
him. Though turned eighty, he bore his years well, and looked as if
able to sustain the load for some time longer.
What the old earl had been his son now was — a person of most
commanding appearance, lofty in stature, well-built, and with fea-
tures not merely handsome, but proclaiming his high birth. His
carriage was erect, and his deportment ordinarily extremely haughty,
though on this occasion I am bound to say that his manner was re-
markably affable. In point of age, Lord Leyland was between fifty and
368 LIFE AjS'D adventuees of
sixty, but though he had led a very active political life, and had filled
very important offices both at home and abroad, there was still some of
the fire of youth in his glance, and no lack of vigour in his frame. In
fact, he might have passed for a younger man by ten years than he
was in reality. There was a strong family likeness between Lady
Amicia and her relatives, and a remarkable expression of pride, which
time had not effaced in the lineaments of the venerable earl, could be
distincly traced in the features of his son and daughter.
Lady Amicia was dressed in deep mourning, and her attire became
her exceedingly. Never before had I seen her appear to such great
advantage. She was seated between her father and brother, while Dr.
Foam occupied a place near the old earl. On seeing us, Lord Ley-
land immediately arose, and advancing to meet us, shook hands with
great cordiality with my father.
" You must make me known to your son, Colonel Clitheroe," he
said, with a very encouraging look at me. " I ought to know him,
since he is to have my niece. Upon my word, colonel, you have
no reason to be ashamed of him — nor have we."
" None of us, I trust, will have reason to blush for him, my dear
lord," my father answered, proudly.
" Come with me, young sir," Lord Ley land cried, taking my arm
with great good-humour ; " I will introduce you to my father myself."
And he led me towards the old earl, who got up at my approach, and
offered me his hand. I never beheld anything finer than his manner.
A monarch could not have exhibited greater dignity. I almost felt
abashed as I took the hand proffered me.
" Here is your grandson — that is to be — my lord," Lord Leyland
cried, " and I think you will approve of him as much as I do."
" I am very glad to see him, and I do like his looks," the earl said,
glancing kindly at me. " Emulate your father, young man," he added
to me, "and we shall all be proud of you."
Having made as suitable a reply as I could, I next addressed my-
self to Lady Amicia, who received me with a kindness of manner as
unexpected as gratifying.
" I will frankly own that I have done you great injustice, Mervyn,"
she said. " I have suffered myself to be prejudiced against you, and
have believed assertions which I ought to have treated as calumnies.
But I will make every reparation in my power. I know what you
would ask of me, and will anticipate the request. My daughter's
hand shall be yours — her heart has been yours long ago. I will
say more — I feel certain that she could not find a worthier hus-
band."
My feelings so completely overpowered me that I was unable to
make an adequate reply. I attempted to speak ; but my emotion
was too great, and ohecked my utterance.
" I will thank you for Mervyn, dear mother," John said, stepping
forward. " And let me add, that you have doubled the favour by the
manner of conferring it. Never have I loved and honoured you
more than at this moment."
MERVTN CLITUEHOE. 369
" "Well, then, this important matter is settled," Lord Leyland cried,
coming to my rescue. " We are all agreed that the marriage is to
take place, and the only thing remaining to be done is to fix the
day."
" The sooner the better," I cried.
" Suppose we say this day month ?" Lord Leyland said. " Will
that do, Apphia ?"
" Xay, don't appeal to me, uncle," she replied. " However, I shall
raise no objection."
" And I am sure Mervyn will not," my father interposed. " "With.
Lady Amicia's permission, the wedding shall take place on this day
month."
Her ladyship graciously signified her assent, and my happiness
was complete.
" Can we not manage to find John a wife at the same time," Lord
Leyland cried. " I think I have heard of a certain young lady —
possessed of great personal attractions — amiable as beautiful — and
an heiress, if I am not misinformed — who might, perhaps, be prevailed
upon to give her hand, if properly solicited."
"The experiment may be made at once," I said, "for here she
comes."
While Lord Leyland had been speaking, I had descried Comberbach
advancing with a party consisting of Old Hazy and his sister, Ora
and Cuthbert Spring.
The new-comers, it appeared, had been invited to meet my father
and myself, and experienced a most friendly reception from Lady
Amicia — so friendly that Old Hazy was quite overwhelmed by
At. Could this affable lady be the domineering, disagreeable per-
sonage he had heard of ? Impossible ! Miss Hazilrigge was equally
surprised, but greatly pleased, as was Ora, to whom Lady Amicia
paid the most marked attention.
Apphia, of course, was delighted to see her friends, and the party
from the Grange at once found themselves at home. Indeed, with
the exception of Lady Amicia's two noble relatives, they were among
old friends, for Dr. Foam was well known to Mr. Hazilrigge, and had
often experienced his hospitality at Owlarton Grange.
But even from the " great folks," as Miss Hazilrigge termed
them in private to me, they met the same friendly welcome. The
old Earl of Eossendale quite unbent, and, as is always the case
when a proud man does unbend, was infinitely more agreeable
than a person of habitually easy manners. He seemed quite to
appreciate Old Hazy, who, with all his peculiarities, was a per-
fect gentleman of the old school, and this Lord Eossendale did
not fail to discover. So the venerable and courtly peer and the
worthy old commoner got on remarkably well together. Old Hazy
and the ladies were invited to the earl's seat, Buckrose, in Yorkshire ;
and in his turn Lord Eossendale promised to pay his new friend a
visit at Owlarton Grange. These invitations were not matters of
2b
SrU LIFE ^N"D ADTENTUEES OF
form, but were heartily given on both sides, and what is more, both
visits were paid.
Courteous and pleasant to all, Lord Leyland devoted himself chiefly
to the ladies. I saw in a moment that he was greatly struck by Ora,
as indeed he could not fail to be, for she was looking her very best,
was exquisitely attired, and in high spirits. I also quickly perceived
that he was determined to set matters right between his nephew and
the young heiress.
" Why the girl is a perfect angel," I heard him exclaim to John ; " I
never beheld a more charming creature — magnificent eyes — and the
figure and step of an Andalusian! What could any man wish for
more ? Tou mustn't let such a prize slip through your fingers."
" I am afraid he will, unless your lordship comes to his assistance,"
I observed, sotto voce.
The hint was not lost upon Lord Leyland. He at once set to
work, and very soon contrived to settle the little lovers' quarrel. By
gently fanning the rising flame, he soon caused it to burn as strongly
as ever. When this reconciliation was effected, and John was safely
caught in the toils of his fair enslaver, Lord Leyland announced that
he had obtained a promise that the dormant title would be restored,
and his nephew might therefore be considered, to all intents and pur-
poses, Lord Wilburton.
A fair opportunity was here afforded Lady Amicia for a display
of generosity, and I am happy to say she did not allow it to pass. She
at once declared that her son should have half her property — even
more, if he needed it — to support his title.
And what answer did John make ? Did he coldly and philo-
sophically put aside his good fortune ? Could lie disoblige his
noble relatives, and disappoint his mother ? Could he resist all
our friendly importunities ? Above all, could he withstand the be-
witching glances of her he loved ? He yielded, and with a good grace.
In fact, his noble kinsmen, and the language they held, had awakened
a proper pride in his bosom, and he began to perceive that he
might do more good in the exalted position that awaited him than
in the lowly station which he had previously chosen. Heretofore his
mother had made him shrink with alarm from the chance of contact
with the great world. But recent experiences led him to believe
that he should benefit by mixing with it. And he was right. As
Lord Wilburton — for he soon afterwards obtained the title — his
character was strengthened and refined, his delightful social qualities
were brought into play, and his power of doing good increased
twenty-fold.
While general conversation was going on, Cuthbert Spring drew
me aside.
" A word with you, my young friend," he said. " I suppose you
understand it all now ?"
" I understand that I am completely happy," I replied ; " but how
these extraordinary changes have been brought about passes my com-
prehension. My father has kept me quite in the dark."
MEUVYN CLIT1IER0E. 371
" Tour father is fond of surprises, as you must have seen," Cuth-
bert rejoined. " He won't unmask his batteries till all is ready for
action. During the whole of the month that you were enjoined to
keep quiet — for he was afraid of your meddling with his plans "
" Not having any great opinion of my capacity, I suppose "
" He and I were hard at work for you," Cuth'bert proceeded. "It
was rather a difficult job," he added, lowering his voice, "to accom-
modate matters with Lady Amicia, but with Dr. Foam's help, who
has been of immense use to us, we accomplished it at last. You never
suspected that your father was a daily visitor here, eh ?"
" Never," I replied. "I didn't dream of such a thing. Apphia
never mentioned him in her letters to her brother."
" Not in those he showed you, I dare say. But John has been let
into the plot for the last three weeks. But I haven't told you all.
As soon as matters were adjusted in this quarter, and her ladyship's
consent to the marriage was all hut obtained — we all three — that is,
your father, Dr. Foam, and myself — went over to Buckrose, where we
were extremely well received by the old earl and his son. Full expla-
nations were given by the colonel of his intentions in regard to you,
which are very handsome I need scarcely say, and the treaty of
alliance was speedily concluded so far as Lord liossendale was
concerned. His lordship was pleased to say, that as he took
it for granted you must resemble your father, he should un-
hesitatingly give his sanction to your union with his grand-
daughter. Before this, I ought to tell you, a complete reconciliation
had taken place between Lady Amicia and her noble relatives, but
they had not met. This matrimonial arrangement induced Lord Bos-
sendale to expedite the visit he intended to pay his daughter, and
Lord Leyland accompanied him, as you see. Your crowning piece
of good-luck, however, was the recovery of the will, which came in
the very nick of time, and at once turned the scale in your favour
with Lady Amicia. "We gave ourselves no trouble about JSimon
Pownall, for we felt certain he would go back to the Grange and get
entrapped there. Now you know all. Ah ! colonel," he added, as my
father and Dr. Foam came towards us, " I have been telling Mervyn of
your plot."
" I have plotted for his happiness," my father replied, " and I hope
have succeeded. Mervyn, you are greatly indebted to these two
kind friends — but especially to Dr. Foam, without whose assistance
you would not be here at this moment. He smoothed the way for us."
"Tut! tut! say no more about it, colonel," the worthy physician
cried. "All's w r ell that ends well! Things went very cross with
Mervyn for a long time, but they have got straight at last. I think
he will now admit that I did well in counselling Apphia to remain
w r ith her mother."
I took both his hands, shook them, and thanked him from the
bottom of my heart.
After passing some time pleasantly under the trees, we wera
summoned to a collation by Mr. Coraberbach, and adjourned
372 LIFE AKD ADVENTURES OF MEEYYN CL1THEEOE.
to the house. It was an excellent repast, and greatly enjoyed,
but I shall not pause to describe it, contenting myself with men-
tioning three toasts given on the occasion. The first of these pro-
ceeded from the Earl of Rossendale, and had reference to the mar-
riage which had that day been fixed between myself and his grand-
daughter. This toast was remarkably well received. Lord Leyland
then called upon us to drink health and happiness to another couple,
whom he was delighted to say were to be shortly united — his nephew,
vhom he would venture to style Lord Wilburton, and Miss Ora
Doveton. The cheers which followed this toast had scarcely sub-
sided, when Dr. Foam proposed a third couple — his old and esteemed
friend Cuthbert Spring and Miss Hazilrigge. The last toast was
drunk amidst great cheering and laughter.
On that day month the three marriages were solemnised at the
Collegiate Church.
A word ere bidding the friendly reader farewell.
I am now living at the Anchorite's, which Lady Amicia has resigned
to us. My father, I am happy to say, is our constant guest. It is
almost needless to say that Mr. and Mrs. Comberbach retain their
situations. But with me Mrs. Comberbach will always be Molly
Bailey.
Lord and Lady "Wilburton reside in Yorkshire, at no great distance
from the Earl of Eossendale's seat, Buckrose. Lady Amicia has
taken up her abode in the same county, but passes the greatest part
of her time with her father, with whom she has become an extraor-
dinary favourite.
Old Hazy with Cuthbert Spring and his wife are joint occupants of
Owlarton Grange, and the hospitality of the house is by no means
diminished. My wife and myself are ever-welcome visitors, and
have always the haunted room assigned to us. When business
brings Cuthbert Spring to Cottonborough, as is not unfrequently
the case, he takes up his abode at the Anchorite's.
I am often at JNTethercrofts to look after my property, and derive great
assistance in its management from trusty Ned Culcheth, whom I have
appointed my bailiff. I have given JNed a comfortable farm-house,
where he is as happy as a prince — a great deal happier, indeed, than
many princes — for when he returns home at eventide, after a day's
work, he has not only a fond wife to welcome him, but three blooming
children to climb round his knees "the envied kiss to share."
TEE END.
LONDON :
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