: 33 - 'i c f • ^ . .V '^ .// f / THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD \ '^j5^^^<^^/. l^ .r JIT LONDON &NEW YORK. TrEORG-E ROUTLEDGE U ADVENTUBES OF wrnch. and nftorwarcls joi.io.l liiin as a recruit And Mr. Comber- b:u-h likfwi.o u.H-artl.ecl Hanks, the gardener who declared be was a .laoob.te evorv inch; ibr his « fbrefaythers" had kept the little inn at Didsburv, where the Jacobite Club used to meet, and dnnk the " Kin.T over the water." All the rest had some pretences or oth.T of alike nature to .Mrs. Mcrvyn's consideration, and she never investi.'atod their claims too narrowly, but rested content with the 1. 1,t'« as.Hurance of their eligibility. In short, we were all Jaco- luus, and the common folks nicknamed our place of abode " Jaco- bite's Hall." , u 1 f And in ca.se I should appear to be a very unworthy member ot a liouse whose partv feelings were so decided, but luckily so harmless, I may mention that I had as much right as anybody to call myselt a JacoLite, and could boast, like some of them, of having had an an- cestor lianged, seeing that my maternal great-grandfather, John Ley- burne, was tried at Liverpool at the sanguinary assizes held there in 17 IG. for his adherence to the Ciievalier Saint George, and afterwards executed at Garstang, near which place he bad resided. 1 easily found out that my lather was no great favourite with Mrs. ^Mervvn." 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 bad 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 h'er true value," .^he said — " never understood her quiet and deep aiVection. 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. Mervvn had boon always kind to me, but after this news she became even kinder tlian before. Eemittauces for my maintenance and education were regularly received from my father, but he ex- ])ri'Hsfd no interest whatever concerning me, and entered into no ex- pl:inati...ir ciirumstaucrs iuilL'ocl. He worked liard at his lessons, and, tliou^'h when he first came he was somewhat behindhand, he soon bid f:ur to outstrip us all. 1 must say tliis 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 U8 tormentinf^ him. This, however, did not serve the lad, but m.nde us use him still more unmercifully. But he never told of us, mid for this we seeretly respected him. In spite of all these distrac- tiouH, John Brideoakeniade great progress, and rose in the class, so that we were obliged to admit him amongst us. Still, he was not of us. 1I»' was now just below ine, but of course I did not notice him, for, indeed, 1 was one of the most determined of his opponents. One dav, while up before ]\Ir. Cane, I was construing some lines out tif Terence, and was at fjuilt for a word, when Brideoake whispered it to nie, 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, 1 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 tlie 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 aU. 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 1 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. Caiie and his cane. During this interval a change had taken place in my opinions resp.-cting John Brideoake. 1 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. Wiien 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 ami gratefully. The tears were in his eyes, for he was soft- hearted as a girl, and extremely susceptible of kindness, of which he had expenenced so little ; for tiie boys in the new class were just as haughty and reserved towards him as we had been. " Brideoake," ] said, " I have behaved very ill to you, but I am heartily ashamed of myself, and beg you to forgive me. Tou never resented my conduct, aa you might have done; and I'm very glad of It now, because 1 hope we may be good friends in future." '' I don't require any apology, Clitheroe," he answered ; "you have only to say we are friends, to efface ali recollection of past unkind- nese from my mind. Before this, I could not tell you how much MEKVTN CLITHEROE. IS 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, hare 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. Tou 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 beliaved so unkindly to him, and I replied, with much emotion, " You may not blame me. Bridecake, 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 ray friend, but do not espouse my quarrels. I could not bear you to be involved in disputes on my account. My wish is to ofi'end 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 him when in dif- ficulties ; and he would at any time write a theme, or throw ofi" a copy of Latin verses for an idle fellow, during breakfast time. As we were now constantly together, John Brideoake acquainted rae 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 beeu reduced, would neither apply for assistance to her husband's relatives, nor to her own, with whom she had also quarrelled. Slie 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 ADVKNTtrBEB OF I was 80 iinifh interested iu the description of his mother and his littlf MsttT Ai)|.liia, tliat I begged him to introduce me to them. He cohmred up whoii 1 made tiie request, and saiil he must first ask his mother's consent. The next day he told me she was very much obhj,'fd, but slie was unable to receive me. " You will excu.se her. Clitheroe," he said ; " but I have told you she is extreim-lv proud, and, to speak truth, she is ashamed of our lodpinps. We are too poor to receive visitors. Better days may coine, tt hen we shall be delighted to welcome you." 1 prc.ssed him no further. Opposite the school was a shop much frequented by ua all. Its owner was an odd character, by name John Leigh. He had served in the early Anicrican war, and'liad lost his right arm at the famous battle of Bunker's Hill. .lohn was a gruff' old fellow, not over civil or obliging, but there were peculiarities about him that made us like him, n'l 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 tlian pepper in the mixture, knee-breeches, not unfrequentiy besprinkled willi ffour, 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 liad 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 notliiiig of tarts, when iVuit 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 nu-al-cheats, 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 would run across there, and rumours of our goings-on would reach the masters' ears, and search would occasionally be made lor 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 uway 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 disapjx'ared ; some of us diving under the coun- ter, and others hitliug where they could. Shortly after, when Cane entered, no one was to be seen except John, close beside whose bulky legs 1 aTid two others were \y\n(^ 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. " Tliat's not a direct answer, John," rejoined the pedagogue, pi-remptorily. " There are six of my boys out of school— Lathom, ililton, Frogg, Sim|)sol by a melancholy incident. During the warm weather we were woul to bathe in the Ater, the place selected being a deep » 1 MEBVTN CLITHEKOE. 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 mmiber, and being fond of the water, soon became veiT 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. Never 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. CHAPTEE III. COKTAINING AN ACCOUKT OF MT GEEAT-UXCLE, JOHN MOBBEELET, HIS OLD DAME, AND HIS FAEM AT MAESTON. ]\IosT 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 iia 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 bi'iit his back, and shrunk up his limbs within his clothes. When walk- ing, he required the support of a stafi" ; and, besides being afllicted with the rheumatic pains generallj^ 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 promiuent, and, as lie had lost all his teeth^ c2 ■•x-ri 20 MKE AND ADVENTUEES Ci fivoufiitlv mot to{,'ethor as lie mumbled liis food, while from the same OMUM" l.is'spot'ch was not altogether intelligible. In manner he was somewhat testy, like most old fellows who have got large pockets with i)lc'nty of cash in them. But, notwithstanding tins, he was a good follow in the main, and was very much liked and re- gpeoted. As mav be imagined, his age and habits, as well as tastes, whollv 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 howling-green, at which he would sometimes take a hand, and where a seat was reserved for him by the cosy fire- Bide. To this snug little house some of the better inhabitants of the villag«' would repair to spell over the county paper, and gossip over a cheerful glass. Once a week, about three or four o'clock in tlie after- noon, according to the season, old John Mobberley would seize his staff, and after seanning 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 tlie power, and she did check their too frequent occurrence, being well aware of the excesses attending tliem, 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 1 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 fetcli him. One night I accompanied Sam on the errand. 1 had never seen my uncle in such a state before, and must con- fe».s I was surprised and shocked at his appearance. He was roaring out and ge.-*lieulating like a Bedlamite. On seeing me, whom he had not expected, he ordered a glass of gin-ajid- water to be given me, and another to Sam, while he drained that which stood before him. After tliis, and many futile attempts to keep steady on his seat, and to utter a few coherent sentences, he was persuaded, chiefly by the ^ who seemed to exercise some infiueuce over him, to go home. V» tine work with him in the fields, for he kicked the horn lan- tern, wliich I carried, into a clump of hazel trees, and while Sam wa« 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 liim 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 Boraewhat more careful for the next few weeks. MERVTN CLITHEROE. 21 My auut Mobberley presented an advantageous contrast to "her hus- band in personal appearance ; for though past eighty, while he was nearlv ten years younger, slie 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, AViliiam "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 outbviildings 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 ceutre of the house was occu- pied by a spacious apartment, witli 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 he used to wear when he went out with the North Cheshire Teou)anry, in which corps he served as my uncle's substitute. Also, a couple of horse-pistols, belonging to tlie 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 tire 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 sanded 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, 1' 22 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP roail luT Bible, or sonu' other good book, with her favourite white tom-i-at nt her feet — a huge animal, very gentle with her, but very npiteful to every one else, and to me in particular. My uncle's old «rm-chair ami spittoon were placed near the fire, with a little table close at hand, for the convenience of his pipe and tobacco-box; while, u[)on tlie 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- jiest period of my life. I liked the old farm-house ; I liked the life ed ; 1 had no distasteful tasks to fulfil — no Mr. Cane to apprehend ; I was constantly out in the opcu 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 «.«onfined all day in a public school, and iu 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. 1 used to troll for jack, and catch perch and carp iu the mere which lay iu 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 Bome mountain stream. My conversation turned wholly 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 tlie angler's art, and, so far from thinking it a " gentle" sport, am of opinion that it is a very cruel pastime : but 1 had no such scruples of sensibility then. If I gained nothing else by the pursuit, at all events 1 acquired a love of Nature. 1 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 w^ith in- terest, and listened attentively to their different songs and cries. To raise the wild duck or startle tiie coot from among the water-flags Vid bulrushes fringing the banks of the mere — to watch the heron, lith outstretched legs, and head between the shoulders, wing his jow and heavy flight across the water, and descend in some slieltered 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 Handpiper— 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 .118 ghostly flight. Sam and I contrived to surprise him in his haunt, oerched on a ratter festooned with dusty cobwebs at the top of the barn, and just when we had made sure of him, he dashed ri^rht in our -aces, knocked Sam off the ladder, and escaped. On relating the /ircumstance to my uncle, to my surprise he was very angry, and peremptonly forbade us to molest the owl, or, as Sam called it, the huUart, m future. I am sorry to say I resolved to disobey him for MEETTN CLITHEROE. 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 tlie end, I had better not liave meddled with him. I liave already mentioned that my uncle Mobberley was accounted very rich ; — what the extent of his wealth might be I didn't know, but I felt sure it nuist 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 manv relations, none of whom were in very flourishing circumstances, I 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 liim nothing beyond the active services which had helped him to save the fortune he thus meant to bequeath, she quite assented to his plans. Having no children of his own, my uncle looked about hia 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." From this date I was understood to be adopted by my uncle Mob- berley, and every one considered me a lucky dog. No doubt 1 had many enemies in consequence, and among the bitterest of them (though I was not aware of his enmity at the time) was INIalpas 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 could 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 JNl alpas's secret animosity towards me, I must explain how mat- ters stood in that quarter. Some tliirty years ago, when the llev. I 24 irFK ANP AUVENTURKS OiT "NVriiilov Sale, tlien lunvly rnterctl of the Church, and a very handsojn'9 youni; man, became tutor to the sons of Mr. Vernon, of Fitton Park, Ii proud (.'healiiro scjuire of larpe landed possessions, to whom Mar- 8ton, its mere, and a considerable portion of the country adjoining it I'olonged, he exempliiied in his own conduct how dangerous pro- linquity to n charming object may prove ; for he speedily fell over :.ad and ears in love with Lydia, the squire's youngest daughter. Mis passion was reiiuited, 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 5000/. on tlie 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 tiown, and the young couple vniited. There- after, Wrigley Sale moved in the best society in the county ; kept a g(K)d nag, hunted with all the neighbouring squires (for most country clergymen with good livings were fox-hunters in tliose 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 fev»- years afterwards Sale's position was greatly improved. His father- in-law, the squire, with wiiotn the advowson rested, presented him with the valuable living of jMarston wlien 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 he 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. Not HO, 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 witli Dr. Sale's aristocratic connexions and friends, and he declined all invitations to meet any of them at the vicnraLTe. Kor this tiie vicar was not sorry, as he began to feel nshaiiicd of an old uncle, trump though he might be, who had amassed a fortune by selling cheeses ; but his wife, who could not forget old John's generosity to her, and who was too conscious of lier own proud descent and high connexions to think herself degraded by associating with a worthy farmer, regretted the old man's ab- scfu-e. 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 rarely passed the gates of the vicarage. Of course, when stay- ing at Marstnn, 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 1, and much taller; very handsome, but effeminate-looking, MERVTN CLITHEBOE. 25 witli 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 eft'OOt, 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 ofi'end 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 whicli he had betrayed himself. This exas- perated him more than the bitterest retort I could liave made. " Take care of yourself, my lad," he cried ; " the game is not all your own yet. Consunnnate 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 20 LIFE AND ADVENTUUES OF havi' tola lies about you to my uncle. This I positively deuy. I have said nothing to your disadvantage to liini or to any one. As to uiulrrluind pract ic-os. "you ought to be ashamed of entertaining sucli uuworlliv .suspicions ;' but 1 suppose you judge of me by yourseli'. You have also called nie a hypocrite; and unless you retract the won What w-ill you do, my young cock ?" he interrupted, crowing like chant icloiT, and enchanted that he had roused me at last. " We shall gee — for I shan't retract a syllable. Now then, what'll you do ?" Mv answer was a blow, whicli 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." 1 followetl him out as he rushed through a side door. We went be- hind a havstack, and our jackets were oft' in a moment, lie attacked me before 1 was quite ready for him, and fought in a very unmanly wav, 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 1 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, RCornfuUv. " 1 do,'" he replied. " And you won't call my uncle ' old Mobb,' or ' the cheesemonger,' any more ?" Jle 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 staft". "Halloa! what's the matter?" the old man cried, between the intervals of a violent lit 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 bale say, Malpas, if she could see thee now, with that bleeding nose ? (Ugh, ugh.) And wiiat 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. JIc 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 liear either of ye. (Ugh, ugh.) ^,^' 4 V>.uja/ ^;.~. ^^''s secret intentions mic;ht be, lie did not publish them to the world at Nethererofts, 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. MAI.l'AS 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, witii tears in her eyes, that she didn't love him half so well as poor Tom. ^lalpas, who was an Etonian, had come home likewise, and never aUowed a day to pass without paying a visit to Nethercrofts, chiefly under pretence of joining me in my amusements, but secretly, I be- lieve, witli the view of gaining the good graces of my uncle, in which he fancied lie had made considerable progress. It was a winter of unusual severity ; and though the cold pinciied 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 tlie mere at six in the morning — almost before it was light ; and oil ! how 1 enjoyed the exercise,— what rosy cheeks I bad, — and what an appetite tor breakfast ! No tea and toast, nor any such eft'eminate luxuries then, but a good jorum of boiled milk and bread, or whole- Bome meal pottage. And as to the coarse viands at dinner, howl relished them !— how 1 devoured the pickled pork and peas-pudding, or the salt beef and cabbage, and huge slice of suet-dumpling sweetened Aitli treacle. Well, the frost increased in intensity; and after the lapse of a loriiiii^'ht, Marston Mere was frozen over — a circumstance almost without precedent, and such as had not occurred within my uncle's recollection, and he had known it for seventy years. The oppor- tunity wa.s 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 MERVTN CLITHEEOE. 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 beautifid 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, witli its tiny craft frozen fast in the water. Beyond this the banks rose still higher and more abruptly, and their sides were clothed witli 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 Culclieth, one of Squire Vernon's keepers — might be about a mile oft^, in a direct line. At first, the ice was strong enough, and we trampled down the flags and bulrushes as they appeared above tlie 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 tliere 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 tlie fish tliat 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 witliout alai-m, 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 tlien 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. AJl at once we became aware that the ice was bending uu- 30 MFK 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, It" it cracks, it'll swear, If it breaks " " Hold your tongue!" internipicd IMalpas. "Why tlie devil do you iiimtfon such a thing as breaking now r* 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- piuiiiug just beneath his feet, passing under mine, and sweeping on with aji awful noise to an immense distance. Malpas and I stared at each other aghast, inicertain 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 hack ; 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 ])ursued. AVe trod as lightly and moved as swiftly as we could, stepping on the points of our feet. Tlie 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. 1 now gave myself up for lost, and thouglit 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- siderahly in advance, and thinking I might safely follow where he went, 1 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, «o that my escapes from destruction seemed almost miraculous. For some time, my attejition 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 1 was much nearer it than I expected — scarcely more than a hinidred yards ofl", while the ice had become much firmer. But wliere was INIalpas ? Had he already reached the bank ? I could no- where perceive hiin. A vague apprehension crossed me that lie had «unk through the ice ; and my fears were instantly afterwards con- .♦irmed by remarking his cap only a few yards before me. At a glance I saw what had hapi)ined. 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 ni«ii 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 wa.s to bo discerned of him. 'J'he ice was as transparent as crystal, and 1 looked eagei'ly around for any object beneath it. The next mo- ment ! 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 movo towards it. He MERVTN CLITHEBOE. 31 understood me, and with a last effort struggled thitber, and got his head above the ice. But the frail support broke benea+^>h 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, I managed to lay my gun across the hole, and he 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 was 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 frigliteued, 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, whei'e 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 what had happened, nor where he was ; but when his dark eye lighted on me as I 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. " Toii'n had a narrow squeak for your life, and if it hadn't been for Master Marvynhere, yo'dha' been food for th' fishes by this time. You 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 hend. " I dunna like that lad,'-' he muttered between his teeth. " There's summut naw reet about him " AVith tliis 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. 1 was stepping back to him, but he motioned meott', 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 1 left him, and stepping outside the cottage found Ned, who bad been to fetch my gun and tlie 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' tliese dooks. Howsomedever, we won't say nowt about it. Hang that cliap inside ; I canna 'bide him. Take care he dunna do you an ill turn. You'n thrown a chatice away. If I'd Deen i' your place, w hen his head was once faii'ly uuder water, I'd ha' ^ LIFE AM) ADTENTUBES OF lett€n liim bo. No one could ha' blamed you, and lie'd ha' done you no more hurt." ^ . . , '* Hut 1 slioulil have blaiiuHl myself, Culcheth," I rejoined, some- wluit severely, for 1 was mueii displeased with the freedom he took ; •'or rather, 1 should never have forgiven myself, if I had acted in tlie way vou si'mgest. 1 would rather suil'er any wrong than commit the heinous crinie of allowing a fellow-creature to perish, when 1 could render him aid, even granting he were my enemy at the time, and, whicli 1 can scarcely believe, should continue an enemy afterwards." " Weel, them's Christian sentiments, I must say," returned the keeper, ra'tlier 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 hiean, 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 'em is worse than an injury inflicted." 1 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 verv good breakfast had been prepared by the keeper's wife, con- si.sting "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, while 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 mc with, I oftered her the wild ducks 1 had shot, and she appeared much obliged by the present ; but Ned laughed, and said, " Nali, nab ; it would be like bringin' coals to New- castle, to give her the dooks." Before 1 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 verifled. On seeing us, he nprang out of bed, and seized me by the throat; and it required all Ned's strength to get him back again, and bold him down. In a little time the paroxysm passed, and a shivering-fit ensued ; and as it was evident innnediate assistance must be obtained, Ned said my Christian charity must be i)ut in practice once more, and I must run for Simon Pownall, the village barber-surgeon, and he would keep watch over ^Master Mal|)as meanwhile, to prevent mischief H« 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 lor it, and I eet off as fast as I could to Marston. MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 3rf CHAPTEE Y. CONSEQUENCES OF THE ADVENTTJEE ON THE ICE. Simon Pownall, the barber-surgeon of Marston, was a strange, con- ceited little fellow, with whom I was well acquainted, for he shaved my 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," he 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 anotlier, he was very much feared, people took care to be on good terms witli liim. He had plenty of employment with shaviug 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 Nag'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 ? Be bound it's the old dame. Never recovered the loss of her cat. Been in a low way ever since — sinking — sinking — gradually sinking. 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. AVell 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 3-i LIFE AJiD iLDVENXUEES Of vices wiTO required. On hearing that Malpas and I had crossed the mere, he lifted up his hands iu amazement ; so did his appren- tice, Ciieetiiam Quick, wlio was ahiiost as queer a character as his master ; and so also did Tom Shakeshaft, the farmer, who had waited (luietlv all this while with his broad good-natured face covered with lather. '• Oh, la ! wonder you're here to toll the tale !" Pownall cried, after this general expression of astonishment. " Kisks 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.) " Olf 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 oft' 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-benetioed 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 1 saw on the sideboard as I passed the dining-room. Dr. Sale was a pompous, portly personage, with a rosy, handsome countenance, set oif by W'ell- powdered hair, and boasting a goodly protuberance of stomach, sus- tained by many a fat haunch of venison from Fittoii Park, whicli was now in the possession of his wife's brother, to whom in former days he had been tutor. Dr. Sale suftered from gout, and as his weight and corpulency prevented him from taking as much exercise as he re- quired, his temper suftered likewise. He looked much surprised at niy visit, and when I told him, as briefly as I 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 offcT 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 8on 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 n)atter is this, Mrs. Sale," replied the vicar. " Malpas, at the niatauce 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 half-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 13 not so bad as you represent, sir," 1 replied, hastenino- to relieve the lady's anxiety. " Malpas is, no doubt, in a feverish state. MERVTN CLITHEROE. 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, if you had not taxed me so unjustly, I should not have meutioned 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 ray soul! so you pulled him out, eh ?" cried the vicar. " Good boy — brave boy , but very rash to cross the mere — very wrong — many springs in it — which never freeze — dreadfully dangerous. And so Malpas is not in danger ? Well, that's a comfort — a very great comfort. Tou'U 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 togetlier. 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 thouglit 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 tliis 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 his 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 cliarge, 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 ia ; 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 1" Mi's. Sale then inquired into all particulars concerning the accident, b2 36 LIFE AND ADVENTUEES OF aiid I related them, I hope, with becoming modesty. She could not thank me aufficiently for rescuing her son. When we got back to the vicarage, Dr. Sale was so pleased with the account we broiiglit of Malpas, that he invited me to dine w'ith him, saving there would be giblet-soup, a tine roast turkey, andminced pies'. '" Bova alwavs like minced pies," he added, with a chuckling hnigh. " 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 Nethurcrofts, and ask my uncle's permission. " Prav do, my dear," said the vicar, who was now all blandnessand smiles, '' and 1 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 couvsidered 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." " 1 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. 1 was very glad of the proposed arrangement, for I hoped it would save me from tiie " rowing" I anticapated from my uncle, when he came to learn how my morning had been spent ; and I therefore seconded it very waniily. 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 a.scent being lined with picturesquely-disposed cottages, intermingled with ahrub.s and trees. At the top of the hill, the road turned off 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- thercrftfts 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 deliglit- ful to ob.serve the respect with which she was everywhere treated ; but her atlability and kindness fully entitled her to it. The news of Mnlpa.s'8 accident had spread about like wildfire — very likely owing to that gossiping Chetham Quick, whom we met running about — ^and frequent incjuiries 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 Dot 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 MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 37 gave but a poor account of herself, but was deliglited 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 jighly, that the old gentleman, instead of being angry, looked quite pleased with me. " Dost hear what Madam Sale says, Phoebe?" 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, tliat no more uneasiness need be entertained about him ; and this made his mother quite happy. We 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 miuced 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, I found, had gone out early to shoot. Malpas pretended to be very glad to see me, and thanked me, with apparent? 38 LIFE ANP ADVENTURES OF warmth, for the important service I had rendered him the day before. Sissy diiincd in, too, and was louder in my praises than seemed agreeable to Malpas, lor 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 remnrked. •' I in 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. perha|)s, just as well that at this juncture Simon Pownall presented liimself. " Aha! out of bed, eh?" he exclaimed, on perceiving his patient. " Knew liow 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-gla.ss 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 — " hu5 bridge over the Kollin, I overtook our friend liufus here, and was eliattiiig with him, when old Gaunt started off, and gave chase to this little bhick rascal, who dived into the hollow to avoid him." "And if I'd obeyed vour orders and ca'd Gaunt back. Master Malpas," Ned remarked,'" we should nother ha' found Master Mer- vyn, nor unkennelled these foxes. Howsomever, they shanna 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 witli- out delay, for if I finds 'em here again we'u see what Lupus and Gaunt can make on 'em." " Nav, 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." " A'arry weel, sir ; as yo' please," Ned replied ; "but yo'n find th' squoire's of my way of thinking, if so be be 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 1 have always had a liking to gipsies." " And so have I till to-day," I remarked. " Why, they lianna 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 vfo- man hasn't laid it on thick enough, eh ?" he said. " She told me a good many tilings ; and, amongst others, that I Sad a secret enemy," I replied, looking hard at him. " Oh! she told you that; and you believe her, I suppose?" he re- joined, with a forced laugh, and glancing significantly at Peninnah ; while Phaleg also looked disconcerted and angry. Malpas, indeed, •eemed disposed to address some menaces to the gipsy-woman, but her looks a|)parently checked him, and he cried out to me, " AVell, ^e've wasted time enough here. Come along, Mervyn." Hi' then went off, 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." MEKVTN CLITHEEOS. 49 " But Shakeshaft mayn't like it," I said. " "What does that signify ? Simon Pownall vsdll 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 liour. 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-niglit." " You're fery easily pleased, then, Master Mirfyn, look you. Put since you wish it, I will wear the hats. What a peautiful ponies you've got." " I'm glad you like him. Sissy," I rejoined ; " but it's no wonder, for he's from your own country." " You ton't say he's Wales ?" she replied, putting her arms round Taffy's neck, and patting his shaggy head. " There are no ponies like our Welsh ponies, look you." " And no peauties like your Welsh peauties, look you," Malpas re- joined, mimicking her tones, and glancing at her with so much ardour that Sissy hastily retreated, and closed the door in our faces. I told him he had offended her, but he laughed and said no woman was ever offended by a compUment. E 50 LITE AND ADVENTURES OF So we rode off; when, just as we got to the end of the lane, who »h(»uld we meet but Kufus, as Malpas called him, striding along at a preat pace, witli 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 tliought it advisa4jleto hurry on without a word ; nor did we again draw the rein till we reached the barber- Hurgei Ill's shop, where 1 left my companion, who wanted to speak to Simon about the gipsies, and made the best of my way to Nethercrofts. The day seemed unusually long to others as well as to me, but niglit arrived at last, and about eight o'clock — for we kept better hours in ^Maraton 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 witli her. A fire was therefore lighted in the fittle 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. " AVell, good night, and God bless thee, John," ray 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, Jolm ?" "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 ! tliose were liappy days. But I see Mervyn wants to be off, and I won't detain him with these dreams of past times, though my head's full of 'era, and I could ramble on for an hour. There, give me a kiss, ray own old man, for the sake of bygone times." ]\Iy uncle seemed pleased at the request, and complied ; and, put- tmg 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 behnid ; and Martha and Peter brought up the rear. We did not require a lantern, for the moon shone so brightly that It wa.s almo.st as light as day. On reaching the village, we found ail tlie 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 \vrapped up, and would fain have entered the MEEVTN OLlTMEROE. 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 afibrded from two old copper branches suspended from the great cross rafters, and from tin sconces stuck against the walls. At one 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. A-ware 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 I 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 Hps. 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 coinplimentar}- remarks among the female portion of them, who disliked Sissy for her good looks. I came to her rescue, and ibllowing Ned, she soon succeeded, by her coaxing ways, in restoring him to good humour. e2 52 I-^FE AND ADVENTtJEES OF By this time, Dr. and Mrs. Sale, and Mr. Vawdrey, had joined the assembhige, and seemed much amused with what was going forward. The vicur was uuwoutedly condescending, and his lady aifable as usual. They were accommodated with chairs, raised a little from the ground, so that they could command the whole scene ; and my uncle Mobborley was placed on Mrs. Sale's right, and Mr. Vawdrey near the vicar. I also noticed Plialeg the gipsy, and Peniunah, and little hue among the throng. Peniunah had a yellow handkerchief bound over her raven hair, and was otherwise rather gaudily dressed, as was Hue ; and Plialeg had douued his holiday clothes, and did not appear quite 80 rulfian-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 Pownall, 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 kuow. 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 w^hom 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, " Ton owe all this to me. I knew what master was after, so t changed the slices of plum-cake, and gave yours to Malpas. He ! he ! he !" My iirst business was to present my queen to the state party, and they all looked very much pleased wit;h 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 httle 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. lie had a jest for evervbody, and made everybody do his or her best. When he got to the top it was quite wonderful to see the capers he cut- bow he cantered down the middle, and galloped back again. And but little interior to him was Chetham Quick, whose lithe limbs were thrown about in a surprising manner. He was quite his master's double, and imitated aU his nourishes. In the course of the dance MEEVTN CLITHEEOB. 53 I found myself under tlie mistletoe with Sissy, but I did not dare to repeat Malpas's experiment, more especially as the jealous Eufus 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 thj 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 with 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 Eue 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 Fool 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 stalf, 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's hide, and partly of the skins of various animals, with a long tail dangling beliind, and a fox-skin cap, with lappets, on the head. This was the Fool. 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 munniiers was welcomed by shouts of laugh- ter from the whole assemblage, and the hilarious plaudits increased as 54 LIFE AND ADVEKTUHES OF thoy drew up in the middle of the barn, and, unyoking themselves from the plougli, prepared for the dance. Tlie spectators then formed n ring round tliera. 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. Tha 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 IJessie 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 tlie company, and the mummers were brought by Simon Powuall to be presented to the king and queen. All went on very well till it came to the turn of the Fool. Just as lie 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 mth 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. Sale had re- tired, for I should have been really sorry if the latter had witnessed it. AVHien his passion had subsided, Ned seemed heartily ashamed of himself, and scarcely dared to face his wife, who 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 Shakcshaft, and it proved to be so good that even the vicar and the curate condescended to share it with him. When they departed, which thoy did with Mrs. Sale at ten o'clock, pipes were nroduced, the bowl was replenished, and a party of my uncle's old Jsag'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 was pro- ;J^ ,'^ .."v ffi.l ' MERVTF CLTTHEROE. 55 CiJumed 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 result 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." CHAPTEE VII. SHOWING HOW MY UNCLE MOBBEELEY ANB I WERE VEBY PAINFULLY SUEPEISEB ON CUE EETUEN 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. " Night-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 hiin, 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-place. 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." tf8 LIFE AND ADVENTUEE8 OF " Nah — nail — mestcr, hoo wouldua go to bed, and yo' out," old Susan replied. " Dame llutchi'son went whoam at ten o'clock, that's two hours ago, for it's just on the stroke of twalve now. To' be'n late 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." '• IMaybe hoo's asleep," the old woman remarked. " 1 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 et'ter 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 thouglit 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 wert 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 r"' 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 SDint 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 had read, and so expired. A candle, long uusuuffed, 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 comj)letely 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 his 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. 1 . i .."^i. i t"" '^/'^ \ t*"""'' ''■''^" ^ ^<^^<^ ^^^e«. ^v poor Phoebe," lie ejacu- iated, that 1 should never see thee more aliVe— thou that hast been my partner for more than fifty years !— and better partner man never MERVTN CLITHEEOE. 57 had, truer wife, or worthier woman. I knew it must come to this at ]ast, — 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 liim- self, he added, " "Well, thou art only gone before me, for I 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 witli his hands, wept aloud. It was a deeply-aflFecting 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 he 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, sucli as he had shed the night before. Malpas also presented liimself, 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 — " Te 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 OK 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 hitn wliich she wo\ilil liave answered, he looked well-nigh bewildered. Sometimes he \\ould ghmce towards the sofa on wliich she had sat, as if about to address lier, 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 tlie 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 wisli 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 1 would fain liave 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, I an- nounced it to him. He seemed loath to part with me, but did not remonstrate, as lie knew I must go back to school. I went over to take leave of JNed 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 liad been committed upon their out- door property, and JN'ed suspected the gipsy, but had not been able, aa 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 Is'ed was convinced tliey 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 quit? haunts the place." MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 59 " "Well, take care of yourself, Sissy," I replied. "You've got a good husband. Don't throw him away." " Tou give me fery coot atfices, Master Mirfyn. Put ton't be afraid. I love my husbants 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. Grripper'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 thought 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. Mervyn, 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 he had asked me to stay then, I should have complied. But he did not. My things had been sent oflf 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 auditors 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 he hurried me off, saying : " And now, good-by, and God bless thee, Mervyn. 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 otlier 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 — i)ut mum's the word wit> 236." (50 LIFE AND ADVENTURES 0? CHAPTEE VIII. A GLANCE AT COTTONBOEOUGH — APPHIA BEIDEOAKE. A WONDROUS town is Cottonborough ! Vast — populous — ugly — sombre. Full of toiling slaves, pallid from close confinement and lieatcd 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 von mighty structure, many-windowed, tall- chimneyed, vomiting fortli clouds of smoke, to darken and poison the wholesome air. Listen to the clangor and the whirl of the stupendous and complicated macliinery within. 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. Tet 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 liglited up, and tlie gleam from its countless w^indows is seen afar, looking like an iHuminated 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, tliat, 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 lie 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 motives-one aim, and one end — Monet. 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 liave got MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 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 yoimg girls — how different were those sallow faces, bleached like their own calico, from the rosy- cheeked, brown-armed damsels of Marston ! I passed through the far-spreading suburbs, consisting for the most part of long rows of mean-lookiiig 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 oif — 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 aflected 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- fiire, 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 thi'ough the mire. Then 62 LIFE AND ADVENTUIIES OF there were the sots at tlie doors of the public- houses, with the recruit- jiif^-sergcant amongst them, holding out his lures, by which some of tliem 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 8pinuyford ; 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 done with me, what a deal Mr. Comberbach and Mrs. Chadwick made of me ! And what a nice little dinner Molly Bailey gave us ! — how 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 bugged the pillow with delight. But not quite so pleasant was my return to school, for I bad been 80 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 bad plenty to tell them, while on their part they had much to relate to me. We had long confabs at John Leigh's, which 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 llill heru could desire. I have not yet mentioned John Bridecake, 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 iiave 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 liome at si.x 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. JN'ot 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 tiie back of John Leigh's shop, and I asked Bride- cake to share the meal with me, assuring him there was enough for both of us. He was very diflideut, but I overcame his modest scruples, and nothing could exceed the heartfelt satisfaction 1 experienced at MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 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, " 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 Ofiices of Cicero ; would dip into the Thebaid and Achilleid of the wordy and turgid Statins, 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 pliilosophers, 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 afibrded. But no personal consideration could check his ardour, and he worked on like one determined to win the race or perish in the eftbrt. 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, wliom I knew at once must be Bridecake'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 54 LIFE AND ADVENTUHES Oi? worm was there — and the bloom, now so delicate and fugitive, would 800U, I feared, be altogether elfaced by sadness and waot. " 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 wliat is the matter with him, but he is so faint and weak tiiat 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 liim, 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 afiirmative, she blushed slightly, and continued : " I thought so the moment T 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." " AVell, I will teU you," she replied ; " for I am sure you mean so kindly that mamma cannot be offended, and even if she is, I must bear lier 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 mornin"." And the little cliild, looking gratefully at me, hastened away. On re-entering the school 1 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. MERVTN CLITHEEOE. 65 CHAPTER IX. INTEODTJOES A BENEVOLENT PHYSICIAN ANB A DECArED GENTLEWOMAN. De. Foam was a stout little man, with a head like an olH 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 launclied 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 welhlilled book-shelves ; and, noticing the glance, he told me every room in tlie liouse 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 Imow," 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 hid 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, " Jolm 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 ij/H LIFK AM) ADVKNTUKE8 OP whole place bore marks of extreme poverty, even to the miserable fire, ou whii'h a small pan was set. Some of John's school-books were Iviu" 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- uake came forth. 1 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 iier. 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. "Not yet," she answered, in a tone that did not admit of dispute. " Not tiU Dr. Foam has been here. If he permits it, you shall." And she returned to the room whence she had come, and I 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 ot 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 ia gone !" she ejaculated, despairingly. " I 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 .ortunes, 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." ^ MEKVTN CLITHEBOE, 67 As she uttered this outburst of selfish sorrow, my heart bled for poor little Apphia, who was weeping and trembling beside her. Meanwhile, I had taken John's arm, and feeling the returning pul- sation, calmed Mrs. Bridecake's frantic transports, by assuring her that ber son was not yet lost to her, I sprinkled his face with water, and in a few moments he opened bis eyes. Their gaze alighted on me. " Ah !" he murmured, faintly. " Dear Mervyn here ! I have seen him — I shall die content." " Tou are not going to die yet, John," I replied. " Be of good heart. Tou have many years in store for you, Tou must Hve for your mother and sister." He looked at them ruefully, " I have prayed fervently to Heaven to spare me for tbem," 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. " Tou 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, " I 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, for 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, "No, 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 Llt'E AND ADVKNTUUES 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 stiilness and dignity as if she herself had sent for him, and intended to fee him handsomely. "You perceive to what I an\ 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 1 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 for me, — if only for the sake of former times." " I entreat you not to refer to those times, doctor," Mrs. Brideoake said, coldlv. " 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. iSliow me to your son." " I must again apologise for the room, doctor " " Pooh ! pooli ! 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 e.\amination. Some time elapsed, which seemed much longer to us than it was really, before they came fortli again ; and when they did so, I augured well from the plivsician's cheerful looks. Doctor Foam seized a 1*1* • chair, and poppnig 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 apologie.s, and telling lier there was no harm done except to the chair, which he would mend with a new one. Not liking to trust hunself to another equally crazy concern, he continued standing, and Apphia went up to him timidly, and asked him how he found her brother. "I am glad 1 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« MEEVTN CLITHEEOE, 69 lias greatly overworked himself, and bis frame is m a most debilitated condition. If be bad been allowed to go on as he is now, fever would have supervened, and have speedily taken bim off. But there are no really dangerous symptoms about bim ; 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 l)ave 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. •' Tour professional aid I am willing to receive, doctor, but not your money. That I must positively decline. As you well know, I need not be here now if I would 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 tor that, and have shown that you understand my feel- ings too well. 1 leave all in your hands." " Delighted to hear it, madam," returned Doctor Foam, gleefully, " You will attend strictly to my directions respecting your sou. Give 70 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF him the medicine, wliicii will be sent in by the apothecary, and a glas^' 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 cflieacious. I wish you good morning, Mrs. — ah ! let me see- Hrideoake. 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 nie to get into it, telling the man to drive home. During the ride thither, he questioned me particularly as to Mrs. Bridecake'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 with him that they were less to be pitied than their mother, w^hose 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, — wiU you allow me to ask you one in return ? I 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. I 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 of wine, to the same addn-ss. " And here," he added, " let this easy-chair be taken to the same place, and one of my flannel dressing-igowns. D'ye bear?" Tlie servant having departed to execute his behests, he turned to me and said, " I must now tell you to whom I mean to apply for the Tclief of this poor lady. It is, as you see, a case of peculiar delicacy and difficulty, in wliich I am not allowed to interfere personally. Your relative Mrs. Mervyn's purse is always open, while her eyes are MEBVYN CLITHEEOE. 71 closed towards the object of her bounty. The channels in which her benevolence flows are only known to those who claim it. I 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. Bridecake," 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 wiU 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 tlie 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 sufiered in the Rising of '15, I am sure I have said enough to enlist your strongest sympathies in her behalf." " Tou 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 coff'er, and, taking out a roll of bank- notes, gave them to the physician, adding, " I very rarely wish to know whom I 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. " I 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. I am always ready in such cases, and more particularly in one where my feelings are deeply interested, like tlie present." " The sum you have given is more than ample to meet any present emergency," said the doctor, who had glanced at the amount of the notes. " And now, Uke all solicitants who have obtained their suit, I 7:2 LIFE AKD ADVENTURES OE must make niv 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 sliall 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. " Mei'vyn will like to see so celebrated a person, so he shall dine with us too. I shall expect you and vour learned friend, doctor." The physician bowed. " I tliink 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 1 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 way 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 was 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 were spread on the table, and had evidently been partaken of by mother and daughter; perhap.s the fir.st hearty meal they had enjoyed for months. A bottle of old Madeira was opened, and its fragrance perfumed the apartment. But tlie cliiof object of attraction was the invalid himself, who was seated in the easy-chair sent by the doctor, and wrapped in the worthy nmn'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 l iliiliil % ilEETYN CLIXHEEOE. 73 iips, Dr. Foam turned to Mrs. Bridecake, 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. Bridecake'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 uj) to him. " Tou must let me see the roses wliich you will pick up at Marston." " That I will, sir, — I will bring you plenty," replied Apphia, taking the words literally. Meanwhile, 1 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. CHAPTER X. A VISIT TO THE BUTLEE S PANTET A DINNEE PAETY AT THE ANCHOEITE's — DE. BEAT AND ME. CUTHBEET SPEING. When any secret information is required, servants are sure to furnish it, and what Mrs. INIervyn could not have learnt from me respect- ing the objects of her bounty, she had already obtained from Mr. Comberbach, 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 liangings and decapitations ; and I wondered what plea- sure Mr. Comberbach could have in contemplating them. Tlie scaf- fold on Tower Hill was repeated at least a dozen times, the prominent figures being Kilmarnock, Balmerino, Lovat, and Charles Ratclifie, 74 LIFE AND AUVENTUEES OF Lord Derwentwater's brother. There was the execution on Ken- niugton Common of the unfortunate Jeinmy Dawson, whose Me Sheu- stone has so patlietically bewailed, and tlie 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 bv our butler to be those of his luckless progenitors. A waggish friend told him he must have lost his own head when he 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 oflered. 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 web. 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 uuder- 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 liis own name.) ' No, sir, we 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 r' ' 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 werry good tap here. I don't care 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 havt any friend at school as is unwell, and as comes of a Jackeybite fam'ly I sees it all at once, and, says I, ' Yes, mem ; John Brideoake, whom MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 75 he and the doctor have been to wisit this morning, afore they corned here. His fam'ly is Jackeybite, mem.' " "How do vou know that, jVIt. Comberbach ?" I asked. " How do I know it?" our butler replied, with a cunning smile. "N'ever 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 march 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 liave played my grandfather's part, and shouted, — ' Live Charles Ed'ard, and down with the 'Lector of Hanover !' " And in his excitement he knocked ofi* 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 ]\Irs. Mervyn said when he told her about John Brideoake. " AVhy, 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 tlie 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 obsarve, in my missis's name, tliat 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 r"' " Oh, yes, I'm aware of all that, Mr. Comberbach ; bat 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 ADVENTUEES OF "The Earl of Mar did vow and swear, If that proud I'rcston he came near, Before the Kight should starve, and the Wrong should stand, lie would drive them into some foreign land. With a ia 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 thougli, after wliat I had hoard in the pantry, I expected to be questioned by her, she made no allusion whatever to the Brideoakes. On returning from school next day, in anticipation of the dinner partv at which I was allowed to assist, I found our butler and two liired 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. '• VVell, sir," he said, with a smirk, " they're come, sir." " AVho're come?" I exclaimed, almost expecting him to meution the Brideoakes, upon whom my own thoughts were running. " Dr. Foam and his iriend, Dr. Bray, sir. Lor' bless us. Master Mervyn, it's a parfit pleasure to see a man like tiiat. He's none of your every-day humdrum parsons, as wears a black coat and white choker like other folks — not he ! He's fidl dress, band and cassock, shorts and silks, and a wig, sir, — ay, sir, sich a wig! Ituk him for a bisliop when I sees his full-bob, and he tuk me for a lora when he beholds my brooch. And werry respectful bows we makes each other, till at last Dr. Foam kindly undeceives us. I w^arn'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 1 thought the AVigs 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 liis fat sides and walks off, for he sees he's no match for me at a rippertee." And our butler grinned aiul -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 tliis hint 1 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, tliat 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, be added, "Ah! my young friend, I didn't know you were here. My exclamation was occasioned by a very curious discovery which I have just made in glancing through this Jacobite correspondence. I have chanced upon MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 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 iiufortunate 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 wdth 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 w^e approached the formidable ])ersonage 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, /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 ! AVell, 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 riglit, I say again. AVhatever 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 ADVENTURES OF hastily retired into the library, almost apprehensive lest he shoula try whether a good flogging ^vould give me an appetite for dinner. Probably he \yas only jesting though ; for I noticed a smile cross his cynical features as he glanced at Dr. Foam, \yho appeared greatly ainusod. AVhether jesting or not, I \yas glad when the first dinner- bell rang, giving me an excuse for beating a retreat, and I left the two classical seniors talking about Yossius and tScaliger, Bellendenus and Warbnrton, Bentley and Person. About half an hour afterwards, on coming down stairs, I met Mr. Bartou 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 1 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 conyert to your Jacobite opinions." " Nay, sir, I am of Mrs. Mervyn's opinions already ; for though I will not say vyiiat I miglit have felt, or how I might haye acted at the time of the llisings 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. Mervyu 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 Meryyn, a staunch cavalier, who fought at Edge-hill, Marston Moor, and Naseby, 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, T tliink?" 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. Brideoake ; so much so, that I almost expected to hear Dr. Foam make a remark to that effect ; but whatever he might think, he kept his opinion to himself " But, my dear lady," Dr. Bray observed, " there are two otlier 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 son — homines spectati'ssimae fidei — very loyal-hearted, de- termined men." "You liave judged correctly, and characterised them justly. Dr. Bray," Mrs. Mervyn replied, with some emotion. " Both were dis- MlsfcVYN CLITHEEOB. 79 tinguished 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 ot 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 Oottouborough. His lady was a little inclined to embonpoint, but still very 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, statel}' 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. When 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, often wliistliug as he talked. The next was the Kev. Hardicanute Ereckle- ton, a large man, rather pompous, inclined to grandiloquence, and fond of a quotation. Mr. D'Ewes and Mr. Freckletou, having made tlieir 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. Freckletou applied to him, during his presentation to Dr. Bray, was richly deserved : " A merrier man Witliiii tlie limits of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal." so LIFE AND ABVKNTURE5 OF lie liad great vivacity of mauuer, 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 attaclied 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. ]\Ir. Spring had some reason to recollect the circumstance, for in riding home from the wedding he broke his arm. But Cuthbort was no less remarkable for soundness of judgment than for good spirits. He was always ready to advise or to serve a frifiid, 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 dilUculty that admission could be obtained to him. AVhat 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 ])lace 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 ; wiiile ten to one but the papa would repair to the same quarter to inquire into the said young gentleman's eligibility. Thus, in many ciises, 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. Kather 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 w'hisker and beard, there was notiiing to interfere with tlieir effect. His brow was lofty and ample, and his bright, merry blue eye " begot occasion for his wit." His maimer was singularly prepossessing, and he had much of the courtesy of the old school, without its formality, as in liis 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 ; thougli 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. AVell, thank Heaven! pigtails, powder, and periwigs are gone out. I oncewore 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 bis wigs, for he had two, one of which was daily pow^dered and dressed for him by Stoby, the perruquier. You should have seen him strut MEEVTN CLITHEEOE, 81 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, wliose wig they very much admired. He was supposed to be paying his addresses to one of them, though lohicTi was not exactly settled, for both claimed him. Exactly opposite their residence was a shop kept by a widow, who was young, and extremely lively and captivating ; and for these reasons, I sup- pose, and because she attracted the young sparks of the town, tlie 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 vsdth 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 oflending 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 anytliing wrong about my wig ? It was only dressed last night.' ' AVe know that, doctor ;' and they added, with fearful emphasis, ' and toe also knoio who dressed it.' ' Eeally, 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 teU 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 he 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 Rosetta, 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 IVIrs. 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. Freckleton. G 52 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF " A very comfortable dining-room, madam," Dr. Bray observed to Mrs. MervyD, looking round with satisfaction. " I like your old oak panels, I like your carved sideboard, and I like your old plate, Nothing like aii old house. I am reminded of one of our ancient collegiate halls." " Koyal Stuart turtle, or Hanoverian mock ?" Mr. Comberbach in- terposed, oti'ering 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 1 care not if I pay court a second time to the Stuart." " Very glad to "hear it, doctor," Mrs. Mervyn said. " Allow rae to recommend a glass of cold punch." " Made after LordWiddrington'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, IVIr. 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. " Arc we to infer that you have run away from your wife, doctor ?" Mrs. Harbottle asked, witli 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 Kibble salmon, with Townley sauce, was now handed round, and met with universal commendation ; and Dr. Bray thought it so good, that he said to IMrs. 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 tlie 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, I am glad you like it," Mrs. Mervyn replied. At our part of tlie table we 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. " Pilclier," 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 ow« || counting-house. But when the tooth-drawer came — from fright, 1 " MEEVTN CLITHEEOE, 83 suppose — the pain entirely subsided. "What was to be done? He couldn't send back the man empty-handed. He must pay him bis 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 your 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. Eoam'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 -RToth ; 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 Grladsmuir cutlets seemed to tickle his fancy, and also to tickle his palate, for he asked for a second supply ; and the fillets of rabbits, a la Chevalier de 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 IVIrs. 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 not raised the voice of reproof against calf's head with Nonjuror Sauce, because I must admit the sauce so named to be meritorious ; but I 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 tliat does not appease me. Mr. Comberbach, take away this pie." q2 84 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF " Take it away, sir ?" our butler inquired in astoniabraent, " Tou are not aware liow good it is, sir. It's our cook's shay doovrry " That may be," the doctor sternly rejoined, " but I cannot allow it to remain. There are limits even to toleration. Kemove it, I say." " Wben you goes to Kum, you sbould do as tbe Kummuns does, sir ; and when you dines with a Jackeybite lady, you should make up your mouth to Jackeybite fare," our butler observed, with more than ilia 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," Mr. D'Ewes cried. " I know its excellence of old." " So did we all," Mr. Freckleton added : • The pie — the pie's the thing. Wlierein 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. " Really, 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." " AVhat's in a name ?" cried Mr. Freckleton : -" That which we call a rose, By any other name would smell as sweet." " Thank you, 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 weZZJoc^or'^," 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 MEBVYN CLITHEBOE. 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 Ion 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 he 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 partake 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 only 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, eli ? 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, he belield a ragged, scraggy, unsiglitly, utterly uneatable object. The hare waa trussed for rousting, but it was boiled. ' Boiled hare ! Who ever heard of such a barbarous proceeding ? The cook must be mad, or drunk.' gQ LIFE AND AT)TENTURES OF ' 1 ordered it ao,' ]Mr. Oldcastle calmly replied. ' Let me help you?' ' No, thank you. I'll wait for the woodcock.' And he fumed and fretted till tlie new "dish a|)peared. * AVhat's this ?' he cried, as the servant un- covered it. ' JJoiled woodcock ! Tou 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 kitclien, incompliance 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. Eed wine with red meat." " "\\M1, madam," Dr. Bray observed, after grace had been said and tlie 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 Foam 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 edeutulum,' " 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, 1745; and the main body of the Prince's forces had marohed from Wigan to Cottonborough, where preparations were made for his reception. My grandfather placed his house at the Prince's disposal, but it was thought advisable that he should be in the town ; and, therefore, Mr. Dickenson's house, in Mai'ket-street-lane, was chosen. My grandfather had joined the Prince on the march into England ; and when a halt was made at Preston, he rode on to procure all the aid he could. About ten MERVTN CLITHEEOE. 87 o'clock in the morning, Prince Charles Edward, accompanied by M. d'Eguiiles, 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 Mervyns 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'Eguiiles, 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 W' rongheads 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. Tou 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 driuking-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 re{)lied, " He wore a Highland dress and sash, and a blue bonnet with a white rose iu 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 wiue." "Perhaps you may have heard, madam," the doctor said, "that it is my custom to smoke a pipe after diuner. You look shocked — but it is so — and wherever I go, I am indulged. The flnest ladies of my acquaintance, and the moat delicate, permit it. Even royalty respects 88 I-IFE 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 lilled 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 1 cannot bear the smell of that dreadful weed." "Nor I," Mrs. Addingtou 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 tlie room was presently in a state of semi-obscurity, Dr. Bray seemed in elysiuin, and thougli he presented a very odd and incongruous ap- pearance in his canonicals while thus employed, his conversation was JO amusing, and he started so many subjects, displaying such ingenuity of argument, such wit, and sucli 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 Widdringtou punch, which seemed to give tliem 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. Addiugton observed. " Eeally 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. Addingtou and Mrs. Harbottle a violent lit 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 coiiibiued influences of the punch and tobacco had made some impression. " Consider the great Dr. Bray." " Consider a fiddlestick. Tiie great Dr. Bray is no excuse for your making yourself disagreeable. Don't approach me. Mervyn, give me that bottle of ca« 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 tlirown open, and a purer air admitted. I must not omit to mention that Dr. Foam carried off with him the volume of Jacobite correspondence. MEB.VTN CLITHEBOE. 89 CHAPTEE XI. I LOSE MT TJNCLE MOBBEELET, AND BELIEVE MYSELF HEIE TO HIS PEOPEETT. I EOSE 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. Riding 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 was still prowling about the country. My chief business being at the keeper's cottage, I went there first, and, tying TaflTy 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 JN'ed 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 I 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. " 1 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 wiii dow, and pointing out a boat, which was rapidly nearing the shore. AVe 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 IjWE and adventures of his horny fist. Gaunt and Lupus, and the rest of his four-footed companions, scrambled out of the boat after him. Ned had got plenty offish, and ofibred me a fine jack, ifl liked to take it to Nethercrofts. I then explained the object of my visit, and was particularly careful to describe the family to liim. When he had heard me out, he ex- clainied, " Weel, an' what does Sissy say to it ?" Slie 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 'Tea,' wi' a' my heart. An' we'n get a' ready for 'em." So the thing was fully settled to my great delight. Ned appeared 80 glad to see me, tliat 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 comed 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 Claylands, 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 : " Dunna 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 Taffy 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 jaen, 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. I 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?" MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. 91 " He goes theere more nor usual, an' drinks more nor's good for 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' th' 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 shoe 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 year 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 oft"." " 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 mail is a mere child in my hands. Does as I bid him. It rests with me, therefore, whether he makes a new will or not. Understand now — eh ?" " Perfectly — I perfectly understand you, Pownall. You mean to 92 LIFE XJ^O AUVENTUEES OF insinuate that you can induce my uncle to leave you his property, if vou choose." *" Oil, 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 wortii sometliiug to be quite sure of two thousand a year. How much should you say, sir ?" " I liaven'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 vour 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. " 1 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. Rather 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 silly notions hast thou got into thy head ?" Finding him in no Immour 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. IJrideoake with the arrangements I had made for the accommodation of herself and her family at the keeper's cottage at ]\rar.''D ADVENTURES OF and promptly obeying the summons, I found him seated by the fire, on wliich some lialt'-consumed parcliments were hissing and crackling. He bade me push them further into the flames, and as I obeyed him, J perceived that one of them was a bond from Dr. Wrigley Sale for 4000/. 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 ])acket tied with a piece of black tape, sealed, and endorsed thus : " V:i)t ICast ZmU mt} STcstamcnt of 3o^n ittobbcrUg." 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," carefuUy 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 with the other papers." The bureau, 1 may remark, stood in a corner of the fireplace, and the room being small, the bed was not far from the window, wliich was partly open. Tlie 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 duor 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 hud thrown a great heap of pape'-s on the fire, which were burning slowly. Not seeing the will where 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 the house, and, on my replying in the afiBrmative, he desired me to call him. MEEVTN CLITHEBOE 95 The barber-surgeon glanced at the grate as he 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. Tou know what I mean to do with my money." " Pretty nearly, sir," Simon replied, looking laard 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 suflbcated. 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 went 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 2000Z. 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. Ned 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 ray 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, just to let tlie 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 scliool. 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- 96 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF doliii!:!; with mo on the sad event which had just occurred, begging me to make tlie vicarage my home, and to come to them as soon as I .iked. 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 neiglibours 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 "Toung Squire," placed me at the bead of the table, in my uncle's chair, said they were right glad the old man's money bad 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 somewliat 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, wlio 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. " Eank 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 tlien 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 afiected, for he refused the drumstick of a fowl which I ofiered liim, 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 tlie evening. Soon after this the party broke up, everybody, except Pownall, renewing their congratulations to me as they went away MEKVYN CLITHEBOE. 97 CHAPTEE XII. A NOCTUENAL ALARM. It had been arranged that I should henceforth occupy the room above that where my poor uncle 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 kiud 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 staud- ino^ 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 tlie crickets on the hearth and the ticking of the old clock. Tliiiiking 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 t called out loudly, but the men were too sound asleep to hear me. Hannah, however, whose bedroom ad- ioined that of my uncle, opened her door, and asked what was the .natter. I told her that robbers were in the house; Avhereupon she hastily retreated and bolted her door, while I ran up-stnirs, and with some difficulty aroused the men, who were all very much astonished and alarmed. During the time occu])ied by them in huddling on their clothes, T got my gun, which was reared in a corner near im^ bed, and, loading it, put in a good charge of swan shot. We then went down stairs 11 9S IJtE AND ADVENTUEES OF together, but when I explained to tlie men that tlie noise proceeded from my uncle's room, they shook their heads mysteriously, and de- clined entering it. " We shau see nowt there belongin' to this \varld,""WilI Weever said. " AVi'il, I'll go in, it' no one else will," I cried, cocking my gun. On tins, 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 iu readiness for action. In this state we advanced to the door. After a moment's breathless pause, during which Hannah's bead was again popped out, the door was thrown open by Will Weaver, 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 tlie small panes of the uncurtained window. 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 j-nom, 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 cue was found, nor was anything discovered to indicate that a robber had been thei-e, 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 a slight person might easily get between them. However, there was nothing to prove that such had been the case. Still, 1 was not satisfied, and insisted iipon the men going with me round the premises, to ascertain that no one w-as lurking about. IJefore doing so, I again endeavoured to rouse Talbot ; but though I jjushcd him with my foot, he neither growled nor stirred. "What can be the matter with the dog?" I cried, "He seems (juite stupified." " He's afcard — 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 «'.dled to him to surrender. To our surprise, the gipsy came forward, saying he had something worth knowing to tell us, but I must lower my gun, and ])romise 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 : " To'n repent it, when it's too late." Q V^ma/ -^ (u/^ MERVYN 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 tlie trigger ; but 1 instantly ran up to the wall, and, descrying him running across the crot't, fired at him. I had not taken any precise aim, but I am sure I hit him, for he uttered a loud cry, and w^e 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 oif anything. No 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. lis WHICH MY uncle's WILL IS READ, XSD I EXPERIENCE THE TRUTH (( OF THE PROVERB, THAT " THERE S MANY A SLIP TWIXT CUP A>'D LIP." Simon Pownall came early in the morning, and when told of the nocturnal disturbances, he shook liis liead gravely, and said he knew what they were. The old man couldn't rest till his will was read. But when Pownall heard about tlie gipsy, his countenance changed, and he wished I had sliot 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. Not 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 OF congratulate me, but he made me several ducks with his bullet head as liis master introduced me in the following terms : "In this young geutlenuin, Elkanah, you behold Mr. Mobberley's heir. This is Master, I should say Mister Mervyu 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." " No, sir; indeed I wish we had," ElUanah 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 AVilliam 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 well pleased to have the advantage of sucli 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." Tlie 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. An4ater, sat down on the stump of an old tree to meditate. Wliile thus musing, I perceived Ned Culclieth rowing his boat, in a very leisurely manner, across tlie 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 nie, 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 tlie 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 witli Sissy, and spoke of her good looks and good-nature with childish admiration ; while Sissy, from Ned'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 corned back fro' Nethercrofts," he said. " And if lie 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 comed 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 niunnot talk on't now. There's little missy wonderin' what we mean." " What is it, dear Mervyn ?" Apphia asked, fixing her large blue eyes inquiringJy upon me. " I have been building castles in the air, and they have melted away," I replied. " That's rather above my comprehension," she rejoined ; " but I MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. "til can see it is something that distresses you, and therefore I's: sorry for it." " Land us for a moment near Throstlenest-lane, Xed," 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 sliould like to send a nosegay to the invalid. Tou 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, w^e 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 I 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 lield out that her nascent charms would be brought to maturity. I watched her with the greatest interest. What witchery was there in lier every look and every movement ! What transports of delight she exliibited 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 IS'ether- 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 ISTethercrofts 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, tlie 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 lier," Peninnali rejoined, " and I don't wish to injure you, my pretty gentleman, tliough you've hurt my husband, and tried to take liis life. I bear you no malice. If I wanted to do you a mischief," she added, with a look tliat made Apphia tremble in my arras, "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 OF at Phaleg, tliou<]:li lie was goiug to do you a good turu at the time. But liow should you know that? You weren't likely to trust him." " iS'o, indeed," I replied. " And 1 scarcely know whether 1 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 ?" 1 asked. " That's for him to settle — not me," she answered. " He bears 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 mouth hence you shall know," the gipsy-woman said, at length. " A month hence! that's a long time," 1 exclaimed. " Tou may thank yourself for the delay," she rejoined ; " you've wounded Phaleg, and he won't be quite w^ell till that time." " Oh ! then, I'm to have an interview with him, eh ? Where is he ?" " You 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 Friday. On Friday 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 1 know he's one as isn't easilv frightened. He'll run no risk now ; and, as I said afore, if he goes the right way to work, he'll larii suinmat t(. his advantage— ay, greatly to his advantage." " V .^'V' I'Jl 1^'wp the appointment," I said. " But you must tell me w-hich 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 ? 1 ou look as if you could." " I can, if I choose," Appiiia replied. " Then you must choose and do so now, for it consarns him more MEBVYN CLITHEEOE. 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. Tou 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 cried. " If I do, it's for your own good — as well as for hers," she rejoined. " And now I've done. Eecollect 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 : " Tou 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 Ice 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 liave been a listener likewise ; and I determined to concert I 114 LIFE AND ADVENTURES 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. CHAPTER XV. I MEET PHALEG AT MIDNIGHT IN MARSTON CHURCHYARD, AND MT UNCLE MOBUERLEY's GHOST APPEARS 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 lelt 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 Nethercrofts, 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. 1 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, 1 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 1 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 father 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 moat indecorma — MEEVYN CLITHEROE. 115 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. Tou 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 liis 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 bystanders. Amongst those who were loudest in censuring me was Simon Pownall, and he found many to agree with tim. 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 Nethercrofts 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 wdth 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. Tour 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, I 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. Tou 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 llg LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF Such were the terms of her letter. Not wishing to return for the reasoua I have stated, I therefore wrote to beg she would allow me to remain a month where I was, and she kindly complied with the request. I liave said that I spent the greater part of my time witli the Brideoakes, and I had now not only the companionship of little Apphia, but of John, who liad 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:is 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 I no longer entertained any apprehensions for him. All his ardour and thirst for knowledge returned, and, if he had been allow-ed 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 way by his mother. He was a strange boy, John Bridecake ; 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 we left him when we landed. At such times he was taxing his memory to the utmost, recalling passages in the books that were 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 watclt the shadow of tlie 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 liini talk ao 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 tliat 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 tliem. Even John's strong mind was subdued by her And now that I was so much with them, and, as MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 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 Avife 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. Bridecake. 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 slie 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 -aW overtures, and on two or three occasions wlien 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. Whatever the risk might be, I was resolved to run it. Not 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 tlie neighbourhood, or kept out of my way, for I isaw 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 chetli, 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 ou his part. After due consideration this was agreed to. It might appear that I should have some difficulty in leaviug Nethercrofts late at night without explaining my errand ; but 1 gave myself little concern on tliis point. I had known the men slip out too often during my poor uncle's lifetime, not to feel quite sure 1 could manage matters in the same way. ( )li ! 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 riglit 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. Tlien 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 liim, 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 myself 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 wliich 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. 1 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 miglit be merely echoes of my own, for as I once more halted the sound suddenly ceased. Still I felt uneasy, and an undefinable 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 were following me, I thought it must be Phalcg, 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 marsliy grounds adjoining MERTTN CLITHEEOE. 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 eves 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 Mobberlej, but the next moment the moon was again hidden, and it melted from view. I was dreadfully frightened, 1 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. Tes, after a while there was a cry from the church tower, and a great white, ghostly object flitted pa^ 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 hlack jagged object appeared before me. It was a yew-tree, and I then knew precisely where I was, for this tree grew at the back of the I'JO LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF churcli, 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 tliroiigh the air, wlion a figiire emerged from the gloom, and a voice, whicli I recognised as that of Plialeg, exclaimed, " Hist! where are you ?" " Here," I replied, stepping towards him. " I see vou 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 tliis ? 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 waru'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 tliis 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 w-ould be cheap to you at two thousand, but I won't drive a liard bargain. I'm tired of tliis 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 missin' will, and puts you in possession ?" " If you do, the monev'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 standing near me, howled and ran off. " What the devil's tliat ?" my companion ejaculated, in tones that bespoke his terror. MEETTN CLITHEROE, * 121 Another hollow groan responded to the exclamation, and the moon bursting forth at the same moment, revealed the ghostly figure of my uncle Mobberley beneath the yew-tree. He appeared to be standing near the edge of an open grave, into which it was fortunate I liad 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 bis death-like features. We both gazed at the apparition in mute terror. I would have spoken, but my tongue refused its ofiice. 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 take vou unawares. Have you any objections to mv tellin' him where to ■find it ?" " Let him go home," the ghost rejoined, significantly. " Nay — nay, that'll never do," Phaleg said. " I cannot take all this trouble for nuffin." " Nor I," I cried, having drawn my own conclusions from their l'J2 LIFK ANU ADVENTUBES OF discourse. " I don't Jiieaii to stir hence ; and I'll take good care tbat you, Phalcg, don't stir either, till I've obtained the inlbrmatiou yor promised me." " You hear how the little bantam-cock crows ?" Phaleg exclaimed, with a laugh ; " there'll be a reg'lar light 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? Tou'U rest more comfortabler in your grave, I dare say, if I keeps your secret ; but if 1 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 genTman," 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 ; hut 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'll 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, 1 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 liis bludgeon with tremendous force at my head. Luckily, 1 avoided the blow by stooping, and I heard the missile take eff'ect 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 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. AVith a fearful oath Phaleg ruslied 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 liim on. In spite of the threats of the gipsy, I shouted for aid at the top of MERVYN CLITHEEOE. 123 my voice, and was iiistantly answered by the keeper. Phaleg had caught me by the tliroat, as the only means of silencing me, but he was now obliged to leave go, and dashing me, half-strangled, upon tlie 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 be proceeded towards the churchyard, to see whether I 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 thj* gipsy without further delay ; on which Ned immediately put his bloodhoimds 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, W'hen fortunately, a momentary burst of moonlight pointed the gipsy out to us, a good way ofi', 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 wMth the hounds. To keep 124 MKE ANU A-i)VKNTUEES OP him in view, however, was no easy matter, for, the gleam of light having been instantly withdrawn, it was now dark aspitcli. In spite of all our eflbrts 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 1 watched for another gleam ! At last it came, and then we found that, instead of being ahead, as we supposed, the gipsy had 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 oatli, 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. 1 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 liad 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 tliough he had thus liberated himself from one foe, Phaleg had two others, yet more formidable, to contend with. It MEETTN 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 tneir 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 darkness, 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 bad 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 ofl' 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 I-IFE AND ADVENTUUE8 OF MERVTN CLITHEIIOE. other's arms, and I loft them together, and proceeded to Nether- crot'ts. Ou the way thither I passed through the churchyard, and examined the grave into which Simon Pownall had fallen, in tlie hope of finding him there still ; but he was gone. The events of that night did not tend to elucidate tbe mystery of my uncle INlobberley'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 1 was quite certain it was he who had played the ghost, for 1 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 days afterwards I returned to the Anchorite's. BOOK THE SECOND. BOOK THE SECOND. CHAPTEE I. IN WHICH IT IS PEOBABLE THAT I SHALL FOEFEIT THE EEADEE'8 GOOD OPINION, AS I DISPLAY SAD WANT OF TEMPEE, AND SEEAT LNGEATlTtTDE ; AND GIVE MY ENEMIES THE ADVANTAGE OVEE 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 darklv 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 ray figure, and urged me to go into the Life Guards. But these flattering comments did not turn my head. Thus much I may say for myself, and I hope without vanity : I excelled in aU 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, sind 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 iip 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 worn 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- rtties, 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 K 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 howr 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 wish that I should go into ixie 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 m*e. 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 ray eyes. But as good Mrs. Mervyn has an ob- jection to our noble service, and desifes 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, MEEVTN CLITHEBOE. 131 John was staying, for the recovery of his health, at Ned Culcheth'a 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 B. G. S., and matriculated at Cambridge at the same time as myself. We were both at St. John's College, but he 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 aU 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 vsrangler, was astounded and angry at his failure, and never forgave him. He ouglit to have died rather tlian 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 Bridecake took holy orders, and became curate to the Eev. 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. Bridecake 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- cake'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. Bridecake'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, Appliia 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 personam 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. e2 132 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF At last, tlie way was paved to an intimacy by Apphia. The now blooming girl of sixteen was taken by Dr. Foam to call on Mrs. Alervyn, and the latter was so pleased with her, tliat she insisted upon her passing a few weeks at the Anchorite's. Mrs. Bridecake 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 bim it was indispensable to her happiness that mother and daughter should live with her, charged him with a message to that effect to JMrs. Brideoake. The worthy doctor seemed apprehensive that he should not discharge his mission very satisfactorily, but he succeeded beyond his expectations. Whatever arguments be 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 tins 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 was 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 tlie 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 were fond of meddling with otlier 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 brotlier and sister, and I think she was quite as fond of me as of her own brother John. I am quite sure if I 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 dehght that no other commerce of friendship can bestow ; and the MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 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. Bridecake 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 hand-in-hand together as we had been wont to run in Dunton Park. JN^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 witli 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 bad now grown into a reniarlcably 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 my part, but I tliought, notwithstanding his good looks, that he had a sinister expression. There is no denying, however, that lie 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 2000Z. 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 feUow-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 coUege, 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 2000Z. per annum in expectancy, his good manners, and his hand- MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 135 some person, lie 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 woula 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 10,000Z., 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 wiU. 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 it. 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 ADVENTUUE8 OF been led mto expenses by keeping liigh company, and, in a word, made every excuse he could devise for the dashing young Guardsman. Malpas, he said, in conclusion, was now lully 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 weiglit 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. AVhen he again waited upon her, Mrs. Mervyn informed him that she was willing to lend his son 2000?. 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. Mervyn 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 ine, if I regarded my own interest, not to attempt to dictate to Mrs. IMervyn in future. My first impulse on receiving these letters was to hurry back to England — I was then sojourning at Rome — 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 vi(;ar, reminding me of the obligations I was under to my bene- factress, and hinting (as I have since learnt he had no authority for MEEVTN CLITHEBOE. 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. Merv^a, 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 tlie 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 : " Tou 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. Xo 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. Tou are aware of the loan which Mrs. M., at the pressing instance of Dr. and Mrs. S., has been induced to make Lira. 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. AYhether the wily lady may have any ulterior views in respect to him, I cannot ?ay. But this is anticipating. Let me go on. Eight or wrong, the .can Avas accorded, and a few days after the money was advanced, M. S. called to thank Mrs. M. for the favour done him. Tou know 138 LIFE A.NU 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 inlallibly have been excited. Mrs. M. was delighted with him — and not she alone, but Mrs. B., who rarely finds visitors to her tat^te, honoured hini 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. AYell 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 afiianced 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 I must repair the error I had committed without delay. I must drive the enemy from the vantage-ground which I had foolishly allowed him to occupy. I must return at once. This resolve taken, my preparations were quickly made, and I set off from Kome, 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 ? MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. 139 CHAPTER II. FEOM WHICH IT WILL APPEAE THEEE IS SOME TEUTH IN THE SATIK6, THAT THE ABSENT AEE ALWAYS WEONGED. 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 Villeneuve on Lake Leman, and thence by steamer to Geneva. No 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 I'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 tlie 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 Eome, 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 ! None of my friends knew where I was, or what had befallen me. For nearly a fortnight after my accident 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 Cottonborough. The journey was quickly mflde, 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 witli the murky atmosphere, threatened to choke me. Everything wore a cheerless air ; and a sense of coming 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 I-IFE -A-ND ADVENTURES OF say I would present myself to her at noon next day, I set out to call on inv friend, Cuthbort 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 tliat 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 Eome 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 lieart, that you had returned a month ago. That accident near Martigny was most un- toward. Tour 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. Mervyu, 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. Tou cannot expect them to study your interests." " Hang tlie 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. Tour sole chance of setting yourself right Avith Mrs. Mervyn depends upon prudence. Make a scene, and all will be up with you," MEEYTN CLITHEEOE. 141 " Tou 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 fill my glass. I complied, and, after raising it to my lips, sum;jioned up reso- lution to remark •, " Tou 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 say 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," he 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 Malpas 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 in a state bordering on distraction, made my way to the inn. 142 LIFE AND ADVKNTUKE8 OF CHAPTEE III. DESPITE ME. aPJilNO'S ADVICE I MAKE A SCENE, AND DO NOT IMPEOVE 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 suflered 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. Tbe 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 wiiich 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 I should return. But brief space was allowed me for the indulgence of such sentimental MEBVTN CIiITHBEOE. 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 he 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 Anchcrite'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 efiectually 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-servant, 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 bad 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. "Ton 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 — ot^ " 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 <( 1-4J LllK AND ADVENTUHE8 OF the staircase. " Mrs. Brideoake shall not prevent me from seeing her." " Tou mustn't do it, sir," the butler cried, rushing after me in i. state of great excitement. " INlissis 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, whicli 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. Tou understand." " Tes, 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 ? Tour tell-tale looks show that my suspicions are correct. She lias not. Go to her at once, and an- nounce my arrival. Say I entreat permission to see her." " But i)r. Sale is with her, sir." " What does that signify ? Do as I bid you. Tet stay. Is Miss Brideoake witliin ?" " Tes, 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 flung 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 liave 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 tliere 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 !" " Tou do not wish me happiness, Mervyn. Tou cannot wish it MEKYYN CLITHEEOE. 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. "Tou should have both, if you stood in need of theiix," 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 tor pity?" " Oh, Mervyn !" she exclaimed, in a supplicating voice that quite overcame me, " do not taunt me thus ! It is uugeuerous of you. Ton have occasioned aie so much misery, that you ought to compas- sionate rather than reproach me. If I liave 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 ?" " Ton never wrote to me ; and after a while I began to conclude that otlier objects had banished me from your recollection." "You were never absent from my thoughts!" I cried. "You are connected with every place I have visited. I never beheld a beau- tiful scene without thinking of you, and wishing we could liave 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 say you never heard from me. How can that be — if wrong has not been done us ? 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 14G LIFE A>0 ADA^ENTURES OF was a silly promise and coiild not be kept — you had evidently forgotten nie. And so, indeed, it seemed, since you never answered the two letters 1 addressed to you at Koine, 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, 1 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 Home 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 diseugaged herself from my hold. " This must not be," she said, gently. " You have spoken truly, Mervyn. Fate 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 aftright — " she is here." I turned and saw who was beside us. A great change had taken place in Mrs. Bridecake'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. MERVYN CLITUEROE. 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, ^nd trying to make her disobedient. Luckily, she knows her duty better. But how comes it," she added, in a strange, low, impressive tone to Appliia, " 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. Bridecake 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. Eely 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. Tou 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 j^ou — you will fail. ]S^or, so far as Mrs. Mervyn is concerned, will you gain anything by the intrusion. She will not see you. She is deeply oflfended with you — and, according to my view of the case, 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, iudifterently. " Mrs. Mervyn is acting under my advice, and as I have the care of her, 1 shall not permit an interview which might be attended witli 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 l2 14.« MFE AND AUrKNTUUES OF you give him," ^Irs. Briilooukt^ replied, with a contemptuous smile at me, as the door upoiied, 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 oiiTfrocogniliun he condescended to bestow upon me was a su- percilious look, which added fuel to my wrath. " And pray what has INlr. Mervyn Clitheroe been good enough to say of me ?" he remarked, addressing Mrs. Bridecake, and displaying his white teeth. " He says that Mrs. Mervyn and I are the dupes ot a trickster. You 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. INIervyn Clitheroe should say malicious things of me, since he tinds himself completely cut or.t. If I do not notice bis 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 vou — yes," Mrs. Brideoake answered, with marked emphasis. " You will find Mrs. Mervyn in her room. Your fatlier 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, aiid 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. " You shall not pass this way. You shall not enter her room," I cried. "You imagine you can prevent me, do you, sir?" he said, deri- sively. "Ido." " 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." " Y^'ou 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 hopa to gain anytiiing 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. rM/VV\At^f" MEBVYN CLITHEROE. 149 " Now, sir," Malpas said, laying aside his 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 tliat 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 wliole 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 enougli to undermine her liealth, 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 lier hands, and sobbed aloud. Oh, Heavens ! what I endured at that mome«t. All at once, Dr. Sale's torrent of objurgations ceased. Not from any want of supply ; but a glance from Mrs. Brideoake told liim he was rather overdoing it. He contented himself, therefore, with glaring furiously at me, and seemed inclined to order the servants to turji me out. Mrs. }3rideoake however, conceiving the presence of 150 T-irK AM) ADVENTURES OF tlie menials to bo no longer necessary, signed to them to leave the room; whereii[)on Mr. Comberbach and his companion rather reluctantly departed — possibly to solace themselves by listening at tbe door. " If you have a spark of good feeling left, you will instantly with- draw," "^Mrs. Brideoake said to me. " Tou 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 tcar-diinmed 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 witli 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. " Tes, 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 liarsh in it, but whicli 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 tlie 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 uuhappiness — 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. " Tou would do wrong to expose yourself to like danger again." MEETTN CLITHEEOE. 151 A retort rose to my lips, but I checked it, and looked earnestly at Mrs. Mervyn, as if awaiting tlie close of my sentence. It came. " I will not say what I have looked forward to from you," the good lady pursued, sorrowfully rather than reproachfully. " 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. " Ton see he cannot control his temper now." " 1 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 ingrate I am represented ? Tou, 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. Bridecake said, advancing towards her, and pushing her daughter aside. " Tour 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 u 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. Tour 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. Sale exclaimed. " Tou are acting in a spirit of forgiveness and ge- 152 LIFE AM) AUVKNTUnES OF nerosity almost witliout parallel. Mr. ^NFervyn Clitheroe ought to fe^ deeply beliolden to you." I took no notice of tlie vicar's remark, but addressed myself, with such composure as 1 could command, to Mrs. Mervyn. " I hope vou will not think me insensible to your great kindness, dear INIrs. jNlervyn," 1 said, "nor impute it to unwillingness on my part to accept a tiivour from you — 1 liave accepted far too many to have anv such scruples — if I, in' all thankfulness, decline your proflfered bounty. All 1 desire is to be reconciled to you, and to atone for the errors I have inadvertently committed." She was evidently much moved. After looking wistfully at me for a moment, siie iield 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. Bridecake had interposed. '• Do not give way to this weakness, madam," she said, " or the j)eace 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 otter, it cannot be helped. Perhaps a little reflection may make him cliange liis mind." I let the insinuation pass without remark. " In any einergenc}^ you have me to apply to ; and do not hesi- tate, dear Mervyn. Lot that be understood," my relative said, Isindly, and pressing my hand as she spoke. " And now, my dear, 1 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 deai- — no more," Mrs. Mervyn rejoined. "You shall hear from me, and perhaps But I will not raise expecta- tions that 1 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 1 siiould 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 <( ilEnVYN CLITHEEOE. 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 was passing, Atrs. 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. I 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. "1 made a decent show of resistance," be said, with a half smile, but I'm glad you didn't take me at my word, 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. Tou 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, Tabyan 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 tlie whole house had turned against me, but 1 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 I 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 soiu'-looking Fabyan Lowe in attendance. He eyed me, I thought, ratlier 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 lie took me to the Palace Inn. a 154 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CHAPTER IV. RECOUNTING MY FIRST HOSTILE MEETING, AND, IT IS TO BE HOPED, MY LAST. My first business, ou arriving at the inu, 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 liim witli 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-b}', the waiter entered to inform me that Colonel Harbottle was witliout, and begged to speak with me. I desired the man to show him in, and the next moment the fat little colonel madfe 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. " You 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." " Very well, sir — very well," the colonel rejoined, blowing his nose MEEVrN CUTHEEOE. 155 with a sound like a trumpet. " You could not be in better hands than in tliose 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 enregle^'' Colonel Harbottle said. " But since you are both impatient, I will not balk your humour, unless Mr. Cuthbert tSpring 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, overwlielmed 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 lOOOZ. 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 witli a serio-comical expression of countenance peculiar to him, and gave utterance to a low whistle. "Here's a pretty kettle offish!" he exclaimed, as he took a seat; " but it's just what might be expected. The peace wasn't likely to 1 156 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF be kept if two such fire-eaters as you and Malpas clianced to meet. I ought to tako 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 llarbottle and myself. Ton are to meet an hour before midnigiit at Crabtree-green, near the Eaven's Clough." "I know the place well," I observed; "it lies between Dunton Park and the river Eollin, a little to the right of the Chester road. A retired spot, and t?uitable for the purpose; but whv need we go so far?" " For a very good reason," he replied. " Tour adversary is obliged to return to the vicarage at INIarston with his father, and cannot make anv excuses for absenting himself without awakening Dr. Sale's sus- picions. Indeed, the doctor is exceedingly distrustful as it is, and in- sists on liis son accompanying him. Under these circumstances I could not oiler any objection to the arrangement." " Certainly not," I cried, in a tone that almost startled him. "I would not luive 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 thev 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 knife 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 tiiauked him, and told him I h'ad a case of pistols. " I could have sworn it," he replied, with a droll look. " You wouldn't be Charles Clitheroc'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 vou. And this brnigs 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 tliem to be sent as addressed." MERVTN CLITHEROE. 157 And placing them in his hands, I explained their purport to him. lie seemed at first disposed to offer 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. Rushton, 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, Cutlibert 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 oflfer 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 waggons and carts, all laden with bales of tbe 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, witli little gardens in front, lined the way for miles. At last, we camo \ipon 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 ADVENTUUES OF did not disturb me. Suddenly, I was aroused, as from a troubled dream, by Hiuiiiig wo bad arrived at Duuton. The tSlaiiitord AniiM, wlicre we alighted, was a comfortable coun- try inn of the good old kind — now sadly too rare — and noted for its exfollent cookery, its old port wine, and its well-kept bowling-green. Jt had been inucli frequented in former days by rollicking Cheshire squires. We were shown into a pleasant room on the grouud floor, with windows looking upon the bowling-green, and walls adorned with pictures of hunters celebrated iu the county. In due time a nice little dinner was served. My companion did full justice to the good cheer, and, all tilings considered, seemed in excellent spirits. I am convinced he did not dislike the excitement of the alfair. 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. AVe 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 backwards 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 ine 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. Rushtou, 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 waiter came in to say the chaise was ready, and we all prepared to depart. ]\Ir. Rushton's private carriage was waiting for him at the door, and it was arranged that he should follow us. AVhile I was getting into the chaise, having previously deposited tlie pistol-ease W'ithiu 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 ofi' along the Chester road. The sound of other wheels informed us that the surgeon was 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 Mansion Mere, with the old church tower just above it. As we approached D'untou 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 Ibliage. MEEVTN 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. 1 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 liaunts ; 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. -Rushton followed more leisurely. Crabtree-green was a small common, bounded on the left by the river Eollin, which flowed in so deep a clianuel 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 Eaven'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 fuirther 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 tlie 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 quitt stream, the thirst of vengeance, which had hitherto consumed mo, subsided, and I felt reluctant to take the life of him who had so deeply injured me. 160 LIFE AND ADVENTUEES OF Heariug sounds as of persons approachiug along the lane leading to the green, I returned to C'utlibert Spring, whom I found on a per- fectly bare piece of ground, about lifty yards in front of the scathed oak." Mr. Eushton 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 sliarp 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 handkercliief 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. 1 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 I never swerved from tlie resolution I had formed while gazing at the river. The handkerchief was waved, and we both fired at the same moment. I am certain 1 could have killed my adversary ; but I had no such intention. I raised my arm aloft, and discharged my pistol into tlie air. The seconds ran towards us, making anxious inquiries, accompa- nied by Mr. Rushton, 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 pi-stoi dropped from my grasp. /•|i';r f+'^T? MERVTK CLITHEROE. 161 CHAPTER 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 you 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 chdose 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 Sir. 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 nettled. It is scarcely what I expected from you." A flush had spread over Malpas's face while I was speaking, and 51 162 LIFE AND ADVENTUBES OF it was witli 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 wmII give no further license to his tongue." " Softly, sir— softly," Cuthbert Spring interposed. " My princi- pal has oflered vou full satisfaction, and you ought to be content. Colonel Ilarbottle, I am sure, must be of my opinion." " I am, sir," the colonel rejoined. " We can ask no more than we have ohtained. Still, I may be permitted to observe " " Xay, 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 tliat he has conducted himself throughout the affair like a man of honour. Good night, gentlemen." Whereupon he and Malpas 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 Aould 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. " Wliat are you doing here at this time of night, fel'.ow?" " 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'l'folk chooses to settle their quarrels wi' pistols or swords, Ize nivir interfere wi' um — not I. I likes the sport too well." " Tou had better be off to your tent, wherever it may be pitclied," Malpas rejoined. "And here, you shan't go empty-handed," he added, giving liim 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 healtb, 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 MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. 165 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 off" so easily." " Bless your honour, capt'n, I've nowt to fear. I've left off poachin' this many a day. I be an honest tinker now by trade, and so be my eon 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 off 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. Eushton had bound up my arm, and was making a sling with a silk handkerchief to support it, when Phaleg came and planted liimself 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 liave seized the rascal without hesitation ; but though the odds were in our favour, I doubted whether we could master tlie pair of ruffians. Cuthbert Spring liad threatened to use the pistols, but Phaleg knew well enough tliat the weapons were not loaded. It might be as well, therefore, to temporise. Moreover, I called to mind the mysterious conversation I had had with the elder gipsy in Marston Churchyard some years ago, and resolved to try whether anything could be extracted from him. M 2 164 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF " No liarin shall be doiu' you, Phalef?, if you keep quiet," I ob- served, iu 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. " Tou 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. Wiien 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 gerCVman. 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 astonisliment 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 he daungerous," Phaleg ct-ied, 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 T expects civil usage, and I'll have it," he added, with another deep oath. "Tliere, 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." AVithout another word he turned away, and motioning to his son, they ran towards the Eaven'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. Eushton concurred with me iu opinion. " But don't suppose," I said to Mr. Spring, " that I have done with the MEEVYN CMTHEEOE. 165 pascal. I mean to have anotlier interview with him 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 T 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 tliat 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 sufiice, 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. 1G6 LIFE AND ADVENTUEES OF CHAPTEE VI. A SUMMER M01l>'lNa IN DUNTON PAEK. — SAD IjSTELLIOENCE. 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 neckercliief 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 sallieji 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 sliot Malpas, I might ever afterwards have been a prey to remorse. Certainly, I 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 tranquillisiug 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 "3 only taken. While I was thus musing, the sudden flight of the herd of deer which had been coucliing beneath the shade of some evergreen oaka MEEVyN CLITHEEOE. 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 inade 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 tin 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 larn that you got hit there — by accident, of course, sir." I turned off" the question with a laugh, and directing my attention to the liound, remarked, while patting the animal's liead, " AVhat a noble 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 xVbbey. He were sent to Squire Vernon fre* 1C8 LIKE AND ADVENTURES OF foroiixn parts, ami tli(> s.]uiiv <,mc(1 him to me ; aiul a better gift he .•ouldu't liave bestowed— for 11 ubcrt—1 calls him Hubert, sir,— hadn't his match." m\ " A perfect hound, Xed, I'll warrant him," I replied, regarding *' him with a sportsman's admiration—" he bears about Wun all the marks of keen scent, great swiftness, and extraordinary force and endurance. AVhen J first beheld him just now, I called lo mind an old distich by a huntsman of Lorraine, which might be engraved on liis collar : * M}- name came first from lioly Hubert's race, Souyllard my sire, a liounil ot sintrular 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 kee()er replied ; " but poor owd Gaunt be still livin', though too stiff for work, so 1 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 iiad 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 always 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. " I 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 BO. 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, Tou know what she were," -^ ^; i %l I MERVTU" CLITHEROE. IGO " 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 Bay a word about her goodness. It were her misfortune taat 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, inexpressibly shocked; " but I hope I mistake their meaning. At all events, let me implore you to think kindly of the dead." " Sissy beu't dead, sir," he rejoined, with a stern look. " "Would she were ! Then I could truly lament her. She have betrayed me — she have left me. But she ben't dead — no — slie 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 fiilin' i' constancy to her, I could as soon ha' failed in duty to my Maker. But," he added, with intense bitterness, " I suppose I wam't handsome enough for her — I warn't fine geu'i'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 valleyed her more than silver and gowd — irore than a' the treasures on airth — fcr one wlio only took her for an hour's pastime, and then cast her off". I 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 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. '' Tou'n excuse me, sir," Ned said, constraining himself at length. " I'm not often i' this wav, but the sight o' vou, and the wav vou 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 Sissy at the door to look out and wel- 170 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF come rae — no cheerful liearth wi' Sissy sittiii' 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 any 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 tp beat." And kissing the locket again, he replaced it softly in his bosom, and then sprang to his feet. " Tou 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 iise 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 forth 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 sliould 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. MEEVYK CLITHEEOE. 17] but could gain no tidings whatever on her — and to this blessed daj I ha' learnt nothing." I reflected for a short time, and then said, " It doesn't appear, from wliat you tell me, Ned, that you have any clear proof ol 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 who 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 ot injury ? Is not my wife as much to me as the gen'l'man's wife be to him ? And if the gen'l'man wrongs me so deeply that notliing 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 Avith 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 tliis 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« gethfr 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 larn, siu' she left nie. I ha' taxed him wi' it, as I tcll'd you aibre ; but he deuies the charge a'together, aud 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 !" " Kidic'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 to bear 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. Tou have been far too slack, Ned. Tou 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, jfirmly. " Tour 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. Tou shall have all the assistance I 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 spy. Hyke, Hubert ! to him, lad!" As he uttered the words, the hound bounded off, as if unleashed, to- MERVTN 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. tie 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 1 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 Avere to put him upon that pryin' young warraint's scent now," Ned observed, " he would hunt him down fast enougli. 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. Thej' 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 hira and his son on Crabtree-green last night. They seem to dog me about." " Do they ?" Ned cried. " Then I'll dog them. Leave 'era to me. I ben't a bit afeared on 'em. Where be ye stayin', sir — i' Marston ?" " At the Stamford Arms at, Dunton. If not there, I shall be in the neighbourhood." " Tou 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 liis course down a }ong glade sweeping in the direction of Amounderness House. 174 LIFE AND ADVENTUKE8 OF fHAPTEE VII. 1 AM INTUDDVCKB TO AN ECCENTRIC ELDEELY GENTLEMAN, FAMI- LIARLY STYLED OLD HAZY ; WHO, THOUGH NO CONJURER HIMSELF, IS MUCH 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 ! Years 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 — if 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 tliis 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 mj^ 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 t..e «acrer." " It accounts for it partly, but not entirely," I replied. " My relative must iiave some particular interest in Mrs. Bridecake, or slie Avould 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. " AVhile yon 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?" jMr. Spring cried, laughing. " JMany a random shaft has hit the mark. But, as I said just now, all this is mere conjecture. Mrs. Brideoake may be of noble origin — and if hereditary nobility were universally characterised by arrogance and haughty l)earing, 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 ! AV^ouldn't that be enchant- ing, aunt!" '• Poll ! 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," INfiss Hazilrigge said. " And a very fine thing, too, aunt," Ora remarked ; " and if John Brideoake were only to become a loi'd, 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 jilace between Malpas Sale and Apphia, positive explanations as to who the Brideoakes really are must take place." MEEVTN 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 Laving 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 OBTAIK AN INSIGHT INTO JOHN BMDEOAKe's HEART. I FOUND John Brideoake's little domicile without difficultv, having carefully noted its position in passing through Weverliaiu ou 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. Tliere was a cheerful look about the little habitation that delighted me, and I lingered iu tlie garden, admiring its beauty and arraugement, 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, liastened 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 1 gazed at him. If he could have stood erect, John would have bccu above tiie 20G LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF average height, hut his slender frame was prematurely bent, and his 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. 13ut in spito of their emaciation his features were liandsome — I might almost say beautiful ; and his eyes were large and lustrous — too lustrous, indeed, w Ir'u viewed in connexion with his pallid cheeks with the ominous red spot upon them. Wliile 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 aft'ectionate warmth of his greeting, 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 ])leasaut room, looking upon the garden, embowered W'ith roses, and furnished with book-shelves laden with the works of divines and Avriters on ecclesiastical .history. Amongst them I distinguished South, Strype, Stillingfleet, Tillots'on, 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 difterences — 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, 1 cannot for a moment doubt, dear John," I replied, "and fortunate it is for those amongst whom you are tiirown that they have such a pastor and friend. But you must take care of yourseli", and not tax your energies too far. The country about you is very beautiful — indeed 1 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 well elsewhere, for then I should be anxious about my little flock. No, Mervyn, the end with me cannot be far ofi", and I trust to ba MERVTN CLITHEEOE. 207 permitted to breathe my last amongst those whom my precepts and example may benefit. I shall not be able to accomplish half tlie work I would fain perform, but while power is granted nie 1 will never abandon it." Eecalling the singular conversation we had bad 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 liave told you, I am strongly attached to my flock, 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 tlie 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, 1 am forced to come to the con- clusion that she never loved — in t,he 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 wretclied- 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 Uliristianity 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 eftace the sense of 20S lilVE AND ADVENTURES OF injury. I speak to you, Mcrvyn, because I love you as a brother, and loving you thus clearly, 1 cannot be blind to your faults. Tou liave 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 tendency, 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 vou 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 Uis hands, who alone is able to repay." Gentle and kindly-intended as was John's reproof, it somewhat chafed me, and I answered, I fear, rather impatiently, " I am quite sure you are right, John, but 1 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 U7imasked and punished him." " Malpas may be as bud 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. You 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 mo your sister, whom I loved better than life ? These are the wrongs that goad me to call down punishment upon las head. Tou, 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 tha wrong then committed." " You 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." " You 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 waa staggered ; but a moment's reflection brought me back to my origi nal opinion. *' Poor Sissy's avowal alone shall satisfy me," I cried. MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. 201 "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. " But 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 1 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. You 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 esteeui 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 ADVENTUEEB OP my mother, and are aware of tlie 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 inquii*e 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 1 know :ibout myself, Mervyn, that I am bv no means sure that the name I bear is my riglitful 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, Jolm, I am not. Have you any objection to my instituting inquiriee 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 with 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, I ought to be content." " Long as I have known you, John," I exclaimed, regarding him with admiration, " I never fully understood you till now." " Tou overrate me, my dear friend," lie 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. Tet when 1 had emancipated myself from thraldom, and conquered, as I deemed, all my worldly feelings and passions, I was again for awhile enslaved." I thought this a fitting opportunity for putting a question I had meditated ; and I inquired if his heart had ever been touched ? He would not hide the truth from me, but answered, though with some bash fulness, " 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, I lost my customary self- control. I loved madly — yes, madly is the word — for what but madness could it be in me to aspii'e even in thought to a young and lovely heiress ?" MEBVTN CLITHEROE. 211 " Did you ever declare your passion, John ?'' I said, regarding him earnestly. " Never in words," he replied, an almost maidenly blush 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 tlie name of the svren who has be- witched you, John, but I guessed it from the first. And 1 admit that her beauty is quite sufficient to account for the influence she has gained over you — nay more, I will own to you, my dear friend, that 1 was well-nigh falling into the same snare myself." "Tou !" 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 Appliia, cannot now be considered. You have lost the one, may you gain the other !" "I fully appreciate the unheard-of generosity of your motives, John," 1 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 tliat she has been trifling with me in the same heart- less manner that slie 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' o>it 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 ADVENTUllES OF formed aa you are to please. No — uo — our cases are widely different. Success awaits you, though t'tilure 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 has 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. " Tour 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. lam 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. " Tour 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. Ton 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 we 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. Tou have been my best correspondent." Shortly afterwards a pretty little rustic-looking girl, about ten years of age, entered the room witli 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." MEItVXN CLITHEROE. 213 " I thank you for your consideration, dear Mervyn," he replied. " It may possibly be as you suggest. I will call you when I 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 Culcheth. Indeed, I should have known Ned at once if I bad 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. Bridecake'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. It 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 Chetbam 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 clergynuin himself, and I therefore said, " Well, at all events, whether you find Pownall or not, Ned, you have not come hitlier on a bootless errand. Mr. Brideoake can give you some intelligence of your wife. What it is, 1 know not, for he declined to communicate any particulars to me — saying they 214 LIFE AJ*D ADVENTURES Of were for your ear alone ; but I must prepare you for bad tidiugs, for such, I fear, they will prove." " I have uot lost her ?" Ned said, halting and looking hard at lue. " You don't mean to prepare me for that ?" " No — no," I replied ; " your a|)prehensions of calamity far out- strip my meaning. I only judge, irom Mr. Bridecake's manner, that he has something distressing to relate, and I deem it right to prepare you for it." " Nothins: more distressing can be in store for me than what has already occurred," Ned replied, marching by my side as 1 proceeded towards the cottage. Before introducing the poor keeper, I thought it best to acquaint John with his unexpected arrival, and, leaving Ned and ids 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. Aud 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 Apphia urge you to interfere, John ?" I cried. " 1 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. " Jiouse yourself and be a man. You shall have all 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 afliiction." On this I stepped forth, aud calling to Ned Culcheth, bade him go in. He at once obeyed, uncovering his glowing locks, and bowing his tall head as he crossed the little threshold. I kept Hubert with me, and taking the hound into the arbour, sat down to meditate. MEKTTN CLITHEEOE. 215 Many minutes had not elapsed when a startling noise was lieard 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 lieet. 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 tho word. I am demented. I've suftered enough," he continued, with a burst of anguish very painful, indeed, to hear. " I can bear no more. Let me die." " Forbear, Ned !" 1 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. Your present paroxysm of grief will abate, and you will then view matters dift'er- 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 foi-th 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 witli a look of humble resignation ; " I will do whatever you and Mr. Bridcoake bid me. " Then you must remain with me here till to-morrow, my poor friend," John Bridecake 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 witli it!" 216 LIFE AND AJ)VENTUHB8 OF At this juncture the sound o carriage wheels was heard in the distance, and Mr. Hazilriggo's barouche, with the ladies inside it, could be descried coiniug slowly along the road towards the cottage. " Make my excuses to Miss llazilrigge, Mervyn," John cried, hastily. " 1 cannot see her or Ora to-day. Come over to me to- morrow morning. 1 have much to say to you. This poor fellow," he added, pointing to Ned, " 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 Culchetli 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 Jolin. Soth 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 down, and I got into the carriage, taking a place beside Cuthbert Spring. We had not a very cheerful drive back to Owlarton Grange, for a gloom was cast over the party by the accounts I gave them i>f poor John's alarming state of health. CHAPTER XII. THE LEGEND OF OW^LAKTON GKANGK. MV ADVENTUEE IN THE HAUNTKl) CIIAMHKH. Me. Hazileigge 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- rersation passed between us at dinner. This was more my own MERTYN CLITHEKOE. 217 fault than bers, I suspect, for she was too quick not to perceive that my manner towards her was changed ; neither could she be ifmorant 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 we 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 1 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 liear 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 ?" 1 replied in tlie affirmative, and that the picture had struck me forcibly. " The principal personage represented is my great-grandfather, Clotten Hazilrigge, surnamed, from liis 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 tlie 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 Sliocklacli, 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 ho 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 tirmed the assertion, tor though he knew, ho 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 — he entered Ids 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 searcliing about, went to the miser's bedroom. AVhile 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 searcli, 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 Shocklaoii 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 MEEVTN CI,ITHE110E. 219 of gold. They dragged out the body of the murderer, and 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 tliis, 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 what 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 1 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, physiognomy, 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 Avas a charlatan. The world, he saio^ 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. jSTo, no ; I must not attempt to depreciate such a man. 1 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 peculiai-ities 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, aud, now 220 LIKE AND ADVKNTURKS OF U that 1 was uequaiuted with the legend connected with the picture, it impressed ine still more powerfully. In consequence, no doubt, of the story 1 had heard from (Jld J lazy, superstitious fancies crowded thickly upon uie, and all my eiforts to shake them oft" wcie unavailing. As on the previous night, 1 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 I hail 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 detei-- mined to keep watch, but in spite of my resolutions of vigilance, sleep after awhile stole over mv eyelids. How long I slumbered I cannot say, but I was suddenly aroused by a strange and startling noise, which 1 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 w ere 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, w hich 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. AVhile peering into this obscurity I fancied 1 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. iSoiiiething like a thin shroud hutig 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 I'emained 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 I 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 1 recovered my firmness, for I felt convinced that I had to do with one of mortal mould. Starting to ray feet, 1 de- manded of the ghost, in tones that sounded hoarse and strange in my own ears, — who it was, — and what it wanted ? 1 I I ^ i \. "^ V^ MKUVYN CLITHEROE. 221 The apparition made no answer, but pointed to the door, as if en- joining my departure. But I did not move. " You would fain persuade nie," I cried, in a bolder tone than I could at first assume, " that you are the restless spirit of the miu*- 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 ray 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. Tou are my prisoner. Tou must answer to Mr. Hazilrigge for entering his house in this unlicensed manner ; as well as passing yourself ofi" 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 witli him with impunity. This is not the only trick you have played since ray arrival at Owlarton Grange. Tou 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 1 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." " Tou are mistaken, sir. Mr. Hazilrigge will treat the matter aa a jest, and pass it by." The rascal spoke so confidently, that I felt 222 LIFE AND ADVENTUEES OF staggered, a'.id, perceiving it, he went on: "But let us leave this question of the bell-ringing and pass to your own concerns. What cause ot" complaint have you against me ?" *' Dare you put sucli 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." '^ 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." " 1 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 Bridecake. " 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 liiin. 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 PownaU 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 MERVTN CLITHEROi;. 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 .ny company before I am of yours. 1 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 wliat 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 sliould 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 decree that I felt inclined to brain him with the butt-end of the pistol. \ 224 LIFE AND ADY£NTU£E8 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 afl'ectation 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 mo, 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." " You are a cool hand, Simon !" I cried, with irrepressible disgust, " and persuade yourself that your criminality cannot be proved. Ton are deceived. There is a witness who can tell how you purloined that will, and I will obtain Jiis 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 off 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. " You will not quit this room, unless 1 consign you to some one who will detain you in safe custody till the morrow." "It will be useless to ring," he 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 witli 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 liearing 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. MERTTN CLITHEEOE. 225 CHAPTEE XIII. WHEEEIK OLD HAZY ENDEAVOUES TO PERSUADE ME THAT I HAVE BEEN DELTTDED BY AK EVIL SPIEIT. 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. Tet 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 he 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 1 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, a&L Q 226 LIFE AND ADVK5TUEE8 OF in a hauuted house like this — with supernatural objects swarming iTOund you — it's a different matter altogether. I'm not ashamed to confess my fears. — But, save us ! wliat's tliis ?" lie 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 thac wooden hammer," I observed, laugliing. " It won't strike you." " I don't know that," he answered, in great trepidation. " At any rate, I won't give it tlie chance. Can I be of any further use to you^ 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 ?" " Tliat's more than I can explain. But here he was, most undoubt- edly. And by your own account you must have heard him conversing with 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. He 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 INIr. 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 ain sure, cannot approve of such a person." MEEVTN CLITHEEOB. 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 perliaps I've said too much on this subject already, sir?" And receiving no answer, for I had fallen into a reverie, the butlei bowed respectfully, as was his wont, and retired. As it was pretty certain now that Simon Pownall had decamped, [ 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 ray researches. After this, I went down stairs. ISTothing worthy of note occurred at breakfast, except that Ora did not join the party. I made no allusion to my adventure overnight — reserving what 1 had to say for my host's private ear. Luckily, I was not questioned on tlie 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 Fathei 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 mucli 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, p,n impostor, and something worse ; and so were Paracelsus, Corneliua Agrippa, and the Alberts, Great and Little. There is hardly one Bmongst the professors of occult pliilosophy 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 trut Thaumaturgus. As a physiognomist, he is equal to Taxil and Jeai [ndagine ; in chiromancy, to Praetorius and Codes ; lie can read the celestial influences as well as Father Francis ; can cast a horoscope a* «2 228 LIFE AND ADVKNTURES OP well as Joseph de Tertiis ; and pronounce a judgment upon a nativity as well as FexTier and Kanzonius." " 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 Jotliam Shocklach." " Ah ! my good young sir," the old gentleman cried, regarding me with compassion, " you are deceived. Tou are unacquainted with the subtleties and devices of evil spirits. If the ghost of Jotliam 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. Tou 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.' Tou 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. I 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 : ' Quil y a vrayenient MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. 229 et d'' effect des diahles et malins esprits, voire une grandissime et in- nombrable quantite r — Une 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. HazOrigge, 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 spiiit, 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. Sufter me to read you a few passages from Thirisus De locis infestis oh molcstantes dannoni- 07'um et defunctorum spiritus^ But I had had quite enough While he was searching for his tiresome Thiraeus ; Boissier's liecueil de Lettres au sujet des Male- iiceset du Sortilege ; Martinus de Aries; and some other works ot a like nature, whicli he particularised, but the titles of which I now forget, I took to flight. As soon as I got into the hall, I snatclied up my hat and rushed out into the garden, where I soon regained my tranquillity. 230 LIFK AND ADVENTUKES OF CHAPTER XIV. 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 80 slight as not to interfere with the principal features. Tlie broad terrace walks, witli 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 oi Cheshire, if its owner would have allowed it to be shown. As the hall would 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 MEEVrN CLITHEEOE. 23] various objects of interest — now looking at a little fountain witfc a curious mechanical contrivance that caused a musical sound— now at a bay-tree, trimmed and twined into a representation oi Daphne — now at a marble statue of Leda and the swan, weather- stained, and crusted with lichens — now pausing to look at the old ball, 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. We 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. Miss Doveton, and has laid bare his in- nermost heart to me. He has liad the temerity to fix his affections en an object utterly vmattainable, aud is now paying tlie 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. Tou have only to make the experi- ment to see what a result will follow. Will 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 I 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 whicli he has been thrown ?" " Enough ! enough !" she interrupted. " No doubt you will say a great deal more than you ought to do — more than I sliall ever autho- rise you to say. But at any rate, you mai/ say that I sincerely hope he will get better." 232 LIFE AKD ADVENTDEE8 OP " Tor your sake ?" I said. " You 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 fiied 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, thougli, 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," Cuthbert 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 lor 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. " Tou 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." MEKVYN ClilTHEEOE. 233 " Tou have got on very well hitherto without assistance, Mr. Spring," Miss Hazilrigge replied. Here Ora could not repress her laughter. " What 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. Tou 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 face 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 Weverhara. 1 told him you would probably drive tliere in the course of the day. Have you any message for ]VIr. 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 ofi' after her — much 234 LIFE AND ADTENTURES OF to the relief, I am sure, of the elderly couple. But though I ran or and on, I must, somehow, have taken a wrong turn, and greatly to 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 how 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 difiiculty in tracking its meauderings — or in getting through any other twistings and turn- ings which you may have to take in life." MERVTN CLITHEEOE. 21^5 CHAPTEll XY. WHAT HAPPENED IS THE ORCHARD OF THE MILL IN WEVEEHAM 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 liim 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 bv 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 afilicted, 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 brouglit, by a man who represented himself to be her husband, to the Plough 230 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP at Weverham — tlie 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 tlie Plough that the man who brought Sissy was Simon Pownall. AVell, Simon left her — saying he would fetch her on the morrow — but he 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. lU 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 w-eek, and when it left her, her senses were gone — never more — as it seems, to return. She was removed to the mill in Weverham Glen, 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 aer during her iUness, 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 sei've 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 I 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," I rejoined. " You may think me unwilling to acquit Mr. Sale — perhaps I am so — but I am per- suaded he is the real ofiender. The truth will come out some day, and then you will find who is in the right." " Well, I own tliat I incline to your opinion myself," he retvu-ned, " But it is strange that Sissy should make such a declaration." " A good dval depends upon the way in which she was interrogated MEEYYN CtlTHEIlOE. 2H7 Mr. Bridecake's suspicions of Malpas were not then aroused, and nc doubt, in ascertaining 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. Brldeoake 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 ibtain 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. Tet 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, lay 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 lor 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. Trom these craggy heights which looked like the frowning battle- ments of a castle, nearly the whole of the glen was 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 i'urther 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 aloug a road, shaded by tall trees, and skirted by the brawling stream, wo ere long reached the pool We next crossed a narrow bridge tlirown 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 ot flour. Ned said a word to the miller, and the good man touched his du-ty 23S LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF cap to me, and we passed on. A few steps more brought us to the door of the dwelling, whicli stood open, and Ned entering with- out ceremony, called out for Dame Mavis. At the summons, a fresh- coraplexioued, 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 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 ribauds 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 ? Am I not pretty ? — am I not pretty ?" " Indeed you are," little Grace replied. " You look very pretty in that wreath. 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 tlie head, and presently inquired, " Do I look better witli 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, E opened the gate, and entered the orchard ; and as soon as he wa£ 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 OLITHEEOE. 239 " Won't you shake hands with the gentleman, Sissy ?" httle Grace said to her. Before complying, Sissy consulted John Brideoake by a look, aud 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." "Tes, 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 !" I rejoined. " Tou 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, balf-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 in' shame on my huspants — so I must never marry — oh, no, I must aever 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, aud vake you back to him." " Come this way, and I'll tell you something," Sissy cried, taking my 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 ronder, who is watching us. What do you tliiuk the plack gipsy :;omans told me ? She said I should play my huspants false — and ^hen he found me out he would kiU me — and they would haug him for the plootty teet. So you see I must never marry. — AVho is that tall mans, sir?" she continued, with a terrified look ; " aud why does Qe stare at me so ? He frightens me. I've treamt of somebody like him." " Are you sure you have only dreamed of him. Sissy ? Perhaps fou have seen him before. Think !" " No, it was only a tream," she answered, after a pause, during ivrhich 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 Qever harm you. He forgives you." " Forgives me — what for ? What harm have I done him ? Ask bim to tell you." 240 LIFE AND ADYfiNTTTTlEa Or " Why not ask him yourself, Sissy ?" " Because I am afraid of liiin," she replied, shuddering. " He raeano 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 words 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 tlie 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 whether 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 was 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 said, " and at a juncture which may afiect aU my future life. Knowing how I am circumstanced, you will not be surprised to learn that I have come to claim my brother's protection. Ever since your visit to the Anchorite's, I have felt that I could not fulfil my contract with Malpas, 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 with the family with whom I 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 — MEETTN CLITHEHOE. 241 excusable, I trust, under the circumstances — and I 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 l)r. Sale's carriage. No doubt vour mother has likewise been to John's cottage, and lias 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 oifer 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 ouglit 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 liome." " 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 biidge near the B 242 LIFE AND ADVENTTTRES OF mill. A footman immediately came clown 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. Ou receiving this information, the steps were instantly lowered, and Mai pas Sale and Mrs. Bride- cake 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. Ketire behind those palitigs," 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 Ned Culcheth with you. He would be in the way." Feeling that no time must be lost, I ran towards Ned, 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 tlie whole of his interview with her. Ou her part, she treated him with the utmost coldness — did not shako hands with him — but eyed him witli 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." *"' 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 CUTHEEOE. 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," Malpas said, " I must answer that I 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 hiui, " 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 ti\e. 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 void in the event of Apphia's union witli — say Mervyn Clitheroe. The marriage is ap- pointed for Malpas's next birtiidav, when he will be twenty-five, r2 244 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP and will consequently attain his majority, according to the terms of his uncle Mobberley'a will. At the same time, he will come into 20007. 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. Bridecake will no doubt give it due consideration." " It merits consideration, indeed," John replied, after a moment's pause. " Tou 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 1 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 fortune — ungrateful, disobedient child, only to find you turn upon me thus ? But tremble ! Tour ingrati- tude and disobedience warrant me in invoking condign punishment upon your head." And as she spoke she raised her arm, as if about to pronounce a malediction. Afl'righted at the gesture, Appliia 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 witli 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. Kise 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 MEliVYN Cr.ITHEEOE. 245 should be remorse and repentance for this day's unhappy proceedings, tliey will not rest with us." Mrs. Bridecake, who had appeared quite confounded by her son's address, now made an eifort to retrieve the ground she had lost. " John, John — you ouglit not to take part with her, but with me," she cried. " Tou share her disobedience." "Peace! mother, and let us part," John replied. " I will never 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 miglit 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, tarry a moment, my dear Mrs. Brideoake," Malpas said. " Let lis 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" " Tlie 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 I:ave taktn 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 ofl", when Jolm Brideoake caught hold of his arm, and detained him. " Stay a moment, sir," Jolm cried, sternly. " I am compelled tc put some interrogations to you. You have just stated that my sister can allege no stronger reason for refusing to fulfil her contract w-ith you, than change of mind. A plea seems now to be furnished her, which, if correct, cannot be resisted. A charge of tlie gravest chiiriu-ter has been brouglit against you in reference to this distracted woman. Can 246 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 lamentahle condition ?" " I trust not," Malpas replied, shuddering and averting his head. " Look at her, I say," John continued, " and do not equivocate in your 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, thougli his faltering tones showed how differently he was afiected, " and they do not deserve to be answered. Enough for me to declare at once that all such assertions respecting me, b}? whomsoever made, are false and calumnious. The person with whom this unhappy woman lef"t 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 way. 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 sunk to 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." MEBVYN 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 whicli 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 ia 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 1 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 oft'. 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. Tlie enraged keeper knelt upon his prostrate body, and seizing him by the throat, would infallibly have strangled liim, 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 Ihree of his men, reachvd the scene ot strife. Mrs. Brideoake tried hard to have Ned seized, charging him with a murderous attack upon Malpas; but as soon as Mavis learnt Irom 248 LIFE ANlt ADVENTURES OF MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. John Bridecake 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 Siss}' 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. Oli ! what a load is taken from my breast !" Sissy gazed at liim 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 exlii- bited in the reconciliation of this poor couple, it was impossible to utter a word. Mrs. Bridecake was already gone. She had left when Malpas was removed, without vouchsafing a word to either of her children. BND OF BOOK TUE SECOND. BOOK THE THIKD. I „Vi.l , I BOOK THE THIRD. CHAPTER I. HOW THE TWO WIZARDS OF OWLAKTON GEANGE EAISED 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 tlieir amendment. I had made more than one unsuccessful attempt to obtain an interview with Mrs. Mervvn : and I had reason to be- lieve that tlie 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. Bridecake still reigned supreme at the Anchorite's. As I was given to understand, she accounted for her daughter's abseuce 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 liin features, and lie was too personally vain to exhibit himself in public until liis good looks were completely restored. By this time his leave of absence had expired, and he was obliged to join his regiment, which was stationed at Windsor. Before departing, he made an eftbrt to ftbtain 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 aftbctions. INIoreover, he utterly denied the accusations brought against him by Ned Culcheth, and solemnly 252 LIFE AND ADVENTTJBES OF protested that he had not scon Sissy from the time of her quitting her husband's roof until the luckless day at tlie 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 Pownallhad 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 his sister's zeal and unremitting exertions. Much as tlie 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 otlier 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 sucb 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 liad 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 AVeverhani, 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 Appliia, 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, slie con- tented herself with passing as much time as possible in tlieir 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 Appliia, I would be more explicit, but unluckily I have nothing to relate. Apphia treated me as a friend — nothing more. I was free to come and go to John's cottage as I pleased, and was always kindly welcomed by bersell'and brother. But I was given clearly to understand by the MEEVTN CLITHEROE. 253 young 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 mctions. 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 my 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 acquaintauces, 1 shall resume my story. I had ridden over to Marston, in order to have a day's fisliing in the mere — according to previous arrangement with Ned Culchetli. 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, witli 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 liad left my horse at the Nag's Head in the village, and Ned oftered to row me acrosa the mere and 25-1 LIFE AND ADVENl'UUES OF land me at the foot of the church, which would save me a mile's walk ; hesides, as the night was extremely fine, with bright moonlight oa the water, he thought I shoi Id prefer that plan. I gladly accepted the proposal. Nothing coid.l be mor. • exquisite than the appear- ance of tlie mere as our little bark clovcJ tlu-ough its shining waters. Before us towered the old cluirch 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 thouglit 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 readied the strand, when I leaped ashore, and taking leave of Ned, climbed the jill, 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 tliem, an old black yew-tree, with outstretched boughs, had a spectral effect. I w^as 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 t'ould 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 w^as he ? Why should he visit my motlier'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 approacli. He no sooner noticed me than he hurried out of the churcliyard, and I watclied 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 inucli longer in the churchyard. Kneeling beside my mother's grave, I breathed a hasty prayer, and tiien 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 MEEYXN CUTHESOE. 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 "Weverham 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 scarcely 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 preinisej*, I went round to tlie 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 muMed 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 stole 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 summer-house. I followed, taking care to keep out of sight. Tlie 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 waa evident that some mysterious rites were about to be enacted. The large white sheet stamped with magical characters, which I had 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 traiisfortned by the power of enchantment. On the right was a gigantic bear reared on 2oG LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF its hind legs, and witli outstretched paws prepared to close with a huntsman, who was attacking it witli 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 Eaun ])laying 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 wallet 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 he placed outside the mystic ring. The pair of conjiirors 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 bis companion stepped into the magic circle, and began to trace certain 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 Qot wait for the response, but rushing forward, aud shouting out, ' Tou have raised a spirit that you did not expect !" I snatched the grimoire from his hands, and with the ponderous volume bufieted bis companion soundly on the head and shoulders. In doing so, however, I knocked oif the individual's hat, when to aay 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, 'uto which he unhesitatingly plunged, and swam across to the further nde. 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. MEEVTN clituehoe. 257 CHAPTER II. MISS HAZILEIGGE TAKES ME INTO HEE CONFIDENCE. Old Hazy took my unlucky attack upon liim 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 my apologies, promising to think no more about the matter, provided I undertook to keep strict silence as to the occurrence ; not liking to be made a laughing-stock, as vrould certainly be tlie 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. Hooiver, which communicated, as I had supposed must be the case, by a small private door with the hall, lienewiug my apologies to the worthy old gentleman for my maladroit behaviour, I then took leave, and proceeded on foot to the mill, wliere I arrived without further accident or adventure, at a somewhai late hour. In a few days my horse having recovered from his lameness, whicli 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 ineflectual. 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 kSimon's clandestine visit to the Grange, nor to the Der Freischiitz scene in the garden, in which he had played the part of Caspar, T tliought it right to acquaint INIiss Hazilrigge witli tlie rogue's real name and clui- 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 we get rid of this Dr. Jiooker, or Pownall, or whatever his name may be, another cheat will take his place. Decided opposition won't do with my brother. He must bo lumioured 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 arc all ordered to indidge their master's whims and pecidiarities. You will now understand whatever may have appeared strange in the B 258 LIFE AND ADYENTTJRES OP 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 witli 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 liis fantasies, my brother is so good and kind a master, and so lionourable and just in bis dealings, that his servants and tenants all regard him and respect him, and thougli 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 1 will take care he no longer infests tlic 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 bave 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. " AVhat 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 bis 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, liemigius 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. Clitlieroe." 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 e^^es. Not knowing to what extent her confidence might be given, I. MERWN CLITIIEBOE. 259 <;ontented myself with inquiring whether she had any immedialf idea of leaving her brother. Her agitation increased as she attempted a response. At last slie 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 pre- 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 Ilazilrigge," 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 brotlier — 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 Sir. Spring, and consider him a most charming person, but even he 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 wislies. 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 " " Tou 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 liave told liim. 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 Cottonborougli as if nothing could tear him from it. liut cue thing I can promise him — either lie must quit that s2 2G0 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF odious, black, smoky place, or ho shan't have me. I am not selfish, Mr. Clitheroe, but 1 am bound to consider my brother, and must not totally disregard my own comforts." " Certainly not, my dear IMiss Hazilrigge," 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 oft", 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. IS'ow 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 tlieir 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 wareliouse and the stupendous mill, and it was just as difficult to tear him from Cottonborough, as to remove IMiss Hazilrigge from the Grange. Had the case been mine instead of Mr. Spring's, I should have declared for the country, without an instant's hesitation. Owlarton Grange was a delightful residence. Old Hazy was somewl)at 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. I 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 hainited 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 MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 261 mentioning tliat careful investigation of the room enabled mc 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 arclied 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, wliich landed nie, by means of a sliding panel at its summit, in a small room near to the extreme end of the great gallery. From 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 tliat 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 tlie 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 Hajy would lose his cliaracter for eccentricity, and Owlarton Grange* become little better than an every-day habitation, remarkable only for its antiquity. But it must not be imagined that tlie 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-disaut 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 witli their prodigious recitals, he, at all events, committed fewer extravagances. And where was the bewitching Ora all this while ? Tlie bewitch- ing Ora had her own pursuits — I had mine. AVe were the best friends possible, and if 1 had encouraged her, I have no doubt she would have been as confidential with me as her aunt had proved. But though we talked together with perfect freedom on most topics, we never renewed the conversation we had had in the garden relative to John Brideoake. Perhaps, she was quite satisfied now that John was in a lair way of regaining his health, and no longer felt any uneasiness about him. Perhaps, his sister was the depositary of her confidences, if slie 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 slie did not visit Wcverham. Perhaps but what need of further guessing ? I consider it impertinent and unfair to pry into youDfij ladieM' .^creta 2G2 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP CHAPTEE III. BETELATIONS. "When not at Owlarton Grange, I was at "Weverham ; and when not at AVeverliam, I was at Owlarton Grange. My time was prettv 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 gejitly reminded me of the unfortucate 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 nn'ght 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 \Veverham ; 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 iiijiht broujrht no coolness. Scarce a breath of air was stirring. AVe sat with open windows, but found little relief, for the scent of the flowers from the garden was almost overpowering. Still the storm held oft", and I thought I 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 tlie garden-gate, when a flash of forked light- ning traversing the sky seemed to rebuke my rashness, while, ia another instant, an angry growl of thunder was heard in tlie 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 ^^ N. ^■ ^ § N- ,x \ ^\ MERVTN CLITHEROE. 2C'i 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 upon me in all its fury. The rain came down like a waterspout, drenching me in an instant to the skin. Eire 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 1 liad 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 halt-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. Eapid 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 liglitning 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. Eushing 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. Tlie 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. 1 was hasten- ing tliither, when the sound of voices arrested me. Something seemed to whisper caution, and well it was that I attended to the monitor. In tlie intervals between the loud peals of tlmnder I could distini^uisU the voices of the speakers more clearly, and they seemed familiar ti> me, but in order to make sure, I peered cautiously round the corner, and a flash of lightning occurring at the moment, 1 beheld Simon Pownall conversing with I'haleg and Obed. Simon seemed ill at ease, and either from fright, or owing to the blue glare of the li^litning, looked perfectly livid. But his com- panions appeared wholly inilitlerent to the terrors of the storm which agitated him so violently. Eecliuing against the side of iha stack with his brawny arms crossed upon his chest, and one muscular 2G4 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF leg twined round the otlier, gipsy-fashion, Phalcg looked the picture of reckless unconcern ; while his son leaned in an equally careless attitude against a donkey, which, with a pair ot" panniers and a bundle ol" stakes upon its back, I'oniied a conspicuous feature in the group. All this I noted at a glance ; and I noted, moreover, with some uneasiness, tliat both gipsies carried tlieir heavy bludgeons with them. It might be the effect of the lightning, as in Pownall's case, but I thought Plialeg's countenance wore an unusually sinister ex- jiression. The stack liad been cut at this end in steps, and a good deal of loose hay lay scattered about, in tlie midst of which sat Pownall with his back partly towards me. A ladder reared against tlie side of the rick showed that the honest husbandman had been recently at work there, not calculating upon sucli visitants as these. *' Mercy on us !" Simon ejaculated, liis teeth chattering with fright • — " what an awful peal of thunder ! I never recollect sucli a storm in all my born days. D'ye think we're safe here, my worthy Plialeg?" " 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' Lymme church struck by a tliunderbowt, and some great heavy stones rolled down and broke througli 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, 1 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 afeai-ed o' thunder an' lightuin', are ye ?" the caitiff rejoined, scowling at the heavens. " Well, I ain't. 1 rayther enjoys a storm like this. I account it a pratty siglit — 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 ruflBan answered, contemptuously. " How long is it since you turned Methoddy parson, eh, Pownall ? I tliought you were still in the conjuring line." " Don't be angry, my worthy Phaleg," the other rejoined ; " I meant no oftence. Let us proceed to business." " Wi' a' my heart," the other replied. " Go on. I'll listen to you, provided the thunder'U 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." " liobbed 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," he added, producing a small leather-covered flask, and un- Bcrewing a silver cup from the top, which he proceeded to fill. " Ay, ay, I know where you got it, and I know also that it be the right sort o' stutf," the gipsy replied. " I wish I were as well varsed i' MEEVYK CLITIIEROE. 2G5 the black art as you, Pownall. Tou plays hocuspocus tricks to some purpose." " That's some of Old Hazy's best Nantz," Simon cried, tossing off the contents of the cup. " Taste it, Plialeg," he said, replenishing the little vessel, and lianding 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 band shakes." " Steady it wi' another cupful," Phaleg rejoined, with a gruff kind of facetiousness. And as Simon acted ujjon the hint, the gipsy added, " Now we can talk o\er matters comfortably." "Ha! ha! so we can," Pownall langhed. "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 tlie sudden. " Tou and I are in the same boat, Phaleg, and must pull together, if we want to get along smoothl}'." " AVell, 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. " The 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 1 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 oft* some conjuring tricks, for which the old fellow would have come down haiulsomely, 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 3'ou," Simon continued, rather testily ; " and 1 don't think that either of you would have liked it. This was my last appearance at the Grange. Old Hazy still sticks to me, and would have me back again if lie dan-d ; but owing to this confounded young Clitheroe's interference, jMiss Hazilrigge and all tlie household are against me, and 1 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 tlie point, my worthy Phaii-g. Since money is not to be had there, it must be got elsewhere — d'ye understand?" "I ahall 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 2000Z. a year in a few montlis' time, he must pay us for permission to obtain it." " 1 am quite of your opinion, jNIester Pownall," tlie elder gipsy replied. " If lie axes my permission, he shan't have it, unless he do pay. But I thought you had got sumraut already from the young 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 sliare it with you, because " " You can't help yourself, that's why," the gipsy interrupted, with a coarse laugh. " Tou're afeared o' me, and must stop my mouth, just as Capt'n Sale mtist 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. AVhen 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 Horsteraylia myself. What say'st thou, Obed ? AVilt 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." "AVell, do as thou wilt, lad," Phaleg said. "Thou shalt have Eobin, and welcome — though, mayhap, I shall change my mind afore the time comes for starting. Thy mother and Hue 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. AVhere is the capt'n?" " At Windsor with his regiment, but I mean to write and appoint a meeting witli him without delay. I shall take the liberty of in- forming hiin 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. He 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," PowTiall 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 MEEYYN CLITHEEOE. 207 not to be resisted. Only let me threaten to produce tlie rifrhtful will and he'll agree to my terms pretty quickly— be they what'^they may.* It won't suit him to lose 2000?. 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 couipliance 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," Po-wnall rejoined. " But I must take care of myself, you knmv. Besides, I've got to share the spoil with you. AVe m.ust 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. You 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 JPhaleg. 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 you 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 tliis. I'll just take another drop of brandy, and then I'll give you the information you desire. Old Mobb, vou must know, had two great-nephews — the present Captain Sale and Mervyn Clitheroe. Clitheroe was his favourite, and lie meant to leave him his money, but the lad displeased him by shooting a tal)by- cat belonging to the old missis, and IMobb changed his mind, mal;ing a will in favour of Malpas Sale. That was the first will. Pay atteji- 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, Plialeg, and you shall hear how the precious document came into my j)osse.^sion. '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 Jirst will, mind, Phaleg — placing \ 2G8 LIFE AND AD VENTURES OF it on liis bed for that purpose, ^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 tlie will." " But what were tlie use of grabbin' it, if it warn't the right will ?" Phalcg inquired. " You sliall hear, if you'll let me tell tlie story in my own way, most Respectable Phaleg," Simon replied. " The old man didn't per- ceive what I had done, but thought he had burnt the will, and soon afterwards took to his bed and died. Tlie 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 1 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, methiuks. The second will was found where I bad 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 liave grinned to see bow 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, Plialeg — and I'll give it you as the moral of my story — a man should never make a second will till be 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 Cli- theroe, we're done for!" " If it should be young Clitlieroe I'll do for 7^/«?," Phaleg roared, with a fearful oath, that left me little doubt he would try to nut his threat into execution. " Come along, Obed." And, as he spoke, he dashed round the corner, brandishing Lis bludgeon. They were within an ace of discovering me, and if it liad lightened at the time I must infallibly have been detected. But 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 MEEVYN CLITHEROE. 2G0 before tliey had moved from the spot. Simon Pownall did not quit his post, and I was therefore compelled to bury myself in the ha\ , ■which screened me effectually. The shouts and oaths of the gipsies as they beat about the liav- stack reached me where I lay, and told me what I had to expect if mv hiding-place should be discovered. Presently they came back, greatlv 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 ? What liad 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 Pownall, though concurring in opinion with the elder gipsy that Obed nnist 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 exclianging a few words with Phaleg, in too low a tone to reach me, he bade liim and his son good night, and set off. Nothing passed between the gipsies for a minute or two, but wlicn 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." "Tou do, father ?" the younger gipsy replied. "Then you won't work wi' this owd chap ?" " Not unless Pm driven to it, lad," the other replied. " I 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. AVe must fiud out where the will be hidden, Obed." " Tou don't think as how th' owd chap had it about him to-night r" the son rejoined. "I had my doubts," Phaleg returned, "and I thought of knockiu' him on the head to see. But if I hadn't found it, it would ha' been awk'ard. I should ha' cracked the luit without gettin' the kariial. 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 st.-iMd in Simon's shoes as regards the capt'n. You shall hear what 'tis Avhen I ha' conned it over." "Well done, Obed," the elder gipsy cried, approvingly. " lliy wits are sharp enougii, lad, if thou cliooses 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 llobin, and let's bo jogging." • r 1 With this he evidently moved off, and his son was not long in lol- lowing him. . . , As soon as I deemed the coast clear I shook off the covering ot liay, 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 ADVENTTJBES OP 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 tliough 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 Pownall's de- scription liad been seen at Weverham, or any of the adjacent hamlets — nor had lodged — so far as I could discover — at any wayside inn, or Jiovel. I was equally unsuccessful in my quest of the gipsies. The Jatter, I found, had been encamped on Delamere Forest during the Jast 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, he 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- <;ess 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 GIYE A EDSTIC F^TE AT THE MILL. KiND-HEAETED Miss Hazilriggc, 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 all 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. AVe 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 j)leuty 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 Ifazilrigge," I replied ; " and •as far as I myself am concerned I should very much prefer a little out- MERVTN CLITHEROE. 271 door entertainment at wlwcli my liumbler friends can assist — and I will therefore invite Ned Culcheth and his wife, I dare say we shall bo 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 Uiey 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 ha{>piness 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 hia old friend Major Atherton, who liad returned with him from town ; desiring me to mention to Mr. Hazilrigge that he sliould 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 whiter, 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 witli 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, 1 had reason to hope that the fete would go oft* wt^ll. A large level patch of green sward in front of the miller's jiictu- resque abode had been carefully rolled and mown till it rcsenibled 272 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP a bowling-green, and on tliis turf the amusements were to take place. Here a marquee was pitched, which had been sent from Owlartoa Grange, and, adjoining it, stood a long table, covered with all tho 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 benclies were placed on either side of the table capable of com- fortably accommodating that number. J3ut after all, thougli good viands and stout ale are not to be de- spised, a fete would be notliing — in female eyes, at least — without music and dancing. Accordingly, by the kind prevision of Miss JIazilrigge, the Weverham 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 INIiss 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. llazilfigge 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. Tiie 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 gitana. i)oesa't she, Ora ?" MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. 273 "She is exceedingly pretty, indeed, and dances with inimitable grace," his niece replied. " Her raven tresses and superb black eves 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 Avill turn the heads of all the men, and make them indifferent to their homely partners. Her mother tells fortunes capitally, and will aiford 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 you 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 loill 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 Weverham 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 everybody 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. ]\Iavis, 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 detachmcTit of village lads and lasses, more numerous than the first. ]Mr. INlavia 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 274 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF and children. Thou more villagers, until at last the green is qiute thronged. At last — -just when I have begun to give them up — to my great satisfaction, I descry Ned Ciilchetli and Sissy. They arc accompanied by Dame Mavis and her little daughter. The crowd draw aside to aft'ord them passage as they advance towards me. Sissy comes first, holding Grace by the hand, looking more like her foruier self than I have seen her of late. If auything, im- {jroved, for, while she has quite recovered her bloom and beauty, ler manner is sedate and wholly free from levity. For manly bearing, not one in that assemblage can couipnre v.ith Ned Cul- cheth ; and yet there are some stout, well-looking lads amidst it too. Ned 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 1 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 has 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 bflieve 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." For my own part, I think all tlie 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 Bridecake, 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 wliich 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 MEETTN CLITHEROE. 275 out, Sir," the butler adds. Old Hazy seems enchanted 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 Knch and Eivers, and their contents liberally dispensed. At length the lire 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 weU 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, Peninuali, while her companion must certainly be Eue. 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 ofiers 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. Hor features are cast in a delicate mould ; 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 ai'c large, T 2 276 LIFE AND ADYENTUEES OF black, find 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 Valenciau handkerchief, which she wears, coquettishly 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 tlie preservation of their charms. Old age comes upon tliem at once, and not by degrees. Peninnah's hair is as raven black as ever, and lier 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, 1 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 j/o«." " Oh ! you are quite mistaken if you suppose I have any influence over Mr. Clitheroe, my good woman," Ora rejoined. " He won't raiud Avhat 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 sufiice," 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. Will 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 entirelj^ over." " No, I should think not," Ora cried, with a laugh. " Why don't you let the woman see your hand. Miss Doveton ?" I said. " Because I'm afraid," she replied. " Don't be afraid of me," Peninnah exclaimed, in a coaxing voice. " I will tell you nothing disagreeable — that I promise you." " On that condition, I am willing to try your skill," Ora returned, i MEBYTN CLITHEEOE. 277 taking off her glove, and resigning her white little hand to the gipsy woman. Peninnah 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 sbould 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 tliere 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 litt];e 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, W'ith 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 this 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 uliat 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 bad proceeded from Sissy Culcheth. After disembarking from the 278 LIFE AND ADVENTUEES OF boat, Sissy had seated herself ou tlie bank near the weeping willow with little Grace, aiid was so much occupied in playing and chatting with the child, that she had not noticed the arrival ot" the gipsy pair. Grace at last perceived them, calling Sissy's attention to Peniniiah, wlic was now close at hand. Ou beholding her, Sissy started to her feet with the half scream I have described. Ned Culcheth heard the cry as well as myself, and was instantly by her side, anxiously inquiring what was the matter ? " 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 w^as 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." " Tou 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, Eue, who was standing a iew 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 I 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 co^d get an opportunity, I took Ned Culcheth aside, and told him to kcvsp 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. I 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. "I was JIEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 279 thinkin' of doin' it of my own accord ; and I trust to bring you tidino^e 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 Har^ilrigge 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 eacli other on the green. Ropes of flowers are then distributed to the dancers by Miss Hazilrigge, who is followed by Eivers, 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 Ned 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 going 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. Who could he be ? and how came he to be witli Cutlibert Spring ? Suddenly it occurred to me that he must be Major Athcrton. 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 AND ADVENTUEES OF roused me, I canuot tell. But at last she succeeded iu diverting my attentiou 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 ! Tou 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 u person has just arrived, whose looks seem to exercise an unaccountable influence over me. Tou 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 prave an agreeable acquaintance. But come ! Exert yourself, do sir ! Major Atlierton, 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 tlie 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 wei'e 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 — savins; that the arrangements were excel- lent, and everybody looked happy. " My friend. Major Atherton, is greatly pleased with the enter- tainment," he went on. " Tou must allow me to present the major to you, Mervyn, and to you, also. Miss Doveton." I expressed the pleasure I should feel at the introduction iu fitting terms, but inquired of Cuthbert whether he had known Major Athertoji long, as I 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 I 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 stiffly, too, I thought — on his introduction to me, and directed his conversation chiefly to Ora. ]3ut though annoyed by his haughtiness, I waa resolved to make him talk to me, and I therefore remarked, MEBVTN CLITHEEOE. 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. Tou 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, quicklv. ^' Oh ! nothing — nothing," I replied, not willing to press my in- quiries further. " Though you are unacquainted with Major Atherton, Mervyn," Mr. Spring said, after consulting his friend by a look, " I ought to tell you that he is an old friend of yoiir 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 Atherton." *' 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'8 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 motlier, and I really cannot allow such a course to be pursued." " On my soul, you are a warm-hearted young fellow," ]\Iajor Atherton cried. "I should not have tliought 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 mucli for you — eh, Cuthbert ?" "No," Mr. Spring replied, with a singular smile, " I can't say that I think my friend Colonel Ciitlieroc lias done overmuch for his sou." " I have no complaint to make against him," I returned, "and you will allow that I am the person principally interested." "No ; I will do you tlie justice to say, Mervyn, that I never hoard you utter a word against your father," Cuthbert Spring remarked. " It is much to your credit, sir," Major Atliertou said, addressing me. " Under such circumstances. I don't think I should have been. 1 282 LIFE AND ADVENTUHES 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 tlie 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, lu^jor, I admit the force of what you say," I replied, " but such remarks do not seem to come with entire propriety from a Btranger." "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. While 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 liue. " Does 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 ?" " To be sure I can, sir," she replied, stepping towards him. " Tou 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, glancing at her elderly admirer. MEETTK CLITHEROE. 283 " Let me look at your tand, my merry gentleman," Eue con- tinued, " and I'll tell you all about it." And as Cutbbert surren- dered his palm to her inspection, she added, " Tou have been a gay deceiver in your time, as 1 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," Eue went on. " Tou 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," Eue 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 has 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 Lis 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," Eue 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. Tou deserve a piece of gold, my dear, for the talent you have displayed," he added, taking out his purse, and giving her a sovereign. " Now try your skill on the lady." "Permit me, ma'am," Eue said, taking Miss Hazilrigge's plump hand. "Tou have had your trials, I see, ma'am. Things have gone counter more than once, and a match has been broken olf 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 I !" Cuthbert Spring added. " The lady doesn't contradict me," Eue proceeded. " But it's very well the marriage didn't take place, for she woidd 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 Eue a few hmts m private.) " I won't mention names, but the gentleman to whom my sister was engaged is dead, and his widow has ten children. ' 284 LIPE AND ADVENTTTKES OF General laughter followed this piece of iuforinatiou, and the merri- ment was not diminished when iiue 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 t-o the girl, and let us see whether she can read your past and future life from its lines." " I can read either," E-ue 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 any more of this idle nonsense. You make a guess, and pretend you have hit upon the truth." " At all events, you must admit tliat I 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." " I didn't choose to speak out," Eue said — " that was wdiy I consulted my mother. But if you wish me to tell all I read," she added, with marked emphasis, " I w^ill do so. But don't blame me afterwards." " Poh ! 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 luieasiness. " Let me whisper a word to you," Eue rejoined, bringing her Lips close to the major's ear, and saying something to him in a low tone. He 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 ?" liue cried, with an air of triumph. " On no account," Major Atherton rejoined, hastily ; " not tliat 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 ILazy 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, and have a large collection of writers on the subject. I dare say this pretty lass never heard of Jean Indagine, Taisner, Codes, or Komphiles." MEEVTN CLITUEEOE. 285 " Never of one of them," Eue replied. " My mother was ray 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 couutry dance being now about to be 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 Hazy 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 cliooses Hue, who appears much flattered. John Bridecake 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 aftbrd 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 hei 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 tliem bestir themselves, laughing, shouting, even singing. Eue 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 mothers 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 unwillhig to go on— and we come to a sudden stop. The lads and lasses tlien dis- })erse about the green, and separating fronn the throng, I walk with Apphia towards the margin of the pool. Here we stand together for a ibw moments in silence. Words of tenderness rise to my lips, but 1 dare not give utterance to them. I 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 sigli. But what is this ? Joliu Brideoake comes towards us, bearing a letter^ and, judging by his looks, he brings disagreeable intelligence. " A special messenger has just arrived with a ])ost-chaiso, bruigiu^ this despatch from our mother," he said, giving Apnhia the letter. 286 LIFE AND ADVENTUEE8 OP Scarcely able to repress her agitation, she hurriedly broke the seal, and after fi;lauciiig at the contents of the uiissive, returned it to John. "Dear Mrs. Mervyu has become suddenly worse," she said to me, " and desires to see me. My mother enjoins me to start witliout an instant's delay, if I liope to sec her alive, and lias sent a post-chaise for me. Oh! who would have expected tliis !" slie 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." "AVhat is this I hear?" 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 p" 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." " Tour kindness is unnecessary, Mervyn," John said. " I myself shall accompany her. AVe 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 wull 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." MEETTU CLITHEHOE. 287 " To-morrow may decide our fate," I said. " It may," she replied. " Our destiny is in Mrs. Mervyn'a 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 "o I 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 ray 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 liint 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, tliat he should be delighted to be of service to me, if I would show him how — and he trusted I would consider him in tlie 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 liand." 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 liorse, and started on my expedition to Cottonborough, where I hoped to arrive by midniglit. 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 act be dismissed. The night was fine and not dark, for though the I 288 i/iFE AND adventuhes of moon was invisible, the dee.p vault was without a cloud, and tliicklr studded with stars. The roads were iu 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 iu 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 oft', 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 ?" lie demanded. " No matter whence my information is derived," I rejoined — " it is correct. But I will take such steps as will eftectually 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." " I 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 off", leaving me utterly confounded. MEEVrN CLITHEEOK. 289 CHAPTER V. IN "WHICH I APPEAR IN A NEW CHABACTEE. Some minutes elapsed before I recovered from the stupefaction iutt) which I had been thrown by Malpas's startling declaration ; and bv 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 liow 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 heariug 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 pluudered. Pownall might have been trickeil 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 musl needs throw some light upon the mysterious affiiir, and lead very probably to his detection. If it could be proved that he had borrowed a large sum at this [)articular juncture, ho 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 2i)() LIFE AND ADVENTURES OK them the dark plot might be unravelled. Pownall's meditated flight to America must be prevented, and tlie gipsies be placed under the surveilhmce of the police. Meditations, such as these, occupied me during my ride to Cotton- borough. Five miles off", the town became distinguisliable through the darkness by its many-twinkling lights. As I advanced, these lights increased in number and brilliancy, until 1 began to fancy there must be a general illumination in tlie town. But it was only tiie 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 became. 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. C,*omberbach replied. " Yesterday, we all of us thought the poor dear lady was going to pop off 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- lardous 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 I placed a five pound note in his hands. " Excessively obleeged to you, sir, I'm sure," he replied, bowing. " Molly and 1 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. ]\Iolly Bailey will use her best endeavours to get her out of the room for a short time, so as to give you an opportvinity of saying a word to our poor dear lady." MEEVTN CLITHEBOE. 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 tlie change. Call me when you're ready." Witli 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 tlie scheme ; and I felt tliat if I missed this opportunity of gaining admittance to Mrs. Mervyn, another might not occur. Hastily throwing oft" 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 ADVENTURES OF thouglit you were Captain Sale. Now you must take tlie trouble to go back to the garden-gate by the same way you came here — tlien ring the bell — and I'll be witli you in a trice. This will prevent any suspicion on the part of Fabyan 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 1 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, Fabyan 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- lificantly at me. " Mrs. Mervyn will see you, sir. Thank goodness, /he is better this morning — mucli better! Mrs. Brideoake is with her, and Miss Apphia. This way, captain." Summoning up all my resolution, 1 followed her witli 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. Mv missis is easily dis- turbed." With this she pushed the door gently open, and I stepped softly into the sick lady's chamber. CHAPTER VI. SHOWING WHAT SUCCESS ATTENDED THE STBATAGEM. Ab 1 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 coi'ner of the room, near to which Mrs. Brideoake was seated. Keeping out of the influence of this lamp, I gently approached MEBVIN Of-ITHEBOE. 1><)3 the poor sufferer, who was propped up on her couch bv 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 expi'essed 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 girl." " What of it, madam ?" I inquired, in a low tone, trembling witli 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 ! Tou 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, aud 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." " Tou 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 ehild^speak !" ]Mrs. Mervyn cried. "Let me have the answer I require from your own lips. Do you realiy love this young man ?" 294 LIFE AND ADVKNTCKKS OF Thus exhorted, Appliia might have confessed the real nature of her sentiments in regard to Malpas ; but, as I looked up at tlie 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 ? 1 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 thougiit tlie 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 liave 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. MEEVYN CUTHEROE. 295 " How can he be otherwise 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. Alter 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, whicli 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 liis 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 ADVENTUBES OF neither will I pain j'ou by a detail of his evil doings — but let me eay 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 tliat 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 iidded 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, \\ ill 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 vreW 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," tlie 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 usually placed under your pillow," Apphia observed, searching for them as she spoke, " Yes, here is the black silk bag containing them." " And here ia the key of the closet," Mrs, Mervyn said, giving it to her. " You will find the dee4 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." ^^^ MEBVTN CLIXHEBOK. 297 I hastened to obey her, praying internally that Mrs. Bridecake 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 IMrs. 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 DEIVETf INGLOBIOTJSLT 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 Mr!<. Mervyn's grasp, " I see what you have been about. Cunning dis- semblers as you botli 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 mt', 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 ADVENTTTUE8 OF you had better yield with a good grace, and uot 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. Bridecake 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 1 won't stop to discuss the matter with you now, madam," Doctor Eoam rejoined. " On my dear patient's restoration to sensibility 1 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 wiiile I am by to counsel her, dear Mrs. Mervyu will never commit such an error as to 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 iref'uUy 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. " Bah !" 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 ?" "I am here, madam," I replied, advancing towards the bed. "Ah! yes, I see you, my dear," she cried, in the kindest tone imaginable. " You shall botii be made happy. I shall never live to see you united, but united you shall be. 1 have done all you desire, have I not ? I have changed the name in the deed of settlement. It ?»Ii5EVYN CLITHEEOE. 21»9 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. Bridecake 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 wUl 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 Foam 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. AVill 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. ME. 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 Coraberbach, I explained my wislies to him, and he conducted me to a dressing-room, where he said he had placed ray 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 tliat 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 lier 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- vyu," 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, Coraberbach," 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 I MERVTN CLITHEROE. 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. " Yes I am," I replied. " No further harm can be done by my staying here, since Mrs. Bridecake 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. Good-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 tliat 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 appi'oaching. " 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 1 was ]H>riiiittcd to advise her. I know who should have the largest shai-e of hor pro- perty — and who the least." In taking leave of him, I told him [ should be there again on the morrow ; on wliich 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 tlie centre of the town. After explainiug 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 ADVENTUEE8 OF CHAPTEE IX. IN WHICH JOHN BRIDEOAKE IS MADE ACQUAINTED WITH HIS FAMILY HISTORY BY DOCTOR FOAM. John informed me that lie 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 he 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. AVe 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 tliat all immediate danger was over. However, he should see her again in a few liours, 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 1 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." " Tou 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 hear 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 MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. 303 suffered for his participation in the unfortunate Eising 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 Mervyu'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. Poam said. " In what way does this concern me ?" John inquired. " Yon 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 beiieve on the very hour, that her lord's head feU upon the block. She died in giving birth to a son, who subsequently bore the name of Gerard Wilburton. Attainted of high treason. Lord AVilbur- 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 liistory 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 aflec- tions of the youngest daughter of a noble house — the Lady Amicia Leyland, fourth daughter of the Earl of Rossendale. 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 w'ould 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 AVilburton would never drag her title through the mire, she declared, and took the humbler designation of Mrs. Brideoake. Now, sir," the doctor continued, addressing Jolni, " the last Lord Wilburton was your great-graudsire, and if the title were restored you would bear it." John made no reply, but seemed lost in thought. " You must not forget that yotir great-grandame, Honoria, Lady Wilburton, was Mrs. Mervyu's aunt, and this fact will e.\})lain to you why the mistress of the Anchorite's (when made aware by me of tlie 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 AVilburton and Honoria Morvvn detailed in the Jacobite correspondence entrusted to me some years ago by Mrs. 304 LIFE AND ADVKNTUEE8 OF Mervyn ; and I have just succeeded in obtaiuiug positive proofs of it, together with indubitable evidences of the lineal descent of Scrope Wilburton, your fathei-, 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. Erideoakc, 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, 1 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, " Ton have made all clear as regards my iamily 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 Rossendale, 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 lier 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 JiOndon ; but no pressure of circumstances could induce Lady Amicia to apply to her father. After the birth of Appliia, 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 Serope Wilburton, 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 thoiigh thus reduced she never for a moment thought of humbling herself to her father. Her hopes of reinstatement rested on her son " )) " I see it all now !" Jolm 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. " You 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 motlier. I at once recognised her, for 1 had often seen her be- fore at Lord Eossendale's seat, Buckrose, in Yorkshire, when she was MERTTN CLITUEROE. 305 the admired and haughty beauty, Lady Amicia Leyland. Tou may imagine my surprise at meeting her again under sucli strangely- altered circumstances. She imposed silence upon me by a Took, and sympathising with her misfortunes, I obeyed the injunction! Subsequently, on imparting to her the discovery"! had made in the Jacobite correspondence, I oifered 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, INIrs. 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 oftence 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 hiin 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 lias 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 oftended her?" I cried. " I cannot tax myself witli showing her any disrespect." " No doubt it was unintentional on your part," Dr. Foam replied ; " but some oftence must have been given, and she has keeiily 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. " AVell, 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 Kossendale, 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 oflercd, 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." 306 LIFE A>'D ADVENTUEES OF " Still, though you look clown with philosophic contempt on dig- nities aud honours, you nuiy desire to be placed in an easy po- sition," Dr. Eoam said. " I must now put your scruples to the test. Learn tlien, that it is good INIrs. Mervyn's intention to make a will in your lavour ; 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 tliat you will regain the honours of your ancestors." " I should not wear tliem 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," 1 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 Avillnot 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 whicli may be advantageous to others, though it may entail dis- comfort upon myself." " Wisely resolved," Doctor Foam 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 will 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." MEEVTN CLITHEROE. 307 CHAPTEE X. JOHIf A^"D I EETISIT OUE OLD SCHOOL, AND PASS A FEW HOUKS IN THE CHETHAM LIBEABT. — ILL TIDINGS. As we emerged from Doctor Foam's house, the din and confuiiion of the crowded street almost distracted Johu, 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 iind tbe quiet you need." And lending him the support of my arm, which he really needed, we walked on together, passing through St. Ann's-square and the market-place, and never halting till we reached the precincts of tlie 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 ! tliere it was — there was the dear old F. G. 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 «yes — 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 birtli 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 youtliful voices, and I would fain have taken a peep inside ; but Johu urged me to come away, and we proceeded to the Chetham Hospital, which I have already described as closely arljoining the Free Grammar School. A wicket in the ancient stone gateway admitted us to the largo ■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 'IS delighted him. It was like coming home, he said. The happiest x2 308 LIFE AND AUVEXTUKES OF hours of his early life had been spent in the library wc 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, Ve 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 " Patres Aposlolici'' in Greek and Latin, while I contented myself with old Izaac AValton, 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 ren)ained 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 word. " 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. " N^ot 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 hud ever possessed — and one whom I dearly loved. 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 liim. " You are chiefly concerned in what I have to tell," the doctor said, addressing John, who was nearly as profoundly ali'ccted 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. MEUTIN CLITHEBOE. 309 " Compose yourself, my good young friend, and liear 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 belongin"' 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 «nare. Apphia shall return with me at once to AVeverham." " Do nothing rashly, I implore of you," Dr. Foam returned. ^' Weigh it well over, before you remove her entirely from her mother. You 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-uight," 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. CHAPTER XI. DELAMEllE FOREST, I HELD to my resolution, and notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, rode back tluit 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. AV^hat 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 NVeverhain, 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 liad just oc- curred. Kind as friends may be, there are times when we sliun them ; and at tliis juncture I grieve to say that 1 felt like a misanthropist. But I did not indulge tlie feeling lone;. On my return from AVeverham, 1 found that a country lad liad 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 wislied me 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 tho meeting; but I felt sure that it was not for auy trilling cause that ha 310 LIFE AND ADVENTITRES OF would summon me. It is needless to say that I at once decided to go ;. and the many conjectures whicli tlie note gave rise to ofiered a rea- sonable distraction to my harassing thoughts. Shorily after eight o'clock that evening I mounted my horse, and proceeded along the Tarporley road, in the direction of Delamere Forest. Thougii 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 clouglis 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 1 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 niglit, from its numerous pitfals, and treacherous quagmires and morasses. Whoso incau- tiously approached too near one of the latter ■v\ould 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 Kobert Nixon. AVeird 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 vanieshed, and the only creature left, indigenous to the soil, was the rabbit that burrowed in the sand-banks. For centuries neglected and inidrained, 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 lialf a miie ofl', in the midst of the moor, lay a little lake, or tarn, called Oak Mere, whose inky waters were much re- sorted to by wild-fowl. Further on was a curious group of small liills, 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 4 MEEVTN CUTHEEOE. 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, Eiley Moss, Thieves' Moss, Eelicts' 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 jS^ixou, 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 Glead 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 beei. 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 genei'ally 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 distinguislied. 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 tlie heath covering its boggy soil ; but here and there streaks erf 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 sinkiug into little dells and valleys, in the midst oi' 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 stalwarC figure. The darkness was too great to allow any object to be dis- cerned at that distance. All at once the clouds drifted [)ast, and, the welcome radiance streaming down, showed me Ned seated on tlie 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 ncaring him, I cried out, " Well, here I am, Ned, punctual to the appointment. Ou what sort of errand have I come ?" " It isn't from me that you'll gain an answer to tliat question, sir," he replied, "but from tlie pretty gipsy girl, Hue. She it was wIki commissioned me to briniS vouj between nine and ten o'clock to-night. S12 LIFE AND iiDVENTUEES OF to a secluded spot iu the midst of tlie lieath, •which I dare sa}' you know, called tlie Chamber of the Forest; promisiti'D ADVENTURES OF !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 rebuft* 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 iu 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 oftered 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. Not be a nobleman when he might, but prefer remaining a poor curate, besides giving up a beautiful heiress ! Was 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 Owlartou Grange, and on the following day the two gentlemen I have mentioned w^ere 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 MEEVTN CLITHEEOE, 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. " Tou are always welcome, I know," he said, " and you will find the sociisty 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 be has promised to como to a positive decision within a month. I have given him clearly to understand that 1 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 accommoilate 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 iiiadr 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 miglit continue hi a state of single-blessedness so tar as she was concerned, for a poor curate she did not uitend to marry. Slie would give hini ;» month to decide. And if at the end of that time he retained his present opinions, she would think no more of him. 342 LIFiC ANI> ADVENTUEKS OK So John's fate was to be decided in a montli — 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. Tet 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. Juid 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 I'ar 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 lieard of him was that he had made a match for five hundred guineas with a certain Captain Brereton, a ;'oung 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 jNIarston 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. No 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 1 felt that the rogue would be able to impose upon him again if he only got the opportunity. iiather to my surprise, jNlajor 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 sliouldn'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 1 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. For a long period — ever since the disappearance of the Thaumatur- 1 MEEVTN ClirTHEHUii. 313 gus, in fact — no nocturnal disturbance had occurred at Owlartoii 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 Sliocklach was about to resume his midnight kuockino'S. At this time, though I passed the greater part of the day at the Grange, I invariably slept at the mill ; but after wliat 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 endec by saying that I could have the room to-morrow — but not tliat 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 tlie evening, but, instead of starting for the mill, I remained in the garden, and conceaHng myself in tlae 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 bow 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 rigiit hand, and planting the point of my foot on the window-sill, I was enabled to ptep into the room. Still the thick curtain defied my scrutiny. But thuugli 1 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 mv magical treasures " " Not forgetting the will," Old Hazy interrupted. " You mustn't omit that. " Oh ! yes, you may count upon the will," Simon rejoined. "1 shan't be sorry to be rid of it. But mind ! you are not to deliver it 314 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 terras 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 liad 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 w-as 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, tlirough Northwich. I told the waggoner I liad missed my way across the forest and had got into a bog, and, my appearance confirming the statement MEHYTN CLITHEHOE. 345 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 once." " 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 he was moving off. " You 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 CHAPTER XVII. FOETTJNE AT LAST FAVOUES ME. Next morniug 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 liim 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 liiding-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 aa 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 suspicious. She promised to keep watch over the household. Ponder, old Finch, 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 m 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 CLITHEROE. 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 flif^ht of stone steps. The rest of tl>e 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 wane, 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," he 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 tlie 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 allee verte, where they would find Cuthbert Spring and Major Atherton. As soon as I gave the signal, which 1 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 ofiicer with them. In anticipation of a successful result, they had given Ned Culchetli 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 oiF back again to the Grange, leaving tlie 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 Stcplion Blackden, and coannitted my horse to his care. In aiiotlicr monieut 348 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OP I was in the garden, and speeding through the dark alley in the di- rection of the suinmor-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 tlie 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 liim, 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 tiiat he had brought the will witli him restrained uie. " 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, worthy 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 MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. 349 the haudwriting 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 Chethara 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 Robert 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, 500Z., — 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 Chtheroe his heir," Pownall cried. " It is here." And he clapped the parchment upon the table with a report tliat 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 ADVENTUEES OP " Tes, look at it, sir! — satisfy yourself that it is all right," Pownali cried ; " but pray be quick ! The light may betray us." " I wou't belong," Old Hazy rejoiued. "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 tlie first object tliat 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 Pownali and Old Hazy were stupified by my unexpected appearance ; but the sound of the whistle recalled Pownali 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 wiaidows. " What does all this mean ?" Old Hazy cried. " It means that I am betrayed by you," Pownali cried, in a rage. "I see thi'ough 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 Pownali to the latter. " Don't let him slip through your fingers." "No fear of that, sir," the officer rejoiued, 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. " Tes, here it is," I answered, producing it. " 1 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 tliousand 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 saj' ?" his sister repeated. " I'm not quite such a miserable juggler as you suppose, madam," MEEVYN CLITHEEOE. 351 Pownall cried : the rascal had by this time recovered his assurance. " Tour 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." " Tou hear that, brother?" Miss Hazllrigge cried. " Tou liear what the impudent rascal calls you?" " Tes, 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. Paustus's compact with Satan, together with unpublished treatises by all his favourite writers on occult philosophy —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, Robert de Triez, and the others ?" " Tou had better look for them," PownaU 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." " Tou 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. " Tou 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 vou say so I Old Hazy exclaimed. " I hope soon to call you brother-in-law." " Oh ! pray don't talk in that way ?" Miss Hazilrigge cried. ^^ "Toucan'^t expect mv uncle to spare your blushes, uunt,"^Ora said, "after taking him to task so sharplv as you have just done." " Hold your tongue, you saucy minx !" the elderly spinster re- joined. . J TIT o • "Well, gentlemen," Old Hazy said to the major and JNlr. Spring, 352 LIFE AND ADVENTUBES OF " you have taken me a little by surprise, but you shall have the best accoinuiodatiou I cau 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 — s*^ no wonder I dreamed of him who made it. MERVXN CLITHEEOE. 353 CHAPTEE 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 really 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 wliich 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 I 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 particuLir 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 w:ii bt> agreeable. By-the-by, has he escaped ?" 2a 354i LIFE AND ADTENTTJEES 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 BO 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. " Every one of 'era, 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 1 called up the men at four o'clock this morning — long before the old gentleman opened his eyes — 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 clioke 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 Grrimoire), " 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. " AVhen I went into liis room just now I told him wliat 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 lie 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 wliat 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 v^nij but kept it in a place of safety about my person. MEEYTN CUTHEBOE. 355 When we met at breakfast I received the warmest con<>ratulatioii3 from the whole party, and little else was talked about° except mv 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 began to fancy that everything would turn out exactlv as they arrauged^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 Wilburton." 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 Nethercrofts, 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 Culclieth 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 ; Powuall 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, aud acquaint John with the good news. He was equally surprised and deliglited 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 liim 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 aflfair. I had not ventured to introduce the topic, having notliiug satisfactory to communicate. As I returned to the highway, on quitting the village of Wever- ham, 1 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 AND A-DTENTUEES 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. " Tou 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," 1 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 Sa,le has been stayin' for the last week wi' his uncle Squire Vernon, at Fitton Park, and not half an liour ago I met one of the squire's keepers, who told me the captain is in wonderful spirits, and makes sure of winnin' lOOOZ. 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 MEEVYN CLITHEROE. 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 jN'ethercrofts. 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 aud 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 It floated a large flag. The course to be taken by the riders in the race was indicated by tall flagstaffs planted at various points, and seemed to have been skilfully planned, as it oflered many difficulties, while at the same time there were plenty of open spaces left, ovei 358 LIFE AND ADVENTUEE3 OF which the horses could stretch well out, and make good trial of their speed. As we came in siglit of the hill loud shouting was heard, and great commotion was perceptible among the horsemen, several of whom were riding to and I'ro, 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 Avell, 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 Eue, and I knew who the others must be. As I advanced, I descried Phaleg and his son with an officer on either side of them. Both gipsies were handcufted. Poor Kue, 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 Sale. Mike departed on his errand forthwitli. By this time Major Atherton and the others had come up, bringing Pownall with them in charge of the oflBcer. On finding that his ac- complices were captured, Pownall testified his extreme satisfaction, and coiuraenced 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 were in jockey-dresses, Malpas wearing a blue cap, with a white jacket crossed by a broad sky-blue stripe, and his opponent a white cap and pink jacket. As far as could be judged, they MEBTYN CLITUEEOE. 3.39 seemed pretty well matched in regard to horses, and both 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 tlie open. On— on— on. They were now within a hundred yards of the brook, and were greeted by the cheers of the spectators' jMalpas'j 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 wliich 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 INIalpas, lauding 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 lielp Malpaa 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 Kue rushed forward. Her wrongs were forgotten, and all the tenderness slie 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 moana in her power to alleviate his sufl'eriiigs. 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 stretclied Upon the bank, at the foot of the collard-willow, groaning with 360 LIFE AKB AUVEJITUEES OF agony — with no power of movement in hia 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 lil'e to save him. Behind, stands liis 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 aff'ected in various ways. Cuthbert Spring and Old Hazy, who are standing near the sufferer, seem quite horrified by the dreadful occurrence, and so does Ned 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 ia 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 m 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 iinfortunate gipsy girl — each more harrowing tlian 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 lield him, and rushed towards Rue, when he was again seized. It was a frightful scene, and I felt so heart-sickened that I rushed away. MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. 361 Seeing how painfully I was affected, Major Atherton 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 tnen recommenaeu 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. Hazilrigge 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. " You 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. " You 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 LIFE AND AUVENTUliES Oi' CHAPTER XIX. ONCE MOEE AT THE GEAVE. While crossing the fields that night from jS"ethercrofts to keep my appointment with Major Atherton, I was strangely agitated. "VVhat 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 ray conjectures into certainties. Full 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 ray sou. 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 disclosi^re — which has been, MEUVYK CLITHEEOE. 3()3 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 sou," 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 father 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. For it seemed to both of us that there was an un- seen listener to our converse. My father 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 goue. 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 he stay longer in India ? He had wealtli 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. From 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 liim. 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 sou— a father 364 LIFE AND ADTENTURES OF prostrated by affliction. I Imve 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 tlie 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. Tlie gipsies got two years of imprisonment with hard la- bour ; while the Thaumaturgus had an opportunity offered him of visiting Australia — free of expense. MEEVTN CLITHEEOE, 365 CHAPTEE XX AT HOME AT THE ANCHOKITE's. About a wtiek 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 Cottonborough 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 tlie 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 ou 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-servautb, likewise attired in black, but I was glad to perceive that the inaus- picious-looking Fabyan Lowe was not one of them. Mr. Comberbat-h advanced towards my father as he alighted, and having respectfully saluted him, accorded me a most smiling welcome. Ah ! how diiferent 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. Comberbacli marched with more than his usual pomp along the broad gravd-walk, he ever and anon cast a bland and benign look at me, and just bffort' 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 perliaps," he' added, with a glauce at me — " perliaps it may be agreeable to you, Mr. Mervyu, to see Miss Apphia first." " By all means, Comberbach," I replied, eagerly. " You anticipate my wishes." 366 LIFE AND ADVENTUEES 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 wait here for you, Mervyn," my father remarked, with a smile. " You can dispense with my company, I am sure. Go, my boy. Success attend you i" I thanked him with a smile, and while he walked into the dining- room, I followed tlie 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, tilings 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 Vale 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 Apphia has 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 fatlier, 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 Eev. 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 would have done. When I say serious, I am almost afraid of conveying a wrong impression of her looks, which v/ore 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 was 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- MEEVTN CLITHEEOE. . . 3(J7 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. " You are mine, dearest Apphia — mine fov 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. " Eecollect, 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." AVe 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 aftectionately towards him. " Is it as I hope ? Am I to call you daughter, my dear child r" 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 fiither 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 Eossen- dale was a venerable-looking man, with snow-white hair, and a truly noble cast of countenance. Years ago he must liave 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 niannir was ro- markably aftable. In point of age, Lord Leyland was between fifty and 368 LIFE AND ADTENTUEES OF sixty, but though he had led a very active political life, and had filled very important ofiBces both at home and abroad, there was etill 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 Araicia 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. 8he was seated between her father and brother, while Dr. Eoam 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. " Tou 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 Leyland 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 ofiered 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 checked 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." MERTTN CLITHEKOE. 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 ?" " Jfay, 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 Coraberbach 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 .it. Could this afiable 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 Rossendale 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 carl's seat, Buckrose, in Yorkshire ; and in his turn Lord Rossendale promised to pay his new friend a visit at Owlarton Grange. These invitations were not matters of 2b 3n> I-IFE AND ADVENTURES OF form, but were heartily given on both sides, and what is more, both visits were paid. Courteous and pleasant to aU, 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 efiected, and John was safely caught in the toils of his fair enslaver. Lord Leyland announced tliat 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 aU, 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 lie 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 't all now ?" " 1 understand that I am completely happy," I replied ; " but how these extraordinary cliauges have been brought about passes my com- prehension. My father has kept me quite in the dark." MEEVYN CLITHEROB. 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," Cuthbert 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 Rossendale 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 i-econciliation had taken place between Lady Amicia and her noble relatives, but they had not met. This matrimonial arrangement induced Lord Ros- sendale to expedite the visit he intended to pay his daughter, and Lord Leyland accompanied him, as you see. Tour 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 Simon 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 Mervyu of your plot." " I have plotted for his happiness," my father replied, " and I hope hare succeeded. Mervyu, 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 pliysician cried. "All's well 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 with her mother." I took both his hands, shook them, and thanked him from th bottom of my heart. After passing some time pleasantly under tlie trees, we wert Bummoned to a collation by Mr. Comberbach, and adjourned 372 LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF MERVTN CLITUBEOE. 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 Kossendale, 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 wliich 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 Rossendale'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. Vv^hen business brings Cuthbert Spring to Cottoiiborough, as is not nnfrequently the case, he takes up his abode at the Anchorite's. I am often at Nethercrofts to look after ray property, and derive great assistance in its management from trusty Ned Culcheth, whom I have appointed my bailiff. I have given Ned 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." THE END. Printed from Stereotype Plates by Charles Whittingham and Co. Tooks Court, Chancery Lane, London. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. ! 1 PR Ains'Arorth - 1 4002 1^55 Mervyn Clitheroe. 1 MAR 26 iy|i3