Before I could offer any further explanation, Mrs. Sale entered. She was still very handsome, possessing a tall, graceful figure, and an unmistakable air of high breeding in manner and deportment. Her son greatly resembled her in point of features, but in no other respect, for she was an excellent person, and very amiable.
“Good morning, Mervyn. What is the matter, Doctor Sale?” she inquired calmly.
“The matter is this, Mrs. Sale,” replied the vicar. “Malpas, at the instance of this hair-brained boy, and in company with him, has been crossing the mere — crossing it, 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 is not so bad as you represent, sir,” I replied, hastening to relieve the lady’s anxiety. “Malpas is, no doubt, in a feverish state, caused by the immersion; but I trust he will soon be better. I did not persuade him, as you assert, Doctor 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 mentioned it — that but for my exertions in helping him out of the water, he would be there now.”
Mrs. Sale instantly rose and embraced me. “So you have preserved his life? You were always a brave boy, Mervyn.”
“God bless my soul! so you pulled him out, eh?” cried the vicar. “Good boy — brave boy; but very rash to cross the mere — very wrong — many springs in it — never freeze — dreadfully dangerous. And so Malpas is not in danger? Well, that’s a comfort — a very great comfort. You’ll go to him directly, Mrs. Sale, and take Mr. Vawdrey with you. I daren’t venture out this dreadfully cold morning; for you know I’m taking colchicum, and the gout would inevitably fly to my stomach, and then the consequences might be worse to me than the ducking to Malpas.” So saying, he stirred up the fire, and took up a position before it, spreading out the ample skirts of his black coat. “You had better lose no time, Lydia. Mervyn tells me that Simon Pownall is gone to the boy; but, if necessary, you can send over to Knutsford for Doctor Lamb.”
“I will do all that is requisite, Doctor Sale,” replied the lady. “It is needless to take Mr. Vawdrey. Mervyn will accompany me. I will be ready in a moment, my dear.”
So we set out together.
On arriving at the keeper’s cottage, we found Malpas in the hands of the little barber-surgeon, who had breathed a vein, and administered a soothing draught; and the patient was now perfectly tranquil, and doing so well, that Pownall declared he would answer for his perfect recovery in twenty-four hours if he were not disturbed. But for the intervention of Sissy Culcheth, who thought it would be a thousand pities to disfigure so handsome a young gentleman, Malpas would have been robbed of the flowing locks, of which he was so vain, by the scissors of the barber-surgeon; and for this Sissy received the thanks of Mrs. Sale, who was dismayed to hear that such a dreadful notion had been for a moment entertained.
Having satisfied herself that her son was doing as well as represented, and that her presence only disturbed him, Mrs. Sale took leave, committing 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, I could see, would have been right glad to get rid of the intruder; but Sissy smilingly undertook the charge, and said, in her pleasant Welsh tones, “An’ please you, madam, I shall pe a fery coot nurses to him.”
“What a pretty, well-behaved young woman Sissy Culcheth is; and how clean she keeps her house. I declare, we haven’t whiter linen at the vicarage,” Mrs. Sale observed, as we walked along. “Ned Culcheth has not been long married. He brought his wife from some place in Caernarvonshire. I have often noticed her at church, but never spoke to her before. A very pretty young person indeed!”
Mrs. Sale then inquired into all particulars concerning the accident; and I related them, I hope, with becoming modesty. She could not thank me sufficiently for rescuing her son.
When we got back to the vicarage, Doctor Sale was so pleased with the account we brought of Malpas, that he invited me to dine with him, saying there would be giblet-soup, a fine roast turkey, and mince pies. “Boys always like mince pies,” he added, with a chuckling laugh. “And you shall have a glass of port — SUCH PORT! — ten years older than yourself, you dog — oh! oh! oh!”
Mrs. Sale urged me likewise, and said she would walk over with me to Nethercrofts, and ask my uncle’s permission.
“Pray do, my dear,” said the vicar, who was now all blandness and smiles; “and I shall be happy to see the old gentleman too, if he will come. But there’s little chance of it, I fear.”
“I wish, indeed, he would come,” Mrs. Sale observed with a sigh. “No one ought to be a more welcome guest to the vicarage than Mr. Mobberley, for without him we might never have possessed it.”
“Quite true, Lydia — quite true,” Doctor Sale returned. “But if a man won’t dine with you when you ask him, the fault is generally considered to rest with him, not you. I should be glad to show Mr. Mobberley more attention if he would let me; but, you’ll allow it would scarcely be consistent with my cloth to join him at the Nag’s Head. But go with Mervyn, and invite him; press him; say what you please, my love — only bring him, that’s all.”
“I will try,” Mrs. Sale replied; “but I despair of success.”
And the vicar seemed to be of her opinion, for he chuckled immensely at the answer.
I was very glad of the proposed arrangement, for I hoped it would save me from the “rowing” I anticipated from my uncle, when he came to learn how my morning had been spent; and[I therefore seconded it very warmly. So Mrs. Sale and I set out once more. Marston was a straggling little place, consisting for the most part of detached dwellings, with small gardens beside them, full of damascene plum-trees and elders. The prettiest part of it was near the vicarage, the lower garden-gates of which opened at the foot of a hill; the ascent being lined with picturesquely-disposed cottages, intermingled with shrubs and trees. At the top of the hill, the road turned 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 Nethercrofts 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 delightful to observe the respect with which she was everywhere treated; but her affability and kindness fully entitled her to it. The news of Malpas’s accident had spread about like wildfire — very likely owing to that gossiping Chetham Quick, whom we met running about, — and frequent inquiries were addressed to her respecting her son.
On our arrival, my uncle would have conducted Mrs. Sale to a little parlour, which was assigned to the better order of his guests, but she would not hear of it; told him she much preferred the house-place, and sat down on the sofa beside my aunt, whose hand she took very affectionately, and made many inquiries after her health. The old dame gave but a poor account of herself, but was delighted to see her visitor, and so was my uncle, for her presence diffused unwonted cheerfulness throughout the dwelling. It was surprising how much at home Mrs. Sale made herself, how easy the old folks seemed with her, and how well she adapted herself to their habits and feelings. There was not the least condescension on her part, not the slightest departure from her usual good breeding; and yet she managed all this without difficulty. I could not have had a better advocate with my uncle. She narrated the adventure on the mere, and applauded my conduct so highly, that the old gentleman, instead of being angry, looked quite pleased with me.
“Dost hear what Madam Sale says, Phoebe?” 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 I am not,” I said.
“Then you must believe him — you must acquit him, Mrs. Mobberley,” 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 sometimes suspected, his mother was the cause of my restoration to favour, for from this time my aunt fully forgave me.
Though strongly urged, my uncle could not be prevailed upon to dine at the vicarage, but he willingly allowed me to go; and I escorted Mrs. Sale home again. Intelligence, meanwhile, had been brought by Simon Pownall that Malpas was going on so favourably, that no more uneasiness need be entertained about him; and this made his mother quite happy. 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 mince 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 I 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 warmth, for the important service I had rendered him the day before. Sissy chimed in too, and was louder in my praises than seemed agreeable to Malpas, for he checked her with a frown, and said; “Well, you’ve talked enough about it, at all events, Sissy.”
“I suppose you’ll return to the vicarage presently, Malpas?” I remarked.
“I’m 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 musn’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 very 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. Your’e fery complimentary, look you,” Sissy returned, blushing, and glancing furtively at Malpas, who didn’t look over-pleased at our conversation.
It was, perhaps, just as well that at this juncture Simon Pownall presented himself.
“Aha! out of bed, eh?” he exclaimed, on perceiving his patient. “Knew how it would be — soon set you to rights. Pulse feeble, but good — all danger over — must keep quiet today though. Brought you a draught. Wine-glass here, Sissy — tonic — restore appetite — quicken pulse — two hours hence, another glass — Sissy will administer it — nice nurse — musn’t fall in love with her, though,” with a knowing wink— “husband jealous — mum’s the word with me.”
Sissy was all confusion at this speech; and Malpas, who looked very angry, exclaimed:
“None of your ridiculous insinuations, Pownall. Can’t one be attended by a pretty young woman without falling in love with her.”
“Don’t know,” the barber-surgeon replied. “Complaint catching.”
The fair object of these remarks now looked really distressed.
“Look you, Master Malpas, you must go home, sir. You can’t stay here, after these pat ‘ords.”
“There, you see what you’ve done, with your infernal nonsense, Pownall,” Malpas cried. “I’ve a good mind to throw the phial at your head, you stupid, meddling old ass.”
The barber-surgeon burst into a loud laugh.
“All a joke — mean’t no harm,” he said. Didn’t think it could be taken amiss, or wouldn’t have said it. Like a little bit of fun — thought it was fun.”
“Then you find out your mistake,” Malpas rejoined sharply “Do — and apologise,” Pownall returned. “Think no more of it, Sissy. Heard the news, eh? Bessy Birch, the miller’s daughter, has gone off with a bagman from Cottonborough. Know it for a fact. Not the first sweetheart she has had — could tell — but mum’s the word with me.”
“Oh, pless us! pretty Pessy Pirch gone off with a packman! An’ her fathers tat was so fery font of her, too, poor ting! What’ll happen next I wonder!”
“You had better make yourself scarce if you have nothing but this stuff to talk about, Pownall,” Malpas cried.
“Difficult to give satisfaction it seems. Try again. Heard of the Twelfth-Night merry-making in Tom Shakeshaft’s barn, of course? Twelfth-cake — spiced ale — fiddling — dancing — all kinds of fun and frolic. All the young folks of Marston — and some of the old ones, too — will be there; and amongst the latter your humble servant, who hasn’t quite lost his agility yet. Down the middle! up the middle! fol-der-iddle-ido.” And singing, and snapping his fingers, he cut several lively capers round the room, to our infinite amusement.
“Of course you’re going, Sissy?” I asked.
“‘Teet and I can’t tell, Master Mirfyn,” she replied. “I should like it fery much, look you, but I don’t know whether my husbants will let me go, and tat’s the truth.”
“Let you! lie must — he shall,” Pownall cried. “The merrymaking would be nothing without Sissy Culcheth. And here he comes, at the very moment he’s wanted. Put it to him at once.”
“So please you, sir, ton’t; it’ll only make him cross.”
Ned entered with four or five dogs at his heels: an old pointer, a water-spaniel, a terrier, and a couple of fine blood-hounds, answering to the sounding names of John of Gaunt and Hugh Lupus. Having made his four-footed companions lie down, deposited his double-barrelled gun, and taken some game out of his bag, he approached us. If a manly frame, supported by strong thews and sinews, is to go for anything, Ned was no unsuitable mate for pretty Sissy. He was about thirty-five, and by no means a bad-looking fellow, though perhaps too much of a Rufus for some people’s tastes, for his poll was a perfect forest of red hair, and his great bushy red whiskers covered his cheeks and met under his chin. Ned was upwards of six feet in height, and very powerfully built, with broad shoulders and a wide deep chest; and his athletic frame was well displayed in his velveteen shooting-jacket, and leathern leggings, coming high up on the thigh.
“Weel, Master Pownall, han yo’ quite cured th’ young gentleman?” he asked.
“Not quite, Ned,” the barber-surgeon replied, “but he’ll be himself again to-morrow. Can’t perform miracles, Ned.”
“Hum!” the keeper muttered.
“Talking of Tom Shakeshaft’s Twelfth-Night hopping just as you came in, Ned,” Pownall pursued. “Mean to take Sissy, of course?”
“No, I dunnat, and that’s flat.”
“Sorry for it. Know what folks will say — but mum’s the word with me.”
“Ah! — what win they say?”
“Mum’s the word with me.”
> “Hang your ‘mum!’ What’n they say, I say?”
“Why, that you’re a jealous oaf, since you want to know.”
“Jealous! me jealous! Ha! ha! Weel, then, I win go, if only to show ’em I’m not.”
What coaxing ways Sissy had. I saw her take Ned’s hand, and look at him so persuasively there was no resisting her. But the cunning barber-surgeon thought it was his doing entirely.
“Knew how to do it you see,” Pownall whispered Sissy, with a wink. “Took him on the right side. Down the middle! up the middle! fol-der-iddle-ido.” But this time his capers were suddenly cut short by Lupus and Gaunt and the rest, who threatened to fly at him, and Ned had to bring out his whip to make them lie down.
Order being once more restored, the barber-surgeon said:
“Tom Shakeshaft has left the management of the affair to me. Sure to go off well in consequence. Must have the Fool Plough and Sword Dance. Ought to be on Plough Monday, as you know, but will do just as well on Twelfth-Night. Only three days too soon. You’ll play the Fool, Ned, eh?”
“Dang’d if I do.”
“Dang’d if you don’t, and see who’s right. Chetham Quick, my ‘prentice, shall play ‘ Old Bessie. Honour us with your presence, young gentlemen? — invite you both in Tom Shakeshaft’s name.”
“Oh! I’ll go, if I’m well enough,” Malpas said.
“And so will I,” I added, “provided my uncle has no objection.”
“Answer for him — make him go too,” Pownall said, with a laugh.
“Oh! if the gentlefolk be goin’, I must cry off,” Ned observed.
“An’ why so, look you?” Sissy inquired.
“Ay, why so, indeed?” Pownall cried. “People will talk, then. But mum’s the word with me.”—’
“Pesides, you promised just now, and you never preek your ‘orts, Ned.”
Ah, Ned, my good fellow! you will never be able to resist those soft looks and coaxing ways. Nor could he; for he replied with a yielding laugh:
“Weel, a promise is a promise. Yo’ han me there, lass, and I’ll e’en play the Fool, too, since Mester Pownall wishes it.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 443
