The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  But the man seemed in no humour to consent to my departure, and I began to fear he would put his threats into execution, and I considered what I could do to obtain help. A few words passed between the pair in an undertone; but I caught what the woman said in conclusion.

  “I tell you it won’t do, Phaleg. It’ll be found out, and you’ll be scragged for it. It’s not the first time I’ve saved your neck from the halter, and you know it. You sha’n’t lay a finger upon him, I tell you,” she continued, in a tone of authority, “no matter who bids you, nor what you may get. So go to the shed and take Rue with you.”

  “Well, you will always have your own way, Ninnah,” Phaleg replied, as he sullenly obeyed her, and left us alone together.

  “And quite right I should have it, when I’m tied to such a head-strong, violent fool as thee,” she muttered, looking after him with contempt. “And now, my pretty little gentleman, let me tell you your fortin. But first you must cross my hand with a lucky half-crown. I knows you’ve got one.”

  As I willingly complied with her request, she looked into my palm, and appeared to study its lines intently. At last she spoke:

  “Plenty of adventure for you, my pretty little gentleman; many an up, many a down — many a difficulty, many a danger — before you comes to your own. There’s a good deal of love in your hand, my merry little gentleman, but a good many crosses. All won’t go smooth where your heart’s consarned, so you mustn’t expect it. You’ll find many friends, and Some enemies — some bitter enemies — ay, you’ve got one now, secretly trying to work your ruin. You ought to have a large fortune, my little gentleman, but there seems summat in the way of it, and I fear it won’t come to you. But keep up your heart; you’ve a bright eye and a merry look, and riches doesn’t bring happiness — at least, good folks say so, though I’m of a contrairy opinion myself, and should like to roll in wealth. And now I’ll tell you how you may know my words to be true. You’ve lost your mother, and haven’t never seen your father.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “As I know all else about you — from the lines on your hand. And they tell me,” she said, in a serious and almost solemn tone that lent force to her words, “that before many hours are over you’ll receive a sudden and painful shock.”

  I inquired what she meant, but she replied she could tell me no more, when some object rolled down the bank, and was almost buried in the avalanche of snow that attended its rapid course. It turned out to be the gipsy lad. He was pursued by a bloodhound, which dashed down the brake after him, and which no doubt would have seized him and lacerated him dreadfully, but for the intervention of his father, who, hearing the noise, rushed out of the tent to his assistance, armed with a stake, with which he kept the hound off.

  “This is Ned Culcheth’s dog,” exclaimed Phaleg. “Is he at hand, Obed?”

  “Ay, daddy,” the lad replied, “and there’s the young gentry cove with him.”

  “What young gentry cove?” inquired Peninnah.

  “Young Sale.”

  “Curse you, hold your tongue,” interrupted Phaleg, “and give the young gentleman his whip — d’ye hear?”

  “You now see I was right,” observed Peninnah; “that hound would have discovered all.”

  “Devil take his baying. I’ve a good mind to settle him,” cried Phaleg, raising the stake.

  But at this moment Ned Culcheth dashed down the ravine, with a double-barrelled gun on his shoulder, and followed by his other bloodhound, as well as by Malpas, who, it afterwards appeared, had tied his horse to a tree at the top of the bank. Both expressed great surprise at seeing me, while Ned called off the hounds, which showed a strong disposition to attack the gipsies. As Malpas came up, I fancied I detected a glance of intelligence between him and Phaleg.

  “Why, Mervyn, who the deuce would have thought of finding you here?” he cried. “I was riding along to meet you, as I promised last evening, and wondering where you could be loitering, when just as I crossed the bridge over the Rollin, I overtook our friend Rufus here, and was chatting with him, when old Gaunt started off, and gave chase to this little black rascal, who dived into the hollow to avoid him.”

  “And if I’d obeyed your orders and ca’d Gaunt back, Master Malpas,” Ned remarked, “we should nother ha’ found Master Mervyn, 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 without delay, for if I finds ’em here again we’en see what Lupus and Gaunt can make on ‘em.”

  “Nay, let them be, Ned,” interposed Malpas; “I dare say the poor people do no harm. Besides, you must be uncharitable indeed to begrudge 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 disturb them.”

  “Varry weel, sir; as yo please,” Ned replied; “but yo’n find th’ squoire’s of my way of thinking, if so be he hasna altered his mind.”

  “I must say they scarcely deserve my intercession, especially the woman, who looks as if she wasn’t to be trusted,” Malpas observed; “but I have always had a liking to gipsies.”

  “And so have I till to-day,” I remarked.

  “Why, they hanna ill-treated you; they hanna attempted to rob you?” demanded Ned.

  “No, no,” I replied; “but—”

  “I suppose you came here to have your fortune told, and the woman hasn’t laid it on thick enough, eh?” Malpas interrupted.

  “She told me a good many things; and, amongst others, that I had a secret enemy,” I replied, looking hard at him.

  “Oh! she told you that; and you believe her, I suppose?” he rejoined, with a forced laugh, and glancing significantly at Peninnah; while Phaleg also looked disconcerted and angry. Malpas, indeed, seemed disposed to address some menaces to the gipsy woman, but her looks apparently checked him, and he cried out to me, “Well, we’ve wasted time enough here. Come along, Mervyn.”

  He 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.”

  “But Shakeshaft mayn’t like it,” I said.

  “What does that signify? Simon Pownall will manage it. I’ll do it, by Jove! Take care of my tit for a moment till I come back.”

  And, throwing the bridle to me, he disappeared down the brake. But he didn’t return quite so soon as I expected; and thinking I heard voices in dispute below, I asked Ned if we should go down and see what was the matter.

  “Na, na,” he replied, with a peculiar smile; “dunna yo’ be afeard — he’ll come to no hurt. He’s among friends. Didna it strike yo’ that he seemed to know them warmint, Master Mervyn?”

  “It did, Ned.”

  “Weel, he’s a queer chap, and I hope he may come to good.” At this moment Malpas reappeared, and springing on his horse, exclaimed, with a laugh, “Well, I’ve settled it all. They’re coming.”

  “A nice party we shall have,” I thought, echoing my previous rumination.

  “Cornin’ 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 dwelling, Malpas apparently found the attraction irresistible, and proposed 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 blooming 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 inclined to coquetry, probably because she had had so many admirers before Ned won her from them. With an arch smile she told us that if we wanted her “husbants” he was from home, and mightn’t return for an hour. Malpas said he knew that, but he had called to see her, and her alone; and then he laughed and paid her some highflown compliments, which heightened the roses in her cheeks.

  “If you want to please me, Sissy,” I said, “you’ll go in that becoming hat to the merry-making to-night.”

  “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 1ike our Welsh ponies, look you.”

  “And no peauties like your Welsh peauties, look you,” Malpas rejoined, 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 compliment.

  So we rode off; when, just as we got to the end of the lane, who should we meet but Rufus, as Malpas called him, striding along at a great pace, with Gaunt and Lupus at his heels. On beholding us, the keeper knew where we had been, and looked so “confoundedly glum,” as Malpas observed, that we thought it advisable to hurry on without a word; nor did we again draw the rein till we reached the barber-surgeon’s shop, where I left my companion, who wanted to speak to Simon about the gipsies, and made the best of my way to Nethercrofts.’

  The day seemed unusually long to others as well as to me, but night arrived at last, and about eight o’clock — for we kept better hours in Marston than they do at some places — a large party of us prepared to set out. My aunt had been unusually cheerful that day, and when my uncle displayed some wavering in his purpose of going, she confirmed it, by saying it would be better for him than a night at the Nag’s Head. As all the household were invited, Susan Sparkes, a decent old body, was engaged to attend upon my aunt, and a near neighbour, Dame Hutchinson, whose rheumatism prevented her from taking any part in the village festivities, came to spend the evening with her. A fire was therefore lighted in the little parlour, the curtains were closely drawn, to keep out the cold, the best china tea-things were brought out, and everything was made nice and comfortable for the good old gossips.

  “Well, good night, and God bless thee, John,” my aunt said to my uncle, as I helped him on with his great-coat, preparatory to starting; “ I wish I were young enough to go wi’ thee, as I did fifty-five year ago, to some such hopping, before thou and I wert man and wife. Good lack-a-day! we were a bonny couple then, and could dance, too, with the best of ‘em. ‘Odds life, neighbour Hutchi’son, you wouldn’t know Phoebe Massey in the poor withered thing before you. Would she, John?”

  “I shouldn’t,” he replied gruffly.

  “Well, that’s plain spoken, man, I must say. It’s odd how my thoughts are running on the days of my youth. Dost thou remember when we first met near Marston Mere, John? — and how thou didst use to come courting me at nights? — and how I let thee in at the dairy? Ah! those were happy 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 ‘em, and I could ramble on for an hour. There, give me a kiss, my own old man, for the sake of bygone times.”

  My uncle seemed pleased at the request, and complied; and, putting my arms round my aunt’s neck, I said I must have a kiss too; after which we quitted the room, the good old dame bestowing another blessing on us both.

  So we set out in very good spirits. My uncle and I, and Sam Massey, on whose arm the old man leant, led the way; Hannah and William Weever, dressed out in their best, came a few paces behind; and Martha and Peter brought up the rear. We did not require a lantern, for the moon shone so brightly that it was almost as light as day. On reaching the village, we found all the folks coming forth, bent on the same errand as ourselves, and most of them very merry. My uncle complained bitterly of the cold, though he was well wrapped up, and would fain have entered the 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, we were greeted by the enlivening strains of a fiddle, which issued 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 reception 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 Bet apart for the great folks. Light was afforded from two old copper branches suspended from the great cross rafters, and from tin sconces stuck against the walls. 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 displeasing to Ned, who watched them with great impatience. Aware that the keeper could put little constraint upon himself, and fearful lest some mischief might ensue, I went up to him; and it was well 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 lips. Ned would certainly have done him some hurt, if I and Pownall, who happened to be near, had not restrained him. Sissy, who was a good deal embarrassed, almost immediately afterwards quitted Malpas, and came up to her husband; but he turned sullenly away, and there was a good deal of tittering among the bystanders, and some not very complimentary remarks among the female portion of them, who disliked Sissy for her good looks. I came to her rescue, and following Ned, she soon succeeded, by her coaxing ways, in restoring him to good humour.

&nb
sp; By this time, Doctor and Mrs. Sale, and Mr. Vawdrey, had joined the assemblage, and seemed much amused with what was going forward. The vicar was unwontedly condescending, and his lady affable as usual. They were accommodated with chairs, raised a little from the ground, so that they could command the whole scene; and my uncle Mobberley was placed on Mrs. Sale’s right, and Mr. Vawdrey near the vicar. I also noticed Phaleg, the gipsy, and Peninnah, and little Rue among the throng.

  Peninnah had a yellow handkerchief bound over her raven hair, and was otherwise rather gaudily dressed, as was Rue; and Phaleg had donned his holiday clothes, and did not appear quite so ruffian-like as in the morning. Their appearance amid the crowd was picturesque enough, but they were generally looked upon as black sheep, and avoided.

  Just then Simon 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 know,

  The PEA also

  Must revel as queen of the court here.”

  The order was eagerly obeyed, and great was the pressure that ensued. The arrangements were entrusted to Simon, who, assisted by Chetham Quick, distributed the cake; and by some accident the Bean fell to me, and the Pea to Sissy; consequently we were Queen and King, and were hailed as such amid the shouts and laughter of the company. Ned looked pleased enough, for somehow he didn’t appear to be jealous of me; but now Malpas became angry in his turn, and I heard him swear at Pownall for not giving him the bean. The barber-surgeon shrugged his shoulders, and declared he meant to do so, but it was all the fault of that stupid Chetham, to whom he had intrusted the distribution of the cake. And, indeed, the surmise proved to be correct, for Chetham presently nudged me, and, with a sniggering laugh, whispered in my ear, “You owe all this to me. I knew what master was after, so I changed the slices of plum-cake, and gave yours to Malpas. He! he! he!”