I ROSE betimes next morning, and, mounting Taffy, set out for Marston. On reaching the heights of Dunton I first caught sight 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 Nethercrofts, 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 It was instantly withdrawn, but I knew it to be that of the gipsy, and was sorry to find he was still prowling about the country.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 Taffy to the gate, entered the dwelling. Sissy was busy about some household employment at the back of the premises, but hearing me, she came out, and bade me heartily welcome. Having explained my errand to her, she said:
“Why, look you, Master Mirfyn, I shall be fery glad to accommodate your friends, and to nurse the poor sick young gentlemans — profided my husbants has no objections. There are three of them, you say — a laty, and her daughters, and sons — that’s three. Well, we can put the two laties into our own rooms — that’s the best — and give the poor sick young gentlemans the other beds, and Ned and I can make shift somewheres. Ay, that’ll do. And then there’s the little parlours for the laties, where they’ll be all alone by themselves.”
“Yes, that’ll do nicely, Sissy, if Ned approves of the plan, for, as you say, he must be consulted before anything is decided on. But 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.
“I wish you wouldn’t mention him, Master Mirfyn,” she said, at length. “He has been the cause of much troubles to me and my husbants.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, Sissy; but you may remember my caution at parting. It was in reference to him that I gave it.”
“Pless my ‘eart, here comes Ned,” Sissy cried, opening the window, and pointing out a boat, which was rapidly nearing the shore. We went out to meet the keeper, and almost as soon as we reached the landing-place he leaped ashore, and squeezed my hand with 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 of fish, and offered me a fine jack, if I liked to take it to Nethercrofts. I then explained the object of my visit, and was particularly careful to describe the family to him. When he had heard me out, he exclaimed:
“Weel, an’what does Sissy say to it?”
She told him she was quite agreeable.
“If that’s the case, so am I,” he replied; “though we want no company to make our house merry. Dun us, lass?”
“But this is a charity, and we may do coot, Ned.”
“True,” he rejoined; “and therefore I say, ‘Yea wi’ a’ my heart.’ An’ we’n get a’ ready for ‘em.”
So the thing was fully settled to my great delight. Ned appeared so glad to see me, that I stayed with him longer than I intended, and even partook of some of the newly-caught fish, which Sissy would insist upon broiling for me, and which proved excellent. Thinking the keeper should be made acquainted with Phaleg’s propinquity, I told him that I had certainly seen the gipsy that morning.
“Then the rascal’s corned back again,” Ned cried, “for I scoured the whole country round after him, and made sure I had driven him away. I know the spot reet weel where yo’ seed him. It’s just above the 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 characters of Marston was the smith, Job Greaseby, a big brawny old fellow, between sixty and seventy, who had once possessed prodigious strength. Of an afternoon Job was a constant visitant at the Nag’s Head, but in the morning he might be seen with a leathern apron on, his shirt unfastened so as to expose his ruddy chest, covered with a grizzly pile, and muscular arms bared to the shoulder, directing his men, and sometimes lending them assistance.
The smithy was full of cart-horses, and all the hands employed, so that I should have tarried for some time if Job himself had not undertaken 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. Your 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?”
“He goes there 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 wboam 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. “Well 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 off.”
“What do you mean, Pownall?”
The barber-surgeon tapped his long sharp nose significantly.
“The old man has made two wills already, but he may make a third. Old folks are whimsical. Un
derstand? ‘Mum’s the word with me.”
“What are you driving at?” I said, sharply. “Come to the point.”
Pownall again tapped his beak.
“The old man is a mere child in my hands. Does as I bid him. It rests with me, therefore, whether he makes a new will or not. Understand now — eh?”
“Perfectly — I perfectly understand you, Pownall. You mean to insinuate that you can induce my uncle to leave you his property, if you choose.”
“Oh, no! that wouldn’t be honest,” he cried.
“Honest!” I exclaimed, contemptuously; “that consideration isn’t likely to deter you.”
Pownall did not seem offended, but sniggered as if I had said a good thing. After glancing round to ascertain that he could not be overheard, he said: “It must be worth something to be quite sure of two thousand a year. How much should you say, sir?”
“I haven’t given it a thought.”
“Then do, and let me know. Only think if it all went to some one else whom you don’t like. How mortifying if all these broad acres — that snug farmhouse — and all the money snugly lodged in the Cottonborough banks and in the funds, were to dip through your fingers, and go elsewhere. Think of that, and consider what it would be worth to secure the whole. Another person would give a good sum, but ‘mum’s the word with me.” He paused for a moment, and then added, “Make me your friend, and the whole’s yours.”
“Never,” I replied. “I reject your dishonourable proposal. Not to purchase thrice Nethercrofts would I consent to anything so base. I have listened to you only for the purpose of fathoming your black designs; but my uncle shall know the rascal he has to deal with.”
Still Pownall remained unmoved. “Try him,” he cried, with a smile. “See what you can do with him. And when you fail, as you will — when you understand my power — come back to me. Always open to an offer. 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 humour to listen to me, I thought it better to postpone my disclosures to a more favourable opportunity, and soon afterwards took my departure.
In passing through Cottonborough I called at Preston-court to acquaint Mrs. Brideoake with the arrangements I had made for the accommodation of herself and her family at the keeper’s cottage of Marston, with which she was extremely well satisfied. I did not see John, hut she told me he was improving gradually, and Doctor Foam thought he might be moved in a couple of days, and had engaged a carriage for their conveyance. This visit paid, I went home.
During the evening I explained to Mrs. Mervyn the necessity that existed of my going over to Nethercrofts, telling her I feared my uncle was in the hands of a very designing person. She approved of my resolution, though she almost feared, she said, “that my youth and inexperience would not be of much avail against such cunning and roguery. However, you are a quick boy, my dear,” she added, “and it is much better to be on the spot, for there is no saying what a person of your uncle’s age and habits may do. It is very unfortunate that he is in the hands of such a knave as you describe Pownall to be, especially as the old gentleman has so much to leave; and it is, indeed, melancholy to think, that as age and infirmities creep upon us, and we are less able to protect ourselves, we become a prey to such wretches. I ‘wish I could be of any service to you, but that is out of the question; and I cannot very well write to Mrs. Sale, for it is a delicate matter, though I am sure she would prevent any improper conduct. She wrote in the highest terms of you to me, and I am sure has your real interest at heart. You may perfectly trust her, though it may appear against her own interest. Heaven bless you! my dear boy. This is a very important matter to you; but you must not be too sanguine, in case of disappointment. I will write to Doctor Lonsdale to explain your absence from school.”
Owing to some arrangements I had to make, I did not start until late next day, and it was quite dark when I entered Marston. As I passed the smithy, which cast a ruddy and pleasant glow across the road, I saw Job standing near the forge, and hailed him. He told me he was just going over to the Nag’s Head, where my uncle had been for the last two hours, and I begged him not to say he had seen me, as I did hot want Simon Pownall to be made aware of my return. He promised me he wouldn’t, and I then rode on to the farmhouse. About two hours after my arrival, I heard a noise in the orchard, occasioned by my uncle and his attendants, and could tell from the scuffling and the tones of his voice that the old man was very tipsy. He was accompanied by Simon Pownall and Chetham Quick, and, practised dissembler as he was, the barber-surgeon could not conceal his vexation at finding me there to receive them. I am sure, from his manner, that he intended to put his plan into execution that night, but my presence deterred him. My uncle ordered some hot water and spirits, hut Hannah and I told him he had had enough, and between us we persuaded him to go to bed, while the baffled Pownall was compelled to take his departure empty-handed.
Next day the poor old man was very ill, and could only take a little gruel. He got up, but didn’t leave his own room, and what was very unusual with him, had a fire lighted in it. I meant to remonstrate with him, for it was evident he was abridging the little left to him of life. Simon Pownall made his appearance in the course of the morning, and was going at once into my uncle’s room; but Hannah stopped him, saying the old gentleman must not be disturbed. So Simon went out, but his manner awakening my suspicions, I kept watch upon him, and found he had gone into the little garden, and placed himself in such a position as to overlook my uncle’s proceedings, which could be easily done, the room being on the ground-floor. He continued in this attitude for some minutes, intently observing what was going forward, and unconscious that he was watched in his turn.
But I was called away from my post of observation by my uncle, and promptly obeying the summons, I found him seated by the fire, on which some half-consumed parchments were hissing and crackling. He bade me push them further into the flames, and as I obeyed him, I perceived that one of them was a bond from Doctor Wrigley Sale for four thousand pounds. 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 Doctor 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 modem appearance. It was a packet tied with a piece of black tape, sealed and endorsed thus:
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 operation, with his eye fixed on a note in his poor wife’s writing, looked at me, and, hastily snatching the packet from me, exclaimed:
“No, no; thou mustn’t burn that, lad; that’s my will.” But after examining it for a moment, he added: “No; it’s not my last will. I forgot. But my memory’s so bad I can recollect nothing now. There’s the right will.”
And he pointed to another packet, exactly similar to the one I had taken up, and similarly endorsed, lying on the shelf of the open bureau.
But, as if to satisfy himself, he got up and examined it, and then muttering, “Ay, ay, it’s all right,” carefully locked the bureau, adding to me: “Now all’s safe, and there
can be no mistake; put t’other will down. We’ll burn it presently. There, lay it on the bed with the other papers.”
The bureau, I may remark, stood in a corner of the fireplace, and the room being small, the bed was not far from the window, which was partly open.
The note which my uncle had been examining related to the sale of some cheeses, and thinking it of importance, he desired me to take it to Hannah, and I left the room for that purpose, shutting the door after me. She was in the dairy, and kept me a few minutes to clean her hands before she would touch the paper, but when she had examined it, she said it was of no consequence—” she knew all about it — it had been settled long ago.” As I passed through the house-place on my return, Simon Pownall came in from the door leading from the garden. He looked rather confused, but I took no notice of him, and went to my uncle. The old man had thrown a great heap of papers on the fire, which were burning slowly. Not seeing the will 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 affirmative, he desired me to call him.
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. You know what I mean to do with my money.”
“Pretty nearly, sir,” Simon replied, looking hard at me.
My uncle then took up the poker to raise the smouldering heap of papers, and let the air in among them. As the pile blazed up, and the ashes flew up the chimney, he laughed childishly.
This business got through, the old man tottered into the house-place, and sat down in his accustomed chair. A weight appeared to be taken from his mind. Pownall gave him a mixture for his cough, which was so troublesome at times that I thought he would be suffocated. He retired early that night, but would not let anybody 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.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 452
