“Really, Mervyn,” Doctor Sale interposed, “I cannot allow this intemperate, this improper language to be addressed to my son. I can make every allowance for your disappointment, and the bitter feelings it must naturally engender; but your passion carries you too far, and you must not bring serious charges like these against a respectable man — a highly respectable man — like Simon Pownall — a man whom I myself have known for many years, and who, during the whole of that long period, has conducted himself with the utmost propriety, and borne a character above reproach or suspicion.”
“Entirely above suspicion, Doctor Sale,” the barber-surgeon cried, advancing. “Hold my head as high as any man. What has Master Mervyn to say against me?”
“Better leave him alone, Simon,” Doctor Sale said, with bland dignity.
“Oh! let the fool go on,” added Malpas, who had now recovered his audacity; “he’ll only get deeper in the mire.”
I was so enraged, that I felt inclined to knock him down; but my loss of temper had already given my opponents such evident advantage over me, that I tried to calm myself; but it was no easy task.
“Let me ask Simon Pownall one question,” I cried.
“Twenty, if you please, sir,” the barber-surgeon replied, readily, and with a self-satisfied grin, as much as to say, “You’ll find yourself no match for me.”
“Did you not offer to make all sure for me with my uncle if I would pay you a large sum of money?”
“Decidedly not. No motive for doing so. Believed you his heir?”
“Of course you did, Simon,” Doctor Sale observed; “so did we all.”
“Ay, we all believed it,” the assemblage chorused.
“Any more questions?” Pownall said. “Clever young man, Mr. Gripper?” winking at that gentleman.
“Remarkably clever,” the attorney replied, with a smile. “Ought to go the bar.”
“Will go to the bar, perhaps,” Simon said, facetiously.
“It was foolish in me to put any questions to you at all,. Pownall,” I cried, “for I might have known that a man who would make such a nefarious proposal as you did to me, would not hesitate to deny it. What I intend to ask shall be asked elsewhere, and in a different manner.”
“Look to yourself, Master Pownall,” the attorney observed, jocosely, “Mr. Mervyn decidedly means to prosecute you.”
“Quite welcome,” the barber-surgeon replied. “Meantime — let me ask him a question. It shall be a poser.”
“Does it relate to the will?” Mr. Gripper said.
“It does,” Pownall rejoined. “Attention, gentlemen. Si — lence! Now, sir,” addressing me, “no equivocation — direct answer — WHO SHOT THE CAT?”
“Ay, ay — who shot the cat?” several voices repeated, amid the general laughter of the party.
Stung by this insult, I seized hold of Pownall’s long nose, and tweaked it so severely that I speedily changed his note; but when Malpas advanced to the rescue, I quitted my hold of the barber-surgeon’s proboscis, and dealt my younger opponent a blow, which drove him with considerable force against his father’s fat paunch, and caused him to trample on the reverend gentleman’s gouty toes, eliciting as many oaths from the doctor as he had breath left to utter. In the scuffle that ensued, old Talbot came to my assistance, and, snapping right and left, cleared a passage for me to the door, where Elkanah Catchpool attempted to oppose my egress, but seeing the dog approach open-mouthed, the scoundrelly clerk turned tail and fled, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him chased round the farmyard, and finally deposited in the black pool near the pigsties, into which he soused in his efforts to escape.
How I got there I scarcely know, but I found myself beside my mother’s grave. There I burst into tears; there, after a while, I found consolation. A gentle voice seemed to whisper peace to my troubled breast. I no longer burnt with anger, nor meditated revenge. The last twenty-four hours had wrought a great change in my character, and had given me thoughts beyond my years. I had imagined myself possessed of a large fortune, which, suddenly as it came, was wrested from me. I had indulged in dreams of the future, which had vanished as quickly as they rose. My momentary elation had been followed by bitter disappointment. I hoped what I had gone through might be a wholesome lesson to me, and, as I stood there, I felt it would be so.
“Perhaps it is for the best,” I cried. And a voice from the grave seemed to repeat my words— “Yes, it is for the best. This is but a trial.”
But the trial was severe; and how much I regretted that I had no mother’s tender bosom whereon to repose my throbbing head after the conflict.
CHAPTER XIV.
I AGAIN ENCOUNTER PENINNAH.
I STATED by the grave more than an hour, when I heard the gate opened, and distinguished the voices of Doctor Sale and Simon Pownall, and not wishing to be discovered by them, I leaped the low wall that bounded the churchyard on the side of the mere, and making my way down the steep descent, and through the narrow copse skirting the water, sat down on the stump of an old tree to meditate.
While thus musing, I perceived Ned Culcheth rowing his boat, in a very leisurely manner, across the mere, and remarking also that a little girl was seated near him, it struck me that the latter must be Apphia Brideoake. And so it turned out; for, as Ned drew nearer, I could distinguish her features distinctly. And she also caught sight of me at the same moment, and stood up in the boat, waving her hand to me in recognition. On this, Ned pulled vigorously, towards me, and in a few minutes afterwards I had sprung on board, and was seated by Apphia’s side, making inquiries about John and her mother.
She told me they had arrived on the previous night, and were quite delighted with the cottage I had chosen for them. It was so clean and comfortable, and airy — so unlike the lodgings they had quitted. John was better — much better — but, being fatigued with the journey, he had not yet left his room. Apphia was in raptures with Sissy, and spoke of her good looks and good-nature with childish admiration; while Sissy, from Ned’s account, was equally charmed with her, and couldn’t make enough of her.
“Hoo would ha’e me tak little miss i’ my boat when I corned back fro’ Nethercrofts,” he said.
“And if he hadn’t done so I shouldn’t have met you, dear Mervyn,” Apphia cried.
This was unanswerable, and I could only say how much obliged I felt to Sissy for her attention; but I added, to the keeper:
“You’ve heard what has happened, then?”
“I tarried i’ th’ farmyard till a’ were known, and then I corned away,” he replied. “There’s been foul play somewhere.”
“Little doubt of it, Ned. But what can’t be cured must be endured.”
“True. But, mayhap, this can be cured. However, we munnot talk on’t now. Ther’s little missy wonderin’ what we mean.”
“What is it, dear Mervyn?” Apphia asked, fixing her large blue eyes inquiringly 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 can see it is something that distresses you, and therefore I’m sorry for it.”
“Land us for a moment near Throstlenest-lane, Ned,” I cried, anxious to change the subject; “there’s a bank in it which is generally covered with primroses and violets at this time of year, and I should like to send a nosegay to the invalid. You will take it to him, Apphia?”
“Oh! that I will,” she answered, joyously.
The keeper rapidly complied, and we soon stepped ashore. As I expected, we found plenty of violets, and the banks were literally starred with primroses. How full of delight was Apphia as she culled a little nosegay for her brother! How like a sylph she looked as she flew from spot to spot, or paused in her task to listen, enraptured, to the songs of the birds from the adjoining copses! When 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 held out that her nascent charms would be brought to maturity. I watched her with the greatest interest. What witchery was there in her every look and every movement! What transports of delight she exhibited when the thrilling notes of the throstle reached her ear! How she clapped her little hands, and ran herself out of breath, in mounting the steep acclivity!
“Where did the lane lead to?” she inquired. I told her to Nethercrofts. “Oh! how much she should like to see the farmhouse! — 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 Nether crofts 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 around; “but I know the voice. It is that of Peninnah, the gipsy-woman.”
“You’re right, my pretty gentleman — it is,” Peninnah cried, coming from behind some bushes, which had screened her from our view.
Apphia clung to me with alarm as the gipsy-woman advanced towards us.
“Don’t be frightened,” I said; “she shan’t injure you.”
“I don’t wish to injure her,” Peninnah rejoined, “and I don’t wish to injure you, my pretty gentleman, though you’ve hurt my husband, and tried to take his life. I bear you no malice. If I wanted to do you a mischief,” she added, with a look that made Apphia tremble in my arms, “you would soon find out whether I had the power or not. But I don’t — and I don’t blame you for shooting at Phaleg, though he was going to do you a good turn at the time. But how should you know that? You weren’t likely to trust him.”
“No, indeed,” I replied. “And I scarcely know whether I ought to trust you. But I will. What have you got to say?”
“I can’t tell it now,” she rejoined; “neither can I tell it without Phaleg’s consent, and I’m not sure he’ll give it. Indeed, I’m certain he won’t, unless you make it worth his while.”
“What will make it worth his while?” I asked.
“That’s for him to settle — not me,” she answered. “He 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 momentary pause, Apphia whispered something to me, but I did not catch its import.
“A month hence you shall know,” the gipsy-woman said, at length.
“A month hence! that’s a long time,” I exclaimed.
“You may thank yourself for the delay,” she rejoined; “you’ve wounded Phaleg, and he won’t be quite well till that time.”
“Oh! then, I’m to have an interview with him, eh? Where is he?”
“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 churchyard, at the back of the church, near the mere. You shall meet him there. I’ll answer for your safety.”
“Why appoint such an hour and place?” I asked, feeling Apphia shudder, while a tremor ran through my own frame.
“Because it will suit Phaleg. I’ve no other reason. You’ll come?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, hesitating.
“Oh no, don’t promise — don’t go, dear Mervyn,” Apphia entreated.
The gipsy-woman looked hard at her.
“You’re very fond of him,” she said, with a cunning smile. “Are you his sister? You’re pretty — but you’re not like him.”
“I’m not his sister,” Apphia answered, with a slight blush; “but I don’t want him to run into danger.”
“Oh, bless your tender little heart! he won’t do that,” Peninnah rejoined. “He’ll come; for I’ve seen him in real danger afore now, and I know lie’s one as isn’t easily frightened. He’ll run no risk now; and, as I said afore, if he goes the right way to work, he’ll lam summat to his advantage — ay, greatly to his advantage.”
“Well, I’ll keep the appointment,” I said. “But you must tell me which is the ‘right way’ you speak of.”
“You’ll easily find that out. Mind, you must come alone; and mustn’t mention the meeting to a single soul. Can you keep a secret, my pretty miss? You look as if you could.”
“I can, if I choose,” Apphia replied.
“Then you must choose and do so now, for it consarns him more 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 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 mis-fort’n and poverty have been her portion hitherto. That I can see. You may fancy I’m deceivin’ of you in what I’m agoin’ to say, but I’m bless’d if I am. Her future happiness will mainly depend on what takes place on that Friday night I’ve mentioned.”
“Ah! you want to induce me to go,” I cried.
“If I do, it’s for your own good — as well as for hers,” she rejoined. “And now I’ve done. Recollect my caution. Alone, and at midnight, in the churchyard.”
“On this day four weeks. I will be there,” I returned.
And Peninnah stepped behind the bushes, while Apphia and I retraced our steps towards the boat. As we went on, the little girl remarked:
“You did not take any notice when I whispered to you that some one was watching us.”
“I did not — because I did not hear what you said,” I replied. “Was it her husband — Phaleg? But why do I ask, when you don’t know him.”
“The man didn’t look like a gipsy. I could only see him indistinctly, 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 a good pulling this morning.”
I was not sorry that Ned had overhead what had passed between me and the gipsy-woman, because I could now talk the matter over with him without any breach of confidence; but I was very much vexed that Pownall (if indeed it were he, as I could scarcely doubt,) should have been a listener likewise; and I determined to concert measures with Ned, between this and the appointed meeting, to defeat 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 MY UNCLE MOBBERLEY’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 felt it might be of importance to me, and had fully prepared for it; but, before detailing the strange events of that night, I must briefly relate what had occurred in the interval.
I was still staying at 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 intrusted, were very kind to me, and expressed great concern at my disappointment. I believed them to be sincere, and felt their kindness much. Malpas had not been near the place since the day on which the will was read, and I had only seen him once — at the funeral, on which occasion he acted as chief mourner. Acted, I may say, in every sense; for his pretended grief was disgusting, not only to me, but to the greater part of the numerous assemblage of mourners. He carried a fine cambric pocket-handkerchief in his hand, which he constantly applied to his eyes, and when the coffin was lowered into the earth, and the poor old man was once more laid beside his wife — from whom he had only been a few months separated — he gave utterance to a loud groan. I could hardly restrain myself; but I did. When all was over, we confronted each other, and I gave him a look which told him plainly what I thought of him. He turned away, pretending to wipe the tears from his eyes, and again groaned loudly. Unable to stand it longer, I snatched the handkerchief from him, and threw it into the grave, crying out:
“Away with this mockery of sorrow! You 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:
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 455
