“Sir, your behaviour is scandalous. Talk about insulting the dead, indeed! I should like to know who has exhibited most indecorum — 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. You have shown how unworthy you are to be your uncle’s heir. You 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 his 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 desire 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 injury 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 him. 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 with 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 coexecutor 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. Your 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. You 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.”
Such were the terms of her letter. Not wishing to return for the reasons 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 have said that I spent the greater part of my time with the Brideoakes, and I had now not only the companionship of little Apphia, but of John, who had 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 was 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 allowed his own way, he would have resumed his studies as unremittingly as ever. But this being entirely counter to Doctor Foam’s orders, all books were kept out of his way by his mother. He was a strange boy, John Brideoake! 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 watch the shadow of the 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 him talk so before, for he sometimes spoke as one inspired.
I have not mentioned Mrs. Brideoake hitherto, though I saw her daily, of course, for I cannot say that I liked her, nor that she improved 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 exercised complete tyranny over them. Even John’s strong mind was subdued by her. And now that I was so much with them, and, as it were, a member of the family, she treated me in the same manner. I had naturally acquainted her with the disappointment I had experienced, 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 wife 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. Brideoake. 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 she 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 all overtures, and on two or three occasions when 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 interview 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. Indep
endently of all other considerations, there was a romantic character 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 oily real apprehension 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 the neighbourhood, or kept out of my way, for I saw nothing of her.
The only plan to be adopted under the circumstances was the one suggested by Ned, to the effect that he, Culcheth, 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 on his part. After due consideration, this was agreed to. It might appear that I should have some difficulty in leaving Nethercrofts late at night without explaining my errand; but I gave myself little concern on this point. I had known the men slip out too often during my poor uncle’s lifetime, not to feel quite sure I could manage matters in the same way.
Oh! 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 expectation 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 right 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. Then 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 farmyard. Talbot had come out, too; for though I would rather have been without him, 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 which 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. I 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 might be merely echoes of my own, for as I once more halted, the sound suddenly ceased. Still I felt uneasy, and an indefinable 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 Phaleg, 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 marshy grounds adjoining 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 eyes 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 Mobberley, but the next moment the moon was again hidden, and it melted from view.
I was dreadfully frightened, I 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 opinion, 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 lonesome 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. Yes, after a while there was a cry from the church tower, and a great white, ghostly object flitted past 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 un distinguishable. 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 headstone, and on each occasion I fancied that mocking laughter succeeded my fall. But it might be only the echoes of the spot. Presently a black 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 church, 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 through the air, when a figure emerged from the gloom, and a voice, which I recognised as that of Phaleg, exclaimed:
“Hist! where are you?”
“Here,” I replied, stepping towards him.
“I see you 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 this? 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 I” he echoed with a fierce laugh. “Afeard of a stripling like you! No, I’m not much afeared, my joker. And if it warn’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 rejoined. “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 this the gipsy swore a great oath, and he brandished a treme
ndous 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 would be cheap to you at two thousand, but I won’t drive a hard bargain. I’m tired of this 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 money’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 adjoining grave, broke on our startled hearing, and Talbot, who was standing near me, howled and ran off.
“What the devil’s that?” my companion ejaculated, in tones that bespoke his terror.
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 had not tumbled, for I had not hitherto observed it.
His habiliments were those he had worn in life; and he was leaning upon his crutch-handled stick, with the black patch drawn over his death-like features. We both gazed at the apparition in mute terror. I would have spoken, but my tongue refused its office.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 456
