However, my prospects, on entering life, seemed fair enough. It is true that I did not derive much assistance from my father, who was still in India; but I had every reason to suppose that Mrs. Mervyn would continue to befriend me. The thousand pounds bequeathed me by my uncle Mobberley was untouched. And here, having alluded to my father, let me mention that he was now Colonel of the 1st Regiment of Bombay Light Cavalry, stationed at Neemuch; and held, besides, some other appointments. But his second wife was a very extravagant woman, and having a large family by her, and fancying I was provided for, he did not trouble himself much about me. He had wished me to enter the army, and to join some regiment going out to India; but understanding that Mrs. Mervyn was opposed to the step, he no longer pressed it.
“You have experienced such unbounded liberality and kindness from your excellent relative,” he wrote to me, “that her wishes must be law to you. I have never seen you, my dear boy, and should like to look upon your face — your portrait tells me it is like your mother’s — before I close my eyes. But as good Mrs. Mervyn has an objection to our noble service, and desires to retain you near her, by all means stay. I will never interfere with her. Whatever profession you may choose, if you take after your father, you will always be a soldier at heart. So, receive my blessing, and may you prosper!”
And now a word as to some others of the reader’s acquaintance. And first of John Brideoake. When mention was last made of him, John was staying, for the recovery of his health, at Ned Culcheth’s cottage, at Marston Mere, in Cheshire. The poor boy got better, and returned to the Cottonborough Free Grammar School, but having overtasked his brain, he was never able to work so hard as he had previously done. He obtained a Somerset scholarship from our F. G. S., and matriculated at Cambridge at the same time as myself. We were both at Saint John’s College, but he was only a sizer. No doubt, if John had been able to study hard, he would have greatly distinguished himself, but severe application was strictly prohibited by Doctor Foam. He made a final effort, but was nearly sinking under it, and had a renewal of the attack under which he had laboured at an earlier period, only recovering sufficiently to take his degree. This bitter disappointment cast a deep gloom over him. He became melancholy and despondent, and seemed to have lost all relish for life. Another unhappy consequence attended his want of success. His mother, who had built her hopes upon him, and had fully persuaded herself that he would be a senior wrangler, was astounded and angry at his failure, and never forgave him. He ought to have died rather than give in, she said; and he would have died most assuredly, Doctor Foam declared, if he had persisted in his efforts. His mind was incapable of further strain. John Brideoake took holy orders, and became curate to the Reverend Doctor Foljambe, vicar of Weverham, near Delamere Forest, in Cheshire. A tranquil life, well suited to his tastes, here awaited him, but he saw little of his mother and sister. Mrs. Brideoake appeared to have lost all affection for him, and besides, she had other schemes in view, with which he might have interfered. But of these anon.
Before proceeding, I must remind the reader, who may, perhaps, have forgotten the circumstance, that Doctor Foam, when dining with Mrs. Mervyn, borrowed a volume of Jacobite correspondence from her. The correspondence related chiefly to the Rising of’15, and most of the letters were in cypher; but the doctor, being familiar with the characters, was able to make out their import. While examining these documents he made some discoveries relative to Mrs. Brideoake’s family, which he thought it necessary to communicate to Mrs. Mervyn, and thenceforward the kind-hearted lady took an extraordinary interest in the widow and her children. But Mrs. Brideoake’s pride presented for some time an obstacle to the full development of my relative’s generous intentions towards her.
By Mrs. Mervyn’s instrumentality, and at her cost, Apphia was sent to an excellent school at Dunton, in Cheshire — a pretty village, which I have heretofore described as about three miles north of Marston Mere. A cottage near the school was also taken for Mrs. Brideoake.
It may almost seem incredible, after such favours had been showered upon her, that Mrs. Brideoake should be loth to make the personal acquaintance of her benefactress; but nearly three years elapsed before they met, and during the whole of this time Mrs. Mervyn never ceased to extend her bounty both to mother and daughter.
At last, the way was paved to an intimacy by Apphia. The now blooming girl of sixteen was taken by Doctor Foam to call on Mrs. Mervyn, and the latter was so pleased with her, that she insisted upon her passing a few weeks at the Anchorite’s. Mrs. Brideoake reluctantly assented to this arrangement; but she might not have displayed so much hesitation if she could have foreseen its results.
Apphia’s amiable disposition and winning manners produced such a favourable impression upon her kind hostess, that the latter declared she could never part with her. So she sent for Doctor Foam, and telling him it was indispensable to her happiness that mother and daughter should live with her, charged him with a message to that effect to Mrs. Brideoake. The worthy doctor seemed apprehensive that he should not discharge his mission very satisfactorily, but he succeeded beyond his expectations. Whatever arguments he employed with Mrs. Brideoake, they prevailed. She consented to become Mrs. Mervyn’s guest for an indefinite period; and thenceforth she and her daughter were regularly installed at the Anchorite’s.
Every consideration was shown them. They had their own apartments, and Mrs. Brideoake was not expected to appear, unless she chose to do so, when there was company in the house. The influence of her strong mind over Mrs. Mervyn’s gentler nature soon became apparent. Whether this influence was for good or ill, will be seen hereafter. Suffice it that ere a year was over Mrs. Brideoake had acquired a complete ascendancy over her protectress.
As to Apphia, Mrs. Mervyn became more and more strongly attached to her, and her affection in this instance was fully requited. Ever since she had come to reside at the Anchorite’s, Apphia had the advantage of a daily governess, and of the best instructors that Cottonborough could provide. At eighteen her education was pronounced complete, and it would have been difficult to meet with a more accomplished girl. The promise of beauty held out by the child was more than fulfilled by the young woman. Her figure was tall and slight, and her features were of the rarest order of beauty, but their prevailing expression was pensive rather than gay, probably the result of early anxiety. The candour, simplicity, and sweetness of her. character might be read in her open countenance; and her smile evidently came from the heart. Her eyes were of a clear, tender blue, and serene as a summer sky; her complexion exquisitely delicate; and her fair hair was braided over a brow as white as marble. Such was Apphia Brideoake at eighteen. Those who were fond of meddling with other people’s concerns began to talk of Mrs. Mervyn’s great attachment to her, and some of them even went so far as to say that it was quite certain the old lady would leave all her property to her new favourite. So she might, for anything I should urge to the contrary.
Apphia and I were like brother and sister, and I think she was quite as fond of me as of her own brother John. I am quite sure if I had had a sister I could not have loved her better than I loved Apphia. The innocent intercourse of young persons of opposite sexes has a delight that no other commerce of friendship can bestow; and the happiest moments of my early life were those spent in this sweet girl’s society. I even derived improvement from it; for, though younger than myself, she was wise beyond her years, and capable of giving me good counsel; while the evenness of her temper frequently offered a wholesome check to my headstrong impetuosity. A hasty temper, indeed, was my failing; as the reader will find out as I proceed, if he has not found it out already. Apphia soon discovered this fault in me, and tried to correct it. Knowing that I was quick to acknowledge an error, she did not despair of my amendment. Her nature was the kindliest imaginable. Considerate to all; utterly, free from selfishness; she had not a particle of the pride that beset her mother. Humility rather was her attribute.
I used often to go over to Du
nton to call on Mrs. Brideoake at her cottage, and I must confess that my chief inducement for these visits was the hope of meeting my charming little playmate. Many a stroll have we taken in the adjacent park, with John for a companion, and we have even rambled on as far as Marston Mere. Ah! those were blissful hours! not to be recalled without a sigh.
Apphia was no longer a child when she came to reside at the Anchorite’s, and some little change, as might naturally be expected, took place in her manner towards me. Amiable and obliging as ever, she was rather more distant. No longer did we run hand-in-hand together as we had been wont to run in Dunton Park. No longer had we any little confidences. Our feelings, I dare say, were just the same, but we put more constraint upon them. Each time that I returned from Cambridge during the vacations, I remarked that Apphia’s reserve towards me increased. I once questioned her about it, and she replied that she had as much regard for me as ever, but we were no longer children. So I was bound to be satisfied. Whether any feeling, warmer than friendship, had sprung up in our breasts, I cannot positively assert; but perhaps the conviction of a secret sentiment of the kind may have produced the growing restraint I have noticed on Apphia’s part. That I looked upon her in the light of a future wife is certain, though I never consulted her on the subject; but I fully determined, when I returned from my continental tour, to propose to her in form. Our parting, on the occasion of my setting out on this tour, served to precipitate matters. While exchanging our adieux, she exhibited such unwonted tenderness, and seemed so sorry to lose me, that I do not think I could have torn myself away at all, if her mother had not cut short the interview. But before we were thus separated, I had extorted from her the confession that she loved me, with a pledge that she would be mine; while I, in my turn, vowed to wed no other.
But I must leave this pleasant theme, and turn to one who was a good deal mixed up with my early history, and with whom I was fated frequently to come in contact — I mean, Malpas Sale.
I could never do away with the conviction that Malpas had defrauded me of the property I ought to have inherited from my uncle Mobberley, and though he made many friendly overtures to me, I always rejected them... He had now grown into a remarkably handsome young man. His features were finely chiselled; his complexion of almost feminine delicacy; and he wore a superabundance of black curling hair. I have elsewhere mentioned that he was three years older than myself — being now twenty-four. It might be prejudice on my part, but I thought, notwithstanding his good looks, that he had a sinister expression. There is no denying, however, that he had easy, prepossessing manners, and an air of good breeding and distinction. Perhaps, he might be a little of a coxcomb — at least, I thought him so. He had been a fellow-commoner at Trinity College, Cambridge, where, during his residence, he lived like the young noblemen and other youths of large expectations with whom he consorted; kept several horses, gave expensive entertainments, and spent a great deal of money — much more than the five hundred a year allowed him by our uncle Mobberley’s will. It will be remembered that he was not to come into the whole of that property, which was estimated at two thousand pounds per annum, until he attained the age of twenty-five. Malpas used to grumble a good deal about this arrangement, and wondered what the old man could have been thinking of to keep him so long out of his money.
Malpas was my senior by about two years at Cambridge, so that when I became a member of the University, he belonged to another set, who looked down upon us freshmen. Moreover, as a fellow-commoner, he had better society than I could expect to obtain; but, on my arrival, he called upon me, and proffered me all sorts of attentions; but, as I have said, I declined them. I distrusted even his civilities. Strange to say, he would not be offended by my rudeness. Though I avoided him as much as possible, we not unfrequently met; for, being of the same college, we had necessarily some mutual acquaintances, and rather than make a row, I endeavoured to control my dislike. It was difficult, too, to quarrel with him; he was so confoundedly civil and obliging.
How he obtained his degree was matter of surprise to every one who knew the sort of life he led; but he had excellent abilities, and was remarkably quick when he chose to apply, so that in an inconceivably short space of time he mastered what it took others months to learn. Besides he was well crammed. He told his friends afterwards that he expected to be plucked, and he found that such a result had been anticipated by them. This made his triumph the greater.
He left the University deeply in debt; but what of that? His creditors felt secure. In four years (he was then twenty-one) he would come of age, and they would be paid in full. Meanwhile they received full interest on their claims. Malpas gave himself little concern about them. His business was pleasure; and as reflection on the state of his affairs would have interfered with his amusements, he took care not to trouble himself on that score.
Malpas’s next step was to purchase a commission in the Second Life Guards. As may be supposed, what with his present position, his two thousand pounds per annum in expectancy, his good manners, and his handsome person, he was very popular, and was invited everywhere. This sort of life lasted for two or three years, during which he launched into all sorts of fashionable extravagances; but at the end of that time supplies were not to be so easily obtained, and he became what is vulgarly styled rather “hard up.” Still, as in fifteen months he would come into his property, he thought the executors would readily make him an advance.
With this design he came down to Cottonborough, and had an interview with the two trustees under our uncle Mobberley’s will — Mr. Evan Evans and Cuthbert Spring. He wanted ten thousand pounds; but, finding them disinclined to accede to the request, he lowered his demands, and said he would be content with half the amount. This was likewise refused. Cuthbert Spring, who subsequently gave me full particulars of the interview, told me that when Malpas pressed them still further, he said to him, very decidedly:
“We are interdicted by the will from making you any advance at all, Mr. Sale; and we grieve that you have exceeded your annual allowance of five hundred pounds, which we think amply sufficient for your requirements. We sincerely trust that you will not seek to raise money on the property you expect to acquire, as you can only do so at great disadvantage, since the lenders of the money will incur considerable risk.”
“How so?” Malpas demanded. “In little more than a twelvemonth the property must be mine, and I can then deal with it as I please. It is not a very long minority.”
“Granted,” Cuthbert Spring replied; “but life is uncertain, and it is possible you may never attain the age of twenty-five, as required by your uncle’s will. It is also just possible — I do not say probable — that the other will may turn up during the interval.”
On hearing this remark, Cuthbert Spring told me that Malpas became excessively pale; but, quickly recovering himself, he forced a laugh, and said:
“I do not think that’ very likely, Mr. Spring.”
“Neither do I,” the other rejoined; “but the fear of such an occurrence may deter a money-lender, or make him very extortionate in his demands.”
Malpas was not put of countenance by the remark. Assuming an air of indifference, he said:
“Well, gentlemen, if such is your decision, I must bow to it. I shall do the best I can elsewhere, for money I must have.” And so he left them.
Failing in this quarter, Malpas had recourse to his father; but he could not help him. Doctor Sale had provided him with funds to purchase his commission, and had no more money to spare; for though he had a living of twelve hundred a-year, he saved nothing out of it. However, since his son’s necessities were urgent, he bestirred himself; and thinking Mrs. Mervyn likely to aid him in the emergency, applied to her. He made out the best case he could for Malpas, glossed over all his indiscretions and extravagances, said that he had been led into expenses by keeping high company, and, in a word, made every excuse he could devise for the dashing young Guardsman. Malpas, he said, in conclusion, was now fully sensible
of his folly’ and determined to turn over a new leaf. Mrs. Sale, who accompanied her husband, spoke to the same effect; and her genuine maternal pleading had more weight with Mrs. Mervyn than the doctor’s plausible arguments. The good lady would not give an immediate answer, but required a day or two for consideration. Her manner, however, convinced Doctor Sale that he had gained his point. And he was right in the conclusion. When he again waited upon her, Mrs. Mervyn informed him that she was willing to lend his son two thousand pounds till such time AS he should come of age; only stipulating that he, Doctor Sale, should become security for the repayment of the amount. Of course no objection could be made to this proposal by the vicar’ and he joyfully acceded to it.
I was abroad when the arrangement took place, but Mrs. Mervyn communicated it to me; and I confess I felt greatly displeased by the intelligence. All the animosity which had continued to rankle in my breast against Malpas was revived, and, while in this state of irritation, I wrote a letter to my benefactress, which I have since felt to be highly improper, and which I had soon good reason to regret. I told her she had a perfect right to do so as she pleased with her money, but I thought she might have employed it more profitably than by throwing it away upon a reckless prodigal like Malpas Sale.
My surprise may be conceived when, about a month afterwards, I received a letter from Mrs. Mervyn, informing me that she was perfectly satisfied that in lending money to Malpas Sale she was dealing with a man of honour, and consequently she had not the slightest feeling of insecurity as to the repayment of the two thousand pounds. More than this, the loan was only for one year. She added, that I seemed to have formed a very unjust opinion of Malpas, and she could not subscribe to it.
What made this letter more galling was, that it was enclosed in another from Malpas himself, couched in terms of most provoking civility, and complaining that I had done him great injustice, but he forgave me, as I had some grounds for my enmity towards him; but he advised me, if I regarded my own interest, not to attempt to dictate to Mrs. Mervyn in future.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 458
