My first impulse on receiving these letters was to hurry back to England — I was then sojourning at Borne — and it would have been well if I had done so. But I contented myself with writing — and I am sorry, to say more intemperately than before. In fact, I could not control my feelings. To this fresh ebullition of anger, Mrs. Mervyn sent a very short reply, stating that she was not very well, and, as she did not like a correspondence of this kind, she had deputed Doctor Sale to write to me.
Accordingly the next post brought me a stiff, formal letter from the vicar, reminding me of the obligations I was under to my benefactress, and hinting (as I have since learnt he had no authority for doing), that if I did not lay aside the tone I had adopted, my allowance would be discontinued.
I was never, as the reader knows, of a very patient turn, and this was too much for my endurance. I did not perceive the snare set for me, but at once fell into it. Acting again on the impulse of the moment, I despatched an angry missive to Mrs. Mervyn, saying that as she had found new friends whom she preferred to one who had hitherto held the chief place in her regards, it was natural she should wish to get rid of the latter; and that with the deepest sense of gratitude for past favours, I must decline to accept more for the future. In sending off this most injudicious, and I will now say (for I cannot attempt to exculpate myself), most ungrateful letter, I could not have taken a step more serviceable to my enemies. It gave them an advantage over me of which they were not slow to profit. Prudence would have counselled very different measures, to say nothing of better motives. Want of temper was the cause of all this mischief.
An opportunity of setting myself right was afforded me by Mrs. Mervyn herself; but I neglected it. She wrote to say that I had quite misunderstood her, that her sentiments of affection for me were entirely unchanged, and she hoped I should think better of the determination which I seemed to have formed.
To this I replied that I was glad to receive the assurance of her unabated regard, but after what had passed, I could no longer consent to be a dependent upon her bounty. Again want of temper. But I fancied it a mere display; of independence.
This unpleasant correspondence was closed by a brief note from Mrs. Mervyn. It was to this effect: “You have been hasty, but I excuse you, It is the fault of the temperament you have inherited from your father. You will think differently ere long. No more till I see you.”
My vexation was not lessened when I learnt, as I did from Cuthbert Spring, to whom I wrote, that Malpas had obtained a footing at the Anchorite’s, which for some reason or other he seemed most anxious to maintain.’
“Perhaps I may be able to throw some light upon his motives,” Cuthbert wrote. “We shall see. But remember, it will be merely conjecture. You are aware of the loan which Mrs. M., at the pressing instance of Doctor and Mrs. S., has been induced to make him. If I had been consulted, she should never have complied with their solicitations; but let this pass.
I cannot be always at her elbow, and the wisest and best of women will sometimes err. I suspect — mind, this is only suspicion — that Mrs. B. advised her to lend the money. Mrs. B., you know, is now omnipotent at the A— ‘s, and she seems to have taken a great fancy to M. S. Whether the wily lady may have any ulterior views in respect to him, I cannot say. But this is anticipating. Let me go on. Right or wrong, the loan was accorded, and a few days after the money was advanced, M. S. called to thank Mrs. M. for the favour done him. You know he can be most agreeable — indeed, I may use a stronger term, and say, fascinating — when he chooses; and on this occasion he exerted himself to the utmost to please. It was very well you were not there, or your ire would infallibly have been excited. Mrs. M. was delighted with him — and not she alone, but Mrs. B., who rarely finds visitors to her taste, honoured him with her approval. He was. asked to come again, and eagerly availed himself of the invitation. So well did he play his cards, that in less than a week he had got the run of the house, and is now always a welcome guest — welcome, as I have said, to the hostess, welcome to the hostess’s right hand, welcome — no, perhaps it would be too much to say he is welcome to the young lady. So, you see, you have a rival. But, to be serious. Shall I tell you what I think? I am of opinion, then, that Mrs. B. would not dislike to have M. S. for a son-in-law. What qualities she can discern in him to make such a connexion desirable, I cannot guess; but, in hazarding the assertion, I do not believe I am far wide of the truth. M. S. may be a suitor to A. B. She is certainly a girl well calculated to inspire a great passion. He pays her marked attention; but I won’t say that his attentions are agreeable to her — indeed, I even fancy the contrary. A report has been spread about here of late, that A. B. is to be Mrs. M.’s heiress. Well founded or not, this report may have had some influence on the suitor, and it would not surprise me to hear that he had proposed for her hand. Thus I have endeavoured to give you an idea as to how matters stand at the A— ‘s, and you will judge whether you ought to expedite your return.”
Here was matter, indeed, to make me pause and reflect. Hew gall was added to my bitterness, and pangs of jealousy heightened my rage. I could not believe for a moment that Apphia, whom I regarded as my affianced bride, would listen to the addresses of this coxcomb; but her mother might interpose her authority. Mrs. Brideoake’s will was law with her children — that I knew. There was the danger.
And Malpas! how I execrated him. Ever in my path! — not content with robbing me of my inheritance, the villain was now endeavouring to deprive me of one dearer to me than any earthly treasure. And I — fool that I was! — had left the stage clear to him and his machinations. Nay, I had played into his hands. But I must repair the error I had committed without delay. I must drive the enemy from the vantage-ground which I had foolishly allowed him to occupy. I must return at once.
This resolve taken, my preparations were quickly made, and I set off from Rome, burning with anxiety to reach England. But all my impatience, all my exertions, availed me little. I experienced a sad check. The carriage in which I travelled was upset, and the injuries I received by the accident detained me a month on the journey.
What was passing, meantime, at the Anchorite’s?
CHAPTER II.
FROM WHICH IT WILL APPEAR THERE IS SOME TRUTH IN THE SAYING, THAT THE ABSENT ARE ALWAYS WRONGED.
THE unlucky accident I have mentioned occurred between Martigny and Saint Maurice; but after a detention of some hours at a small inn at the latter place, where my bruises were examined, and such remedies as were at hand applied, I was transported to Villeneuve on Lake Leman, and thence by steamer to Geneva.
No bones were broken, but I had received many severe contusions about the head and body, and it was at first feared there might be internal injury, but luckily this did not prove to be the case. However, I was so much shaken that nearly three weeks elapsed before I could leave my room at the Hotel de l’Ecu, and another week was required for my complete reinstatement.
I then set off for Paris. Day and night I travelled on. How I counted the hours, and flew on faster than the horses that bore me. Apphia’s image was with me during the whole journey — sometimes cheering me, but more frequently filling me with uneasiness. I dreaded losing her more than life itself.
Since I left Rome, now more than a month ago, I had heard nothing from the Anchorite’s. How, indeed, could I have heard, since I had written to no one! None of my friends knew where I was, or what had befallen me. For nearly a fortnight after my accident I was incapable of holding a pen, and as I got better I felt disinclined to write. Anything I might address to Mrs. Mervyn I feared would be misinterpreted; and what could I say to Apphia? How could I put her upon her guard against Malpas? To suppose she would lend a favourable ear to his suit would be to insult her. Time enough to set matters right on my return.
After a brief halt at Paris I started for London, and from London I set off, on the night of my arrival, on the box of the fastest coach running to Cottonborough. The journey was quickly made, but not half quickly enoug
h for my impatience. Evening was approaching as we came in sight of the huge manufacturing town, distant about six miles, and distinguishable by its numberless mills, with their tall chimneys darkening the air with clouds of smoke. Before we reached the town rain came on — not a smart shower, but a sort of Scotch mist, which, mingling with the murky atmosphere, threatened to choke me. Everything wore a cheerless air; and a sense of coming ill filled me with despondency. After some delays, the coach drove up to the Palace Inn. I descended, got out my luggage, secured a bedroom, and having despatched a note to Mrs. Mervyn to announce my arrival and say I would present myself to her at noon next day, I set out to call on my friend Cuthbert Spring.
I found him at home, and alone. He appeared very glad to see me, but not a little surprised, and inquired where in the world I sprang from?
I answered that the last place I had sprung from was a coach-box, and proceeded to give him a hasty account of what had befallen me. I saw he looked rather grave and perplexed, and conjectured that he had some disagreeable intelligence to communicate; but whatever it might be, he seemed anxious to postpone it, and telling me he was just going to sit down to dinner, begged I would join him at the repast.
I willingly assented; and during the meal he confined himself to general topics, talking chiefly of my travels. He rallied me upon my foreign appearance, and jestingly declared that I must have stolen my moustache from some Spanish senorita; inquired what were the last fashions in Rome and Naples? — where I had seen the prettiest girls? — and so forth; but, on the whole, I thought him less lively than usual; and it was a relief to me when the servant withdrew, and we were left alone.
He then unburdened himself in this wise:
“I wish, my dear fellow, from the bottom of my heart, that you had returned a month ago. That accident near Martigny was most untoward. Your enemies must have bribed the postilion to upset you. Great changes, as you are aware, have occurred at the Anchorite’s, and I grieve to have to tell you that good Mrs. Mervyn’s health is very much on the decline. Doctor Foam gives very poor accounts of her. I am afraid you have caused her considerable anxiety. She was much hurt by your letters, and there were those at hand to heighten the annoyance, and keep it alive.”
“I confess I have been greatly to blame,” I exclaimed, full of self-reproach; “but I will atone for my error. Mrs. Mervyn, I am sure, will forgive me.”
“Perhaps she may. But I cannot disguise from you that there are difficulties in the way of reconciliation with her — great difficulties, as you will find. Mrs. Brideoake is not very favourably disposed towards you.”
“There you surprise me. Mrs. Brideoake is the last person who ought to be unfriendly to me.”
“Granted — but so it is. Then there are the Sales. You cannot expect them to study your interests.”
“Hang the Sales!” I exclaimed “I should like to kick the vicar and his son out of the house.”
“I dare say you would,” he replied, with a half-smile; “but I advise you not to try the experiment, or you won’t mend your position. Why, my good fellow, you are as hot-headed as your father, and he was the most irascible man I ever knew. Your sole chance of setting yourself right with Mrs. Mervyn depends upon prudence. Make a scene, and all will be up with you.”
“You give me very good advice, and I hope I may be able to follow it,” I replied. “But now, Mr. Spring, let me ask you a question.”
And I looked hard at him, hoping he would understand my meaning.
He evidently did so, for he slightly coughed, rubbed his chin, and begged me to fill my glass.
I complied, and, after raising it to my lips, summoned up resolution to remark:
“You have spoken of Mrs. Brideoake; but you have said nothing about her daughter?”
“Ah! I see now what you would be at. Well, it’s all settled.”
“Settled!” I exclaimed, starting. “What do you mean? What is settled?”
“Why the marriage, to be sure. I told you in my letter that Malpas Sale was a suitor to the young lady, and he ended, as I anticipated, by proposing to her.”
“But she refused him?”
He shook his head and looked grave.
“I am sorry to say she did nothing of the kind. She accepted him.”
I sprang to my feet with an explosion of rage.
“If what you tell me is true, my hopes are blasted, my happiness destroyed for ever,” I cried.
“Come, come, my young friend,” he said, kindly, “I understand your feelings, and sincerely sympathise with you in your disappointment. The blow is sharp; but you must bear it like a man.”
“I will — I will,” I replied, in a broken voice. “But the shock is so unexpected that it quite overcomes me. There is no doubt as to the correctness of your information?”
“None whatever. I won’t give you any false hopes. The affair was only arranged three days ago, so if your return had not been delayed by that unlucky accident, you would have been in time to prevent it. The marriage, however, will not take place immediately, but it is to be deferred till Malpas comes of age. I hope it may not take place at all.”
Haying said thus much, be tried to offer me some further consolation; but, finding his efforts unavailing, he desisted, and we both remained silent for some minutes.
As I could not master my emotion, I felt I ought no longer to trespass upon his patience.
“Excuse me, my good friend, if I quit you abruptly,” I said; “but in my present frame of mine I should only distress you by remaining. I will call upon you to-morrow, after I have been to the Anchorite’s — after I have seen her. I shall then be more composed.”
“I trust so,” he rejoined, in a tone of sincere commiseration. “The meeting will be painful, but get it over as soon as you can. Above all, as I said before, don’t make a scene — it will do no good, and may cause you further mischief.”
I made no answer, but wrung his hand; and rushing out of the room in a state bordering on distraction, made my way to the inn.
CHAPTER III.
DESPITE MR. SPRING’S ADVICE, I MAKE A SCENE, AND DO NOT IMPROVE MY POSITION.
I PASSED a sleepless night, and arose jaded and greatly depressed. If I had been enduring bodily torture instead of mental anguish, I could not have suffered more acutely. I felt so supremely miserable, that my worst enemies might have pitied me. My haggard looks quite startled me as I regarded myself in the glass. This nervous prostration, which threatened wholly to unfit me for the ordeal I had to undergo, must be overcome; so I went forth to try the effect of air and exercise.
It was early morning, and the bustle of the day had not begun, but the pavements were thronged by troops of pale-faced men, young women, and sickly-looking children of both sexes, flocking to their unwholesome employment in the cotton-mills. The thunder of the engine announced that work had already commenced — if, indeed, it had ever ceased — in these enormous structures; and jets of gas lighting up the interior, showed the rollers, cylinders, and flying-wheels of the spinning machines pursuing their course. The sight had no attractions for me, and hurrying on, I soon found myself in the country. Though Cottonborough is an ugly town, black as smoke can make it, and with scarcely a picturesque feature about it, except in its ancient houses, its environs are agreeable and diversified, and the direction I had taken led me towards a range of hills of no great height, but commanding pleasant prospects. My object, however, was not to contemplate scenery, but to regain my composure. The morning was fine, with a keen, invigorating air, which served to refresh me; and persevering in violent exercise till I had succeeded in shaking off all feeling of depression, I returned with nerves firmly braced. In my anticipated interview with Apphia, I was resolved to exhibit no outward trace of emotion, however my heart might be wrung, but to maintain throughout it a cold and impassive demeanour.
Noon was at hand, and I drove out to the house I had always hitherto regarded as a home. Would it be a home to me any longer? That was a question which
would be speedily decided; but so doubtful was I of the reception I should meet with, that I did not take my luggage with me.
My heart throbbed violently as I approached the familiar dwelling. Little did I think, on quitting it a year ago, how I should return. But brief space was allowed me for the indulgence of such sentimental reflections, for a circumstance occurred that completely changed my train of thought. A carriage passed me, which I at once recognised as belonging to Doctor Sale, and I thought the coachman grinned impudently as he perceived me. The saucy rascal knew me well enough, but did not think fit to touch his hat. The vicar — and probably his son — had evidently just been set down at the Anchorite’s. Perhaps they had been summoned by tidings of my return. So much the better. I felt eager to confront them. If I had experienced any renewal of my late nervous sensations, this would have effectually cured me.
I descended at the garden gate, and rang the bell. No one came. After a little while, I rang again, more loudly than before. Presently the door was opened by a strange manservant, with a surly expression of countenance, and he seemed disinclined to admit me; but, without waiting for his permission, I passed him haughtily by, and marched towards the house, on the steps of which I encountered Mr. Comberbach.
The portly butler appeared stouter and redder than usual, but I could easily perceive that the extra ruddiness of his countenance proceeded from embarrassment at my presence. He was, indeed, greatly confused, and stammered and hesitated in a very unusual manner as he spoke to me. He glanced at the surly-looking man-servant, who had followed me, as if rebuking him for letting me in, and the other muttered something about not being able to help it. Mr. Comberbach, I saw, did not mean to admit me, but being resolved to go in, I pushed him by as I had done the other servant, and entered the hall.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 459
