“Stay a moment, sir — stay a moment, if you please!” he exclaimed, stepping after me. “You mustn’t go in. It’s against orders.”
“Against whose orders?” I demanded, sternly; “Mrs. Mervyn’s?”
“No, no,” he faltered; “not hers — Mrs. Brideoake’s.”
“Mrs. Brideoake!” I exclaimed. “Is she mistress of the house?”
“Something like it, sir,” he replied, glancing uneasily round, as if afraid of being overheard. “But pray don’t put any more questions to me, for all conversation with you is interdicted.”
“Again by Mrs. Brideoake?” I demanded.
“By that lady,” he answered.
“Tell your new mistress then,” I said, raising my voice, in the hope that it might catch the ear of a listener, if there should be one nigh, “that I have no intention of going till I have seen Mrs. Mervyn.”
“Impossible, sir — you can’t do it — upon my honour you can’t. Now, do obleege me, sir, by retiring, or I shall be under the very disagreeable necessity of — of—”
My fierce looks, I suppose, alarmed him, for the rest of the sentence expired upon his lips.
“Show me to Mrs. Mervyn at once,” I cried authoritatively.
“I daren’t do it, sir, — it’s as much as my place is worth.”
“Then I will go to her room,” I rejoined, proceeding towards the staircase. “Mrs. Brideoake shall not prevent me from seeing her.”
“You mustn’t do it, sir,” the butler cried, rushing after me in a state of great excitement. “Missis is dangerously ill, I assure you, sir. Any agitation might be the death of her.”
“But I shall not agitate her,” I replied; “I only desire to offer her some explanation, which she will be pleased to receive.”
“Do it by letter, sir — do it by letter — that’ll be the best way. I’ll take care she gets it,” he said in a low tone, and winking significantly. “Address it to me. You understand.”
“Yes, I understand,” I rejoined; “but I don’t choose to adopt such an expedient. Now answer me without equivocation. Has Mrs. Mervyn received my letter acquainting her with my intention of presenting myself this morning? Your tell-tale looks show that my suspicions are correct. She has not. Go to her at once, and announce my arrival. Say I entreat permission to see her.”
“But Doctor Sale is with her, sir.”
“What does that signify? Do as I bid you. Yet stay. Is Miss Brideoake within?”
“Yes, sir, she is within; but you can’t see her. Against orders, as I observed before. Possibly you may not be aware—”
“Peace, fellow!” I cried, cutting him short. “Let Miss Brideoake know I am here. If she refuses to see me, well and good. When you have delivered my message to both ladies, you will find me in the library.”
And disregarding his opposition, I marched up-stairs, and entered the room I had mentioned. It was empty, and I flung myself into a chair.
While I was thus seated, wondering what would happen, but determined not to be baffled in my object, an inner door opened, and Apphia Brideoake stood before me.
I instantly arose, and should have sprung towards her, but deep sense of wrong withheld me. She looked exceedingly pale and anxious, and as I regarded her fixedly, I thought her countenance bore traces of suffering. As she advanced towards me, I made her a cold salutation, but did not put out my hand.
She was the first to speak, and there was an indescribable sadness in her accents, as well as in her regards.
“Are we indeed strangers, Mervyn,” she said, “that you greet me thus?” Then pausing for a moment, but receiving no answer, she continued, with a sigh, “Well, I suppose it must be so. I saw you approach the house — I heard your voice — and could not resist the impulse that prompted me to come to you; though now I feel I was wrong in doing so. I ought not to have disobeyed my mother’s injunctions.”
“I am glad you have given me an opportunity of offering you my congratulations, Miss Brideoake,” I rejoined, bitterly. “May you be happy in the union you are about to form!”
“You do not wish me happiness, Mervyn. You cannot wish it me. I neither expect it, nor deserve it. I only desire your pity and forgiveness.”
Her words, and the tone in which they were pronounced, touched me to the heart. I felt my courage fast deserting me. But I tried hard not to give way.
“You should have both, if you stood in need of them,” I rejoined, with somewhat less, bitterness than before; “but I cannot see that either are called for. I will not affront you by supposing you would wed without affection; and, if you love, what occasion can there be for pity?”
“Oh, Mervyn!” she exclaimed, in a supplicating voice that quite overcame me, “do not taunt me thus! It is ungenerous of you. You have occasioned me so much misery, that you ought to compassionate rather than reproach me. If I have broken faith with you, it is your own fault.”
My courage vanished in au instant, and I trembled to learn what would be laid to my charge.
“My fault?” I ejaculated, gazing at her as if my soul was in the inquiry. “Mine!”
“Listen to me, Mervyn, — dear Mervyn, — calmly, if you can, — and you shall know all. Then blame me if you choose; but I think you will not. I now feel I was in error in regard to you, and the sad consequences of the pledge I have given are before me. But it cannot be recalled.”
After pausing for a moment, as if empowered by emotion, she went on: “The hurried promises of unchangeable affection that passed between us on the eve of your departure are fresh as ever in my memory, and can never be effaced from it; but I thought you no longer loved me.”
“Oh, Apphia!” I exclaimed reproachfully, but yet tenderly, for my heart was now quite melted. “How could you think so?”
“You never wrote to me; and after awhile I began to conclude that other objects had banished me from your recollection.”
“You were never absent from my thoughts!” I cried. “You are connected with every place I have visited. I never beheld a beautiful scene without thinking of you, and wishing we could have viewed it together. With what impatience and delight did I look forward to a meeting after our long separation! But if I dwell upon these thoughts I shall go mad. You say you never heard from me. How can that be — if wrong has not been done us? I wrote you several letters, to which I received no reply. Your silence was strange — but I had no misgiving. My letters must have been intercepted — I can easily guess by whom.”
“They never reached me,” she replied, sadly. “Hence this unhappy misunderstanding. But I did not know how serious it would prove. Attentions were paid me by Malpas Sale — marked attentions. I discouraged him as much as possible, and when he appealed to my mother, I acquainted her with my promise to you, and told her my affections were engaged. She was very angry, chided me, and said it was a silly promise and could not be kept — you had evidently forgotten me. And so, indeed, it seemed, since you never answered the two letters I addressed to you at Rome, and which I am sure were sent, for I took the precaution to post them myself.”
“When were those letters sent?” I cried, almost breathless with emotion.
“More than a month ago. I told you how I was circumstanced. I implored you, if you still loved me, and held to your promise, to return at once — or at all events, to write. But as you came not, and no answer arrived, I could not gainsay what was told me — that you no longer cared for me. But I held out till hope entirely forsook me, — and then — only then — yielded to my mother’s commands.”
I felt stunned as by a heavy blow, and some time elapsed before I could find utterance.
“A cruel hand has been at work here, Apphia,” I said, “but I forbear to point it out. Fate also has been against us. Your letters missed me. Before they could arrive at Rome I had started for England. Ill luck pursued me on my journey; and a severe accident detained me for three weeks at Geneva. More than once I was on the point of writing to you, but my evil genius prevented
me. Little did I think how much unhappiness a few words of explanation would have saved us!”
I stopped in alarm at Apphia’s looks. She became deathly pale, and would have fallen, if I had not caught her in my arms. Ere long she recovered, and gently disengaged herself from my hold.
“This must not be,” she said, gently. “You have spoken truly, Mervyn. Fate is against us, and it is useless to struggle against its decrees.”
“Oh! say not so, Apphia,” I cried. “Do not condemn me to despair. You are not bound by a pledge given in error. My claims are prior to those of any other. Our engagement has never been cancelled. Your mother has no right to compel you to a marriage which must be fraught with misery. I know her imperious nature. I know she has ever exacted strictest obedience to her behests from you and from your brother. But parental authority has its limits, and she has overstepped them. Besides,” and I hesitated, though I felt I must speak out plainly, “she has not dealt fairly with you — nor with me. You are justified in resisting her commands.”
“Hush I” Apphia whispered, in affright—” she is here.”
I turned and saw who was beside us.
A great change had taken place in Mrs. Brideoake’s appearance since I last described her. There was no emaciation in figure or features now. On the contrary, she could boast a certain fulness of person deemed indispensable to majesty. And majestic she was beyond a doubt. She looked younger than she did in the days of her misfortune; and might well have been termed handsome, for her lineaments were noble, but arrogant and imperious in expression. He hair was still black as jet; and her attire rich, though of sombre colour.
There she stood, close beside us; with her brow charged with frowns, and her eagle eye fixed upon me.
“So, Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe,” she said, sternly—” so, sir, you are traducing me to my daughter, and trying to make her disobedient. Luckily, she knows her duty better. But how comes it,” she added, in a strange, low, impressive tone to Apphia, “that I find you here?” And then, without waiting for an answer, she raised her arm imperiously, and pointed to the door.
“A moment, mother,” Apphia said, with an imploring look.
But Mrs. Brideoake was inexorable, and the poor girl, casting a piteous glance at me, withdrew.
My blood boiled in my veins, and I could not help telling Mrs. Brideoake that her treatment of her daughter was unwarrantable. — .
“I am the best judge of what is fitting for my daughter, sir,” she replied, disdainfully, “and rest assured that I, at least, will not submit to your dictation. All intimacy between you and Apphia is at an end. Rely upon it, she will not disobey me a second time. And now, Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe,” she continued, in a sarcastic tone, “you who are so ready to censure others — what have you to say in defence of your own conduct? Are you acting like a high-spirited gentleman? I scarcely think so. You force yourself into a house, where you are aware you are no longer welcome, in spite of the efforts of the servants to prevent you. You attempt to prejudice my daughter against me, and to alienate her affections from one to whom she has plighted her faith. You will fail, sir, I tell you — you will fail. Nor, so far as Mrs. Mervyn is concerned, will you gain anything by the intrusion. She will not see you. She is deeply offended with you — and, according to my view of the case, justly offended.”
“Are you sure, madam, that Mrs. Mervyn knows I am here?” I observed, haughtily, for her taunts stung me to the quick. “I will never believe she’ will refuse me an opportunity of exculpating myself.”
“Believe, or not, as you please,” she replied, indifferently. “Mrs. Mervyn is acting under my advice, and as I have the care of her, I shall not permit an interview which might be attended with mischief. Her medical advisers enjoin the strictest quietude. But you may say anything you please to me, and I will take a fitting opportunity of repeating your explanations to her.”
“No doubt, madam,” I replied, “and with such additions or suppressions as you may deem desirable. Tell Mrs. Mervyn, then, since I am not allowed to see her, that I have never swerved from my devotion to her, and shall never cease to feel unbounded gratitude for her kindnesses. My indignation was roused because I felt she was duped by a trickster, and I wrote in stronger terms than I ought, perhaps, to have employed. But no disrespect was intended to her. I am incapable of any other feeling towards Mrs. Mervyn except those of attachment and respect. My anger was directed against Malpas Sale, of whose arts you yourself are the dupe.”
“Mr. Malpas Sale is just in time to thank you for the character you give him,” Mrs. Brideoake replied, with a contemptuous smile at me, as the door opened, and Malpas entered the room.
He was attired in a dark blue military-looking surtout, braided and frogged, and had a cap and a silver-handled whip in his hand. The only recognition he condescended to bestow upon me was a supercilious look, which added fuel to my wrath.
“And pray what has Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe been good enough to say of me?” he remarked, addressing Mrs. Brideoake, and displaying his white teeth.
“He says that Mrs. Mervyn and I are the dupes of a trickster. You will readily guess to whom he makes allusion.”
“I will use a stronger term, if necessary,” I observed.
“Ha! ha!” Malpas replied, laughing scornfully. “No wonder’ Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe should say malicious things of me, since he find himself completely cut out. If I do not notice his contemptible insinuations now,” he added, with a glance at me, “it is because this is not precisely the moment to do so. He need not fear they will be forgotten. But how is our dear invalid? Is she visible?”
“To you — yes,” Mrs. Brideoake answered, with marked emphasis. “You will find Mrs. Mervyn in her room. Your father is with her.”
This insult was more than I could bear. My blood mounted to my temples, and a mist gathered before my eyes. Malpas admitted, and I denied the privilege! He was stepping lightly and gaily towards the inner door, with a smile on his curling lip and a glance of triumph in his eye, when I sprang suddenly forward, and checked his progress.
“You shall not pass this way. You shall not enter her room,” I cried.
“You imagine you can prevent me, do you, sir?” he said, derisively.
“I do.”
“A word, Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe. Let me appeal to your sense of decorum. One would think you must see the gross impropriety of making a disturbance in a sick lady’s house. Mrs. Mervyn is in a highly nervous state. Excitement may be fatal to her.”
“So I have already told him,” Mrs. Brideoake remarked.
I might have listened to what they said, but there was something in Malpas’s manner that added to my provocation.
“Nobody can grieve for Mrs. Mervyn’s condition more than I do,” I said to him; “but you shall not pass.”
“You see how obstinate he is, Mrs. Brideoake,” Malpas observed, shrugging his shoulders. “Nothing will serve his turn but a scene. I take you to witness that I have shown him every possible forbearance.”
“More than he deserves, I must say,” she rejoined. “If he hopes to gain anything by this unseemly conduct he will find himself mistaken. The servants shall show him to the door.”
And she approached the bell and rang it violently.
“Now, sir,” Malpas said, laying aside his mocking air, and assuming an insolent tone of authority, “stand aside!”
I laughed contemptuously.
“Then, by Heaven! I will make you.”
He raised the whip, but in an instant I had snatched it from his grasp, while with the other hand I seized him by the collar of his braided coat.
“It is not the first time I have chastised you,” I cried, furiously.
And I was about to apply the whip, when the inner door suddenly opened, and Mrs. Mervyn, supported by Doctor Sale, and followed by Apphia, tottered into the room. At the same time Mr. Comberbach and the surly-looking man-servant, summoned in all haste by Mrs. Brideoake’s vigorous application to the bell, rushed in f
rom the opposite door, and stood staring at us in astonishment.
On seeing me thus engaged with Malpas, Mrs. Mervyn uttered a feeble cry, and Doctor Sale, surrendering her to Apphia, hurried forward to separate us, discharging a volley of angry exclamations against me. Poor Apphia, who was quite as much agitated as Mrs. Mervyn, could only render her very indifferent assistance.
The sight of my offended relative restored me to reason, and I relinquished my hold of Malpas, who lost not a moment in turning the occurrence to my disadvantage; and indeed it must be owned that I had given him ample opportunity of damaging me without any departure from the truth. I saw by his gestures to Mrs. Mervyn that he was throwing the whole blame upon me.
She was greatly aged — more than I should have thought it possible she could be in a year’s time; — her once upright figure was bowed; and her movements betokened extreme debility. I could not notice these sad changes in one so dear to me, and to whom I owed so much, without infinite concern; and if Cuthbert Spring’s supposition proved to be correct, and my conduct had caused her anxiety enough to undermine her health, I ought never to be free from self-reproach. She was wrapped in a loose dressing-gown; a carelessness of attire, in itself indicative of change, for she had heretofore been remarkably precise in point of dress.
Apphia and Malpas led her to an easy-chair, into which she sank as if the exertion had been too much for her. I should have tendered my assistance, but Doctor Sale interposed and waved me off, and I could not approach her without creating fresh confusion. She regarded me, I thought, more in sorrow than in anger, but did not address me; and indeed her feeble accents could scarcely have been heard above the din caused by Doctor Sale. After gazing at me for a short time, she covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud.
Oh, Heavens! what I endured at that moment.
All at once, Doctor Sale’s torrent of objurgations ceased. Not from any want of supply; but a glance from Mrs. Brideoake told him he was rather overdoing it. He contented himself, therefore, with glaring furiously at me, and seemed inclined to order the servants to turn me out. Mrs. Brideoake, however, conceiving the presence of the menials to be no longer necessary, signed to them to leave the room; whereupon Mr. Comberbach and his companion rather reluctantly departed — possibly to solace themselves by listening at the door.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 460
