The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “If you have a spark of good feeling left, you will instantly withdraw,” Mrs. Brideoake said to me. “You see how you distress her.”

  So completely was I subdued and self-abased, that I should have obeyed, if, at the moment, Mrs. Mervyn had not uncovered her face, and turned her tear-dimmed eyes towards me. I thought she was relenting, but I could not be sure, for she presently fell to sobbing again. Still the look was sufficient to rivet me to the spot.

  Doctor Sale now thought it behoved him to interfere.

  “I really cannot permit this,” he said to me. “You must go, sir — you must. I never witnessed such a total want of decency in the whole course of my life.”

  “I will go at once, if Mrs. Mervyn desires it,” I replied, hoping to obtain a word from her.

  “Very artfully observed, sir, but it will not serve your turn. Mrs. Mervyn will not be entrapped into conversation with you,” Mrs. Brideoake sharply remarked. “You may gather from her silence what her wishes must be.”

  “Let her intimate as much by a sign, and I will no longer trouble her with my presence,” I said.

  I saw Apphia bend towards Mrs. Mervyn. I could not catch her words, but I felt sure she was pleading for me. And so it proved, “Yes, yes, you are quite right my child,” Mrs. Mervyn said to her. “He must not go without a word from me, though it will cost me much to utter it. Mervyn Clitheroe,” she continued, regarding me steadfastly, and addressing me in a voice with nothing harsh in it, but which yet sounded in my ears like a death-sentence, “you were once very dear to me — very dear, indeed — as well for your poor mother’s sake as for your own. That I can no longer regard you with the same affection as heretofore is no fault of mine. The change in me has been occasioned by your own conduct. I will not reproach you; but it is due to myself to tell you that you have caused me much unhappiness — far more than I have experienced at any previous period of my life. Those who have been with me know how greatly I have suffered.”

  “We do, indeed, my dear madam,” Mrs. Brideoake observed, in a tone of well-feigned sympathy; “and our hearts have bled for you. Ingratitude is hard to endure, and you have felt all the sharpness of its sting.”

  “Not all its sharpness, madam,” I said looking at her.

  “But a balm may be found for the wound,” Apphia murmured, heedless of her mother’s menacing glance.

  “The wound is nearly healed my child,” Mrs. Mervyn remarked. “I must not open it anew.”

  “Of course not, dear madam,” Doctor Sale cried. “You would do wrong to expose yourself to like danger again.”

  A retort rose to my lips, but I checked it, and looked earnestly at Mrs. Mervyn, as if awaiting the close of my sentence. It came.

  “I will not say what I have looked forward to from you,” the good lady pursued, sorrowfully rather than reproachfully. “All that is past and gone. But you may believe that I have been grievously disappointed.”

  “Will you not give him a further trial, dear Mrs. Mervyn?” Apphia implored. “Look how repentant — how sorrowful he appears. I am sure he will never offend you again.”

  “How do you know that?” Malpas cried, sharply. “Has he not just shown that his temper is utterly uncontrollable? He thought he was to have his own way entirely here, and gave himself the airs of lord and master; but finding it won’t do, he now alters his tone.”

  “It is false,” I cried; “I have had no such thought.”

  “Did I not say so?” Malpas cried, jeeringly. “You see he cannot control his temper now.”

  “I will not allow false statements respecting me to be uttered, without giving them instant contradiction,” I said. “Oh, madam! I cried to Mrs. Mervyn, “you cannot believe me the ingrate I am represented? You, who have always treated me kindly, will not be unjust to me now? Grant me a few moments in private? What I have to say is for your ear alone.”

  “Oh, yes, dear Mrs. Mervyn, do grant his request?” Apphia implored.

  As she spoke, she sedulously avoided her mother’s ireful glance.

  “On no account, madam,” Mrs. Brideoake said, advancing towards her, and pushing her daughter aside. “Your feelings must not be worked upon thus. Pray let me put an end to this painful interview? It would be a relief if this intemperate young man would take his departure — never to return.”

  “Oh, mother, you are too harsh — far too harsh!” Apphia ejaculated, bursting into tears.

  “Come to me my child,” Mrs. Mervyn cried, embracing her tenderly as she obeyed. “I cannot do as you would have me, for I am not equal to further excitement. But let me finish what I have begun. Mervyn Clitheroe, I am of opinion — an opinion deliberately formed, and supported by those on whose judgment I rely — that we should not meet again — until certain impressions are entirely effaced. But though I shall not see you,” she continued, in a voice in which rising tenderness struggled against the attempt at firmness, “I shall always feel the warmest interest in your welfare, and rejoice in your success. Your friend, Mr. Cuthbert Spring, ‘will inform you that arrangements have been made for the continuance of your allowance, and will explain to you how it is to be paid. If at any time you require more, you have only to apply to me through him.”

  “Nobly done, and like yourself, I must say, Mrs. Mervyn,” Doctor Sale exclaimed. “You are acting in a spirit of forgiveness and generosity almost without parallel. Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe ought to feel deeply beholden to you.”

  I took no notice of the vicar’s remark, but addressed myself, with such composure as I could command, to Mrs. Mervyn.

  “I hope you will not think me insensible to your great kindness, dear Mrs. Mervyn,” I said, “nor impute it to unwillingness on my part to accept a favour from you — I have accepted far too many to have any such scruples — if I, in all thankfulness, decline your proffered bounty. All I desire is to be reconciled to you, and to atone for the errors I have inadvertently committed.”

  She was evidently much moved. After looking wistfully at me for a moment, she held out her hand. I sprang forward and pressed it eagerly to my lips.

  “You forgive me, dear Mrs. Mervyn — you forgive me?” I exclaimed, passionately.

  Before she could answer, Mrs. Brideoake had interposed.

  “Do not give way to this weakness, madam,” she said, “or the peace of mind you have just regained will be jeopardised. You have done all that kindness, generosity, and good feeling can prompt; and if Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe declines your offer, it cannot be helped. Perhaps a little reflection may make him change his mind.”

  I let the insinuation pass without remark.

  “In any emergency, you have me to apply to; and do not hesitate, dear Mervyn. Let that be understood,” my relative said, kindly, and pressing my hand as she spoke. “And now, my dear, I think you had better go. Take my forgiveness! — take my blessing!”

  I could only reply by a few exclamations of liveliest gratitude.

  “No more, my dear — no more,” Mrs. Mervyn rejoined.

  “You shall hear from me, and perhaps — But I will not raise expectations that I may not be able to fulfil. For the present, farewell.”

  “Farewell, my best and dearest friend!” I cried. “You send me away comparatively happy.”

  As I slowly drew back, Mrs. Mervyn again put her handkerchief to her eyes. At the same time, I saw a look pass between Mrs. Brideoake and Doctor Sale, which if I interpreted it aright, meant that I should never set foot in the house again. They both saluted me coldly as I passed them.

  I had not ventured to glance at Apphia, but before I left the room my eyes sought her out. She was standing as if transfixed; but perceiving me halt, she flew towards me, before any one could prevent her.

  “Farewell! for ever, dear Mervyn!” she cried, clasping my hand almost convulsively. “We shall meet no more.”

  “Farewell!” I rejoined. “Since you discard me, we must henceforth be strangers. I resign you to him you have preferred.”

  And I relinquished her
to Malpas, who had flown to ring the bell, and now came quickly up, with ill-disguised rage in his looks. He took her away, but his glances proclaimed he had an account to settle with me. I was glad of it; and I let him understand by a look that I was as eager for a meeting as he could be.

  While this was passing, Mrs. Mervyn, alarmed by the slight cry which Apphia had uttered, was anxiously inquiring what was the matter? But Mrs. Brideoake appeased her by saying it was only the silly child bidding me adieu.

  I heard nothing more, for the door was suddenly thrown open by Mr. Comberbach, and I went out.

  As I descended the stairs, the butler thought fit to apologise for his reception of me, and hoped I clearly understood that it was not his fault. He had received positive orders (he did not venture to say by whom) not to admit me.

  “I made a decent show of resistance,” he said, with a half-smile; “but I’m glad you didn’t take me at my word, but would come in. It’s a blessed piece of luck that you saw the dear old lady, for if you’d gone away without doing so, you’d never have had another chance. Miss Apphia managed it, I’ll be bound. Ah! Mr. Mervyn, things are strangely altered here since you went abroad. It’s not like the same house. But I’m sure our good old lady still loves you dearly at the bottom of her heart. Molly Bailey thinks so too. Old Molly is now more of a nurse than cook, and constantly with our missis. Mind what I say, Mr. Mervyn, if you can get an opportunity of seein’ the old lady now and then, all will come round again. You may count upon my sarvices. A letter addressed to me, as I said before, will be sure to reach — Molly Bailey will give it to her — you understand. But don’t trust that crusty-faced chap, Fabyan Lowe: he’ll play double, and report all you do to a certain lady — you understand.”

  “I am much obliged to you, Mr. Comberbach,” I replied. “I began to fear the whole house had turned against me, but I am ‘ glad to find I have some friends left in it. Do me this favour: tell Mr. Malpas Sale, if he has any communication to make to me, that I am staying at the Palace Inn.”

  “I won’t fail to deliver the message to him,” the butler replied; “and I beg you to believe that you have a trusty friend in your humble servant, Tobias Cummerbaych.”

  I again thanked him, and passed quickly through the hall, where I found the sour-looking Fabyan Lowe in attendance. He eyed me, I thought, rather malignantly. Mr. Comberbach accompanied me to the garden gate, and made me an obsequious bow as he put up the steps for me and closed the coach door, bidding the driver be remarkably careful how he took me to the Palace Inn.

  CHAPTER IV.

  RECOUNTING MY FIRST HOSTILE MEETING, AND, IT IS TO BE HOPED, MY LAST.

  MY first business, on arriving at the inn, was to engage a private room; and as I could not go out, for I felt certain I should soon receive a hostile message from Malpas, I despatched a note to Cuthbert Spring, acquainting him with my quarrel, and begging him to act as my second in case I should require his aid. An answer came from him almost immediately, expressing his great regret that his services should be needed in such an affair, but adding that of course I might depend upon him.

  By-and-by the waiter entered to inform me that Colonel Harbottle was without, and begged to speak with me. I desired the man to show him in, and the next moment the fat little colonel made his appearance. His round, rosy, good-humoured features wore a rather serious expression, which I was at no loss to interpret; but while the waiter was present nothing but common civilities passed between us. I offered him a chair, and he sat down.

  “You will guess the object of my visit,” Colonel Harbottle said, as soon as we were alone; “and I need scarcely assure you that the office I have undertaken is anything but agreeable to me. Indeed, I would have refused it, if I had not hoped to be able to bring the quarrel to a pacific termination. With this motive in view, I hope my dear Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe, that you will excuse me, as an old acquaintance, for saying that I think an apology is due from you to Mr. Malpas Sale — and furthermore, that it will not discredit you to offer him one. The expression employed by you towards him was highly opprobrious and offensive, and such as no man of honour could pass unnoticed. It must be retracted. This done, I am persuaded—”

  “Your efforts are well meant, Colonel Harbottle,” I interrupted, somewhat haughtily, “and I fully appreciate them. But they are quite thrown away. I will not retract a word I have said in reference to Mr. Malpas Sale, neither will I offer him the slightest apology. That is my answer.”

  “I am afraid a meeting must take place, then, sir,” the colonel rejoined, rising from his seat; “but it is a pity — a great pity!”

  “There is no possibility of settling the matter otherwise, colonel,” I said, in a tone calculated to put an end to discussion. “I must refer you for all arrangements to my friend, Mr. Cuthbert Spring.”

  “Very well, sir — very well,” the colonel rejoined, blowing his nose with a sound like a trumpet. “You could not be in better hands than in those of Mr. Spring. I will go to him at once; and as, unfortunately, the affair cannot be accommodated, I may as well mention that my principal would desire the meeting to take place with as little delay as possible.”

  “The sooner the better,” I replied. “This evening, if you will. I have no desire to let the quarrel grow cold by sleeping upon it.”

  “To-morrow morning would be better, and more en regie,” Colonel Harbottle said. “But since you are both impatient, I will not baulk your humour, unless Mr. Cuthbert Spring sees objections to the arrangement which do not occur to me. Let us consult the almanack, as the man says in the play. Ah, here it is. The moon is nearly at the full, and rises at ten o’clock, so there will be light enough after that hour, if the weather holds fine.”

  “Oh, we shall see each other plainly enough for our purpose I make no doubt, colonel,” I replied, with a grim smile. “Let the appointment be for eleven o’clock. The ground you will choose.”

  “Give yourself no concern about that, sir,” Colonel Harbottle rejoined. “You may trust Mr. Spring and myself to find a convenient spot. He is an old hand at these affairs, as well as myself.” And with a military salute he took his departure.

  I was now left alone to my reflections, and they were agitating enough, as may be supposed. But I had no uneasiness. Intense hatred of Malpas, and thirst for vengeance, overwhelmed every other consideration, and I felt a savage satisfaction in dwelling upon the approaching combat. I would not spare my foe. Still, fortune might decide against me; so, after pacing to and fro within the room for some time, I sat down to write two letters, which were only to be delivered in the event of my falling in the duel.

  The first was addressed to my father, and in it I took a solemn farewell of him. We should never meet on earth, but I trusted we might meet in heaven. I had never tarnished his name, but should die as became a soldier’s son.

  The second letter was to Mrs. Mervyn. It was longer than the one to my father, for I had more to say to her. I spoke of the love and reverence I had ever borne her, and of my gratitude, which would never cease but with life. I entreated her always to think kindly of me, and to put the best construction she could upon my failings. As there was no one to whom I was so largely indebted as to her, so no one was so fully entitled to the little I could leave as herself. I therefore drew a draft in her favour upon my bankers for the thousand pounds left me by my uncle Mobberley, and which constituted my sole property, and enclosed it in my letter.

  Just as I had sealed my second letter, Cuthbert Spring was ushered into the room.

  He regarded me with a serio-comical expression of countenance peculiar to him, and gave utterance to a low whistle.

  “Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!” he exclaimed, as he took a seat; “but it’s just what might be expected. The peace wasn’t likely to be kept if two such fire-eaters as you and Malpas chanced to meet. I ought to take you to task severely for not attending to my counsel; but you wouldn’t listen to me if I did, so I’ll confine myself to the matter in hand. To begin then
: all preliminaries have been settled between Colonel Harbottle and myself. You are to meet an hour before midnight at Crabtree-green, near the Raven’s Clough.”

  “I know the place well,” I observed; “it lies between Dunton Park and the river Rollin, a little to the right of the Chester road. A retired spot, and suitable for the purpose; but why need we go so far?”

  “For a very good reason,” he replied. “Your adversary is obliged to return to the vicarage at Marston with his father, and cannot make any excuses for absenting himself without awakening Doctor Sale’s suspicions. Indeed, the doctor is exceedingly distrustful as it is, and insists on his son accompanying him. Under these circumstances I could not offer any objection to the arrangement.”

  “Certainly not,” I cried, in a tone that almost startled him. “I would not have any obstacles thrown in the way of the encounter.” — r “You are bent on mischief, I perceive,” he remarked, drily, “and mean to kill your man. Humph! I have been engaged as second — never as principal, I am happy to say — in half a dozen duels, and have arranged double that number of quarrels, but not one out of the six combatants killed his adversary, though they all came well out of the field.”

  “That was lucky for both sides,” I rejoined, perceiving the drift of his remark. “But tell me, Mr. Spring — Malpas is considered good shot, is he not?”

  “A dead shot,” he answered. “But you are not much his inferior in point of skill, I fancy.”

  “Not much, I flatter myself. I am not in practice just now, but I used to be able to split a bullet on the edge of a knife at twenty paces — or hit a Spanish dollar at double the distance.”

  “Egad, there’ll be sanguinary work, then, if you don’t cool down. Of course such a fiery spark as you are must be provided with duelling pistols. If not, I can furnish you with a pair.”