The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  My next visit was to Job Greaseby’s smithy. Old Job did not recollect me at first, but as soon as he made out who I was he evinced his delight by gripping my hand — my left hand, luckily — as he would have gripped a pair of pincers. I put the same question to him that I had done to Chetham Quick. Job shook his grey head, and said it was a thousand pities Sissy was gone, and with such a “feaw owd reprobate” as Simon Pownall. He did not blame her as much as most folks did, but he was very sorry for her husband, who was as worthy a chap as ever breathed, and had always treated her kindly. This was all I could extract from honest Job. He either suspected no one else, or kept his suspicions to himself.

  I made no further inquiries in the village, but walked across the fields to Nethercrofts, where I fortunately found both William Weever and his wife at home. William had still got the management of the farm, and appeared to thrive on his stewardship. He and Hannah looked very well-to-do and comfortable. Neither of them had grown thinner. The old farmhouse was but little changed since my uncle Mobberley’s time. The old articles of furniture occupied their customary places, and I was glad to hear the old clock ticking still. Notwithstanding my remonstrances, I was shown into the parlour, and Hannah would fain have brought me some refreshments, but I would only take a cup of milk. I soon brought up the subject of Sissy’s elopement, but I learnt nothing new. They both believed that Simon Pownall was the offender, and pitied her taste. William Weever was disposed to be as charitable as Job Greaseby, but his wife would not hear a word in Sissy’s defence. She had always been a vain, good-for-nothing hussy, and Hannah wasn’t a bit surprised at her conduct. Poor Ned was well rid of her, if he could only think so. It was a pity he couldn’t see his wife with other people’s eyes.

  Failing in obtaining any further information, I rose to depart, promising the good couple to pay them another visit very shortly, as I intended to remain for a little time in the neighbourhood.

  I had a pleasant walk back to Dunton, varying the route by keeping on the side of the mere, opposite to that by which I had come to Marston.

  As I approached the Stamford Arms, I perceived, under the shade of a large tree in front of the inn, an old-fashioned barouche, with a pair of very fat horses attached to it, a remarkably stout coachman in an antiquated livery on the box, and a couple of ladies seated inside it; while just within the porch of the hostel there stood a singular-looking old gentleman, engaged in earnest discourse with Cuthbert Spring.

  This old gentleman, whom I recognised at once, for I had seen him before, was Mr. Norbury Radcliffe Hazilrigge, of Owlarton Grange, near Delamere Forest — a very worthy person, but rather eccentric — of whom I had heard a great deal from various friends — amongst others, from John Brideoake, who ‘ was curate at Mr. Hazilrigge’s parish church of Weverham, and who had described the old gentleman in his letters, — but I had never been introduced to him, and was very glad of the opportunity that now offered of forming his acquaintance.

  Mr. Hazilrigge was between sixty and seventy, but had still a hale look, and though very odd in manner and grotesque in attire, had decidedly the air of a gentleman. In person he was rather comical, being short and punchy, while his round shoulders tended to diminish his stature. On the ridge of his large hooked nose rested a pair of massive, silver spectacles, through which glimmered eyes the most extraordinary I ever beheld — large, light-blue, projecting, but dim. In a word, the old gentleman was moon-eyed. He wore his hair in powder, brushed back from the forehead, and tied behind in a long and respectable pigtail. His attire, of the formal cut of George the Third’s day, might have been made about the beginning of the present century, or the end of the last, and consisted of a long blue coat, cut away at the breast and skirts, and having flat, gilt buttons, a red waistcoat, buckskins, boots with brown tops looped up behind, a large plaited frill to his shirt, and a padded cravat tied with immense bows. A broad-brimmed, low-crowned beaver, specially noticeable for its deep hat-band and buckle, and a gold-headed cane completed his appointments.

  Mr. Hazilrigge was so much engrossed by what he was saying to Cuthbert Spring, that he did not notice my approach until I was close beside him. He then turned round, and, adjusting his spectacles, looked me full in the face. His manner was so odd, and the expression of his countenance so droll as he regarded me thus, that I could scarcely help laughing at him.

  “Why, this is he, Mr. Spring!” he exclaimed; “this is the young duellist! — I’m sure of it.”

  “You are right, Mr. Hazilrigge,” Cuthbert Spring rejoined; “this is my young friend of whom we have just been speaking — Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe. Allow me to introduce him to you.”

  “Delighted to know you, sir,” the old gentleman said, returning my salute. “You behaved very well in that affair last night with young Sale — very well indeed, upon my honour. But you’ll never guess, Mr. Clitheroe, what brought me to Dunton to-day — will he, Cuthbert? — ha! ha!”

  “No, I don’t think he will,” Mr. Spring rejoined, winking at me.

  “I can’t pretend to guess what business may have brought you here, Mr. Hazilrigge,” I observed. “But it is a fortunate circumstance for me, since it has procured me the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

  The old gentleman made me a low bow.

  “Sir, you are extremely complimentary,” he said. “I won’t keep you longer in suspense. Know, then, that a dream brought me here.”

  “A dream!” I ejaculated, with difficulty preserving my gravity.

  “Yes, sir,” he answered. “I dreamed that the old yew-tree in the churchyard yonder, with the bench round it, was struck by lightning and withered. This I dreamed last night — three times, sir — and I resolved to drive over this morning, and ascertain, from personal inspection, whether the yew-tree had really sustained any damage from the fiery element. I found it fair and flourishing. Now the learned Artemidorus, in his treatise ‘De Somniorum Interpretations,’ tells us that to dream of thunder signifies jars, quarrels, fierce debates, and contentions. And again, Anselmus Julianus, in his ‘Art and Judgment of Dreams,’ says that a burnt or withered tree denotes vexation, fear, displeasure, and grief. Therefore, mine was a bad dream every way — a very bad dream, sir.”

  “Not so, sir,” I rejoined, willing to humour him, and yet set him at ease. “To the great oneirocritical authorities you have brought forward, I will oppose the opinion of the oracular Apomazar, who declares that a burnt yew-tree presages the destruction of an enemy.”

  “Does Apomazar say so, Mr. Clitheroe?” he cried, staring at me with his purblind orbs. “Does he, indeed? Apomazar is a wise man — a very wise man — plus sapit quam Thales. You greatly relieve my mind. I am not aware that I have an enemy — but no matter.”

  “You forget your other dream about cleaving logs, Mr. Hazilrigge,” Cuthbert Spring interposed. “What does that portend?”

  “The visit of a stranger to the house of the dreamer, according to Artemidorus,, the old gentleman answered.

  “There Artemidorus is in the right, Mr. Hazilrigge,” I rejoined, laughing. “I am the stranger, and will pay you a visit at Owlarton Grange whenever you choose to invite me.

  “That is already settled,” Cuthbert Spring observed. “The invitation has been given and accepted. I answered for you, as I felt sure a visit to Owlarton Grange would be highly agreeable to you. We are going to dine with my worthy friend tomorrow, and spend a few days with him.”

  I expressed my entire satisfaction at the arrangement.

  “Mr. Spring ought to tell you that mine is a haunted house, sir,” Mr. Hazilrigge said, looking at me through his spectacles.

  “So much the better,” I rejoined. “I have long desired to stay in a haunted house; and must beg you, as a particular favour, to put me into the ghost’s room.”

  “Tut! you don’t know what a request you are preferring,” Cuthbert Spring cried. “You won’t sleep a wink. I have tried the experiment once, and don’t desire to try it again.”

  “Well,
well, there are other rooms at the Grange if the ghost’s room shouldn’t suit Mr. Clitheroe,” Mr. Hazilrigge said. “He shall have his choice. We will do our best to amuse you, sir. Weverham Glen is accounted picturesque by sight-seers, and you may explore Delamere Forest, noted as the scene of several of the predictions of our famous old Cheshire prophet, Robert Nixon.”

  “No want of attractions, sir,” I rejoined. “But one of the greatest pleasures to me will be the opportunity of seeing my dear friend — almost brother — John Brideoake, who lives near you.”

  “John Brideoake is constantly with us,” Mr. Hazilrigge rejoined. “I have the greatest regard for him, and so has my sister. He has often talked of you, Mr. Clitheroe, and has wondered when you would return from the Continent. Poor Brideoake! I fear he has some secret sorrow. He never complains, but he looks unhappy, and his state of health gives my sister much uneasiness. You shall meet him at dinner tomorrow. But come, sir, let me make you personally known to my sister, Miss Hazilrigge, and my niece, Ora Doveton. They know you already by description.”

  With this he conducted me to the barouche, and presented me in form to its occupants. Both ladies received me very graciously; but I was wholly unprepared for so much beauty as I discovered in Ora Doveton — having only directed a casual glance towards her as I previously passed the carriage.

  Miss Doveton evidently remarked my surprise, and enjoyed it. A sparkling brunette, about nineteen, with a rich bloom under the olive skin, splendid black eyes, dark pencilled brows, and long silken eyelashes, magnificent black hair, teeth like pearls, and lips of the brightest coral. Such was Ora Doveton. The contour of her face was exquisite. Her manner had a peculiar witchery and grace, well suited to the southern style of her beauty; and her black silk attire and lace might have been worn by an Andalusian damsel.

  I have described the niece first, because I confess that her beauty quite dazzled me, and left me very little power of noticing the aunt. But Miss Hazilrigge merited more attention than I paid her. Full fifteen years younger than her brother, she was still good looking, and had a very amiable expression. She wore her own grey hair, which suited the fresh tint of her comely features extremely well. A certain family likeness existed between her and her brother, but she was evidently shrewd and sensible, and quite as much matter-of-fact in her notions as he appeared to be the reverse.

  Both ladies expressed great satisfaction on hearing that I was about to pay Owlarton Grange a visit; but Ora Doveton assured me with a smile, which rather contradicted her words, that I should find the place dreadfully dull. Her countenance wore an extremely arch expression when she spoke of the singular errand on which her uncle had come to Dunton, and she did not appear to share in his belief in dreams. I soon found out that gravity formed no part of Ora’s composition. She was the merriest creature imaginable, and her high spirits carried everything before them. We were upon intimate terms directly. She rallied me upon my wounded arm, and the cause of the duel, of which she had heard — and I became so much interested by her sprightly talk, and so much enthralled by the magic of the beautiful eyes bent down upon me, that I felt quite annoyed when Mr. Hazilrigge ordered a tall old footman, in an antiquated livery (Finch by name) to let down the steps, and got into the carriage. The old gentleman then bade us good-by, hoping to see us on the morrow; the ladies smiled adieu — Ora’s smile completed her conquest — and the stout coachman put his fat cattle in motion.

  “Well, what do you think of old Hazy?” Cuthbert Spring asked, as we entered the inn, and repaired to the room opening upon the bowling-green, where the table was spread for dinner.

  “I think him very diverting,” I rejoined. “He seems to have the organ of credulity rather extensively developed.”

  “He is the most credulous person alive,” Mr. Spring returned, “and, but for his excellent sister, would be the dupe of any artful impostor who might choose to practise upon him. You heard on what an absurd errand he came here to-day — a dream! ha! ha! — but he is always on some wild-goose chase or another — always finding a mare’s nest. Every nook and cranny of the old fellow’s head is stuffed full of tales of hobgoblins, spectres, wood-demons, gnomes, elves, and fairies; and he reads nothing but books of necromancy, witchcraft, and judicial astrology. You will have a treat, if he shows you his library. But, notwithstanding his whims and eccentricities, Old Hazy is an excellent, estimable person.”

  “Amongst his numerous merits, not the least, in my opinion,” I remarked, “is the possession of a very charming niece.”

  “Faith! you may say so. There isn’t such a pair of black eyes as Ora Doveton’s in the county. Why, zounds! at your age I should have fallen head-over-heels in love with her at first sight. And mark what I say, Mervyn, — beauty isn’t Ora’s only recommendation. She will be her uncle’s heiress. Old Hazy is rich. He has no other nephews or nieces — no other near relations that I know of, except his sister; so Owlarton Orange, and all belonging to it, must be Ora’s. There’s a look out for you, my boy.”

  I smiled, but not caring to acknowledge the interest I had begun to feel for Ora, I spoke of Miss Hazilrigge and the singular contrast she presented to her brother, and soon afterwards dinner was served, and we sat down to it. After the removal of the cloth, and while we were discussing a bottle of the delectable port, our conversation turned upon Owlarton Grange, and the report of its being haunted. I laughingly inquired under what form the ghost appeared.

  “I am not aware that the phantom has ever revealed itself to mortal gaze,” Mr. Spring replied; “but I have heard it, as you may possibly do, since you mean to occupy the haunted room. Owlarton Grange, as you will find, is a very curious old house — one of those quaint, black and white, timber and plaster structures which I have heard you admire — and abounds in dark galleries, oddly-shaped rooms, bay-windows, full of stained glass, wide staircases, narrow staircases, and out-of-the-way mouldy passages. Ghosts must be partial to such a dwelling, so no wonder one has found its way there. The Grange has been in the possession of the Hazilrigge family for more than two centuries, and connected with it is the remnant of a still older edifice, once appertaining to the monastery of Saint Mary, Vale Royal. But to come back to the haunted room. I won’t describe it — for it will soon come under your own observation — except to say that it is spacious, with a low ceiling crossed by great oak beams, and has black oak panels, a singular old portrait, and a fantastic-looking old tester-bed, with strangely-carved pillars, and hangings of faded tapestry. I am not superstitious, but when I saw this bed, I felt very little inclination to occupy it. However, since there was no help, in due time I laid my head upon the pillow. Whether I had dropped off to sleep I cannot say, but I was suddenly roused by an extraordinary knock — a dull, dead, but distinct sound, as if caused by a heavy blow struck against the inner side of the wall, just below the room. I listened intently, and in another minute the knock was repeated. I counted five distinct blows — and then the sound ceased.”

  “Did you notarise and try to ascertain whence the sound proceeded?” I inquired.

  “I had extinguished my taper, and thick curtains were drawn before the large bay-window, so that I was in profound darkness. I confess that I felt considerable trepidation. After an interval of ten minutes the mysterious sound was renewed — knock! — knock! — knock! — as if the blows had been deliberately dealt by the hand of a giant. Each blow seemed to approach nearer — and the last sounded as if struck against a closet door, which I expected would burst open, and some terrible intruder stalk in. These mysterious knocks must have commenced about midnight, and they continued at intervals, as I have described, for nearly two hours.”

  Cuthbert Spring had more than once replenished his glass during the progress of this story, and he now thought that its length entitled him to a second bottle of port; but, having had enough, I left him to its enjoyment, and strolled out upon the bowling-green to breathe the evening air. Not to pollute the sweet atmosphere with the odour of tobacco, be it
understood; for I abominate the practice of smoking, and never indulge in it.

  While pacing to and fro, I reviewed the various incidents of the day; and though my meeting with Ned Culcheth, and the story of his wrongs, had left a very painful impression upon me, yet I found myself chiefly dwelling upon a more recent occurrence. My susceptibilities seemed to be roused anew. I began to persuade myself that, by encouraging my admiration of Ora, I might succeed in forgetting Apphia. Undoubtedly there did not seem to be so great a blank in my heart as there had been in the morning. As I gazed up at the stars in the clear vault above me, I thought of orbs that rivalled them in brilliancy. Yes, yes, — I fear Apphia was in a fair way of being supplanted by the beautiful and bewitching brunette.

  By-and-by Cuthbert Spring joined me. He was in a merry mood, and soon brought up the subject of Old Hazy’s charming niece; and now I did not discourage him. It was just the hour to talk of a pretty girl, and I felt disposed to unbosom myself, and own that I was half captivated, but a certain bashfulness restrained me. However, I said quite enough to convince him that I was slightly hit.

  After partaking of a cup of tea in the open air, we retired early to our chambers, and, my arm being much easier, I made up that night for my previous want of rest.

  I arose next morning in better spirits than I had known for many a day. Could it be the anticipation of seeing the charming Ora Doveton that made me feel so joyous? I cannot precisely answer the question; but I think she must have had something to do with my good spirits. When we met at breakfast, Cuthbert Spring congratulated me on my improved appearance, and told me I looked more like my former self. He could perceive, he said, that I had been dreaming of something more agreeable than blighted, yew-trees — perhaps of a pair of fine black eyes, which was especially lucky, if the fine black eyes seemed to ogle you — according to Artemidorus. My personal comfort was increased by the amended condition of my arm, which now gave me much less inconvenience, and promised soon to be useful again. Moreover, the fine weather continued, and everything held out a pleasurable prospect. So no wonder I felt gay.