The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Rest easy on that score, sir,” I rejoined. “It is not Mr. Ponder, nor any of your servants, that you need suspect. I will point out the real author of the trick to you by-and-by, and then you can deal with him as you think fit.”

  “Hum!” Mr. Hazilrigge ejaculated. “I fancy I know whom you allude to. But it’s not he! — it’s not he!”

  “More concealments?” Cuthbert Spring cried. “Are we to be kept in the dark for ever?”

  “Very tantalising, I must say,” Miss Hazilrigge cried.

  “Very unfair!” Ora added. “Mr. Clitheroe will entirely forfeit my good opinion if he goes on in this way.”

  “I hope not,” I replied; “as far as I am concerned, I have no desire to make any mystery of the matter, and if Mr. Hazilrigge desires it, I will name the person I mean.”

  “Better not,” the old gentleman interposed, hastily. “As soon as you have finished breakfast, Mr. Clitheroe, we will adjourn to my sanctum, and confer upon the matter.”

  “I shall be at your service in a moment,” I replied, trying to make up for lost time by proceeding rapidly with my meal.

  “Dear heart! brother, you are in a great hurry. “You won’t allow Mr. Clitheroe to make half a breakfast,” Miss Hazilrigge said. “Step to the side-table and carve him a slice of ham, I beg of you — our hams are excellent, Mr. Clitheroe. Perhaps you would prefer pigeon-pie — the eggs and the cutlets are cold, I am afraid, so I won’t recommend them — but do take a little. marmalade. Brother, brother — a slice of ham instantly for Mr. Clitheroe.”

  “Don’t hurry me, sister,” the old gentleman replied, testily; “Mr. Clitheroe prefers intellectual food to gross diet like this. I want to show him my copy of Pere Jacques d’Autum’s ‘ L’Incredulite savante et la Crédulite ignorante, au sujet des Magiciens et Sorciers.’”

  “I am doing extremely well,” I observed, attacking the grilled leg of a chicken; “but I will trouble Miss Doveton for another cup of coffee.”

  “Ora! Ora! attend to your duty, child,” the good-natured lady cried. “More coffee to Mr. Clitheroe, and plenty of cream.”

  “I should compassionate Mr. Clitheroe for his poor breakfast, if he were more communicative,” Ora said, with a smile. “Perhaps he will condescend to tell us what he intends doing this morning?”

  “In the first place, I mean to walk over to Weverham to see my dear old friend, John Brideoake,” I replied.

  “Dear heart a day! Ora,” Miss Hazilrigge exclaimed, “you have upset the coffee-cup, I declare. I never knew you so careless before. One would think that the mention of Mr. Brideoake’s name agitated you.”

  The observation was made in jest, but it almost appeared to be called for, for my eyes being fixed upon Ora at the moment, I perceived the colour mount to her cheek, and I asked myself, with some internal misgiving, what it could mean?

  “My aunt and I propose driving to Delamere Forest to see the Headless Cross, spoken of in Nixon’s prophesies,” Ora said, “and Oak Mere, and the Hind’s Well, and Sevenlowes, and Swan’s Well, and Castle Cob, and some other curious spots, and we thought you might feel inclined to accompany us.”

  “Nothing would afford me greater pleasure than such a drive,” I replied; “but I should be wanting in friendship if I delayed another hour to call on John Brideoake — especially after learning that he is unwell, and has expressed a desire to see me.”

  “Oh! he wishes to see you! I didn’t understand that,” Ora remarked.

  “To be sure he does, and very naturally,” Miss Hazilrigge said. “Go to him by all means, Mr. Clitheroe, and don’t mind us in the least. We will take another drive into the forest tomorrow, or next day. Mr. Spring will oblige us with his company to-day.”

  “I shall be enchanted,” Cuthbert rejoined, gallantly; “ and I think Mervyn ought not to delay his visit to his friend.”

  “I never chanced to see Apphia Brideoake,” Ora remarked, with a sly glance at me. “I am told she is very beautiful. Is it so, Mr. Clitheroe?”

  “Dear heart, child! what a question to ask!” Miss Hazilrigge cried. “Don’t you know — !” and she suddenly stopped.

  “Know what, aunt?” Ora inquired, with affected simplicity. “Oh yes! — now I recollect. How very stupid of me! The duel was about her, to be sure! Pray excuse me, Mr. Clitheroe. But since I have been silly enough to put such a question, perhaps you won’t mind answering it. Is she at all like her brother? Is she very beautiful?”

  It will be easily imagined that these questions caused me considerable embarrassment, and rather interfered with the progress of my breakfast. However, I managed to reply that I didn’t think there was any great resemblance between the brother and sister, but that Apphia unquestionably was very beautiful.

  “That I can vouch for,” Cuthbert Spring remarked; “and she is exceedingly amiable and accomplished as well. If I had not models of perfection before me,” he proceeded, glancing from aunt to niece, “I should say she was without a peer. At all events, she is a great deal too good and too charming for the person for whom she is designed.”

  “Mr. Malpas Sale, is it not?” Ora cried, laughing at the extravagance of Cuthbert’s compliments. “I have never seen him, but I am told he is excessively good-looking. I suppose I musn’t ask your opinion of him, Mr. Clitheroe?”

  “Certainly not, my dear,” Miss Hazilrigge interposed, quickly. “How can you think of such a thing? By-the-by, Mr. Spring,” she continued, “can you tell me who the Brideoakes are? I don’t know Mrs. Brideoake, but from the airs I am told she gives herself, she ought to be somebody. Who was she, and whence does she come — eh?”

  “I’m sorry I cannot answer your questions,” Cuthbert Spring rejoined. “The only person originally acquainted with Mrs. Brideoake, Doctor Foam, always observes a discreet silence concerning her; but I presume he imparted any information he possesses to Mrs. Mervyn before the intimacy commenced between the two ladies — an intimacy which you are aware has resulted in Mrs. Brideoake becoming virtually mistress of the Anchorite’s.” —

  “Very odd! — very odd, indeed!” Mr. Hazilrigge exclaimed, looking up. “And you, also, are unable to enlighten us as to this proud lady’s family — eh, Mr. Clitheroe?”

  “Entirely so, sir,” I replied. “And what is more extraordinary still, I believe John Brideoake to be as much in the dark as myself. He has often told me that his mother can never be prevailed upon to speak to him of his father, but always checks his inquiries on the subject.”

  “I fancied, from what I could pick up from him, that Brideoake was rather imperfectly acquainted with his genealogy,” the old gentleman said; “and you now account for his ignorance. But why should the mother withhold knowledge from her son to which he is entitled?” —

  “I cannot answer for Mrs. Brideoake — neither can John,” I replied. “She has her own rule of conduct, and will allow no interference with it.”

  “Where nothing is positively known, all must be matter of mere conjecture,” Cuthbert Spring remarked; “but I have always fancied that Mrs. Brideoake belongs to a good old Jacobite family, crushed by the Rebellion of’45. This would account for the interest that Mrs. Mervyn, whose predilections for the Stuarts are notorious, takes in her.”

  “It accounts for it partly, but not entirely,” I replied. “My relative must have some particular interest in Mrs. Brideoake, or she would not have devoted herself to her so warmly. Of that I am certain. It almost seems to me that she has discovered a relation in Mrs. Brideoake.”

  “A connection by marriage possibly,” Cuthbert Spring replied. “After all, it may turn out that Brideoake is an assumed name.”

  “Nonsense! Mr. Spring. I cannot think that,” Miss Hazilrigge cried.

  “While you are about it, you may as well try to make out that Mrs. Brideoake is of a noble family,” Mr. Hazilrigge said. “There were several such attainted in’15 and’45, and she may belong to one of them.”

  “And why not?” Mr. Spring cried, laughing. “Many
a random shaft has hit the mark. But, as I said just now, all this is mere conjecture. Mrs. Brideoake may be of noble origin —— and if hereditary nobility were universally characterised by arrogance and haughty bearing, I should have no doubt about it. She may also be related by marriage to Mrs. Mervyn, and I think I can discern how the connection may have arisen — but,” he added, checking himself, “it is idle to’ speculate further, since we cannot, by possibility, arrive at the truth.”

  Ora, who, had been listening with almost as much attention as myself to the foregoing conversation, now observed:

  “You have been making out a delightfully romantic history for John Brideoake. If he should turn out to be grandson of some attainted Jacobite peer, and the title be restored! Wouldn’t that be enchanting, aunt!”

  “Poh! you silly creature! No such good fortune is like to attend the poor fellow,” Miss Hazilrigge rejoined.

  “Romantic as the idea may be of John Brideoake’s restoration to the forfeited honours of his ancestors, I fear there is very little chance of such a consummation,” Cuthbert Spring observed, with a smile. “Even supposing him to be in reality what we have imagined him to be in jest, where are the estates to come from to support a title?”

  “Ay, where indeed?” Mr. Hazilrigge exclaimed. “He is as poor as a rat.”

  “Still, a title is a title, brother,” Miss Hazilrigge said.

  “And a very fine thing, too, aunt,” Ora remarked; “and if John Brideoake were only to become a lord, he might marry some rich heiress, and so repair his fortunes.”

  “In that view of the case I trust he may get a title,” Cuthbert Spring remarked with a smile. “One thing is quite certain, that before the projected marriage takes place between Malpas Sale and Apphia, positive explanations as to who the Brideoakes really are must take place.”

  “I should think the Sales are already well informed on that point, Mr. Spring, Miss Hazilrigge said. “The vicar would naturally make all inquiries; and his son, from what I hear of him, has a keen eye to his own interests.”

  Seeing that I had done breakfast, Mr. Hazilrigge now rose, and again proposed an adjournment to his sanctum to examine his Pere Jacques d’Autum; but I excused myself on the plea of extreme anxiety to see my friend, and Miss Hazilrigge coming to my aid, I happily escaped the infliction.

  Not long afterwards, I set out on my expedition, and the ladies having put on garden-bonnets in the interim, volunteered to accompany me to the end of the long avenue; on arriving at which point Miss Hazilrigge showed me a path across the fields leading to Weverham, telling me it was the shortest and pleasantest road.

  Ere we separated, it was arranged that, after taking their drive, the ladies should call for me at John Brideoake’s cottage, and bring me home in the carriage; and Miss Hazilrigge trusted that my friend would be well enough to dine with them on that day, and she charged me to invite him. No company were expected, and he would therefore be perfectly quiet.

  CHAPTER XI.

  I OBTAIN AN INSIGHT INTO JOHN BRIDEOAKE’S HEART.

  I FOUND John Brideoake’s little domicile without difficulty, having carefully noted its position in passing through Weverham on the previous day.

  A pretty ornamental cottage; small, but commodious enough for its occupant, with a thatched roof, a rustic porch overgrown with honeysuckles and other creepers, and whitewashed walls covered with a profusion of roses. In front a trimly-kept garden with dainty flower-beds, and a grass-plot planted with standard roses. John must have become excessively fond of roses, for he had them in every variety, and the plants appeared to be well tended. There was a cheerful look about the little habitation that delighted me, and I lingered in the garden, admiring its beauty and arrangement, before I advanced to the porch.

  Suddenly I heard my name pronounced by a well-known voice, and John himself, issuing from an arbour where he had been reading, hastened towards me, and, with an exclamation of delight, flung his arms round my neck.

  My poor friend! he was sadly changed, and my heart sank within me as I gazed at him.

  It he could have stood erect, John would have been above the average height, but his slender frame was prematurely bent, and his movements betokened extreme debility. He was so thin that his clothes hung loosely about him; and his looks altogether were calculated to inspire the most serious apprehensions. But in spite of their emaciation his features were handsome — I might almost say beautiful; and his eyes were large and lustrous — too lustrous, indeed, when viewed in connection with his pallid cheeks with the ominous red spot upon them.

  While regarding him wistfully I could scarcely repress my emotion, and I found it wholly impossible to give utterance to the expressions of joy which a meeting with him must otherwise have prompted. My poor friend had no such misgivings in regard to me, but seemed unfeignedly delighted to see me, and the affectionate warmth of his greeting, while it endeared him still more to me, increased, if possible, my anxiety for him.

  Still keeping his arm over my shoulder, he led me into his cottage, and opening the door of a little room, which he called his study, ushered me into it.

  A pleasant room, looking upon the garden, embowered with roses, and furnished with book-shelves laden with the works of divines and writers on ecclesiastical history, amongst which I distinguished South, Strype, Stillingfleet, Tillotson, and Sherlock. On the table lay a large annotated Bible, with bookmarks placed in it, writing materials, and a half-finished manuscript sermon. I told John, as I took a chair, that he had a delightful abode, and I thought he must now lead a truly happy life.

  “As happy a life as I can ever expect to lead, dear Mervyn,” he replied. “My desires are few, and my great object is to do all the good I can. I am of some little use to my parishioners, and if more strength were granted me I might do yet more for them. As it is, I persuade myself that I have gained their love, and they listen to my counsels. I have healed some differences — have brought several erring sheep back to the fold — and I would fain believe that I have been the humble instrument of rescuing one soul at least from perdition.”

  “That you discharge the duties of your sacred calling to the fullest extent of your power, I cannot for a moment doubt, dear John,” I replied, “and fortunate it is for those amongst whom you are thrown, that they have such a pastor and friend. But you must take care of yourself, and not tax your energies too far. The country about you is very beautiful — indeed I hardly know a more picturesque district — but are you quite sure that the place is healthy? — does it agree with you?”

  “If I suffer, dear Mervyn,” he replied, “it is not from any ill effects caused by the air of the place, but by latent disease, which I have reason to fear is consuming me. I am quite as well here as I should be elsewhere — perhaps better. Indeed, I should not be so well elsewhere, for then I should be anxious about my little flock. No, Mervyn, the end with me cannot be far off, and I trust to be permitted to breathe my last amongst those whom my precepts and example may benefit. I shall not be able to accomplish half the work I would fain perform, but while power is granted me I will never abandon it.”

  Recalling the singular conversation we had had about my friend during breakfast that morning, I said:

  “But were circumstances suddenly to change your position, John, would you still desire to stay here?”

  “There is little likelihood of my position being changed,” he replied; “but thus much I will say, that even under altered circumstances, if any choice were left me, I would remain here. As I have told you, I am strongly attached to my flock, and it would pain me to separate from them.”

  “I understand and respect the feeling,” I replied. “You have found a home here amongst strangers which you could not meet with amidst your own family.”

  “It is quite true, Mervyn,” he said sadly. “My mother, as you are aware, has cast me from her, and without any just cause, as I verily believe, on my part, treats me as if I had deeply offended her. I have disappointed her — though
that can scarcely be imputed to me as a fault, since my strength failed me in the task — but I myself am more deeply disappointed than she can ever be. It is a deplorable thing to imagine a mother without love for her children; but, on reviewing my life calmly, I am forced to come to the conclusion that she never loved — in the full sense of maternal love — either myself or Apphia.”

  “A saddening reflection, indeed, John,” I replied; “but as you have said so much, I will not hesitate to go further, and declare my conviction that your mother will not scruple to sacrifice the happiness of her children in order to carry out her own designs. She is about to force Apphia into a match which must be productive of wretchedness to her. The marriage must be averted, if possible. Ill will come of it. You know that I would never malign even an enemy, and will believe me when I assert that Malpas Sale is in all respects unworthy to be your sister’s husband.”

  “You are incapable, I am sure, of asserting anything you do not fully believe, Mervyn; but in this instance you are influenced by feelings that may warp your judgment. You have long entertained a dislike to Malpas, and latterly your dislike has deepened into animosity. You can, therefore, scarcely be accounted a fair judge.”

  “Perhaps not, John; but I advance nothing that I am not prepared to prove. I did not dislike Malpas formerly without cause — neither is it without good cause that I hate him now. I have been wronged — deeply wronged — and must have reparation.”

  “But not in the way you propose, Mervyn,” he replied with gentle gravity. “I grieve to hear you profess sentiments so totally at variance with those which Christianity inculcates, and by which alone your conduct ought to be governed. Forgiveness may be hard to practise, but, trust me, it is the only way to efface the sense of injury. I speak to you, Mervyn, because I love you as a brother, and loving you thus dearly, I cannot be blind to your faults. ‘ You have many excellent, nay, admirable qualities; you are generous, enthusiastic, warmhearted, loyal — but you are also impetuous, quick in anger, disposed to be resentful. It is the latter tendency, more than any other, that I desire to see corrected, because it wars most with your present happiness, and may endanger your future weal. I do not say that you are unforgiving — far from it; such conduct would be incompatible with the generosity of your nature. But your wrath, easily kindled, does not soon die out, and you believe yourself bound by laws of honour to obtain satisfaction for wrongs, sometimes imaginary, but, even if real, not to be thus repaired. Leave vengeance in his hands who alone is able to repay.”