The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Gentle and kindly intended as was John’s reproof, it somewhat chafed me, and I answered, I fear, rather impatiently:

  “I am quite sure you are right, John, but I should play the hypocrite were I to admit that I shall act as you would have me act. Believing Malpas Sale to be a villain, I do not mean to rest till I have unmasked and punished him.”

  “Malpas may be as bad as you represent him, though I hope not. But grant that he is so, do not you, Mervyn, commit a fault as grave as any you reprobate. Leave others to decide the question. You cannot act both as accuser and judge.”

  “Act as judge yourself, then, John, and decide between us. Has Malpas not robbed me of my fortune? Has he not snatched from me your sister, whom I loved better than life? These are the wrongs that goad me to call down punishment upon his head. You, John, pure and virtuous yourself, can scarcely believe in the misdeeds of others. In addition to the injuries he has done me — enough to warrant the most terrible reprisals on my part — Malpas has carried desolation into a once happy family — has destroyed the happiness of a fond husband — taken away from him his wife—”

  “Hold, Mervyn!” John interrupted. “This last charge, at all events, falls to the ground. I am aware of the unhappy ‘ case to which you refer, and I am persuaded that Malpas was not the author of the wrong then committed.”

  “You believe, then, that Simon Pownall was the destroyer of Ned Culcheth’s peace?” I cried.

  “I do,” he answered. “I have means of knowing the truth of this lamentable case, and I believe it to be as I have stated.”

  “You are imposed upon, John,” I said.

  “Alas! not so,” he replied sadly, but firmly. “It is you, Mervyn, who are blinded by prejudice. May you one day see the truth clearly, and not as now, through a glass, darkly!”

  He spoke with so much earnestness and conviction that I was staggered; but a moment’s reflection brought me back to my original opinion.

  “Poor Sissy’s avowal alone shall satisfy me,” I cried.

  “If that will suffice, perhaps it may be obtained,” he returned.

  “How?” I exclaimed, startled. “Do you know where she is?”

  “I am not at liberty to answer any questions on the subject,” he said. “There is only one person to whom I can reveal anything that has been divulged to me. To Sissy’s unhappy husband I may possibly speak — but to no other.”

  “Then do speak to him, John, I adjure you; and perhaps, through your intervention, something of peace may be restored to his breast. At all events, he may be brought to a better frame of mind.”

  “Send him to me, and I will do all that in me lies to help him,” the young curate said, fervently. “But do not raise your hopes too highly,” he continued, with an expression of great sadness. “Poor Ned has had a severe trial; but the worst is not yet over. Question me no further, I pray of you. Let us change this painful theme.”

  “So be it,” I replied reluctantly. “Let us return to a matter in which I myself am personally interested. Will you not oppose your sister’s marriage with Malpas?”

  “I do not conceive that I should be warranted in opposing it — neither do I think that any opposition on my part would be availing. I have already remonstrated with my mother, and have angered her so much against me by doing so, that she will neither write to me herself, nor suffer Apphia to write to me. I am unwilling to widen the breach. My mother, with all her faults of temper, is still my mother, and I owe her a son’s obedience.”

  “But, by the same rule, your sister is your sister, and as a brother you are bound to save her from certain misery.”

  “If I saw the matter with your eyes, I might act differently, Mervyn. But Apphia seems reconciled to the match. You know my weaknesses, and I could not, therefore, disguise them from you, even if so disposed. Naturally timid, in my mother’s presence I lose all my self-possession; and I could no more dispute with her than I could wrestle with an athlete. She has always been accustomed to exact obedience from me and Apphia, and neither of us have ever disputed her control.”

  “I know it, John; but if your sister’s happiness depended upon your resolution, would you not throw off this unfortunate weakness? — for such, in truth, I esteem it.”

  “I must first feel that the effort is needed. It might be fatal to me. I am equal to little now.”

  “Forgive me, John, if I put a question to you, which has its origin in no idle curiosity, but in sincere interest in yourself. Your mother’s proud deportment has excited surprise, and I have been asked what there is to justify her haughtiness — in a word, whether she belongs to some family of good lineage. I could offer no information, for I have none to give.”

  “Neither can I afford you any information, Mervyn, being in utter ignorance as to my mother’s family. Such a statement might appear incredible to any one except yourself, who know my mother, and we are aware of the extraordinary reserve of her character. What may be her motives for casting an impenetrable veil over her family history I pretend not to divine. But she has done so from my earliest years, and could never be induced for a moment to withdraw it. All I know relative to my father is, that he died before my mother gave birth to Apphia, and that the marriage, either on one side or the other — but probably my mother’s — had offended her connections so deeply, that they disowned her altogether, and she was consequently plunged into the greatest distress. At that period we all suffered much, and my proud mother most of all. She forbade us then ever to speak of her relations — ever to inquire after them — and I religiously obeyed her. Apphia, indeed, has questioned her repeatedly in my hearing, but has always been sharply checked for her curiosity. So little do I know about myself, Mervyn, that I am by no means sure that the name I bear is my rightful name. Enough! — it will serve to be inscribed upon my tombstone.”

  Profound emotion kept me silent for a short space. At last I said:

  “But if you are indifferent to your parentage, John, I am not. Have you any objection to my instituting inquiries for you?”

  “I would rather you did not. I should gain nothing by learning a secret which my mother had sedulously kept from me. What boots it, Mervyn, who I am? I am alone in the world — or nearly alone. Heaven knows that I seek to honour and love my mother, and strive to obey her! Heaven knows, also, that I dearly love my sister, though I am not permitted to behold her, or to profit by her love! I have no kinsman; and except yourself, my friend and brother, I have none to care for me — none to sympathise with me, or to share my sorrows.”

  He bowed his head, and we were again silent.

  “Yet do not think that I repine,” he continued, more cheerfully. “While I can be useful in my limited sphere, I ought to be content.”

  “Long as I have known you, John,” I exclaimed, regarding him with admiration, “I never fully understood you till now.”

  “You overrate me, my dear friend,” he replied, kindly. “Suffering has made me a better man. By constantly fixing my thoughts on Heaven, I have been able to shake off the ties of earth. Yet when I had emancipated myself from thraldom, and conquered, as I deemed, all my worldly feelings and passions, I was again for a while enslaved.”

  I thought this a fitting opportunity for putting a question I had meditated: and I inquired if his heart had ever been touched?

  He would not hide the truth from me, but answered, though with some bashfulness:

  “Yes, I was foolish enough to indulge for a time a hopeless passion. Before becoming aware of it, I had swallowed the intoxicating potion, and, under its influence, I lost my customary self-control. I loved madly — yes, madly is the word — for what but madness could it be in me to aspire, even in thought, to a young and lovely heiress?”

  “Did you ever declare your passion, John?” I said, regarding him earnestly.

  “Never in words,” he replied, an almost maidenly blush suffusing his pale cheek. “I should not have dared to give utterance to my feelings.”

  “Speak to
me without reserve, John, for you know you are speaking to a brother. Did she — did the object of your regard seem to encourage your suit? Tell me the exact impression produced upon you by her manner?”

  “My impression, then, is, Mervyn, that she perceived she had made my heart captive, and merely encouraged me for her amusement. When she found she had gone too far, she made me clearly understand that she was indifferent to me. Alas! it was then too late for me. The arrow was shot which will rankle in my breast so long as sensibility lasts within it.”

  “My poor friend!” I exclaimed, with deep sympathy. “But you may find some other person to whom you can transfer your love.”

  “Love like mine, Mervyn, cannot be transferred,” he replied, mournfully. “My heart is not susceptible of a second impression.”

  “You have not confided to me the name of the syren who has bewitched you, John, but I guessed it from the first. And I admit that her beauty is quite sufficient to account for the influence she has gained over you — nay more, I will own to you, my dear friend, that I was well-nigh falling into the same snare myself.”

  “You!” he exclaimed, quickly, and putting his hand to his heart as if to repress a pang, while a hot flush sprang to his cheek. Then suddenly recovering himself, he added, “Forgive me, Mervyn, for the selfish feeling which crossed me for a moment. Why should you not love Ora Doveton? Why should my senseless passion, which ought never to have been indulged, prevent you from winning her regard — from claiming her hand? Let no thought of me stand between you and her. If you love her, it will be my fondest aspiration that you may win her. I had, indeed, hoped that another union might have brought us more closely together — might have made us really brothers, as we are in regard — but that hope is crushed. Whether Ora is as well calculated to make you happy as Apphia, cannot now be considered. You have lost the one, you may gain the other!”

  “I fully appreciate the unheard-of generosity of your motives, John,” I said. “But I have no reason to believe that Ora has thought seriously about me for a moment. Nay, now that I am better acquainted with her character than I was at first, I cannot help suspecting that she has been trifling with me in the same heartless manner that she trifled with you. But I am still able to stop.”

  “But why should you stop?” John cried. “Not from consideration to me — for I am out of the question. Besides, it would be idle to institute any comparison between us. Though merely coquetting with me, Ora could scarcely be otherwise than sincere with you, formed as you are to please. No, no; our cases are widely different. Success awaits you, though failure has attended me.” —

  I regarded him in astonishment, scarcely able to credit such self-abnegation, even in him.

  “I should not be the true friend I am to you, John,” I said, “if I were to yield to your generous solicitations. Not till I am assured that Ora has no regard for you, will I indulge another thought of her.”

  “Take the assurance from me,” he said. “I am not likely to be deceived on such a point.”

  “I do not know that,” I replied. “Your diffidence makes you despair where a bolder man might justly feel confident. Again, I say, I must ascertain from her own lips that Ora has dismissed all thoughts of you, before I advance another step.”

  “You must do no such thing, Mervyn,” John said, earnestly. “Promise me that you will never mention what has passed between us, to Ora. I am ashamed of my folly and presumption. Do not expose me to ridicule. I have laid bare my heart to you as a brother. Respect its secrets.”

  “Calm yourself, dear John,” I said. “Your wishes shall be obeyed. What is more, I believe you are right. Neither of us ought to think of Ora. What I have just learnt explains your absence yesterday. You shun a meeting with her.”

  “Till I am completely cured, I judge it safest not to meet her,” he returned. “But in truth I did not feel equal to dining out yesterday — so the excuse was justifiable.”

  As we were talking, I perceived an old man, with a leathern bag slung across his shoulders, enter the garden, and march towards the cottage door.

  “Whom have we here, John?” I asked.

  “The postman,” he replied. “His visits are rare here. I receive few letters. You have been my best correspondent.”

  Shortly afterwards a pretty little rustic-looking girl, about ten years of age, entered the room with a letter on a tray, and handing the missive to John, and dropping a curtsey to me, she retired.

  “Apphia’s handwriting!” John exclaimed, in surprise, after glancing at the superscription of the letter. “What can it mean? The poor girl must have written to me without our mother’s knowledge?” He then paused, and his countenance lost the glad smile which had for a moment illumined it. “A presentiment crosses me that this is a messenger of ill tidings. Have you never felt, Mervyn, ere opening a letter, that you had a notion of its contents — and could tell whether it brought weal or woe?’’

  “I have experienced something of the sort, I confess; but I trust your present forebodings may not be verified.”

  “We will ascertain at once,” he replied.

  “Hold, John,” I cried, rising. “I will quit you for a short time, in order that you may read your letter tranquilly. Apphia may write to you about many circumstances which might render my presence undesirable.’’

  “I thank you for your consideration, dear Mervyn,’’ he replied. “It may possibly be as you suggest. I will call you when I have read the letter.”

  Taking my hat, I stepped forth into the garden. After lingering near the flower-beds for a few minutes, finding that John did not summon me, I walked out into the highroad, which a little further on was completely overshaded by large trees, forming a natural avenue to the church — a structure of great beauty and antiquity, distant about three hundred yards. Between the church and my friend’s dwelling several cottages intervened, and amongst others a small public-house. At the door of the latter stood a tall man, evidently making inquiries, and as he turned towards me I recognised Ned Culcheth. Indeed, I should have known Ned at once if I had seen Hubert, who now sprang over a hedge, and bounded towards me.

  On descrying me, the keeper hurried forward, and we soon met. He told me he had been to Owlarton Grange, and learning there that I had gone over to Weverham, he had followed me, and had just been inquiring at the public-house for Mr. Brideoake’s dwelling. Ned added that he was sure he was now on Simon Pownall’s track, and felt confident, ere long, of discovering the rascal’s retreat. It would surprise me, he said, to learn that Simon must be somewhere in the neighbourhood of Weverham. He had picked up this piece of information by playing the spy upon Chetham Quick, and had managed to overhear a private conference between Chetham and the young gipsy, Obed; the end of which was that Obed was engaged to convey a letter secretly to Pownall. The pair had not spoken of Pownall by his right name, but Ned was certain that their discourse referred to him.

  Obed started on his mission before daybreak that morning, and Ned, who had never lost sight of him, followed him as closely as he judged prudent, making sure that the gipsy would guide him to Pownall’s retreat. But the wary vagabond must have found out who was upon his heels, for on entering Weverham Glen he entirely disappeared, and after a couple of hours fruitless search, aided by Hubert, whom he had put upon Obed’s scent, Ned was obliged to quit the ravine. The young gipsy, no doubt, had waded for some distance in the brook to destroy the scent, for it was lost on the banks. What became of him afterwards Ned could not discover.

  Ned’s scheme having thus failed, he had naturally gone on to Owlarton Grange to consult me. His relation was curious, and might have interested me more, if I had not’ been chiefly struck by the singular opportuneness of the poor fellow’s arrival.

  After debating with myself whether I should tell him what John Brideoake had intimated to me about Sissy, I arrived at the conclusion, that any disclosure respecting her would come best from the young clergyman himself, and I therefore said:

  �
��Well, at all events, whether you find Pownall or not, Ned, you have not come hither on a bootless errand. Mr. Brideoake can give you some intelligence of your wife. What it is, I know not, for he declined to communicate any particulars to me — saying they were for your ear alone; but I must prepare you for bad tidings, for such, I fear, they will prove.”

  “I have not lost her?” Ned said, halting and looking hard at me. “You don’t mean to prepare me for that?”

  “No — no,” I replied; “your apprehensions of calamity far outstrip my meaning. I only judge, from Mr. Broadoake’s manner, that he has something distressing to relate, and I deem it right to prepare you for it.” —

  “Nothing more distressing can be in store for me than what has already occurred,” Ned replied, marching by my side as I proceeded towards the cottage.

  Before introducing the poor keeper, I thought it best to acquaint John with his unexpected arrival, and leaving Ned and his hound in the garden, I entered the cottage alone.

  I found my friend in a state of utter prostration, evidently occasioned by the perusal of his sister’s letter.

  “I’m not the only sufferer in my family, Mervyn,” he said. “Apphia appears to be equally unhappy. The view I took of her position, which I explained to you just now, is entirely changed by the details she gives me in this letter, which, as I supposed, is written without my mother’s knowledge. I now agree with you that her marriage with Malpas ought never to take place. And yet to thwart my mother! — to disobey her — to incur her lasting displeasure — perhaps her malediction — it is frightful to think of it.”