“What! you can’t find your way out, Mr. Clitheroe?” Miss Hazilrigge said, rising. “The maze is very perplexing. I have known people puzzled by it for hours. Come! I will help you.”
I glanced at my friend to let him know how sorry I was to interrupt him — but he took it very good humouredly, and Miss Hazilrigge preceding us, we were soon extracted from the labyrinth. Ora was standing outside, and appeared not a little diverted. Ever since she had taken me into her confidence — as I have just intimated — her former liveliness had completely returned to her; and she now looked as full of merriment and mischief as ever.
“Well, I must say, this maze is the most perplexing place I ever entered,” Cuthbert Spring observed. “I would as soon attempt to unravel a tangled skein of thread as make my way out of it unassisted.”
“You must always have my aunt for a guide, Mr. Spring,” Ora observed, archly, “and then you will have no difficulty in tracking its meanderings — or in getting through any other twistings and turnings which you may have to take in life.”
CHAPTER XV.
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE ORCHARD OF THE MILL IN WEVERHAM GLEN.
I HAD quitted my friends at the Grange, and was pursuing the pleasant path across the fields leading to Weverham, when I saw Ned Culcheth, with Hubert at his heels, coming towards me from the opposite direction. Even at a distance I could perceive that the poor fellow was labouring under great depression, and, on joining him, I found that the judgment I had formed was correct. He was scarcely able to open his lips, and we walked together side by side, for some little time in silence. Arrived at a stile, I besought him to try and ease his breast of its cares.
“Of a truth, my breast does need lightening, sir,” he replied, with a groan. “A feather’s weight more of care would crush me. All! sir, what I have gone through since we parted yesterday no words of mine can tell.”
Then after a pause, during which he struggled with his violent emotion, he added: “I have seen her, sir.”
“Your wife!” I exclaimed, starting.
“Ay, sir — Sissy; and I almost wish I had not seen her. Oh! sir,” he continued, with a despairing look, “there have been moments when, maddened by jealous passion, I have wished ill to Sissy — but never, never, sir, — I take Heaven to witness! — never did I wish her ill like this!”
“You fill me with terrible apprehensions, Ned,” I rejoined, regarding him anxiously. “Relieve me, if you can.”
“I can scarcely bring myself to speak it,” he rejoined, with an agonised look, “but it must out. Sissy is no longer herself, sir. I stood beside her and she did not know me. I spoke to her in the tenderest way I could — called her by her name, and told her I forgave her, as I did from the bottom of my heart — but she paid no heed to me. I tried to clasp her in my arms, and fold her to my breast, but she pushed me off with horror. Oh! sir, I shall never forget the look she gave me. It froze the very blood in my veins. Much as I love her — for I do love her still, in spite of all that has passed — I don’t think I can have her to live with me again. I could have borne it better if she had known me; but this state drives me almost mad myself; and Mr. Brideoake gives me no hope whatever of her recovery.”
“How long has she been thus afflicted, Ned?” I inquired, after a pause.
“You shall hear the whole sad story, sir,” he replied, “for I now feel able to tell it. On the day after she left my roof, she was brought, by a man who represented himself to be her husband, to the Plough at Weverham — the little inn at the door of which you saw me standing yesterday. There is no doubt, from the description given of him by the landlady of the Plough, that the man who brought Sissy was Simon Pownall. Well, Simon left her — saying he would fetch her on the morrow — but he never returned. When she first arrived at the Plough, Sissy was ill and excited — but she soon got worse. On the second day, a brain fever came on, and she was at times quite light-headed. Mrs. Vines, the landlady — a good, kind-hearted soul — did not know what to do with her guest. Ill as she was, she could not turn her out of the house, and yet it was almost impossible to keep her. Poor Sissy would not give any account of herself, but declared she was a wretched, guilty thing, and only wished to die. Sorely put about and distressed, Mrs. Vines thought the best thing she could do was to consult the curate, and, on hearing her relation, Mr. Brideoake came down with her to see the unfortunate guest, — and, to his surprise and grief, found that the poor sufferer was Sissy.
“Well, sir, as Mr. Brideoake told me yesterday, the poor creature, on seeing him, was terrified almost out of her senses — and supplicated him not to send her back to me, as I should certainly kill her — she knew I should. Her terror was so great, that the worthy young gentleman, believing that violence on my part was to be apprehended — though Heaven knows his fears were unjust — promised to screen her till my anger should pass away. And he kept his promise, as you know. Indeed, he would not disclose her retreat to me yesterday, until I had solemnly pledged my word not to harm her.
“But to proceed with my narration. After seeing Mr. Brideoake, Sissy got worse. The fever lasted for a week, and when it left her, her senses were gone — never more, as it seems, to return. She was removed to the mill in Weverham Glen, where a room was engaged for her by Mr. Brideoake, and where she has been ever since.”
“And Mr. Brideoake has been at all charges for her, I suppose?”
“Heaven bless him for his kindness! — yes, sir. He watched over her during her illness, and prayed constantly by her side. That she is still living is mainly — if not entirely — owing to his care. If there is a good man on earth, it is Mr. Brideoake. I would go through fire and water to serve him. I have met two friends in him and you, sir — two such friends as a poor man like me seldom meets. But there is another point on which it is right I should speak to you, sir — painful though it be to me to mention it. It is Mr. Brideoake’s firm opinion that Simon Pownall, and not Captain Sale, is the author of all this misery. Poor Sissy, he says, as good as confessed this to him, when he questioned her. She never mentioned the other at all — but spoke only of Simon.”
“That does not convince me, Ned,” I rejoined. “You may think me unwilling to acquit Mr. Sale — perhaps I am so; but I am persuaded he is the real offender. The truth will come out some day, and then you will find who is in the right.”
“Well, I own that I incline to your opinion myself,” he returned. “But it is strange that Sissy should make such a declaration.”
“A good deal depends upon the way in which she was interrogated. Mr. Brideoake’s suspicions of Malpas were not then aroused, and no doubt, in ascertaining the name of Simon Pownall, he thought he had elicited the whole truth. Moreover, Sissy herself might have wished to screen her betrayer.”
“That’s true,” Ned replied, with a sombre look. “I didn’t think of that. Mr. Brideoake preaches forgiveness to me, and I would willingly follow his counsels. But I find it hard to forgive injuries like these. When I think of Sissy — in her present woeful state, and what has caused it — I must be more than man, or less than man, not to nourish vengeance against the author of the wrong.”
I made no reply, for I could not contradict him.
After another pause, I said, “I suppose it is impossible now to obtain any further information from poor Sissy?”
“Quite impossible, sir,” he replied. Poor soul! she can give no rational answer to any questions put to her. Yet she is very gentle and easily managed. The good folks at the mill are extremely kind to her. Master Mavis, the miller, and his dame, treat her like one of the family, and their little daughter, Grace, is constantly with her. I hope you will come with me to see her, sir. Mr. Brideoake himself is at the mill, and waits your arrival there. He sent me to meet you and bring you to him.” Though I felt it would pain me exceedingly to behold poor Sissy in her present forlorn state, I could not refuse to accompany Ned, and so put myself under his guidance.
Our course, it appeared, lay to the right, for Ne
d struck off in that direction, and after crossing a few fields, we gained the high road, along which we proceeded for about a quarter of a mile, and then again diverging to the right, reached the edge of the rocky glen which I had seen on first approaching Weverham.
From these craggy heights, which looked like the frowning battlements of a castle, nearly the whole of the glen was visible; beginning at the point where the Alpine bridge was stretched across it, and where the rocks were highest and most precipitous, and terminating where the banks were much lower and further apart, and where the stream, checked by a dam, had expanded almost into a lake. The mill itself was situated at the widest part of this pool, and with its floodgate, bridge, and large waterwheels — formed an extremely picturesque feature in the scene. Adjoining the mill, and bounding the further side of the pool, was a large orchard, and in this pleasant place I saw three persons walking — a young woman, a little girl, and a man attired in black. I had no doubt who these persons were, and on consulting Ned by a glance, he answered my mute inquiry with a look that told me I was right in my conjecture.
Following my conductor down a zigzag path hewn in the rock, I soon gained the bottom of the ravine, and proceeding along a road, shaded by tall trees, and skirted by the brawling stream, we ere long reached the pool. We next crossed a narrow bridge thrown over the rapid mill-race, and entered a yard, where Mavis and two of his men were busily employed in loading a cart with sacks of flour. Ned said a word to the miller, and the good man touched his dusty cap to me, and we passed on. A few steps more brought us to the door of the dwelling, which stood open, and Ned entering without ceremony, called out for Dame Mavis. At the summons, a fresh-complexioned, tidy little woman, of middle age, came out of an inner room, and seeing me, dropped a curtsey, and bade me welcome. In reply to Ned’s inquiries, Dame Mavis told us we should find Sissy in the orchard with Mr. Brideoake and her little daughter, and, as Ned knew the way thither, there would be no occasion for her to attend us; whereupon she retired.
Before entering the orchard, I paused at the gate to look at Sissy, and being partially concealed by the hedge, neither she nor her companion noticed me. She was not so much changed as I anticipated, and except from a certain flightiness of manner, and a strange look about the eyes, I should not have deemed her mind to be affected. Though her attire was not arranged with the care she had once bestowed upon it, it was still neat; and it was evident, from the knots of ribands stuck upon her dress here and there, that her love of finery was not entirely effaced. Her long and beautiful tresses were unbound, and floated in disorder over her neck and shoulders, giving her rather a wild look. In manner she seemed extremely gentle. Her little attendant, Grace, who might be about seven or eight years old, had twined her a wreath of honeysuckles, and was in the act of placing the simple garland over her brows at the moment of my arrival. Delighted with the effect of the wreath when so disposed, little Grace clapped her hands with childish glee; and Sissy, no less pleased, cried out to the little girl, “Does it not suit me? Am I not pretty? — am I not pretty?”
“Indeed you are,” little Grace replied. “You look very pretty in that wreath, Sissy.”
Here John Brideoake interposed, and taking the wreath from Sissy’s brows, gave it back to little Grace. The poor sufferer did not in any way oppose him, though she seemed sorry to lose the ornament.
“You must promise me to tie up your hair to-morrow, Sissy — will you not?” John said.
She assented with a motion of the head, and presently inquired, “Do I look better with my hair tied up?”
“Much better,” John replied.
Upon this the poor thing instantly sat down upon the grass, and plucking off one of the bows of riband from her dress, was proceeding to gather together her luxuriant tresses, when John interrupted her, saying, “Not now, Sissy. Another time. Let us continue our walk. Come with me.”
But at this moment an irrepressible groan burst from Ned, and the sound attracting Sissy’s attention, she touched John’s arm, and pointed in the direction where we stood. Finding I was discovered, I opened the gate, and entered the orchard; and as soon as he was able to control himself, Ned followed. I went up at once to Sissy; but on addressing her by name, and holding out my hand to her, she merely dropped me a bashful curtsey.
“Won’t you shake hands with the gentleman, Sissy?” little Grace said to her. —
Before complying, Sissy consulted John Brideoake by a look, and having obtained his permission, gave me her hand. As I held it for a moment it felt cold as marble.
“Do you not know me, Sissy?” I said, looking hard at her. “I am your old friend, Mervyn Clitheroe.”
She shook her head, and exhibited no sign of recognition.
“Don’t you remember our merry-making on Twelfth Night, in Farmer Shakeshaft’s bam at Marston, Sissy?” I continued. “I was king on that night, and you were queen.”
“I never was a queen, an’ please you, sir,” she replied. “I’m only a poor country girl — from Wales, sir.”
“Yes, I know that,” I rejoined; “but try if you can’t recollect me.”
She again shook her head, and said, “You’re a pretty young gentlemans, sir, put I never saw you before.”
“Oh, you are quite mistaken!” I rejoined. “You have often seen me with your husband, honest Ned Culcheth. Yonder he stands. Look at him.”
“I haf no huspants, sir,” she answered; adding, with a strange, half-terrified, mysterious look, “I must never be married.”
“Indeed! why not?” I asked, willing to humour her.
“I’ve had my fortunes told, sir, by a plack gipsy oomans, an’ she said I should make a pad wife — a fery pad wife — and pring sorrow an’ shame on my huspants — so I must never marry — oh, no, I must never marry.”
“But if your husband should be a good man, and a kind man, Sissy, he might forgive your faults, however great they might be, and take you back to him.”
“Come this way, and I’ll tell you something,” Sissy cried, taking my hand, and leading me to a short distance. “I must whisper it in your ear, for no one must hear it — least of all, that tall mans yonder, who is watching us. What do you think the plack gipsy oomans told me? She said I should play my huspants false — and when he found me out he would kill me — and they would hang him for the plooty teet. So you see I must never marry. — Who is that tall mans, sir?” she continued, with a terrified look; “and why does he stare at me so? He frightens me. I’ve treamt of somebody like him.”
“Are you sure you have only dreamed of him, Sissy? Perhaps you have seen him before. Think!”
“No, it was only a tream,” she answered, after a pause, during which she vainly essayed to collect her scattered wits; “but I did tream that a man like him was my huspants. But he won’t kill me because I treamt so, will he?”
“Make yourself easy, Sissy. Husband or not, the good fellow will never harm you. He forgives you.”
“Forgives me — what for? What harm have I done him? Ask him to tell you.”
“Why not ask him yourself, Sissy?”
“Because I am afraid of him,” she replied, shuddering. “He means me mischief. I know he does. I can read it in his eyes.”
“Come, you must shake off these groundless fears, Sissy. Let me call him to you. Ned?”
Thus summoned, the poor fellow sprang towards her instantly, but the sight of her distress arrested him.
“Oh! no; do not let him come near me!” she exclaimed, clinging to me with affright. “He will be the death of me — I know He will/ Keep him off! — keep him off!”
I was obliged to motion Ned away, and he withdrew to a bank and sat down upon it, evidently very painfully affected.
John Brideoake and the little girl now joined us, and engaging Sissy in conversation, she soon regained her serenity, and at little Grace’s request, sang me one of her native airs with so much sweetness and pathos, that I could not refuse it the tribute of my tears. —
; While poor Sissy was warbling her touching strains, Dame Mavis came into the orchard, and taking John Brideoake aside, said a few words to him which seemed to cause him infinite surprise. Signing to me that he would be back presently, he went away at once with Dame Mavis. Her song concluded, Sissy dropped me a curtsey, and taking little Grace’s hand, walked with her towards the further end of the orchard, where they were hidden by the trees. Being thus in a measure left alone — for poor Ned still remained seated on the bank, with his face buried in his hands, and his faithful Hubert crouched at his feet — I walked down to the edge of the pool, and stood for a few minutes contemplating the beautiful scenery of the glen. All at once, I perceived a chariot about half a mile off coming rapidly along the road which Ned and I had just traversed. While watching the progress of this vehicle, and wondering whether it could be coming to the mill, I heard footsteps behind me, and turning, I almost started back with astonishment and delight on beholding Apphia coming towards me with John. She was in a riding-habit, and had evidently just dismounted from her horse. I bounded towards her with rapture; but my transports were instantly checked by the profound gloom of her looks — a gloom that was shared by her brother. Though kindly in her greeting, her manner towards me was constrained and cold.
“It is strange that we should meet here, Mervyn, in this unexpected manner,” she said, “and at a juncture which may affect all my future life. Knowing how I am circumstanced, you will not be surprised to learn that I have come to claim my brother’s protection. Ever since your visit to the Anchorite’s, I have felt that I could not fulfil my contract with Malpas, but’ I lacked the courage to break it. Yesterday decided me. I came with my mother to the vicarage at Marston to spend a few days with the family with whom I was to be connected, and some circumstances occurred last evening — not worth detailing now — but which made me resolve to emancipate myself at once from a thraldom which I found insupportable. To accomplish my design, I was obliged to have recourse to artifice — excusable, I trust, under the circumstances — and I solicited my mother’s permission to ride over to Weverham this morning to see John — stipulating that I should only be attended by Doctor Sale’s groom, and not accompanied by Malpas. Her consent was rather reluctantly given, but she at last yielded to my importunities. Before leaving, I entrusted a letter to one of the servants — to be delivered an hour after my departure — in which I acquainted my mother with my determination. On arriving at John’s cottage, I learnt, to my great disappointment, that he was not within — but ascertaining that he was at the mill, I rode hither at once. All uneasiness is dissipated, since I have found him.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 474
