The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

“Come, Ned,” I cried, “I feel for you deeply, as you know, but I cannot stand by and see outrage done.”

  “‘What! you, too, take his part, sir, eh?” Ned roared, blinded by fury. “I didn’t expect it. But neither you nor Mr. Brideoake shall baulk my vengeance. Hubert will keep you both off. Tent ’em lad! — tent ‘em!”

  And the fierce hound instantly displayed his glistening fangs, and seemed ready to spring at us.

  “Now stand upon thy defence, and we will fight, as man with man,” Ned cried, releasing Malpas.

  “No; I won’t fight you, Ned,” Malpas replied. “I’m no match for you.”

  “Thou thought’st thyself more than a match for me wi’ you poor fool, thou dastardly villain,” Ned rejoined, with scornful fury. “But if thou won’t fight, down on thy knees, confess thy guilt, and sue for mercy.”

  At this moment shouts were heard, and several persons were seen hurrying towards us from the mill.

  “Sue for mercy to you, fellow — never!” Malpas cried, reassured by the sound.

  But the words were scarcely out of his mouth when a tremendous blow in the face from Ned’s clenched hand levelled him, bleeding, upon the ground. The enraged keeper knelt upon his prostrate body, and seizing him by the throat, would infallibly have strangled him, if I had not, at great personal hazard, come to the rescue. Aided by John Brideoake, who prevented Hubert from attacking me, I succeeded in compelling Ned to relinquish his death-gripe of Malpas. In another moment, Mavis, with three of his men, reached the scene of strife. —

  Mrs. Brideoake tried hard to have Ned seized, charging him with a murderous attack upon Malpas; but as soon as Mavis learnt from John Brideoake and myself how matters really stood, the worthy miller would not allow Ned to be touched — declaring that, under similar provocation, he should have acted in the same manner.

  While Malpas, quite insensible from the crushing blow — enough to stun an ox — which he had received, was carried to the mill, Ned devoted himself to his wife, and, as she no longer repelled his advances, he pressed her to his bosom, and covered her with kisses. Poor Sissy appeared, in some degree, to have regained her faculties, for she murmured, as her husband strained her fondly to his breast: “If you mean to kill me, Ned, do it now.”

  “Kill thee, dear lass!” he exclaimed. “If I do kill thee, it shall be wi’ kindness. I have got thee back at last, and naught shall part us more.”

  “And, Ned! — dear Ned!” she cried, “I have been foolish, and greatly to blame, but I am innocent — on my faith I am. Forgive me — oh, forgive me!”

  “I forgive thee, dear, from the bottom of my heart,” he replied; “and I fully believe what thou dost tell me. Oh! what a load is taken from my breast!”

  Sissy gazed at him for a moment with inexpressible gratitude and affection, and flung her arms about his neck. They remained locked in each other’s embrace for a few moments, when Sissy’s hold relaxed, and she swooned away. The revulsion of feeling had been too much for her.

  Ned bore her gently towards the mill, and we followed, in silence and in tears. While witnessing such a touching scene as was exhibited in the reconciliation of this poor couple, it was impossible to utter a word.

  Mrs. Brideoake was already gone. She had left when Malpas was removed, without vouchsafing a word to either of her children.

  END OF BOOK THE SECOND.

  BOOK THE THIRD.

  CHAPTER I.

  HOW THE TWO WIZARDS OF OWLARTON GRANGE RAISED A SPIRIT WHICH THEY DID NOT EXPECT.

  ABOUT two months must be allowed to elapse ere I resume my narrative. No events of any importance had occurred to me during this interval. My affairs were pretty nearly in the same unsettled state as heretofore, and there seemed no immediate prospect of their amendment. I had made more than one unsuccessful attempt to obtain an interview with Mrs. Mervyn; and I had reason to believe that the letters which I addressed to her were never permitted to reach her — at all events, they were never answered. Neither Mr. Comberbach nor Molly Bailey, though both well enough disposed towards me, were able to lend me aid. Mrs. Brideoake still reigned supreme at the Anchorite’s. As I was given to understand, she accounted for her daughter’s absence by saying that Apphia was obliged to remain with her brother, whose feeble state of health required constant attendance, and, as no contradiction was given to the statement, Mrs. Mervyn probably believed it. But the poor lady, now almost entirely confined to her room, mourned for her absent favourite, and sighed for her return.

  Malpas Sale had not been to the Anchorite’s since his misadventure at the mill. Besides producing insensibility for several hours, the violent blow dealt by Ned’s huge fist disfigured his features, and he was too personally vain to exhibit himself in public until his good looks were completely restored. By this time his leave of absence had expired, and he was obliged to join his regiment, which was stationed at Windsor. Before departing, he made an effort to obtain an interview with Apphia, but she declined to see him. He had previously written to her, professing undying love, and hoping still to be reinstated in her affections. Moreover, he utterly denied the accusations brought against him by Ned Culcheth, and solemnly protested that he had not seen Sissy from the time of her quitting her husband’s roof until the luckless day at the mill.

  This latter assertion, John Brideoake, who answered the letter for his sister, showed to be an evasion of the truth. It was now known, John said, by Sissy’s confession, that Simon Pownall had been a mere instrument in the base plot, and Sissy was only saved from actual guilt by the agonies of suddenly awakened conscience, which had thrown her into a fever, and for awhile, as Malpas knew, had disturbed her intellects. John concluded his letter by saying that his sister must decline to hold any further intercourse with Mr. Sale.

  To this communication Malpas sent a haughty rejoinder from Windsor — to the effect that “he should formally demand fulfilment of his marriage contract with Apphia at the time appointed; and as he had her mother’s support, it would then be seen whether his just claim could be resisted.” Here the correspondence ended.

  Quitting Malpas, whom it is small pleasure for me at any time to mention, let me say that John’s cottage — always delightful — was rendered doubly so by its new inmate. His roses seemed to gain in beauty and fragrance from her sedulous attention. And John’s powers of serving his parishioners were materially increased by his sister’s zeal and unremitting exertions. Much as the young curate was beloved, his sister bade fair to eclipse him in general regard. One result followed Apphia’s installation in her brother’s abode, which, if there had been no other reason for it, would have made her advent fortunate. John’s health improved — slightly, it is true; but improve, it did. Whether he had less upon his mind — whether her presence cheered him, or that she took such good care of him — certain it is that the progress of disease was arrested, and confident hopes began to be entertained of his ultimate recovery. Moreover, John was hopeful about himself, and that was a good sign. If careful nursing could accomplish a cure, it must be owned that he had an excellent chance. Not only had he his sister to watch over him, but he had frequent visits from the ladies of Owlarton Grange. Scarcely a day passed on which Miss Hazilrigge and Ora failed to drive over to Weverham, bringing with them all sorts of nourishing things for the invalid.

  Apphia and Ora took a liking to each other at once, and mutual regard soon ripened into warmest friendship. If good, kind Miss Hazilrigge, who was little behind her niece in regard for Apphia, could have had her own way, she would have had both John and his sister to stay with her at the Grange; but as this could not be, she contented herself with passing as much time as possible in their society. What degree of encouragement John had received from Ora, and whether there had been any “love passages” between them, I shall not at this moment pause to inquire. As regards myself and Apphia, I would be more explicit, but unluckily I have nothing to relate. Apphia treated me as a friend — nothing more. I was free to come and go to John’s cottage as I p
leased, and was always kindly welcomed by herself and brother. But I was given clearly to understand by the young lady that I must not assume the character of a suitor; and whatever constraint I was obliged to put upon myself, in order to comply, I never sought to violate her injunctions.

  Thus matters stood with my friends at Weverham.

  As at John’s cottage, so at Owlarton Grange, I was always welcome. Old Hazy would have had me consider his house as my home — and Miss Hazilrigge insisted upon my taking her brother at his word. Cuthbert Spring had long since returned to Cottonborough, though he now and then came over to spend a day at the Grange. Whether any positive matrimonial engagement had been entered into between him and the elderly spinster, I am not prepared to say. No such announcement had been made; and Miss Hazilrigge was still Miss Hazilrigge.

  Charmed with the beautiful situation of the mill, and liking both Dame Mavis and her husband, I took up my abode with them. My new quarters suited me extremely well, and enabled me to enjoy the society of my friends, both at Owlarton Grange and Weverham. I bought a serviceable horse from the miller, and rode about in every direction throughout the county — visiting some new scene on nearly every day. A couple of months thus passed by almost without my being aware of their flight. If not entirely happy, I was content. A more active life might have suited me better, but I felt that a time would come when I should have work enough — and I determined to enjoy my present holidays.

  What had become of the learned Doctor Hooker since his disappearance from the Old Grange, on the night when he played the ghost, I could not ascertain. Old Hazy did not like to be questioned about him, and took it in such high dudgeon if I ventured to disparage the professor of occult philosophy in his hearing, that at last I ceased to allude to him. But I did not intend to let the rascal escape altogether.

  Peace had once more returned to Ned Culcheth’s humble dwelling. Sissy had sufficiently recovered to be able to attend to her household concerns, and strove to repay by duty and affection her husband’s deep devotion to her. No more coquetry — no more frivolity now. She had received a severe lesson, and meant to profit by it for the rest of her life.

  With this brief reference to most of the reader’s acquaintances, I shall resume my story.

  I had ridden over to Marston, in order to have a day’s fishing in the mere — according to previous arrangement with Ned Culcheth. Very good sport we had, and caught a couple of jack, besides a basketful of perch and other fish. With this supply we returned to Ned’s cottage, where some of the perch were fried for me by Sissy — constituting, with a roast fowl and a few rashers of bacon, a most excellent repast.

  The shades of night had fallen when I rose to take leave of my humble but hospitable entertainers. I had left my horse at the Nag’s Head in the village, and Ned offered to row me across the mere and land me at the foot of the church, which would save me a mile’s walk: besides, as the night was extremely fine, with bright moonlight on the water, he thought I should prefer that plan. I gladly accepted the proposal. Nothing could be more exquisite than the appearance of the mere as our little bark clove through its shining waters. In front of us was the old church amidst its trees — its square tower illumined by the silvery radiance. Leaning back in the boat, I did not address a word to Ned, who plied his oars in silence. In spite of the beauty and tranquillity of the scene, melancholy feelings stole over me. I thought of the dead — and of one who was as if dead to me: of my mother in her grave in the adjacent churchyard, and of my father, whom I had never seen, in India. Pensive musings like these engrossed me, until the boat reached the strand, when I leapt ashore, and taking leave of Ned, climbed the hill, and entering the precints of the church, proceeded towards my mother’s grave. The white head-stones, the grassy mounds, the humble wooden rails, and the more imposing monuments, were all bathed in bright moonlight. Amidst them, an old black yew-tree, with outstretched boughs, had a spectral effect. I was just turning the angle of the church, when, to my surprise, I perceived a tall man wrapped in a cloak standing near my mother’s resting-place. I could not be mistaken, for I knew the exact situation of the grave, and as the moonlight fell upon the flat stone, I could almost read its inscription from where I stood. The person I beheld was extremely erect in deportment, and had a military carriage. His cap was removed, and I saw that he was grey-haired and partially bald, with a towering forehead, but his features being in the shade, I could not clearly distinguish them. So far, however, as they were discernible, they were entirely strange to me. Yet, somehow, I felt that I ought to know him. Who was he? Why should he visit my mother’s grave at such an hour? Why display such emotion?

  My curiosity being greatly aroused, I stood still to gaze at him. Indeed, I did not like to disturb him, so impressed was I by his appearance and manner.

  More than once I saw his lips move as if in prayer. After heaving many deep sighs, and beating his breast, he put on his cap, and thinking he was about to depart, I resolved to address him; but not wishing to take him by surprise, I coughed slightly to announce my approach. He no sooner noticed me than he hurried out of the churchyard, and I watched his tall dark figure speeding rapidly across the fields, until it disappeared from my sight. I felt half disposed to follow him. Yet, to what end? He evidently shunned observation. Wherefore should I intrude upon his grief?

  I did not tarry much longer in the churchyard. Kneeling beside my mother’s grave, I breathed a hasty prayer, and then proceeded to the village inn, where my horse being in readiness, I mounted him and rode off in the direction of Weverham.

  I had fourteen miles to traverse, but what was such a distance as that with a fleet horse on a fine night? A mere question of an hour and a quarter. Besides, being now well acquainted with the country, I knew how to save a mile or two by taking cross-roads.

  The shortest way to Weverham led past Owlarton Grange, and that road I now selected. But the shortest way is said to be sometimes the longest about; and I discovered the truth of that proverb ere long.

  All went well till I got within a couple of miles of the Grange, when, from some cause or other, my horse fell dead lame. I was obliged to get off and lead him, but the poor animal could hardly hobble after me. What to do with him I scarcely knew, for to take him on to the mill, which was more than four miles off, seemed impossible. My best plan seemed to leave him at the Grange, where I could at all events place him in a shed till the morning. To the Grange accordingly I proceeded, but the horse moved so slowly that midnight had struck before I arrived there.

  Being now well acquainted with the premises I went round to the back, and opening a gate, soon made my way into the farmyard. Luckily the door of a cow-house was unfastened, and entering it, I placed my unlucky steed amongst the cattle, took off his saddle and bridle, tossed him a truss of hay, and after making him as comfortable as circumstances would admit, sallied forth with the intention of knocking up Stephen Blackden or one of his hinds.

  But my purpose was suddenly changed, for just as I regained the yard, the door of the farmhouse was cautiously opened, and two persons issued from it, enveloped in long cloaks, with hats pulled over their brows, and so muffled up that it was impossible to distinguish their features. Notwithstanding this evident attempt at disguise, I felt certain that the pair were no other than Old Hazy and Simon Pownall; and I resolved to watch their movements. After pausing for a moment, to secure the door, they moved off towards the garden, and I stole after them.

  On entering the garden the two mysterious individuals plunged into a long alley, formed of clipped yew trees, leading in the direction of the summer-house. I followed, taking care to keep out of sight. The alley once gained, indeed, I was tolerably secure from observation, for it was so dark owing to the height and thickness of its hedges, that I could scarcely discern the two figures moving on before me.

  Arrived at an archway, however, the pair turned off, and when I next beheld them they were standing together in a retired corner of the lawn. From the preparations th
ey were now making it was evident that some mysterious rites were about to be enacted. The large white sheet stamped with magical characters, which I had seen on a previous occasion in Simon Pownall’s room, was spread upon the lawn, and they both seemed occupied in studying its cabalistic signs.

  The spot selected for the ceremonial seemed suitable enough. It was a part of the lawn furthest removed from the hall, and screened by a group of shorn trees, which, by a little stretch of imagination, might be taken for men and animals suddenly transformed by the power of enchantment. On the right was a gigantic bear reared on its hind legs, and with outstretched paws prepared to close with a huntsman, who was attacking it with an axe. Behind was a gigantic figure, with a long beard, probably meant to represent a Druid. Then came an evil angel with wide, outspread wings. Then a grotesque figure. Then a Faun playing Pandean pipes, with goats skipping before him; and lastly, a cock crowing on a tree.

  Surrounded by these mute witnesses of their doings, the mysterious pair proceeded with their performance. The chief wizard, whom I took to be Simon, produced a wallet from under his cloak, and brought out a human skull and cross-bones, the dried skins of toads, lizards, adders, and other reptiles, and disposed them in a circle round the cloth. While he was thus employed, the second wizard produced a little iron trivet with some combustibles; and these he placed outside the mystic ring.

  The pair of conjurors then marched thrice round the magic circle, and seemed from their gestures to be muttering spells. This done, they paused, and the second wizard, whom I took for Old Hazy, brought forth a large book bound in black parchment, which I at once recognised as the grimoire he had shown to me in his sanctum.

  Opening this magical volume, he pronounced some strange sounding words from it, which might be intended as an incantation, while his companion stepped into the magic circle and began to trace certain lines upon it with the points of his fingers.