The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  By this time my patience having become exhausted, I determined to put an end to the scene. When, therefore, the second wizard summoned some spirit, with a tremendous name, to appear, I did not wait for the response, but rushing forward, and shouting out, “You have raised a spirit you did not expect!” I snatched the grimoire from his hands, and with the ponderous volume buffeted his companion soundly on the head and shoulders.

  In doing so, however, I knocked off the individual’s hat, when, to my great surprise and vexation, I found it was Old Hazy himself, whom I had thus maltreated. At the same time the old gentleman, who had been struck speechless with terror by my sudden appearance, found his voice, and implored me to desist.

  Simon Pownall had not waited for me to find out my mistake, but took nimbly to his heels, flying in the direction of the summer-house. Before, however, he could climb the mound on which it was situated, I was after him, when finding himself hard pressed, the wily fox changed his plan, and ran on till he reached the edge of the moat, into which he unhesitatingly plunged, and swam across to the further side.

  I was debating whether to follow him, but by this time Old Hazy having come up, entreated me to let him go; and before I could disengage myself, Simon had disappeared — thus, for the second time, eluding me.

  CHAPTER II.

  MISS HAZILRIGGE TAKES ME INTO HER CONFIDENCE.

  OLD HAZY took my unlucky attack upon him in very good part, but thought I had carried the joke a little too far. He never expected, he said, to be beaten about the head with his beloved grimoire. He accepted my apologies, promising to think no more about the matter, provided I undertook to keep strict silence as to the occurrence; not liking to be made a laughing-stock, as would certainly be the case if the circumstance became known.

  Delighted to be let off so easily, I readily agreed to his terms, and we then proceeded to remove all traces of the magical ceremonial from the lawn. After gathering together the mysterious implements, the obnoxious grimoire included, we wrapped them up in the sheet, and carried the bundle between us to the farmhouse, depositing it in the room formerly occupied by the soi-disant Doctor Hooker, which communicated, as I had supposed must be the case, by a small private door with the hall. Renewing my apologies to the worthy old gentleman for my maladroit behaviour, I then took leave and proceeded on foot to the mill, where I arrived without further accident or adventure, at a somewhat late hour.

  In a few days my horse having recovered from his lameness, which proved to have been caused by a badly-driven nail, I was able to resume my rides about the country. All my inquiries after Simon Pownall were ineffectual. I could not learn what had become of him after his flight from the garden. Though, of course, in compliance with Old Hazy’s injunctions, I made no allusion whatever to Simon’s clandestine visit to the Grange, nor to the Der Frieschiitz scene in the garden, in which he had played the part of Caspar, I thought it right to acquaint Miss Hazilrigge with the rogue’s real name and character. She manifested no surprise at the information, but expressed great concern that her brother should be so egregiously duped.

  “But it has constantly been the case with him, I can assure you, dear Mr. Clitheroe,” she said. “He has been deluded by impostor after impostor for years; and if we get rid of this Doctor Hooker, or Pownall, or whatever his name may be, another cheat will take his place. Decided opposition won’t do with my brother. He must be humoured to a certain extent. If thwarted entirely, he would become unmanageable. This you must have perceived is the course I adopt with him, and the course I prescribe to the servants, who are all ordered to indulge their master’s whims and peculiarities. You will now understand whatever may have appeared strange in the conduct of Stephen Blackden, the bailiff, and his family. Stephen knows he would lose his place — and a very good place it is — if he didn’t humour my brother, and put up with his odd ways, and so does Dame Blackden. So do the whole household, in fact. Ponder makes a complete study of his master’s eccentricities, and understands precisely how to treat him. He knows ‘ the exact length of his foot,’ as they say in these parts. But setting aside his fantasies, my brother is so good and kind a master, and so honourable and just in his dealings, that his servants and tenants all regard him and respect him; and though no doubt they occasionally practise upon his credulity, yet on the whole I have no reason to complain. However, a stop must, and shall be put to this knavish Pownall’s proceedings, and I will take care he no longer infests the premised. Orders shall be given to Stephen Blackden to warn him off.”

  “Better order Blackden to arrest him, my dear Miss Hazilrigge,” I ventured to observe.

  “No, I can’t consent to that,” she rejoined. “I don’t choose to have my brother’s weaknesses exposed and turned into ridicule, which must be the case if this charlatan is brought to justice. It will be best to get rid of him quietly. Ah! my poor dear brother!” Miss Hazilrigge ejaculated, with a sigh. “What a pity so much goodness as is to be found in his composition should be linked to so much folly. Half his absurdities, I believe, are traceable to the nonsensical stuff with which he crams his brain, and I have more than once resolved to make a grand clearance of his shelves, and commit all the abominable rubbish he has collected to the flames; just as the curate and the housekeeper burnt Don Quixote’s books of chivalry. But I have been deterred by fear of the consequences. The proceeding might drive him distracted.”

  “Upon my word, I believe it would,” I rejoined. “Mr. Hazilrigge would never recover the loss of his Frommannus, his Maldonatus, his Psellus, Bemigius and Filesacus, and other writers on whom he sets such store. He loves them better than life.”

  “You are right, Mr. Clitheroe,” she said. “It won’t do to interfere with him. An oddity he is, and an oddity he must remain to the end of the chapter. His mania is incurable, and must be tolerated— ’tis well it’s no worse. For my part, I dislike your great bookworms. They’re good for little else than an arm-chair in a library with a huge folio before them. I sincerely hope you won’t read too much, Mr. Clitheroe.”

  I replied that I did not think it very likely I should err in that respect.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” she rejoined. “But now, while we are on the subject of my poor dear brother and his eccentricities, I must make a confidant of you, Mr. Clitheroe, and explain how anxious — how inexpressibly anxious — I shall feel about him — if — if I am compelled to leave him. No, I don’t think I ever can leave him,” she added, applying her handkerchief to her eyes.

  Not knowing to what extent her confidence might be given, I contented myself with inquiring whether she had any immediate idea of leaving her brother.

  Her agitation increased as she attempted a response. At last she sobbed out, “It will be a dreadful struggle — a terrible sacrifice, Mr. Clitheroe — and I hope Mr. Spring won’t exact it from me.”

  I am sorry to confess, that instead of being moved by this pathetic address, I felt very much inclined to smile; but I managed to preserve my gravity. Though not in entire possession of my friend’s sentiments, I thought I might venture to speak for him.

  “Mr. Spring, I am convinced, my dear Miss Hazilrigge,” I said, “will consent to any arrangement most in accordance with your wishes and comforts.”

  “Then you think he will allow me to remain at Owlarton Grange — with my dear brother — do you, Mr. Clitheroe?” she cried, removing the handkerchief from her eyes, and gazing wistfully at me through her tears. “I fancied he was wedded to Cottonborough and the neighbourhood. Now, I have the greatest regard for Mr. Spring, and consider him a most charming person, but even he couldn’t reconcile me to Cottonborough, or to the sort of society one must be compelled to mix with there. The mere idea of it makes me shudder.”

  “I have no authority for saying so, of course, my dear Miss Hazilrigge,” I replied; “but I repeat my firm conviction that Mr. Spring will gladly accede to your wishes. Whatever his own inclinations may be, your happiness must necessarily be his first study. Of that be ass
ured. If a certain happy event — to which, I trust, I may without impropriety allude — should occur, I do not see why you should not continue to live here — always supposing the arrangement to be agreeable to Mr. Hazilrigge.”

  “Oh, there is no difficulty on my dear brother’s part,” she replied; “but Mr. Spring objects—”

  “You don’t say so?” I cried.

  “Decidedly objects,” Miss Hazilrigge continued. “He calls this place dull, and declares he should be moped to death if he dwelt here for a month. He doesn’t care for hunting, shooting, fishing, or any other country sport. He doesn’t like country employments. He doesn’t like country gentlemen, or farmers — clodhoppers he calls them. In short, the only place he does like appears to be Cottonborough, and the only society he apparently cares for is the society of the Cottonburghers. I pity his taste in the latter particular, I must say. If Mr. Spring has no relish for our pleasant country, I can’t abide his filthy town, with its tall, smoky chimneys and its squalid population, and so I have told him. To be frank with you, Mr. Clitheroe, we have joined issue on this point — Town or Country — Cottonborough or Owlarton Grange.”

  “Country will gain the day,” I cried.

  “I am not so sure of it,” she replied. “Mr. Spring is very obstinate and clings to Cottonborough as if nothing could tear him from it. But one thing I can promise him — either he must quit that odious, black, smoky place, or he shan’t have me. I am not selfish, Mr. Clitheroe, but I am bound to consider my brother, and must not totally disregard my own comforts.”

  “Certainly not, my dear Miss Hazilrigge,” I replied.

  Our confidential discourse, which took place in Miss Hazilrigge’s boudoir, was here cut short — rather to my relief, I must say — by the entrance of Ora, who, by an arch glance at me, intimated that she could guess what we had been talking about. Her aunt imposed silence upon me by a look, and of course I did not betray the trust reposed in me. But on thinking over what I had heard, I came to the conclusion that the match between the elderly couple was not quite so certain of coming off, as I had previously fancied.

  Miss Hazilrigge was sincerely attached to her brother, and I do not think she could have borne a separation from him. How that it had come to the positive question of leaving Owlarton Grange, she evidently began to feel the strength of the ties that bound her to the place, and to its eccentric but estimable master, and shrank from breaking them. Old Hazy and she had lived together since their early years — how would they get on apart in their latter days? What would become of him when she was gone, and there was no one to take care of him?

  He would become a prey to every impostor. Would Cuthbert Spring and Cottonborough suffice for the loss of the dear old house, and the dearer old brother? Hardly. The chances seemed against the marriage, unless the perverse old bachelor would give up his residence in the smoky manufacturing town, which Miss Hazilrigge so much abominated, and consent to share the pure delights of the country with her and her brother. But Cuthbert was town-bred, and town-educated, and liked noise and bustle, the busy mart and the crowded street, the dingy warehouse and the stupendous mill, and it was just as difficult to tear him from Cottonborough, as to remove Miss Hazilrigge from the Grange.

  Had the case been mine instead of Mr. Spring’s, I should have declared for the country, without an instant’s hesitation. Owlarton Grange was a delightful residence. Old Hazy was somewhat of a bore, it is true, with his long stories and whimsies; but he had so many redeeming qualities, was so good-natured, so kind and considerate, that it was impossible for any one, much in his society, not to like him. I became very much attached to him; but though willing to listen to his long stories after dinner, over a bottle of claret, I took good care to keep out of his sanctum.

  Being now perfectly at home at the Grange, I rambled about the house and garden as much as I listed. No one stood upon any ceremony with me, and I came to be regarded as one of the family by the household. A room was allotted to me in the great gallery, where I retired to read when I pleased, without fear of disturbance. The haunted chamber was always ready for me in case I chose to pass the night at the hall. But I rarely availed myself of the privilege, preferring my snug little bedroom at the mill.

  Apropos of the haunted chamber, let me take this opportunity of mentioning that careful investigation of the room enabled me to detect a trap-door, very ingeniously contrived in the planks of the floor near the antique tester-bed. On opening this trapdoor, a steep narrow staircase was discovered, on descending which, a long arched passage appeared, built in the inside of the foundation walls of the habitation. After tracking this passage, a second staircase was reached, similar to the first, which landed me, by means of a sliding panel at its summit, in a small room near to the extreme end of the great gallery. From this room, access could be gained through a private door to the farmhouse.

  The course taken by Pownall in his nocturnal visit to me was therefore revealed. At first I had supposed that the rascal had found his way to the priest’s hiding-place, where the murderous deed was committed by Jotham Shocklach; but this proved not to be the case.

  Since Pownall’s disappearance from the farmhouse, no more ghostly noises had been heard, and the awful rapping of the mallet entirely ceased. If things went on in this way, and no new prestigiator appeared on the scene, Old Hazy would lose his character for eccentricity, and Owlarton Grange become little better than an every-day habitation, remarkable only for its antiquity.

  But it must not be imagined that the old gentleman neglected his beloved treatises on occult philosophy. On the contrary, he found greater solace in them than ever. Debarred from the society and counsel of the modem Thaumaturgus, as he styled the soi-disant Doctor Hooker, he held constant communion with the departed sages — with Zoroaster, Olaus Magnus, and John Adam Osiander — and if he heated his brain overmuch with their prodigious recitals, he, at all events, committed fewer extravagances.

  And where was the bewitching Ora all this while? The bewitching Ora had her own pursuits — I had mine. We were the best friends possible, and if I had encouraged her, I have no doubt she would have been as confidential with me as her aunt had proved. But though we talked together with perfect freedom on most topics, we never renewed the conversation we had had in the garden relative to John Brideoake. Perhaps, she was quite satisfied now that John was in a fair way of regaining his health, and no longer felt any uneasiness about him. Perhaps, his sister was the depositary of her confidences, if she had any to impart. Perhaps, it was not necessary to speak of John at all, since she saw so much of him — rarely a day passing that she did not visit Weverham. Perhaps —— — but what need of further guessing? I consider it impertinent and unfair to pry into young ladies’ secrets.

  CHAPTER III.

  REVELATIONS.

  WHEN not at Owlarton Grange, I was at Weverham; and when not a Weverham, I was at Owlarton Grange. My time was pretty equally divided between my friends. Naturally, the curate’s humble dwelling possessed stronger attractions to me than the ancient hall, inasmuch as it contained Apphia; and if I had consulted my own inclinations I should never have been absent from her side. But this might not be; and I was forced to submit to a destiny which for the time seemed unpropitious to my happiness. More than once, when there appeared to be a possibility of my forgetting it, Apphia gently reminded me of the unfortunate promise she had given to her mother, and declaring that no entreaties of mine could cause her to break it, reduced me, in an instant, from a state of rapture to utter despair. Sometimes I thought her unnecessarily cold — and told her so — but I perceived from the expression of her countenance, as well as from the tears starting to her eyes, that my reproaches were unjust, and I hastened to recal them. That she acted from a sense of propriety I knew, and however I might suffer, I felt I had no right to complain.

  What the solution of this painful question might be, I did not dare to conjecture. Time only could decide. But though cast down for the moment, I was not
without hope for the future.

  But I must now proceed to detail an adventure which befel me when returning one evening from a visit to Weverham; and which furnished me, in a strange way, with some rather important information.

  The day had been oppressively hot, and as the sun went down there was every appearance of a thunderstorm; heavy masses of leaden-coloured clouds, accompanied by portentous stillness and gloom. The shades of night brought no coolness. Scarce a breath of air was stirring. We sat with open windows, but found little relief, for the scent of the flowers from the garden was almost overpowering.

  Still the storm held off, and I thought I should be able to reach the mill before it burst forth. John advised me to wait, and so did Apphia, who seemed more apprehensive of danger than her brother, but I would not listen to their entreaties, and set forth, laughingly assuring them that they need be under no apprehension about me.

  Scarcely had I reached the garden-gate, when a flash of forked lightning traversing the sky seemed to rebuke my rashness, while, in another instant, an angry growl of thunder was heard in the distance. Apphia called out to me, imploring me to come back, but I did not heed her, and went on my way.

  The mill was distant about two miles, and the nearest road lying across the fields, I took it of course, walking as fast as I could. But I had not proceeded more than a mile, when the storm broke upon me in all its fury. The rain came down like a waterspout, drenching me in an instant to the skin. Fire and water were commingled, for notwithstanding the deluging showers, the heavens appeared in a blaze. I have never beheld more vivid lightning, nor heard more awful claps of thunder. I should now have been glad to be back again with John and his sister, and regretted that I had turned a deaf ear to Apphia’s urgent entreaties to me to stay. But I could not but admit that I was rightly served for my imprudence.