“I merely meant to imply that your father was not worthy of so much goodness,” Major Atherton replied, with a grave smile, “and it is perfectly true. Nobody knows his unworthiness better than I do.”
“Unworthiness is a term I do not like,” I said, rather sharply; “neither do I quite recognise your right to judge of my father’s conduct.”
“I admire the feeling you exhibit,” Major Atherton returned, with perfect calmness; “but, if I am correctly informed, you do not know your father. I do. I know him as well as I know myself; and I am satisfied that his first wife was far above his deserts. He thinks so himself — says so.”
“That may be your opinion, and you are, of course, entitled to it,” I rejoined; “but it is not necessary to depreciate my father in order to exalt my mother, and I really cannot allow such a course to be pursued.”
“On my soul, you are a warm-hearted young fellow,” Major Atherton cried. “I should not have thought you could entertain so much regard for a father whom you have never beheld, and who, by all accounts, doesn’t appear to have done too much for you — eh, Cuthbert?”
“No,” Mr. Spring replied, with a singular smile, “ I can’t say that I think my friend Colonel Clitheroe has done overmuch for his son.”
“I have no complaint to make against him,” I returned; “ and you will allow that I am the person principally interested.”
“No; I will do you the justice to say, Mervyn, that I never heard you utter a word against your father,” Cuthbert Spring remarked.
“It is much to your credit, sir,” Major Atherton said, addressing me. “Under such circumstances, I don’t think I should have been equally contented. But Colonel Clitheroe has not been quite so much to blame as might appear—”
“I don’t think he has been to blame at all,” I interrupted: “ and I must again observe, that these comments on my father’s character are anything but agreeable to me.”
“Whom are you talking of, gentlemen?” Old Hazy inquired, joining the group.
“Of Colonel Clitheroe, Mervyn’s father,” Mr. Spring answered. “ The colonel, I must say, has a warm advocate in his son. It would afford him great pleasure, I am sure, if he knew how prompt Mervyn is to take his part.”
“I am sure it would,” Major Atherton rejoined. “ Thus much I can say for Colonel Clitheroe — and I say it from personal knowledge — he takes great interest in his son. He fancied all was going smoothly with him, and that he had been adopted by Mrs. Mervyn.”
“I have not troubled my father much with my affairs of late,” I observed.
“There you were wrong — excuse my freedom in saying so,” Major Atherton cried. “It was your duty to let your father know exactly how you were circumstanced. How can a father advise his son, or assist him, if kept in entire ignorance of his proceedings? It was your bounden duty, I repeat, to acquaint Colonel Clitheroe with all that has happened to you.”
“Well, major, I admit the force of what you say,” I replied; “ but such remarks do not seem to come with entire propriety from a stranger.”
“lama stranger to you, sir,” Major Atherton said; “ but my intimacy with your father warrants me in speaking freely. Possessed as I am of his opinions — more than any one else — I may almost be considered as his representative here.”
“In that light I am willing to concede you perfect freedom of speech,” I rejoined, “and I promise not to take offence at anything you may say.”
A seasonable interruption was here offered by Mr. Ponder coming up to announce that refreshments were ready, if we chose to partake of them, and we all proceeded to the table. On the way, Major Atherton was introduced to John Brideoake and Apphia, and soon fell into conversation with both of them. He seemed especially pleased with the latter, and took a place on the bench beside her, on sitting down to the collation. While we were engaged in discussing the good things, Peninnah and her daughter approached the table, and addressed themselves to Old Hazy.
“What an uncommonly pretty girl!” Cuthbert Spring cried, pointing to Rue. “Does she tell fortunes as well as her mother? — if so, I should like to try her skill. Come hither, my dear,” he cried. “Can you give me a glimpse into futurity?”
“To be sure I can, sir,” she replied, stepping towards him. “You are a gay and a lucky gentleman, I can see. Love will never break your heart, sir.”
“I should think not, indeed,” Miss Hazilrigge exclaimed, glancing at her elderly admirer.
“Let me look at your hand, my merry gentleman,” Rue continued, “and I’ll tell you all about it.” And as Cuthbert surrendered his palm to her inspection, she added, “You have been a gay deceiver in your time, as I said just now, sir, and have given many a fair lady a heartache.”
“What’s that I hear?” Miss Hazilrigge cried, turning scarlet.
“Take care!” Cuthbert Spring muttered. “Don’t make mischief. You’re on tender ground — hum!”
“The poor ladies themselves were to blame, and not you, sir,” Rue went on. “You couldn’t help it, you know, if they chose to pull caps for you.”
“But you said he was a deceiver, young woman?” Miss Hazilrigge cried.
“I ought to have said, that it was the ladies that took him too much at his word, ma’am,” Rue rejoined, “and thought he meant more than he really did — poor deluded creatures! — but the merry gentleman himself was too artful to be caught.”
“I am afraid you give him a very bad character,” Miss Hazilrigge remarked.
“Lor’ bless you, no, ma’am. The merry gentleman has been a great admirer of our sex in his time, but he’s less of a rover than he used to be, and will soon settle down quietly enough. He has fixed his affections on some one who will make him a vast deal happier than he has ever yet been as a bachelor. A country life will be his portion—”
“What’s that I hear?” Miss Hazilrigge cried, eagerly.
“I was observing, ma’am, that a country life will be the merry gentleman’s portion,” Rue rejoined; “and fortunate it is for him that it will be so, for his days will be prolonged thereby.”
“Dear heart a-day!” Miss Hazilrigge exclaimed. “How very, very surprising, to be sure!”
“Bravo!” Cuthbert Spring exclaimed. “Never was truer fortune told. You deserve a piece of gold, my dear, for the talent you have displayed,” he added, taking out his purse and giving her a sovereign. “Now try your skill on the lady.”
“Permit me, ma’am,” Rue said, taking Miss Hazilrigge’s plump hand. “You have had your trials, I see, ma’am. Things have gone counter more than once, and a match has been broken off only two days before it ought to have taken place.”
“Dear me! aunt, is this true?” Ora cried, “I never heard of any such match.”
“Nor I!” Cuthbert Spring added.
“The lady doesn’t contradict me,” Rue proceeded. “But it’s very well the marriage didn’t take place, for she would have been a widow now with ten children.”
“A lucky escape indeed!” Cuthbert Spring cried, with a forced laugh.
“Well, this is very extraordinary I must say,” Old Hazy cried, laughing heartily. (I half suspect he had given Rue a few hints in private.) “I won’t mention names, but the gentleman to whom my sister was engaged is dead, and his widow has ten children.”
General laughter followed this piece of information, and the merriment was not diminished when Rue said, “You won’t die single, ma’am, that I can promise you. Ere six months are over, you’ll have a wedding-ring on your finger.
“There, aunt!” Ora cried to the blushing spinster, “I hope you’re satisfied now.”
“Come, Atherton,” Cuthbert Spring said to the major, “it is your turn. Display your hand to the girl, and let us see whether she can read your past and future life from its lines.”
“I can read either,” Rue rejoined. “The gentleman has only to choose.”
“Keep to the past then,” Major Atherton said. “I don’t desire to kno
w the future.”
Upon this the girl took his hand, and studied it carefully for a short space. At last, her features assumed an air of perplexity, and she called to Peninnah, “Look here, mother! Something puzzles me about this cross-line.”
“It’s not often you are puzzled,” the elder gipsy replied, bending forward to examine the major’s palm. “Why, it’s plain enough, that cross-line denotes a death. The gentleman has lost his wife. And look! here’s another cross-line—”
“Enough! enough!” Major Atherton cried, snatching his hand hastily away. I don’t want to hear any more of this idle nonsense. You make a guess, and pretend you have hit upon the truth.”
“At all events, you must admit that I have made a shrewd guess,” Peninnah said.
“I admit nothing,” Major Atherton cried, sternly. “The girl confessed her ignorance, and you are no better informed.”
“I didn’t choose to speak out,” Rue said; “that was why I consulted my mother. But if you wish me to tell all I read,” she added, with marked emphasis, “I will do so. But don’t blame me afterwards.”
“Pooh! pooh! you can tell nothing that I should care to have concealed,” the major said, with affected indifference. But I could see that he was not altogether free from uneasiness.
“Let me whisper a word to you,” Rue rejoined, bringing her lips close to the major’s ear, and saying something to him in a low tone.
He started on hearing her remark, and could not conceal his annoyance. Cuthbert Spring seemed greatly surprised, and made a sign to his friend, which I could not understand.
“Bo you wish me to tell the company what I have told you, sir?” Rue cried, with an air of triumph.
“On no account,” Major Atherton rejoined, hastily; “not that there is anything in it — but — in short, I don’t desire it — so ‘ here’s a piece of gold,” he added, taking out his purse, “to seal your lips.”
“It will seal them effectually,” she rejoined, dropping him a very graceful curtsey.
“Well, major,” Old Hazy exclaimed, with a laugh, “you must own after this, that there is more in chiromancy than you suspected. I myself am a firm believer in the art, and have a large collection of writers on the subject. I dare say this pretty lass never heard of Jean Indagine, Taisner, Cocles, or Romphdes.”
“Never of one of them,” Rue replied. “My mother was my sole instructress in the art of palmistry. She knows all the secrets of our people.”
Meanwhile, dancing has been going on almost without interruption, and a fresh country dance being now about to be formed, Cuthbert Spring proposes that we shall all join it, and by way of setting us a good example, offers his hand to Miss Hazilrigge. The elderly spinster simpers a little, but she does not refuse him, and is led forth in triumph. Major Atherton prefers a similar request to Ora, and is equally successful. Apphia naturally falls to my share. Old Hazy has not danced for years, he says, but he won’t remain idle on an occasion like the present, so he looks about for the prettiest partner he can find, and chooses Rue, who appears much flattered. John Brideoake looks on with a kindly smile — pleased that we all seem so happy. A right merry dance we have, for the performances of Cuthbert Spring and Miss Hazilrigge afford us infinite diversion. As they go down the middle and come back enchained in a rope of flowers, their appearance is so comical that it is next to impossible to help laughing. Ora puts no restraint upon her mirth, and even Major Atherton’s stem features relax into a smile.
Poor Miss Hazilrigge, who is rather stout, and wholly unaccustomed to such violent exercise, finds it a little too much for her, and as soon as she gets to the bottom of the dance, withdraws with her partner, to cool herself and recover her breath. Old Hazy astonishes everybody by his display of activity; and Mr. Ponder lifts up his hands in perfect amazement as he watches his master capering about — clapping his hands, calling out to the rustic lads and lasses by name, and bidding them bestir themselves, laughing, shouting, even singing. Rue dances exquisitely — it is quite a treat to behold her. As she takes my hand in the course of the dance, she slightly presses it, and whispers something, but I cannot catch what she says. Prom the direction of her glances I perceive that her mother’s eye is upon her — and I am careful. The old woman watches her like a lynx. Encouraged by Old Hazy’s example, and incited by his shouts and gesticulations, the various couples he comes near do their best to please him, and many are the vagaries in consequence. By the time, however, that the old gentleman gets to the bottom of the dance he has had enough of it, and, like his sister, retires to recruit. The dance, however, continues for some time longer, for the rustic couples have strong limbs, and are not easily tired, but at last the musicians cease to play — being unable or unwilling to go on — and we come to a sudden stop. The lads and lasses then disperse about the green, and separating from the throng, I walk with Apphia towards the margin of the pool. Here we stand together for a few moments in silence. Words of tenderness rise to my lips, but I dare not give utterance to them. I cannot help, however, fixing an impassioned glance upon her, which proclaims my meaning as plainly as words could do. She makes no response, except a sigh. But what is this? John Brideoake comes towards us, bearing a letter, and, judging by his looks, he brings disagreeable intelligence.
“A special messenger has just arrived with a post-chaise, bringing this despatch from our mother,” he said, giving Apphia the letter.
Scarcely able to repress her agitation, she hurriedly broke the seal, and after glancing at the contents of the missive, returned it to John.
“Dear Mrs. Mervyn has become suddenly worse,” she said to me, “and desires to see me. My mother enjoins me to start without an instant’s delay, if I hope to see her alive, and has sent a post-chaise for me. Oh! who would have expected this!” she exclaimed, bursting into tears.
“It is indeed sad and startling intelligence,” I cried. “Mrs. Mervyn dying! — then all my hopes are at an end.”
“What is this I hear?” Cuthbert Spring cried, hurrying up to us. “Did you not say that Mrs. Mervyn is dying?”
“A letter, this moment received from Mrs. Brideoake, announces the sad intelligence,” I replied.
“The attack must be very sudden, then,” Cuthbert Spring rejoined. “I saw Doctor Foam yesterday, and in reply to my inquiries about the poor lady, he told me she was going on tolerably well.”
“I cannot refuse credit to my mother’s statement,” John Brideoake said. “Her words are these: ‘A sudden and dangerous change has taken place in the dear invalid, and I fear she may not last many days — perhaps not many hours. She speaks much of you, and earnestly desires to behold you once again, ere her eyes are closed for ever; and if you have any affection left for her or for me, you will come to her on receipt of this, without a moment’s delay. The messenger to whose care I entrust this note will bring a post-chaise for you. I confidently expect you ere night. Farewell!’”
“What if it be a device to get Apphia once more into her power?” I cried.
“It looks suspicious, I must own,” Cuthbert Spring said. “And yet we may be wrong. Miss Brideoake cannot refuse to go.”
“Certainly not,” John replied.
“But she must not go unattended,” I cried. “Some one must accompany her. I will ride by the side of the chaise, and escort her safely to the Anchorite’s.”—’
“Your kindness is unnecessary, Mervyn,” John said. “I myself shall accompany her. We are both grieved to quit your pleasant fete so soon — but it cannot be helped. Come, Apphia, there must be no delay. Mervyn will excuse us, and explain our abrupt departure to our friends.”
I promised to do so; and as I conducted Apphia to the postchaise I told her I should certainly ride over to Cottonborough that night, and present myself on the morrow at the Anchorite’s, “To what end?” she cried. “You will not be admitted.”
“Oh! yes, I shall,” I replied. “Comberbach will let me in, if he knows I am coming. Direct him to be at the garden-gate prec
isely at ten o’clock to-morrow morning. I shall be there. It is of the last importance to me to see my kind relative once more, and I trust, through your assistance, to accomplish the object.”
“I will give you all the aid I can, Mervyn,” she replied, “but I despair of success. Even if Mrs. Mervyn should be able to see you, my mother will oppose the interview. But come by all means, and I will see you if possible. If not, you will understand that I have failed in my endeavours to help you.”
“To-morrow may decide our fate,” I said.
“It may,” she replied. “Our destiny is in Mrs. Mervyn’s hands. A word from her might remove the bar to our happiness. And yet, I fear, the word will never be uttered.”
There was a pause, after which Apphia said: “Strange, that gipsy woman told me I should be suddenly summoned hence — and should go! I didn’t believe her at the moment — but it has come to pass, you see.”
“Strange, indeed!” I replied, thoughtfully.
Little more passed between us, for though I tried to assume a hopeful confidence, I could not help secretly sharing Apphia’s misgivings, and almost dreaded lest some fresh calamity might be at hand.
The messenger who had brought the post-chaise proved to be the ill-favoured Fabyan Lowe, and aware that this man was devoted to Mrs. Brideoake, and would report all he heard and saw to her, I was careful, in bidding Apphia adieu, to make no allusion to my expectation of seeing her again on the morrow. Brother and sister having got into the postchaise, it drove off, the postilion being ordered to proceed in the first instance to Weverham, Apphia having some few preparations to make for the sudden journey.
I then returned to the green, but the fete no longer afforded me any amusement, and it was mainly owing to the untiring exertions of Miss Hazilrigge and her niece that it was brought to a satisfactory close. The gipsy women were still there, but I strove in vain to obtain a word in private with Rue. Her mother’s vigilance was not to be baffled.
An hour before the fete broke up, I looked round for the pair again, and not seeing them, ascertained that they had just left. Ned Culcheth had also disappeared.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 481
