“I hope you are convinced now, my dear Mrs. Mervyn,” she said, “though I do not see why my assertion should have been doubted.”
“But what says the young gentleman?” Mrs. Mervyn cried. “Surely, there is no drawing back on his part?”
“None whatever, dear Mrs. Mervyn,” Apphia exclaimed, eagerly. “I will answer for him.”
Mrs. Brideoake looked still more astonished, and smiled approvingly on her daughter.
“Well, my dears,” Mrs. Mervyn said, “I am truly glad to find that my misgivings have been groundless. Had it been otherwise, I meant to — but it is scarcely worth while now to state what my intentions were.”
“Not in the least necessary, my dear madam,” Mrs. Brideoake said.
“Oh! do, pray, let me hear them?” Apphia cried.
Her mother looked at her, and slightly frowned.
“Well, then, since you desire it so much, I will tell you,” Mrs. Mervyn said: “I had fully determined to revoke a certain deed of settlement which I had made in your favour, but which ties you to marry one particular person — namely, him to whom you are engaged — Malpas Sale. The condition was made at your mother’s request, and I had begun to fear, as I have just stated, that I had done wrong in making it; but you have now set my mind entirely at rest on that score.”
“And you had resolved to set me free, my dear Mrs. Mervyn?” she exclaimed, joyfully, “How shall I thank you?”
“But you do not want to be set free, my dear?” Mrs. Mervyn cried, in surprise. “If you retain your regard for Malpas, and mean to fulfil your engagement with him, what need of any change in the conditions? I would not fetter your inclinations, but since your choice is made, where can be the harm of allowing the restriction to continue?”
“It is a very proper restriction,” Mrs. Brideoake cried; “and I would not have it removed on any account.”
“I am perfectly aware of your feeling on the subject, my dear madam,” Mrs. Mervyn said; “and I yielded to it at the time, as you know, though I thought the condition imposed upon your daughter rather hard. You are quite content with what I have done, my dear?” she added, to Apphia.
I could not have helped giving utterance to the feelings that overpowered me, if Apphia had not spoken.
“Quite content, dear madam,” she replied, in a low tone.
“And you?” Mrs. Mervyn said, addressing me.
“How can he be otherwise than content with you, madam, since you have secured him a rich wife?” Mrs. Brideoake said.
At this moment Molly Bailey gently entered the room, and signified to Mrs. Brideoake that she was wanted. After delivering this message, she retired, directing an expressive glance at me. Mrs. Brideoake followed her almost immediately, recommending the dear invalid to our attention during her absence.
Apphia and I were thus left alone with Mrs. Mervyn. The moment I had so anxiously desired was come. Yet how to profit by it? The utmost caution was necessary, for I knew that a sudden shock might be fatal to the poor lady.
“Have you anything further to say to me, my love?” Mrs. Mervyn inquired kindly of Apphia.
“Yes, madam, I have something of importance to say to you,” Apphia replied, “which I did not like to mention while my mother was by. I am sure you will pardon me when you know all — but I wish that deed of settlement, which you referred to just now, could be burnt.”
“You wish it burnt, my dear! — why so, pray?” Mrs. Mervyn demanded.
“Because — oh! forgive me, dear Mrs. Mervyn,” Apphia exclaimed—” because I never can comply with its conditions. I never can marry Malpas Sale.”
“I am lost in astonishment! you say this to his face? What must he think of you?”
“Compose yourself, my dear madam, and you shall know all,” Apphia rejoined. “A deception has been practised upon you, but I trust you will think it venial. Whom do you imagine is near you?”
“Is it not Malpas Sale?” Mrs. Mervyn cried, trembling.
“It is Mervyn Clitheroe, who has put on this disguise in order to approach you,” Apphia said. “It is on his account that I wish the settlement to be committed to the flames.”
‘“I see it all now,” Mrs. Mervyn rejoined, faintly. “I thought his conduct strange. Give me the scent-bottle quickly, or I shall faint.”
“You forgive me, my dear Mrs. Mervyn, for the stratagem I have practised, but I had no other means of gaining access to you,” I cried.
“Yes, yes; I forgive you,” she answered, pressing my hand gently.
A crisis in my fate had arrived. Oh! how I dreaded lest Mrs. Brideoake should return before the needful explanation could take place. Mrs. Mervyn herself seemed to feel equal uneasiness, for she said in a low tone to Apphia, “My dear, is your mother coming back soon? I hope not — I hope not.”
“Are you able to listen to me, dear Mrs. Mervyn?” I asked. Again she pressed my hand gently, and I went on: “Before saying aught of myself, let me tell you how entirely deceived you are in regard to Malpas Sale. He is not what you suppose him. I will not characterise him as strongly as I ought for fear of shocking you; neither will I pain you by a detail of his evil doings — but let me say in a word that he is utterly unworthy of Apphia.”
“Then he shall never have her,” Mrs. Mervyn cried. “It will be a difficult task to persuade Mrs. Brideoake that he is as bad as you represent him, and in my present state I cannot attempt it. But at any rate, the match shall not take place.”
“Oh! thank you, madam, for that promise!” Apphia cried, with a look of inexpressible gratitude.
“Why did you not appeal to me before, my dear?” Mrs. Mervyn replied, in a tone of tender reproach. “You know that my chief desire is to contribute to your future happiness.”
“I did not dare to do so, madam.”
“Alas! alas!” the poor lady exclaimed, with a look of great distress, mingled with self-reproach, “I have been much to blame. I ought to have seen with my own eyes, and not with the eyes of others. But you forgive me, I am sure. And you too, my dear Mervyn,” she added to me, “I fear I have done you great injustice.”
“You have done me injustice only if you have supposed me wanting in gratitude and affection to you, madam,” I replied; “but you make ample amends by your present kindness.”
“I will make all the amends I can for the error I have unintentionally committed,” she said. “Tell me what you would have me do, my dear,” she added to Apphia.
“The greatest favour you can confer upon me, dear Mrs. Mervyn, will be to destroy that deed of settlement,” Apphia said.
“I will do something better than that,” the kind lady replied. “I won’t destroy it, but I will substitute another name for that of Malpas Sale, and make it imperative upon you to marry the person I shall designate. You understand me, I see. Nay, no thanks. I don’t know what your mother will say to me. But I must bear the brunt of her displeasure as well as I can. It shall be done at once. The deed is in yonder closet. Fetch it me, Apphia, and I will make the needful alteration before Mrs. Brideoake returns.”
“Why should you heed her, dear Mrs. Mervyn?” I cried. “If you have resolved to perform this generous action, she cannot prevent you, and she must be made aware of it sooner or later.”
“That’s true,” the kind lady replied; “but I would rather she didn’t know it just now. We should have a frightful scene. But we are losing time in talking. Where have I put my keys?”
“They are usually placed under your pillow,” Apphia observed, searching for them as she spoke. “Yes, here is the black silk bag containing them.”
“And here is the key of the closet,” Mrs. Mervyn said, giving it to her. “You will find the deed in the little case of drawers with some other papers — the third drawer from the top, I think.” And as Apphia flew to execute her orders, the good lady said to me, “There are writing materials on that table, Mervyn — bring me a pen. And draw back the curtains and let some light into the room, that we may see what we are
about.”
I hastened to obey her, praying internally that Mrs. Brideoake might not arrive to interrupt us. After drawing back the window-curtains as directed, I was proceeding to take up the other articles she required, when Apphia called out from the closet that she had opened all the drawers, but could not discover the deed.
“Not discover it!” Mrs. Mervyn cried. “It must be there. Search more carefully, child. I am sure I put it in the third drawer.”
“Perhaps this may be it,” Apphia cried, coming forth with a packet tied with red tape in her hand. “But it does not seem to relate to me.”
“Yes, yes — that’s it!” Mrs. Mervyn cried eagerly. “Give it me directly, my dear. There’s no occasion for you to read it.”
And so eager was she to obtain possession of the packet, that she leaned forward and almost snatched it from Apphia. She then proceeded to untie the tape, and, taking out the deed, motioned us to stand aside, while she examined it in order to find out the place where the alteration in the name ought to be made. Having succeeded in her object, she bade me give her the pen, and she had scarcely taken it from me when the door was gently opened, and Mrs. Brideoake entered, followed by Doctor Foam. The pen dropped from the poor lady’s grasp, and she sank back, swooning upon the pillow.
CHAPTER VII.
I AM WORSTED, AND DRIVEN INGLORIOUSLY FROM THE FIELD.
PULL light being now admitted into the room, Mrs. Brideoake at once recognised me. Her surprise and consternation were so great, that she started back, and nearly upset Doctor Foam, who was close behind her. The spectacle, however, presented by poor Mrs. Mervyn in her fainting condition saved me from the torrent of her wrath which must otherwise have fallen upon my devoted head.
“What has happened?” Mrs. Brideoake cried, rushing towards the bed. “You have killed the poor lady between you. Ha!” she exclaimed, noticing the deed of settlement, as it had fallen from Mrs. Mervyn’s grasp, “I see what you have been about. Cunning dissemblers as you both are, you have failed in accomplishing your artful design. Henceforth this shall remain in my keeping.”
And she snatched up the deed as she spoke.
By this time Doctor Foam had come up to the bed, and looking at Mrs. Brideoake in a manner that showed he would not be disobeyed, he said: “I insist upon your giving up that document to me, madam—”
“But, doctor—” she cried, as if disposed to resist him.
“I will have it,” he continued; “and as opposition will be useless, you had better yield with a good grace, and not force me to take it from you. Nay, madam,” he added, as he picked up the deed, which she tossed towards him, and put it into his pocket, “your anger is wasted on me. I am simply discharging my duty to my dear patient. It is evident that she intended to make some alteration in this document; but sudden faintness must have prevented the execution of her design.”
“It is fortunate that it did so,” Mrs. Brideoake returned. “Advantage has been taken of my poor friend’s enfeebled state to endeavour to make her annul her own deliberate act; but luckily the scheme, however well contrived, has failed.”
“That may be so, or it may not, for I won’t stop to discuss the matter with you now, madam,” Doctor Foam rejoined. “On my dear patient’s restoration to sensibility, I shall deliver the deed to her, and it will then be for her to do with it as she pleases.”
“Very proper indeed, doctor,” Mrs. Brideoake sneered; “but you will find that, while I am by to counsel her, dear Mrs. Mervyn will never commit such an error as to introduce Mr. Mervyn Clitheroe’s name into that deed of settlement. For that was the object aimed at I am persuaded,” she continued, glancing irefully at me—” that was what brought Mr. Clitheroe here — in this disguise. What must the nature of the design be when such artifices as these are resorted to? What must Mr. Clitheroe’s notions of gentlemanlike conduct be when he can put on the very attire of the person whom he is seeking clandestinely to supersede? I blush to think that my daughter should have abetted his base scheme; but it is enough that it has failed.”
“No more of this intemperate language, madam,” Doctor Foam said. “ Whether Mr. Clitheroe is to blame or not — whether your daughter has acted properly or the reverse — cannot be discussed now. If you have the regard you profess for Mrs. Mervyn, you will hold your tongue, and assist me to revive her; but if you attempt any further violence, I tell you plainly, madam, I shall order you out of the room.”
“This to me, Doctor Foam?” the incensed lady cried.
“Bah!” cried the doctor, snapping his fingers. “ Sit down on that chair and calm yourself. Throw the window wide open, Mervyn, and let us have plenty of fresh air. And do you, Apphia, let our patient inhale the spirits of hartshorn while I bathe her temples. We shall bring her round presently. I knew it!” he exclaimed, after a short interval, during which he and Apphia continued unremitting in their efforts—” she revives.”
Heaving a deep sigh, Mrs. Mervyn opened her eyes, and looking at Apphia, said, in a low tone, “where is he? — where is my boy?”
“I am here, madam,” I replied, advancing towards the bed.
“Ah! yes, I see you, my dear,” she cried, in the kindest tone imaginable. “You shall both be made happy. I shall never live to see you united, but united you shall be. I have done all you desire, have I not? I have changed the name in the deed of settlement. It now only remains to obtain your mother’s consent to the marriage, and I am sure she will not refuse.”
“You are mistaken, Mrs. Mervyn,” Mrs. Brideoake said, rising from her seat. “I do refuse — peremptorily refuse my consent. You are mistaken, also, in supposing that you have made any change in the settlement. Happily, you have not done Malpas Sale the great injustice of superseding him for an unworthy rival. Neither, if I have any influence with you, will you do so. Do not listen to the false representations of this designing young man, but attend to me. Naturally I must have my daughter’s welfare and happiness at heart, but I should consult neither the one nor the other if I gave her to Mervyn Clitheroe. If after this Apphia marries him, she will marry in opposition to my wishes and injunctions, and will violate her solemn promise to me.”
“What is this I hear?” Mrs. Mervyn cried. “Have you given a promise to your mother not to marry without her consent, Apphia?”
“Alas! madam, I have,” she replied.
“Oh! this is truly unfortunate! — truly unfortunate!” the poor lady groaned, sinking back upon the pillow.
Her looks frightened Doctor Foam so much that he hurried to the table for some fresh restoratives, saying to Mrs. Brideoake, as he passed her: “You see what mischief you have done, madam. Will nothing keep you quiet? You will compel me to put my threats into execution.”
“Do as you please, Doctor Foam,” she rejoined. “On you will rest the responsibility of any outrage. Force only shall - make me leave the room while this young man remains in it.”
“Zounds, madam! you are enough to make one forget the respect due to your sex and your station,” Doctor Foam cried.
“I won’t answer for the consequences if my dear patient is further excited. There is no help for it, Mervyn,” he added to me, “go you must.” And as he led me towards the door, he whispered: “ But don’t leave the house. Stay in the library.
I will join you there anon.”
I glanced towards the bed, and saw Mrs. Mervyn still almost inanimate, with Apphia tending her. I glanced towards Mrs. Brideoake, who had resumed her seat with a look of exultation at my defeat She pointed to the door, and I felt half inclined to mortify her by remaining, but an impatient gesture from Doctor Foam changed my design, and made me quit the room.
Never, alas! to see my dear friend and benefactress again.
CHAPTER VIII.
MR. COMBERBACH HAS GLOOMY FOREBODINGS.
ANXIOUS to get rid of the hateful attire in which I was disguised without a moment’s loss of time, on entering the library I rang the bell, and the summons being answered by Comberbach, I expl
ained my wishes to him, and he conducted me to a dressing-room, where he said he had placed my apparel. The change of habiliments was speedily effected, and as I issued from the dressing-room, very much more at my ease, I encountered the butler, who now inquired how I had prospered in my interview with his mistress.
“I trust Mrs. B. didn’t find you out, sir?” he said. “If so, there’ll be a pretty kettle of fish!”
I was obliged to confess that the stratagem had been discovered, but I consoled the terrified butler by saying that I felt sure Mrs. Brideoake would not visit her anger upon him, as she had too much upon her mind just now.
“I hope it may prove so,” he rejoined; “but you don’t know what Mrs. B. is like when she’s really put out of temper. Oh! Mr. Mervyn,” he added, with a groan, “what a change there is in this house to be sure, sir. It hasn’t been like the same place since that woman set foot in it; and instead of getting better, things are likely to get worse. We shan’t have our dear missis long, and when she’s gone, what’s to become of me and Molly Bailey? We can’t live with Mrs. B., you know. But it will be a sore trial to both of us to leave the old place where we have dwelt so long.”
“Most sincerely do I hope, on all accounts, that you won’t be obliged to leave it, Comberbach,” I said.
“It will be a sad day, indeed, for us, when Mrs. B. is undisputed missis of this house, Mr. Mervyn,” the butler continued, sighing dismally.
“Why do you entertain that notion, Comberbach?” I asked. “Even if you should unhappily lose your dear mistress, it doesn’t follow that she will be succeeded by Mrs. Brideoake.”
“It follows as naturally as night follows day,” he rejoined. “However much things may be kept secret, servants generally have an inkling as to what’s going on; and I have tolerably correct information, that if Mrs. B. survives my dear missis, the Anchorite’s, and all belonging to it, will be hers.”
“You don’t say so, Comberbach?” I cried, staring at him.
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