“What! has she sent you here?” he cried, taken completely aback. “Has she sold her own father? Curses upon her I”
“Turn your wrath against him who deserves it, and not upon her,” I cried. “You are not so lost to shame that you will aid the man who has ruined and abandoned your daughter.”
“Abandoned Rue!” Phaleg vociferated. “Whom do you mean?”
“There stands the betrayer,” I rejoined, pointing to Malpas, who was ineffectually struggling to free himself from Ned. “Let him deny what I say if he can.”—’
“Speak, capt’n,” Phaleg roared, “and give him the lie.”
“He can’t speak,” Ned rejoined. “The words would choke him if he tried.”
“He now feels the effects of an injured woman’s vengeance,” I said. “Rue’s hand strikes this blow.”
“This may be true, father,” Obed cried; “and we will settle the account with the capt’n by-and-by; but, meanwhile, we mustn’t let these chaps take Pownall away.”
“If I had only known this sooner, I’d have strangled the false-hearted villain rather than have had anything to do wi’ him,” Phaleg cried.
“Take him, and deal with him as you see fit,” Ned Culcheth cried, hurling Malpas with such force against the elder gipsy that they both fell to the ground, and following me as I rushed out of the hut with Pownall.
“Take me away from them, Mr. Clitheroe! — take me away!” the miserable wretch cried. “Promise not to deliver me to justice, and you shall have the will. I will show you where it is hidden.”
“I can make no promise now,” I replied. “Come along!”
By this time we had reached the deep dyke already described, and after we had all crossed it, in order to check pursuit I kicked the plank into the chasm. Scarcely had I done so, when Malpas rushed out of the hut, and on seeing us he gave vent to ejaculations of rage. Fancying himself now in security, Pownall could not help gratifying his malicious feelings, and called out:
“You have lost the will, captain. I shall now deliver it to him for whom it was rightfully intended.”
“Ha! say you so, rascal?” Malpas cried. “That shall be prevented, at all events.”
And as the words were pronounced he drew a pistol, levelled it at Pownall, and fired with such good effect that the unfortunate man uttered a sharp cry, threw up his arms, and fell backwards into the dyke.
“Lie there with your secret!” Malpas cried, hurrying back to the hut.—’
CHAPTER XIII.
THE CHASE ACROSS THE MORASS.
ON seeing Pownall drop into the dyke, my first impulse was to jump across the chasm and endeavour to arrest his murderer; but as I ran back a few paces in order to give impetus to the spring, Ned Culcheth caught me by the arm, and strove to dissuade me from the rash attempt.
While I was struggling to free myself from his friendly grasp, Malpas again burst from the hut, followed by the gipsies. I could not make out at first whether the intentions of the two latter were hostile to him or the reverse; but I was not long left in doubt, for in another minute all three stopped near a stack of turf, from behind which Obed brought a horse, while Malpas placed what appeared to me to be a pocket-book in the hands of the elder gipsy. This done, Captain Sale mounted and rode off.
“By Heaven! he shall not escape in this manner!” I exclaimed.
And I flew to the spot where my own steed was secured, unloosed him, and was on his back in a moment.
Ned made another effort to detain me, but I was too much excited to heed his remonstrances, and dashed off instantly after the fugitive, whom I could just descry scouring across the waste in the direction of the most perilous morasses. But this did not deter me from the pursuit, but rather encouraged me, as I felt the more certain of his capture. Clearing the dyke, I put my horse to the top of his speed, and was glad to perceive that the distance between me and my flying foe began rapidly to diminish.
Very soon Malpas was scarcely a hundred yards in advance of me. Wherever he went I unhesitatingly followed; and it was a marvel that either escaped the many pitfalls by which the way was beset.
A region was now at hand where the utmost caution was necessary. Yet Malpas did not slacken his pace, or deviate in the slightest degree from a direct course. I expected every moment to see him disappear in the bog; but, astonishing to say, the ground still continued firm beneath his horse’s feet, and he must either have known where to find the narrow causeway across this part of the morass, or have accidentally hit it off. By following in his track, I came off equally well.
But bad as this place was, we had greater risks to encounter. We had leaped a brook issuing from Relicts’ Moss, and were passing between Crap Moss and Blakeford Moss. In front was a small reedy tarn, called Shipley Mere. The whole place, in fact, was a marsh. The ground quaked beneath our horses’ feet as we splashed on. Still through all these difficulties and dangers Malpas held on, and I followed.
Shipley Mere was passed in safety. But another dangerous morass was at hand, Thieves’ Moss. I never expected Malpas would reach it, or, if he did, that he would be able to proceed further. To my surprise he went on, and though he occasionally floundered, he did not stop. I also got on without material hindrance. We were now close upon the high road across the forest between Northwich and Chester, and before Captain Sale could clear the palings that skirted it, I was within twenty yards of him.
Finding himself hard pressed, he did not attempt to pursue this road, but leaping the fence on the further side, again plunged into the heath, taking the direction of Oak Mere. I after him, of course.
Once more we were on a shaking bog, — once more in fearful proximity to treacherous quagmires. Immediately on our right was Riley Moss: on the left mere a smaller, but yet more perilous marsh. The swampy nature of the ground no longer allowed Malpas to keep up the headlong pace he had hitherto maintained. It was with difficulty he got on at all. His horse sank in the oozy bog at every step. I was in equal jeopardy, and at last had the mortification of seeing Malpas reach a firm piece of ground, while my horse stuck quite fast.
All danger was now over with Captain Sale. After carefully considering the course to be pursued, he rode off, laughing derisively at my situation, and I soon lost sight of him.
My efforts to free myself from the quagmire in which I was caught only made matters worse. My horse got more and more inextricably involved at every plunge, and at length seemed to be sinking altogether. In order, therefore, to save myself from inevitable destruction, I was compelled to abandon him. The poor animal seemed conscious of the terrible fate awaiting him, and struggled violently to free himself, but his efforts only hastened his doom. Each moment he sank deeper and deeper — until at last, with a shrill cry, he entirely disappeared.
My own position was fraught with too much peril to allow time for reflection on this disastrous event. Grieved as I was to lose my horse, preservation of my own life was the main point to consider. With great difficulty I managed to extricate myself from the morass, and this accomplished, I soon reached a part of the heath where the sod was firm, and there was no longer any risk. I was shaping my course towards the Tarporley road, which was not very far off, when I heard shouts in the distance, and descried Ned Culcheth running towards me. I waited till the honest fellow came up. He had been searching for me, and had been greatly alarmed at my disappearance. After I had explained to him what had happened, he said:
“You’ve had a lucky escape, sir, I can tell you. These bogs are like quicksands, and when once man or beast gets involved in them, they are never seen again. I wish that confounded Captain Sale were beside your poor horse. But his day of reckoning can’t be far off, and he may meet with a worse fate than being smothered in a bog.”
We then made the best of our way to the mill, where my companion tarried with me during the few hours left of the night.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SEARCH FOR THE BODY.
NEXT morning Ned set off betimes for Marston. H
e had instructions from me to lay all particulars of the dark deed that had occurred overnight before Mr. Mapletoft, a neighbouring magistrate, and to obtain from that gentleman a warrant for Malpas’s immediate arrest. I proposed to be at Marston myself in the afternoon, when the accusation against Malpas could be heard by Mr. Mapletoft, but the morning must be devoted to a search for the murdered man. Charged with these instructions, Ned departed.
I should now have been badly off for a steed, but luckily, Mr. Mavis had a stout young horse which he kept for his own use, so I was able at once to supply the place of the unfortunate animal I had lost in the bog.
An impulse not to be resisted drew me in the first place to Weverham. On reaching John’s cottage, I found that he had returned from Cottonborough at a late hour on the night before — much to my chagrin, also, I learnt that he had returned alone. I sat down to wait for him in his little parlour. He soon made his appearance, and in a few words made me acquainted with what had occurred since I left him with Doctor Foam. The doctor, he, said, whose goodness of heart and excellence of judgment could not be doubted, had strongly advised him not to remove Apphia from her mother for the present, and had given such good reasons for his counsel, that in the end he had yielded.
By taking away your sister at once, Doctor Foam had said to my friend, you will naturally offend your mother, with whom further disagreement ought sedulously to be avoided. You cannot foresee how Lady Amicia may act. Very probably her character may be softened by her improved circumstances. At all events, give her a fair trial. Consider the importance of a wealthy and titled mother’s protection to Apphia, and do not rashly deprive her of such great advantages.
“I could not deny the force of much that the worthy doctor advanced,” John said, “and I felt that it would be selfish in me to desire to have my sister with me, since it was so much more to her own interests to remain with our mother. Whether I have done right, time will show. I shall have this consolation at least, that I have acted for the best. Before leaving Cottonborough, I made a point of seeing Apphia in order to ascertain her sentiments. As you may imagine — for you know how devotedly attached my sister was to dear Mrs. Mervyn — I found her plunged in deep affliction, but she herself thought it would not be right to leave our mother at a time like the present. Prudential motives may have swayed her, for all particulars of our family history had been imparted to her by Lady Amicia, but she must have been mainly influenced by the change in our mother’s manner. Subsequently I had an interview with Lady Amicia, and am bound to say that she produced a very favourable impression upon me — so favourable, indeed, as almost to warrant me in hoping that the improvement in her character may be permanent. In all respects, indeed, the interview was satisfactory.”
Whatever opinion I might entertain as to the probable duration of Lady Amicia’s present amiable frame of mind, I made no remark to my friend, but proceeded to recount to him the fearful occurrences of the previous night. He heard me with profound attention, and seemed greatly shocked by the details of Malpas’s criminality.
“Badly as I had thought of him,” he said, “this far exceeds any notion I had formed of his villany. His base conduct towards that young gipsy-girl would suffice to stamp him as an unprincipled profligate — and now he has dyed his hands in blood. What would have been Apphia’s fate if she had been united to such a wretch! We may, indeed, congratulate ourselves on her escape.”
Soon after this I took leave of my friend, and rode on to Owlarton Grange.
Tidings of Mrs. Mervyn’s demise had preceded me. Intelligence of the sad event had been communicated b/Doctor Foam to Cuthbert Spring, who, with Major Atherton, was still staying at the Grange. The doctor had imparted full particulars of the poor lady’s disposition of her property, mentioning, of course, that the so-called Mrs. Brideoake, had assumed her real name and title of Lady Amicia Wilburton. Aware of all this, Miss Hazilrigge and Ora overwhelmed me with inquiries about Apphia and John. Ora was in despair that the property had not been left to the latter, and could scarcely find words strong enough to express her vexation at Lady Amicia’s success. “I hope John will get the title, in spite of her,” she cried. “I’m sure, if we have any means of helping him to do so, they shan’t be wanting.” Good-natured Miss Hazilrigge was nearly as much annoyed by the untoward event as her niece, though she did not exhibit her disappointment with so much vivacity. I was obliged to tell them that the object of their sympathy was quite indifferent to the loss he had sustained, and that when the title had been offered him, he had been most reluctant to accept it.
“Ah, indeed! he has less selfishness than any one I ever met with,” Miss Hazilrigge exclaimed. “I have always declared that he is too good for this world.” —
“Don’t you recollect the discussion we had upon this subject some time ago, Mervyn?” Ora said to me. “It now appears that Mr. Spring was in the secret all the time, and knew that by good right John ought to be Lord Wilburton.”
“Yes, I must own that Doctor Foam had taken me into his confidence,” Cuthbert replied; “but then I was bound to secrecy.”—’
“Do you think Apphia will remain with her mother?” Miss Hazilrigge inquired.
“Impossible to say,” I replied; “but there seems every probability of her doing so.”
“What will become of John?” Miss Hazilrigge cried. “Positively, we must have him here.”
“Call him Lord Wilburton, aunt, if you please,” Ora said. “He must have the title, and we may as well, therefore, give him it at once.”
Not wishing to disturb the ladies by any allusion to the errand on which I was bound, I begged a word in private with Mr. Hazilrigge and my two friends, upon which they at once adjourned with me to another room. My relation astonished them all, and no one more than Old Hazy, who could not help expressing great concern for the fate of the luckless Thaumaturgus.
All three immediately volunteered to accompany me to Delamere Forest; and professed their anxiety to assist in the needful inquisition there, and then go on with me to Marston. I gladly embraced the offer, whereupon Old Hazy ordered the carriage to be got ready with the utmost expedition, telling Ponder, at my suggestion, that Stephen Blackden must go with us, and be provided with an eel-spear, a couple of long poles, and a coil of rope. These arrangements made, Major Atherton and I went round to the stables, and, mounting our horses, rode off, leaving the others to follow. As we proceeded on our way, the major fell into discourse with me, and assumed a far more kindly and confidential manner towards me than he had hitherto adopted; expressing great concern at my disappointment in my expectations in regard to Mrs. Mervyn, but hoping that I might still recover my uncle Mobberley’s will, which would make amends for all. As to my chance of obtaining Apphia’s hand, he thought that the difficulties were certainly increased by the present perplexed state of affairs, but if the young lady remained constant, all must come right in the end.
We had reached the confines of Delamere Forest before the carriage overtook us. Instead of proceeding to the Headless Cross as I had done on the night before, we turned off about half a mile short of it, at a point where the Tarporley road is crossed by the road from Northwich to Chester, and, pursuing the latter, soon got into the heart of the forest.
Here we were compelled to take to the turf, and as the carriage could proceed no further, Old Hazy and Cuthbert Spring alighted, and, followed by Stephen Blackden, bearing the eel-spear, rope, and poles, we proceeded towards the hut, which was about a mile distant. A couple of poorly-clad men, with spades over their shoulders, who proved to be turf-cutters, were standing near the little tenement, but noticing our approach, they hastened to meet us. We had no difficulty in crossing the dyke, for the plank had been restored to its original position. On explaining our errand to the turf-cutters, they appeared extremely surprised, but readily promised to aid us in our search, declaring at the same time that they had seen nothing except the plank in the dyke. “To be sure we never expected to see a murdered man ther
e,” one of them remarked.
“Whom does the hut belong to?” I asked.
“It was built by one Dick Hornby,” the turf-cutter replied;
“but he has been dead more than a year, and latterly the hovel has only been used by vagrants. I have seen a couple of gipsies hanging about it for the last three or four days, and I thought they might have taken up their quarters in there, and so I told Tom Tarvin.”
“Ay, so you did, Will Duddon,” the other replied. “You said you were quite sure the gipsies lodged in old Hornby’s hut.”
Meanwhile, we had approached the edge of the dyke, and the two turf-cutters, quickly divesting themselves of their shoes and stockings, let themselves drop into the channel, which in this place was about two feet deep in water. The depth of the dyke was about twelve or fourteen feet. The eel-spear and a pole were then handed down to the men, and we watched their proceedings from the brink. I indicated the exact spot where Pownall had fallen, and the turf-cutters carefully searched the channel at the point, but made no discovery. There was a slight — very slight-current in the inky water, and it was possible that the body of the unfortunate man might have been carried on, so they waded along for at least a hundred yards, using pole and spear as they went, but without finding anything — we watching them all the time from above — until they came to a spot which it was impossible the body could have passed. This was a small pool, into which the water flowing along the dyke emptied itself. Beyond, there was another outlet, but it was protected by stakes planted closely together. Here, then, the body must be, if at all, and here a most careful search was made by the two men; but nothing was found, and after some time spent in useless exertion, they were obliged to give up the job.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 487
