The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Give me joy, Ponder!” I exclaimed—” give me joy! I am just come into two thousand a year.”

  “I am quite aware of it, sir,” the butler replied; “and the fortunate circumstance may account for your exhilaration.”

  “I mean to make everybody about me happy and comfortable,” I continued. “I have a great regard for you, Ponder — a particular regard — and shall evince it by making you a handsome present.”

  “Very much obleeged to you, I’m sure, sir,” he replied, bowing respectfully. “But excuse me for saying, that I hope now you’ve come into your property that you’ll take care of it.”

  “I mean to do so, Ponder,” I replied. “But I thank you for your excellent advice, and will double the gratuity I intended to make you.”

  The butler again bowed, and I executed a pirouette before him.

  “Shall I open the window, sir?” he asked, beginning to be slightly alarmed.

  “By all means, Ponder,” I replied. “A little fresh air will be agreeable. By the bye, has he escaped?”

  “Who, sir — the prisoner?” he exclaimed. “Oh, no! we have him safe enough.”

  “I’m sorry for it,” I rejoined.

  “What! sorry he has not escaped, sir?” he cried, staring at me.

  “Well, it is odd, Ponder,” I said, rather more calmly; “but I feel so uncommonly happy just now, that I can’t bear to think of anybody being miserable. I wish Pownall had got off.”

  “That would never do, sir,” he replied, gravely. “Such a rascal mustn’t be allowed to go at large. He doesn’t seem to be much concerned at his position, and his main anxiety appears to be that Captain Sale and the gipsies should be taken. He talks of all he has done with great freedom to the officer, and says he means to make a clean breast of it. By the bye, you’ll be glad to hear, sir, that all my master’s books of magic and witchcraft are burnt.”

  “What, all his treasures, Ponder?” I cried, becoming suddenly tranquil.

  “Every one of ‘em, sir,” he replied. “Not a single volume has been spared. Miss Hazilrigge was fearful he might change his mind, and bade me set to work the first thing, so I called up the men at four o’clock this morning — long before the old gentleman opened his eyes — and we made a great bonfire in the yard, and threw all the abominable rubbish into it. A precious lot of musty old books there was, sir. We filled a large clothes-basket choke full wi’ ’em more than a dozen times. One of the last we threw into the fire was that big black book, which he used to call the Devil’s Grammar” (Mr. Ponder meant the Grimoire), “and you should have seen how it hissed and crackled.

  You’d ha’ thought it had got into its natural element. You may smell the smoke of the bonfire even here. My master will never behold his treasures again — and a good job too! — but Pownall saw the last of ‘em, for the window of the room in which he is confined looks out into the yard, and he and the officer perceiving the blaze, came forward to ascertain what we were doing. You should have seen how the old rascal grinned as we cast basketful after basketful of books into the fire.”

  “Well, I hope your master won’t be angry, Ponder,” I said.

  “No fear of that, sir,” he replied. “When I went into his room just now I told him what I had done, and he said it was all right. Ho would never have had the heart to give the order for the execution himself, he declared, but he was glad it was over. I do verily believe, sir, that henceforth my master will be a very different person. His eyes seem fairly opened at last, and if he gets rid of his eccentricities and oddities, he will be one of the best and kindest men breathing.”

  “He is that already, Ponder,” I replied. “But I am delighted with what you tell me about him.”

  Shortly afterwards the butler left me, and as soon as my toilet was completed I came down stairs, having by this time regained my customary composure. I could not make up my mind to part with the will, but kept it in a place of safety about my person.

  When we met at breakfast I received the warmest congratulations from the whole party, and little else was talked about except my good luck. Miss Hazilrigge and Ora laid out the most delightful plans for my future life, in which, as a matter of course, Apphia was included, and I was so intoxicated with success, that I began to fancy that everything would turn out exactly as they arranged it.

  “I despair of nothing now, my dear Miss Hazilrigge,” I said.

  “Still there is a great difficulty to be overcome in the person of Lady Amicia Wilburton.”

  I observed Major Atherton and Cuthbert Spring exchange significant looks when I made this observation, and the latter remarked, with a smile:

  “I don’t think your case quite so hopeless now as heretofore, Mervyn. As possessor of Nethercrofts, Lady Amicia may be more favourably disposed towards you. Let us get over the business of to-day, and we will then, turn our attention to that important point.”

  Old Hazy was in excellent spirits. I had never seen him more cheerful — so it was evident that the destruction of his once-beloved books did not weigh upon his mind. I should not have ventured to say anything to him on the subject, but he referred to it himself, declaring that he would never again read a treatise on the occult sciences. And I may add that he has kept his word.

  This being the day appointed for the steeplechase, we knew where to find Malpas. The race was to be run at three o’clock, and before that hour we meant to be upon the ground. From what Ned Culcheth had stated to my two friends there was little doubt that Phaleg and his son would be captured at the same time.

  At noon we started for Marston — Old Hazy in his antiquated barouche, with Major Atherton and Cuthbert Spring; Pownall and the officer in the post-chaise, which had been retained for the purpose. I rode on before the others, wishing to call at Weverham, and acquaint John with the good news. He was equally surprised and delighted by my relation.

  “You are indeed, most fortunate, Mervyn,” he said, “and I pray that you may live long to enjoy your newly-acquired property.”

  I thanked him heartily, and that I only required one thing now to make me entirely happy — his sister’s hand.

  “If that is all you lack to complete your felicity,” he replied, with a kindly smile, “I do not think it will be wanting. Do not question me further. I may not speak.”

  I left my friend full of joyous anticipations — the only drawback to which was my incertitude as to the conclusion of his own love affair. I had not ventured to introduce the topic, having nothing satisfactory to communicate.

  As I returned to the highway, on quitting the village of Weverham, I came upon the barouche and post-chaise, and after chatting for a short time with the occupants of the former vehicle, galloped on in advance.

  Oh! how I enjoyed that ride! Everything took a colour from the sunshine in my breast. The landscape brightened and revealed beauties and picturesque combinations which I had not hitherto discerned in it. Not a sound — not an object but yielded me delight. All seemed in harmony with my own blissful feelings. Even the consideration of the unpleasant task on which I was bound did not obtrude itself upon me, until I came within half a mile of Marston, when I was reminded of it by seeing Ned Culcheth.

  The trusty fellow was seated on a bench in front of a little wayside inn, and as I came in sight, he started up and ran towards me. On learning that I had got the will, he took off his cap, and waved it over his head with a prolonged and joyous shout. After this demonstration of delight, he held out his honest hand to me, and I grasped it cordially. He then tried another shout, but this time his voice failed him, and he was obliged to brush the moisture from his eyes.

  “Hang it!” he exclaimed, “I don’t know how it be. I never felt so glad in all my life, and yet I must needs be snivelling. This will be rare news for Sissy, and for all Marston, when they come to hear it.”

  “I dare say they can give us a glass of good ale, yonder, Ned?” I said, pointing to the little inn.

  “As good as any in Cheshire,” he responde
d.

  “We’ll try it, then,” I said. “You must drink my health.”

  Upon this we repaired to the inn, where I alighted, and Ned emptied a glass of the nut-brown beverage to my health and happiness. When the honest fellow’s enthusiastic delight had somewhat abated, I questioned him as to the steeplechase. He told me that no change had taken place in the arrangements, but that the match was to be run at three o’clock, as appointed, and that Captain Sale was expected to win it.

  “He may win the race, Ned,” I remarked, “but he will lose all else — honour and liberty. What of the gipsies?”

  “Captured by this time I make no doubt, sir,” he replied. “They have been seen this morning, and the officers are after ‘em.”

  “And Malpas has no suspicions, you think, Ned, that a warrant has been obtained for his arrest?”

  “None whatever, sir,” he rejoined. “I wouldn’t trust Bryan Peover, so I placed it in the hands of Mike Heron, the Knutsford constable. Mike won’t hesitate to do the business. Captain Sale has been stayin’ for the last week wi’ his uncle Squire Vernon, at Fitton Park, and not half an hour ago I met one of the squire’s keepers, who told me the captain is in wonderful spirits, and makes sure of winnin’ one thousand pounds by the match.”

  While we were thus conversing, the barouche came up, and was brought to a halt, as was the post-chaise that followed it containing the prisoner. Pownall was at once recognised by the keeper of the wayside inn, which proved to be the house where the caitiff had been left by the waggoner on the night of his escape from the dyke.

  A brief consultation was then held as to the course to be pursued. Major Atherton and Cuthbert Spring were for arresting Malpas at once, but Old Hazy pleaded bard that be should be allowed to run the race.

  “Don’t deprive him of the amusement,” be said; “it may be the last race be will ever run.”

  The last race be would ever run! Little did the old gentleman deem bow prophetic were the words be uttered.

  After a short halt, we went on, Ned getting up in front of the post-chaise. Very few persons noticed us as we passed through Marston. The village was almost deserted, the majority of the inhabitants having gone to witness the race. Simon Pownall, who was anxious to elude observation, leaned as far back as be could in the chaise, but be was recognised notwithstanding by more than one old acquaintance.

  Our road took us past Nethercrofts. As we passed by the old farmhouse, I saw Hannah standing at the orchard gate, and could not help stopping to tell her of the extraordinary changes that had taken place. When she beard that my uncle Mobberley’s rightful will had been found, and that I was now incontestible heir to the property, she held up her bands and screamed with delight, calling out, “Well, to be sure! Who’d ha’ thought it?” Her husband, William Weever, she told me, was gone to see the race, and I should most likely meet him on the ground. She would answer for it, be would be rarely pleased with the news.

  After bestowing a glance at the dear old farmhouse, enchanted to think that I could now call it my own, I hastened after the others, and overtook them at the bottom of a gentle descent which had brought them within a short distance of the mere. My breast swelled, for all I saw was mine — those rich meads and pleasant pasture-land, and that picturesque coppice, running down to the borders of the lake, all belonged to me.

  We went on for nearly a quarter of a mile further, and I was still on my own ground, when we came to the locality of the steeplechase.

  On the summit of a gentle eminence on the right, about half a mile off, which eminence commanded a complete view of the whole line of country marked out for the race, a stand had been erected. Close to it were three or four booths. The entire crown of the bill and part of the sides were occupied, as at a regular race, by a throng of spectators on horseback or on foot, mixed up with vehicles of various kinds, from the landau and phaeton to the gig and taxed-cart. Of horsemen there could not have been fewer than three or four hundred, while of persons on foot there must have been double that number. Plenty of witnesses, I could not help thinking, of Malpas’s approaching disgrace.

  The stand was filled with spectators — chiefly ladies, most of them, no doubt, wives and daughters of the neighbouring gentry — and above it floated a large flag. The course to be taken by the riders in the race was indicated by tall flagstaffs planted at various points, and seemed to have been skilfully planned, as it offered many difficulties, while at the same time there were plenty of open spaces left, over which the horses could stretch well out, and make good trial of their speed. As we came in sight of the hill loud shouting was heard, and great commotion was perceptible among the horsemen, several of whom were riding to and fro, proving that the race was just about to begin.

  Both vehicles were at once brought to a halt, and while the others were alighting I dashed through a gate into a large field on the right, at the bottom of which flowed a brook, forming the boundary of the Nethercrofts estate. This brook, as shown by the flagstaff on the opposite bank, had to be crossed by the riders, and at a place of great hazard. Not only was the stream upwards of thirty feet wide at this point, but its banks were broken, while there were several old pollard willows that seemed to stand right in the way, and great caution would be required to avoid these trees while making a jump. Altogether it was a most awkward spot, as I saw at a glance. Indeed, I knew the place well, having often angled in the brook. In anticipation of mischief, a number of lookers-on had collected on the further side of the brook, while some adventurous country bumpkins and lads had clambered up the pollard-trees in hopes of obtaining a better view. I was about to ride down the field, when my attention was directed to a group consisting of some half-dozen men, with a woman near them. In the latter I at once recognised Rue, and I knew who the others must be.

  As I advanced, I descried Phaleg and his son with an officer on either side of them. Both gipsies were handcuffed. Poor Rue, who was evidently much cast down, looked reproachfully at me, but did not speak. I could not but feel compassion for her.

  The constables told me, with a laugh, that they had pounced upon the ruffians the moment they entered the field. Mike Heron, the Knutsford constable, now came forward, and touching his hat, asked if I had any orders to give him. I told him to go up to the stand, near which the winning-post was situated, and as soon as the race was over, to arrest Captain Sale. Mike departed on his errand forthwith.

  By this time Major Atherton and the others had come up, bringing Pownall with them in charge of the officer. On finding that his accomplices were captured, Pownall testified his extreme satisfaction, and commenced jeering them bitterly. The gipsies scowled at him, but made no reply to his taunts.

  After a moment’s debate, it was decided that we should station ourselves near the pollards, so I dismounted, and leaving my horse in charge of a farming lad, we moved down in a body towards the brook, the officers following us with the three prisoners.

  Scarcely had we taken up our position, when a bell was rung, informing us that the riders had started, and we presently caught a glimpse of them speeding across the clear space on the near side of the mill. At this moment Captain Brereton took the lead, though Malpas was not far behind. Both were in jockey-dresses, Malpas wearing a blue cap, with a white jacket crossed by a broad sky-blue stripe, and his opponent a white cap and pink jacket. As far as could be judged, they seemed pretty well matched in regard to horses, and both rode remarkably well. Two flights of hurdles were cleared in no time, and then we lost sight of them both for a few moments. Over a stiff fence they both came at last, doing their work in gallant style, but Malpas was now ahead, and kept his place as they flew across the open. On — on — on. They were now within a hundred yards of the brook, and were greeted by the cheers of the spectators. Malpas’s name was chiefly coupled with the shouts. He still led, and the cries were that he would win.

  Despite the peculiar circumstances in which I stood in reference to one of the riders, it was impossible not to be interested in so
well-contested a race. I approached the side of the stream the better to observe them, and my example was followed by Major Atherton and Cuthbert Spring. In this position I think I must have caught the eye of Malpas, though I cannot be sure, but it seemed to me that he noticed me, and slightly swerved. Be this as it may, a sudden flush overspread his countenance, which had hitherto been pale with excitement. However, he held on unfalteringly. He was now full twenty yards in advance of Captain Brereton, and the crowd of spectators collected at this point cheered him as winner. With these shouts ringing in his ears he charged the brook.

  From the style in which his horse jumped I thought the animal would have landed him in safety — but I was mistaken.

  A terrible crash told me that an accident had happened. But I scarcely saw it, for all passed like a vision before my swimming eyes. The horse was down, and Malpas was lying, stunned and bleeding, and with fast-approaching death written in unmistakable characters on his countenance, at the foot of one of the pollard-trees, against which he had been dashed. A moment before he had been full of power, pride, triumph — now he lay there helpless as a crushed worm — dying!

  In the midst of the fearful outcries occasioned by this disastrous occurrence, Captain Brereton, who could not, of course, check himself, leaped the brook, and with better luck than Malpas, landing upon a firm spot on the bank, and, avoiding the pollards went on, shouting that he would bring medical aid directly. But it would be of no use. All the surgeons in Cheshire, or in England, could not help Malpas now.

  As soon as Captain Brereton was out of the way, we rushed to Malpas, but he besought us not to move him for his agony was excruciating. At this moment, a piercing shriek arose, and Rue rushed forward. Her wrongs were forgotten, and all the tenderness she had once felt for her betrayer returned to her breast. Kneeling beside him, she took his head gently upon her lap, and strove by every means in her power to alleviate his sufferings. Aware who was near him, the dying man thanked her by his looks.