The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  The scene, which produced an ineffaceable impression upon me, now rises before me with its minutest details. I see Malpas stretched upon the bank, at the foot of the pollard-willow, groaning with agony — with no power of movement in his well shaped limbs. What a contrast does his gay attire offer to his ghastly looks! He is supported by the poor gipsy-girl whom he has wronged, who watches him with intense anxiety, and would lay down her life to save him. Behind, stands his groom, holding his unlucky steed, which is but slightly injured. Amongst the spectators of the accident are many who have known the dying man, and are affected in various ways. Cuthbert Spring and Old Hazy, who are standing near the sufferer, seem quite horrified by the dreadful occurrence, and so does Ned Culcheth, but Major Atherton looks grimly on. He has seen death too often on the battle-field to be moved. But there is another group on which the spectacle might be expected to produce a powerful effect — a group consisting of the reckless young man’s evil associates, Simon Pownall and the gipsies. How are they affected? Phaleg and his son look on with sullen unconcern, and the vice-hardened countenance of the elder gipsy displays no emotion whatever. Obed is not quite so stoical, but even he has a callous look. But Pownall, who is seated on the ground, averts his gaze, and tries to stop his ears with his manacled hands. All his cynicism is gone.

  Such was the aspect presented by the various groups gathered around the dying man. For myself, I can affirm that I was dreadfully shocked, and that feelings of commiseration were paramount to all others in my breast.

  Malpas at last made me out, and fixing his glazing eyes upon me, faltered forth:

  “Have you got it? — the will!”

  “It is here!” I cried, exhibiting the document to his failing gaze.

  His looks expressed satisfaction, and he said faintly:

  “It is well. I shall die easier for your forgiveness, Mervyn.”

  “You have it, Malpas,” I rejoined, taking his helpless hand in mine. “I forgive you from the bottom of my heart.”

  He thanked me by a look, for his stiffening fingers could not return my pressure.

  “Let me have yours too, Rue?” he said, with a last effort.

  She gave it him at once, and with a passionate outburst of grief that attested the depth of her affection.

  Unwilling to behold this heart-rending spectacle, I looked away for a moment, when a piercing cry smote my ears, and told me what had occurred. Malpas was gone to his account.

  Shriek after shriek followed from the unfortunate gipsy-girl — each more harrowing than that which had gone before it. At last she flung herself despairingly upon the lifeless body of her lover.

  Even the rugged breast of Phaleg was touched by his daughter’s affliction, and he implored the officers to let him go to her.

  As to Obed, he was so violently excited that he broke from the constable who held him, and rushed towards Rue, when he was again seized. It was a frightful scene, and I felt so heart-sickened that I rushed away.

  Seeing how painfully I was affected, Major Atherton immediately followed me, and by the kindest solicitude tried to restore me. He remarked that, distressing as the occurrence might be, it was better for himself — better for all connected with him — that Malpas had died thus. The major then recommended me to go to Nethercrofts.

  “Go and take possession of the old house at once,” he said. “Stay there to-night. Your tenants will make you up a bed; and they must manage to make up a bed for me as well, for I intend to claim your hospitality. Don’t remain any longer here. I will take all disagreeable business that remains to be done off your hands, and will explain to Mr. Hazilrigge and Cuthbert Spring that I sent you away.”

  “But I shall see you again soon?” I said.

  “You shall see me to-night,” he replied. “You remember where you first beheld me?”

  “Perfectly. At my mother’s grave in Marston churchyard.”

  “Come to that hallowed spot at nine o’clock this evening,” he replied. “ You will find me there. I have a secret to reveal to you.” And without another word, he turned away and rejoined our friends.

  I had just mounted my horse, and was about to ride off to Nethercrofts as I had been enjoined by this singular man, who exercised such an extraordinary influence over me, when Ned Culcheth came up, and after a few remarks, said:

  “What a strange thing it be, sir, that Captain Sale should meet his death at yonder spot.”

  “Why stranger there than elsewhere, Ned?” I asked.

  “Because the Nethercrofts estate begins at that point,” he rejoined.. “No sooner does he touch the land he has coveted and has striven to wrest from the rightful owner, than his horse dashes him against a tree, and he dies at the foot of the man he has wronged. It looks like a judgment.” —

  I made no reply, but the words sank deep into my breast.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  ONCE MORE AT THE GRAVE.

  WHILE crossing the fields that night from Nethercrofts to keep my appointment with Major Atherton, I was strangely agitated. What was the nature of the revelation to be made to me? Certain notions had sometimes crossed me in regard to this inscrutable personage, but they seemed so wild and extravagant that I did not dare to indulge them. Accordingly, I had dismissed them as soon as formed. But now they came back upon me with greater force than ever. The truth seemed suddenly to flash upon me; and I hurried on, eager to turn my conjectures into certainties.

  Full of hope, and with a breast beating with new-born emotions, I passed through the little gate opening upon the churchyard. A wan moon, struggling through passing clouds, feebly illumined the place. By this scanty light I could distinguish that he was standing near the grave, and I flew towards him.

  He did not keep me a moment in suspense, but held out his arms as I approached.

  “My son! my dear son!” he exclaimed.

  “My father! my dear father!” I rejoined, rushing into his embrace.

  Profound emotion kept us silent for some minutes. He then spoke:

  “When you beheld me that night — though I little thought you were present at the time — I registered a vow on this spot that the rest of my life should be devoted to my son. Since then you have been the sole object of my thoughts. But wishing to study your character and disposition from a point of view which circumstances enabled me to take, I presented myself to you as a stranger; and I continued the part I had commenced, because I desired to see how you would act at a critical conjuncture — contenting myself with looking passively on, but ever ready to come to your assistance in case of need. Had not your mind been greatly engrossed by other matters, you must have discovered me. More than once I have been on the point of acknowledging myself to you, but I have checked myself, because I had determined that the disclosure — which has been, perhaps, too long delayed — should be made on this spot — that here, in your dear mother’s presence, as it were, I would avow myself your father, and give you my benediction. Take it, my son,” he added, spreading his arms over me, “and if a blessed spirit can be permitted to hover unseen over the living, be assured that your mother is near us now. Kneel down, my son — kneel down — and let us pray!”

  On this we both bent the knee reverentially, and continued for some time occupied in fervent devotion. Perchance a gentle spirit did look down upon us the while.

  My father was the first to rise. When I quitted my kneeling posture, and gazed into his countenance, its habitual sternness had given way to an expression of mildness and benevolence. He again embraced me, and with increased affection. We remained for some time longer near the grave. He had much to say, and wished to say it there. For it seemed to both of us that there was an unseen listener to our converse.

  My father told me what had brought him back to England. Death had been busy around him in the burning land he had quitted. Wife and children had all perished from one of those dire scourges that in India decimate a city. He was away from them at the time, and when he returned to Lahore, where he had left them
, all were gone. His thoughts then naturally reverted to his son in England; and feelings of affection, hitherto repressed or diverted into other channels, sprang up at once in his bosom. Of his son’s precise position he was almost ignorant, for of late the young man had failed to write; while the accounts he received from his ever-active correspondent, Cuthbert Spring, were neither very clear nor very satisfactory. He would go to England. Why should he stay longer in India? He had wealth enough, and had seen service enough. He would retire from the army. His resolution was acted upon; and as soon as the necessary arrangements for his departure could be completed — and they were got through with all possible despatch — he returned to his native land. He had given no intimation of his return to any one — not even to Cuthbert Spring; but on his arrival in London, he wrote to his friend, begging him to come up to him. From Cuthbert he learnt all particulars of his son, and what he heard brought him quickly to Cottonborough with his friend. His first visit had been paid to the grave in Marston churchyard, where I had seen him. The rest I knew.

  Such was the recital made to me by my father as we stood together on that hallowed spot.

  At its close, he knelt down again, pressed his lips to the monumental stone, and walked slowly away, motioning me to follow him. He did not proceed towards the little gate by which I had entered the churchyard, but moved in the opposite direction, until at last we stood opposite the vicarage.

  “There is the house of mourning,” he said; “and if you could enter it, you would find a mother wailing for her only son — a father prostrated by affliction. I have little commiseration for the worldly vicar whose pride has been thus humbled, but I sincerely pity Mrs. Sale. A worse calamity might, however, have befallen her. If she knew all, she might not deplore her son’s death. I saw the lifeless body borne home upon a hurdle, and heard the mother’s cry of anguish on beholding it. It wrang my heart as much as that poor gipsy-girl’s frantic ejaculations had wrung it before to-day, and I was glad to get away.”

  What he said conjured up such a painful scene to my imagination, that I involuntarily made a movement to depart, and he withdrew with me at once.

  On our way to Nethercrofts, where we were both to pass the night, my father informed me that Pownall and the gipsies had been taken to Chester. And I may add, as this will be the last time of mentioning them, that all three met the punishment due to their offences. The gipsies got two years’ imprisonment with hard labour; while the Thaumaturgus had an opportunity offered him of visiting Australia — free of expense.

  CHAPTER XX.

  AT HOME AT THE ANCHORITE’S.

  ABOUT a week after the events last recorded, between two and three o’clock in the afternoon, my father and myself drove from the hotel at which we were staying in Cottonborough to the Anchorite’s. We made rather a gay turn out, for we occupied a stylish chariot which Colonel Clitheroe had just received from town, with a footman on the box in a dark undress livery, and with a cockade in his hat. A pair of spanking greys, driven by a smart-looking postilion in a scarlet jacket and irreproachable leathers, soon made their way through the crowded streets, rattled across the iron bridge over the Ater, bowled along the Broughton road at the rate of ten miles an hour, and almost before we had time to think of it, brought us to our destination. —

  There were two other carriages under the trees at a little distance from the entrance to the Anchorite’s, one of which I recognised as Doctor Foam’s old-fashioned yellow chariot, but the other was a very handsome equipage indeed, with a remarkably stout, consequential-looking coachman, and a powdered footman, both in rich liveries, seated on the hammer-cloth. I noticed that this carriage had an earl’s coronet on the panels.

  Meantime, our footman had rung the bell, and the summons was answered by Mr. Comberbach, arrayed in a handsome suit of sables, with aiguillettes on his shoulder, and having an important and almost majestic air. The butler was attended by two other men-servants, likewise attired in black, but I was glad to perceive that the inauspicious-looking Fabyan Lowe was not one of them. Mr. Comberbach advanced towards my father as he alighted, and having respectfully saluted him, accorded me a most smiling welcome.

  Ah! how different were my feelings as I now entered the gate of the old house from those I had experienced when passing through it last! Now all looked bright and smiling. As Mr. Comberbach marched with more than his usual pomp along the broad gravel-walk, he ever and anon cast a bland and benign look at me, and just before reaching the porch, he stayed his stately step, and said:

  “Her ladyship is on the garden terrace near the river, Colonel Clitheroe, and if you please, sir, I will conduct you to her at once. But perhaps,” he added, with a glance at me—” perhaps it may be agreeable to you, Mr. Mervyn, to see Miss Apphia first.”

  “By all means, Comberbach,” I replied, eagerly. “You anticipate my wishes.”

  “Have the goodness to come up-stairs with me to the library, then,” he said. “No necessity for disguise now,” he added, in a low tone.

  “I will wait for you, Mervyn,” my father remarked, with a smile. “You can dispense with my company, I am sure. Go, my boy. Success attend you!”

  I thanked him with a smile, and while he walked into the dining-room, I followed the butler up-stairs, and was ushered by him into the library. As soon as we had entered the room, Mr. Comberbach unbosomed himself in this wise:

  “Well, sir, things have turned out much better than I expected. Her ladyship makes a very good missis — a little overbearing at times, but nothin’ to complain of. We’ve got rid of that prying rascal, Fabyan Lowe. Molly still keeps her place, and is likely to keep it, for she has got used to her ladyship’s ways, and knows how to please her. We shall never have such another missis as dear Mrs. Mervyn — but it’s no use grievin’. We must make ourselves as comfortable as we can in this Yale of Tears. And talkin’ o’ that, sir, I have at last made up my mind to marry — —”

  “Molly Bailey,” I suggested.

  “Right, sir,” he replied; “right. Miss Apphia has kindly obtained her ladyship’s consent to our espousals —— so as there is now no impediment we shall soon be man and wife. We have been already asked at the Old Church. Ours has been a longish engagement, Mr. Mervyn, — well-nigh thirty years. I wouldn’t recommend you to wait so long, sir,” he added, with a knowing look.

  “I don’t mean to do so, Comberbach,” I replied. “You must look quick, or I shall be married before you. But tell me! — who is with her ladyship in the garden?”

  “Lord bless me, sir! don’t you know? I thought Colonel Clitheroe would have told you. Didn’t you see the carriage at the gate? It’s her ladyship’s father, the old Earl of Rossendale, and her brother, Lord Leyland. They’ve been staying in Cottonborough for the last three days. Doctor Foam is with them in the garden. Other company are expected, and a cold collation is laid out in the dining-room. The Reverend Mr. Wilburton is here, sir.”

  What else he might have informed me I know not, for at this moment the inner door opened, and as Apphia and her brother entered from it, the loquacious butler took flight.

  She was dressed in deep mourning, which seemed to suit her somewhat serious style of countenance and sedate deportment better than gayer apparel would have done. When I say serious, I am almost afraid of conveying a wrong impression of her looks, which wore a gentle pensiveness, very far removed from gravity, and still further from gloom. Nothing, indeed, could be sweeter than the smile with which she greeted me — nothing more affectionate than her manner.

  For a few moments I saw only her. John seemed to vanish from my sight. I told her I was come to claim her as my bride, and that if I were refused, I was resolved to carry her off in spite of all opposition. She answered, with a smile, that happily such extreme measures, which she herself might feel compelled to resist, did not need to be resorted to, for she thought, if a formal claim for her hand were now made to her mother, that it would not be rejected.

  “Then there is no longer any imped
iment,” I exclaimed, joyfully. “You are mine, dearest Apphia — mine for ever!”

  “Yes, yours for ever, dearest Mervyn,” she rejoined, with inexpressible tenderness—” yours for ever!”

  I drew her towards me as the words were uttered, strained her to my bosom, and sealed our marriage compact on her lips.

  “Heaven bless you both!” John ejaculated, fervently. “My dearest wish on earth is gratified.”

  “We must join the party in the garden,” Apphia said, gently extricating herself from my embrace. “Recollect, dear Mervyn, you have my mother’s consent to obtain. You know the promise I gave her?” she added, with a smile.

  “A most unfortunate promise I thought it,” I cried.

  “You need not mind it now,” she replied. “Come! I long to hear what you think of my new relations — though I am sure you will like them.”

  We then went down stairs, and ere we had reached the hall, my father, hearing our voices, came out of the dining-room to meet us. Apphia sprang affectionately towards him.

  “Is it as I hope? Am I to call you daughter, my dear child?” he inquired.

  She answered gently in the affirmative, and the colonel, enchanted, pressed his lips to her forehead.

  We then went forth into the garden. My father offered Apphia his arm, and I did not dispute the privilege with him, but contented myself with walking on her other side.

  At an earlier period of my history, I have mentioned that a long sheltered walk through the garden conducted to the banks of the Ater, where the green slopes, shaded by fine old beech-trees, growing on a dry sandy soil, formed a delightful place of promenade in warm weather. Towards this spot we now shaped our course, as we understood that Lady Amicia was there with her guests, We found the party seated beneath the trees. The Earl of Rossendale was a venerable-looking man, with snow-white hair, and a truly noble cast of countenance. Years ago he must have had a very stately presence; even now there was an air of infinite dignity about him. Though turned eighty, he bore his years well, and looked as if able to sustain the load for some time longer.