The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  The jolly landlord at this moment came in, informing them that his accommodations were ready. “And if your worship,” added he, as he conducted Prestwyche to his chamber, “ever slept on a softer bed, or between whiter hollands, may my tankard be empty for a day.”

  The priest remained below. The room in which he sat, an apartment appropriated by the host to guests for whom he felt, or professed, a peculiar reverence, was small, but neat, and commanded from its latticed casement a delightful view. The clergyman gazed upon it, but his mind was loaded with oppressive thoughts, and he turned away, incapable of enjoying the beauties that lay before him. The place in which he was, favoured the sorrowful impress of his meditations. The dark pannels of wainscotting, cut from the mountain larch, diffused a gloom over the apartment, but partially dispelled by the rays of the declining sun, whose deepened lustre sank through the leafy curtained lattice. He sat down, and for a time was ingrossed in uninterrupted reverie.

  “I know not,” thought he, “what may be the upshot of this meeting. Reginald Prestwyche alive, and seemingly on his return from the hall. What may not be — what may not already have been the event — that Ellice loved him, I well believe — that her brother hates him, I know — alas! that the red hand of strife should sever those whom nature, whom affection has joined — for Ellice is bound to her brother, as closely by affection, as by birth, and to retain the lover and the brother, were I fear impossible — it is, it is — human hatred, never rose to a more deadly height, than that of Chiverton to Prestwyche — Why — why, is it ever permitted, that the best and holiest passions of the heart, should conduce, to place a sting in the bosom that fosters them? Why — but shame on thee, Richard Way word, that darest to dispute even in a thought the fitness of which is ordained; wherefore, when goodness and mercy is made manifest in the ninety and nine, shouldst thou repine if the hundredth working, for wise purposes, is hid from mortal understanding — vices, and passions, and hopes, I have thrown aside; but cannot yet subdue the pride of carnal reason that vexes me within — yet, will I struggle with the tempter — I will pray to be delivered from the snare of the weak heart.” The good man bowed in silent devotion, — when is the prayer of the lowly spirit rejected?

  He arose with a more tranquil mind, and approaching the open casement, rejoiced in the cool fragrance of the breeze, as it blew into the apartment laden with the scent of a thousand flowers. How did his heart, purified from the grossness of the worse affections of humanity, expand over the picture of beauty, that lay in lovely perspective within his sight.

  At the distance of about a hundred yards behind the inn, the rich pasture land declined gently to meet a lake, whose waters lay, a broad pure sheet, scarcely stirred by the undulation of a single ripple; while faithfully returning every surrounding object, the natural beauty of the scenery lived again in the stillness of its reflection. The dwellings that stood near were few and small; the ornaments of nature rich and many. A mingled diversity of wood and plain lay beyond its banks; luxuriant vegetation fringed its margin, save where the retiring waters had left a narrow ridge of sand, or bed of shining pebbles. Scattered flocks browsed on the herbage, or indolently reposing, basked in the broad sunbeams, attended by some careless shepherd, who lying as idle as his sheep, and confiding to his rough coated dog the trouble of his charge, contented himself with the nominal superintendence of the whole; sleeping away one half his hours in some hedge bottom, where the daisied bank afforded an easy pillow, or angling in the lake for the fish, that inhabited its waters in shoals.

  Such was the general character of the spot; but the beauties in which its attractions, more especially consisted were, where the occasional sinuosities of the little sea advanced, or receded into diminutive capes or bays; on the former of which fishing huts had been here and there erected, whilst the latter, shaded by dark underwoods, and groves of the hollyoak, slept buried in a profound gloom, that giving play to the fancy, took by their obscurities in the eye of an imaginative beholder, a double interest. On the extreme bank stood a church, shrouded by trees, and visible only by its antique tower, surmounted by a small spire. Dark woods formed the back ground of the picture, and opening from time to time, into long and dusky avenues, shewed expanded afar off, the sweeping plains of the adjoining county, bounded by hills, scarcely distinguishable in the distance from the clouds, in which their summits were enveloped. The rich tinge of the declining day hung over all, and added the last finish to the scene.

  As the priest gazed with pleasure, arising equally from the objects before him, and the renovated placidity of his own mind, (for the charm of nature’s beauty is not wholly from without,) he suddenly perceived, at the extremity of one of those openings that interrupted the continuity of the clustered woods, what seemed a dark mass, apparently in rapid motion. As it continued to advance, its appearance became more dispersed, and it was not long ere the priest could discern the individual forms of a group of travellers.

  “Sir Gamelyn Vancouver, as we expected, doubtless,” said he, “with his daughter, the destined bride of Chiverton, and their retinue, It may not be well that this youth should tarry here: should he be revived enough to travel in the morning, I will advise him that he depart; yet hardly with a hope of his acquiescence, unless it be to rush into situations of further peril.”

  The group had now reached the brink of the lake, and one or two of the fishing vessels were speedily prepared to waft them across its surface; a conveyance adopted in order to escape the circuitous route along the margin of the water. The first boat containing Sir Gamelyn, his daughter, and two female attendants of the lady, was put off, and shot across the mere, drawing in its wake a long luminous train, as the reddening sunbeams glittered on the awakened ripple. A second followed, fraught with the remainder of the company, and the horses were dispatched under the convoy of two servants by the land paths, the light vessels not being calculated for such a charge.

  A slight knock at the door of the apartment, interrupted the clergyman’s observations. “Come in,” said he, and the tankard of mine host, followed by the sleek owner, entered the room.

  “Your Reverence will pardon me — I but thought your Reverence would like to know they — that is, I suppose, Sir Gamelyn and his people are crossing the lake, in one of Fydian Fletcher’s fishing wherries. Could I but have foreknown the same, my son-in-law’s tidy smack — your Reverence knows it’s a light, lively creature, that he won at the last water quintain twelve months agone — aye, twelve months come Shrove-tide — should have been ready instanter; but I see your Reverence has been before hand with me, and seen all. Well, a-day, I was in the garden, when Jack Linloss comes up, ‘Host,’ says he, ‘yon’s a power of gentlefolk crossing the mere.’

  ‘Crossing,’ says I, ‘but how crossing?’

  ‘Why in Fydian’s boats, from one side to t’other.’

  ‘Then by Bowden bells,’ said I, ‘now Jack; — but he was off, your Reverence, and I waddles here as fast as my tankard would let me — but as sure as Bowden bells, I think I grow fatter and fatter, and slower and slower every day, your Reverence. Your Reverence will pardon my joking — your Reverence is a kindly minded man.”

  “Your tankard is your enemy, host — abandon that, and your frame will be healthier — your joints more supple.”

  “My tankard, says your Reverence? he is my best friend — morning and night, early and late, holiday and work-day, he’s all alike, your Reverence, true as a clock, never forsakes me, and — but, I hear the horses in the yard, and me not there to welcome the comers. May my tankard be empty for a day — but—”

  He hastened without completing his sentence, to perform the duties of his vocation, an important branch of which, in his eyes, consisted in the due reception of the guests on their arrival — it was the office, in the execution of which he chiefly prided himself, and was, he said, giving them a foretaste of the land of promise.

  The extraordinary noise and bustle which took place in all quarters of the hous
e; the slamming of doors; the loud and obsequious salutations of the landlord, and the shrill tones of the females, as the pretty Ellen gave her directions to the red-armed, puff-cheeked chamber maid, sufficiently indicated the arrival of guests of more than ordinary importance. But the clamour gradually died away, for as the arrival of Sir Gamelyn had been expected, the arrangements of the host and his daughter had been providently completed, and the admiring conversation of the maiden of the inn, with the plump domestic, was alone heard, as she recapitulated, with circumstantial wonderment, the articles of dress with which Sir Gamelyn’s daughter was attired, and discussed by turns her embroidered riding habit, her gay jet palfrey, and the smiles and words of their beautiful owner.

  It was not long before the door of the priest’s apartment opening, the host’s full moon face once more made its appearance. He came to announce to Wayword, that Sir Gamelyn wished to partake of his company and converse.

  “I will wait on him forthwith,” was the reply, and the clergyman was about to make good his words, when his egress was stayed by the appearance of the inviter himself.

  “Nay, nay, by’r Lady, not so, not so, good Master Wayword,” exclaimed this last comer, seizing hold at the same time on the priest’s hand, with a force of good fellowship that benumbed every finger, “black gown before buff jerkin, all the world over. What, man, I have been a soldier in my time; but never forgot my reverence to mother church. And how’s Sir John, and pretty Mistress Ellice, his sister. Sword blades and bucklers; but this is a snug den, too: somewhat chilly, as a man may say, seeing that the day’s dropping — knowest thou ought to cure that same, bully host?”

  “An I might presume—”

  “Sword blades and bucklers! but I tell thee thou shalt not presume, but thou shalt do better, man — fetch me hither a pottle of sack, and a toast — and — but what’s thy name?”

  “Jothan Jenkinson, your Worship — son of Jerubbaal Jenkinson of Bowden downs — my father, praise God, was—”

  “Doth thy father make sack?”

  “Ah, your Worship is pleased to be facetious; my father has been dead this four year good.”

  “Then, what have we to do with him; — one subject at a time: — a pottle of sack, well brewed, is matter enough for a man’s brain — so begone Jothan, and brew, Jenkinson, — sack I say, with eggs, Son of Jerubbaal and without time — or swords and bucklers, Bowden steeple shall not save thee.”

  “An I make not the sack to your liking, may my tankard be empty for a day,” said the obedient host, taking up his companion, which, out of respect for his guests, he had set down on entering the room — and ere he had well closed the door, a hard fetching of breath was heard, concluding the moderate draught, with which the son of Jerubbaal deemed fit to commence the business in hand.”

  The liquor bespoken by the Knight, a beverage now obsolete, being produced and approved by a sounding smack of the lips, and, “the Canary is well.” Sir Gamelyn reclined himself, in the easy posture of a man, who determines upon an hour’s freedom from all care and exertion: — a bright fire, sparkling in the chimney, enlivened the gloom that began to steal over the room, and cast its flickering glare strong and gaily on the wainscot: — the countenance of the Knight expanded joyously, as he contemplated the crackling embers. He stretched his legs still more luxuriously to the hearth, rubbed his hands with energy, and was nigh ready to burst into open laughter out of sheer pleasure.

  He was himself a pleasurable object to behold; time alone, seemed to have silvered his hair, and given wrinkles to his brow, and withered his cheeks, which still retained a faded tinge of the bloom of their youth. For care, or aught of sadness, had made a point to come not near him, or at least not to hang up their ensigns in his countenance. Mirth was on his lips, and his long blue eyes twinkled and laughed so eternally; the whole so tempered too, with the benevolence that beamed from his features, that the heart was taken by storm: it was impossible not to love him.

  “And now,” said he, “it will be no harm, not even to a man of your calling, Reverend Master Wayword, to pledge a health to the noble Knight of Chiverton, and his fair sister, of whom I have heard that in qualities becoming damsels of good condition, she is equalled by few.”

  “Accept, worthy Sir, of their thanks by me their servant. Of Sir John Chiverton I may say, that he has valour, which, at times, we of a peaceful vocation would deem bordering upon rashness; — that he has generosity fitted to his station, and that I may, (although unskilled in such pursuits,) report him well gifted with a soldier’s acquirements. The Lady Ellice hath indeed few equals — I say not, in the trifling phrase of vain and idle talkers, that she is an angel on earth, but surely the sister of Chiverton is the perfection of woman.”

  “I would fain believe your praises,” replied Sir Gamelyn, “did your actions keep pace with your words — yet, an you deemed as highly of those with whom you sojourn, as your speech would import, I guess that this flagon, foaming with as good Canary as ever danced green wave on English oak, would, of a verity, not stand a begging at your elbow with the pledge I offered.”

  “Be not offended, worthy Sir,” answered the other—” that I crave to decline your invitation. It suiteth ill for one who wears my habit, to indulge in ought, though innocent in itself, that may cause him to swerve from those accustomed rules that help him to subdue the weakness of his nature. It is rarely that wine wets these lips. The Knight under whose roof I dwell humours me in this — shall I not expect the same indulgence from one, whom I may even now call his kinsman; whose favourable thoughts I would willingly merit?”

  “By’r Lady — Sir priest, you speak well in favour of an indifferent cause. But swords and bucklers, I never baulk my own humour for any man’s yea or nay, and so I wish not to meddle with another’s notions. And yet, that good sack — I will myself vouch its excellence — should go a wooing in vain— ’tis strange enough— ‘faith to a lad that has seen service, and never saw a glass of liquor — from sparkling Rhenish down to a cup of English ale, but what there were two drinkers for one asker; — but as I said, I quarrel with no man’s taste.”

  He interrupted himself by renewing his attacks upon the capacious vessel, whose contents he had in vain recommended to his companion. He placed the flagon, as he concluded his draught, near the clergyman, with a look that seemed half to express an expectation — a hope that Way word would recant. But a good humoured smile, and gentle movement of the head from the latter, expressed at once his conception of the purport of the gesture, and his refusal of the offer conveyed by it.

  “Ah well,” said the old Knight, “methinks I feel a good twenty years taken off my shoulders, at the thought of seeing my Isabel the wife of such a man, and the sister of such a lady, as you describe your Sir John and the Lady Ellice, Master Way word. But swords and bucklers man, you have not seen her yet — that’s ill — what did I think of — here, host, I say — but no — I will myself fetch her to you, and—”

  “Were it not better, Sir Gamelyn,” interrupted the clergyman, to defer this until morning. “It may be, that the Lady Isabel is fatigued with her journey, and would more willingly retire to rest, than be brought into the presence of a stranger at this time. Besides, Sir, ladies are chary of their appearance, and do not willingly exhibit themselves, even to those whose opinion they least value, when travel or other cause has discomposed the head attire, or soiled the dress, or flushed the cheek.”

  “Why, God-a-mercy man,” exclaimed the Knight, “one would think to hear ye, ye were a limber legged springald, of some two and twenty summers — some hero of galliards and spavins — to think of you, Mr. Way word, talking gravely of such girlish whim whams! — but be quiet, man, and let me fetch her.” He left the room accordingly.

  From the time that elapsed before his return, it seemed that Way word had not falsely anticipated the lady’s objections to an introduction at such a time. At length Sir Gamelyn returned, leading in his hand his beautiful and blushing daughter.


  Indeed she was beautiful: — she had the winning beauty that looks and smiles itself into the heart, before the critic judgment can scan the lineaments, which fancy invests with even more than their native loveliness. The light laughing graces of seventeen — she was budding into womanhood, yet could scarcely be more than seventeen — played around her form and countenance. Her ringlets, of a glossy brown — her blue eyes and pouting lips, all shared in the charm which youth and happiness wove around her, like the hues of a fairy dream; — the buoyancy of every motion — the elasticity of every step, spoke the mental and bodily health of the rejoicing girl.

  She bent her knee with grace, as she bowed to receive the good priest’s blessing — he gazed upon her with affectionate kindness.

  “You put trust indeed in Sir John Chiverton,” said he to the Knight, “when you confide to him the custody of such a jewel as this; your only daughter, too, Sir Gamelyn.”

  “One’s enough — one’s enough,” returned the merry Knight, “unless the sort were better; — and yet, Wayword, if you will trust a father’s word, Isabel is a good girl — I shall lack my daughter — she is in truth, the treasure of my age.’’ His eye glistened as he spake—” my heart will be heavier when thou art gone, wench— ‘twill he the first time thou ever mad’st it heavy.”

  “Blessed is the child,” said the priest, “of whom it can so be said — blessed and honoured the parent who can so speak. You, Lady, will not fail to remember how much more than the beauty which perishes, a parent’s praise makes lovely. The Lord of Chiverton may rejoice: — the dutiful daughter must be the obedient, the loving wife — remember though you leave a father’s presence, his thoughts will follow you — his hopes, his wishes: you are — and if I err not much — deserve to be his best treasure, and where the treasure is, there will the heart be also: — in the fulfilment of your new duties, you will approve yourself worthy the affection of a parent’s heart.”