Connected with these ornithological tastes, though not exactly with fishing, was my anxiety to possess an owl. One of these curious birds tenanted a barn at Nethercrofts. It was a great white owl, and I had often been startled by his screech, and marked with wonder his ghostly flight. Sam and I contrived to surprise him in his haunt, perched on a rafter festooned with dusty cobwebs at the top of the barn, and just when we had made sure of him, he dashed right in our faces, knocked Sam off the ladder, and escaped. On relating the circumstance to my uncle, to my surprise he was very angry, and peremptorily forbade us to molest the owl, or, as Sam called it, the hullart, in future. I am sorry to say I resolved to disobey him, for I longed more than ever to obtain possession of the bird; but Sam, to whom I communicated my secret desires, did not dare to help me, and tried to dissuade me from making the attempt. But I would not be reasoned out of it, and succeeded in catching the owl, though, as it proved in the end, I had better not have meddled with him.
I have already mentioned that my uncle Mobberley was accounted very rich; — what the extent of his wealth might be I didn’t know, but I felt sure it must be very great, for people always spoke of him as a man who had made his thousands. Whatever it was, his expenditure was so small, that his money must have been constantly increasing. He had few relations on his own side, the nearest being my father and Doctor Sale, the vicar of Marston, both of whom stood to him in the same degree of affinity, being his nephews. His wife had a great many relations, none of whom were in very flourishing circumstances, and some of them had given him a good deal of trouble, but of these latterly he took no notice. One whole family, however — the Masseys, who were the children of a farmer whose wife had died before her eldest daughter, Hannah, had come of age, and who had himself followed her to the grave within a year — had found a home at Nethercrofts. They were not allowed to eat the bread of idleness, but were all employed about the house and farm in various capacities, and received good wages, as any other person so engaged might have done. Naturally enough, some of these poor folks hungered for a legacy; but it was clearly understood that my uncle, though he did not mean to overlook his wife’s relations altogether, intended to leave the bulk of his property on his own side, and in his own way. The old fellow had a good deal of pride about him; and though he had not himself led the life of a gentleman, he determined that his successor should, and he would leave him the means of doing so. He made no secret of his intentions; and as his worthy dame had brought him nothing beyond the active services which had helped him to save the fortune he thus meant to bequeath, she quite assented to his plans. Having no children of his own, my uncle looked about him for an heir, and eventually selected me.
“I like Mervyn,” he said to my aunt; “he is a handsome, promising lad. His father, Captain Clitheroe, can’t do much for him, especially since he has married again, and has got other children. The lad has the air of a gentleman, and I’ll make a gentleman of him.”
From this date I was understood to be adopted by my uncle Mobberley, and every one considered me a lucky dog. No doubt I had many enemies in consequence, and among the bitterest of them (though I was not aware of his enmity at the time), was Malpas Sale, the vicar’s only son. For my own part, I was too young to think much upon the matter, and certainly evinced no improper sense of the preference shown me. I never sought to curry favour with my uncle, but always conducted myself in a very independent way towards him; and I have reason to think he liked me the better for it. There was nothing like servility in my nature, and I could not stoop to such an abject course, whatever I might have gained by it.
Lest my uncle’s apparent neglect of the Sales might seem to justify Malpas’s secret animosity towards me, I must explain how matters stood in that quarter. Some thirty years ago, when the Reverend Wrigley Sale, then newly entered of the Church, and a very handsome young man, became tutor to the sons of Mr. Vernon, of Fitton Park, a proud Cheshire squire of large landed possessions, to whom Marston, its mere, and a considerable portion of the country adjoining it belonged, he exemplified in his own conduct how dangerous propinquity to a charming object may prove; for he speedily fell over head and ears in love with Lydia, the squire’s youngest daughter. His passion was requited, and an engagement took place between them; but when the squire heard of it he was highly incensed, and turned the tutor out of doors. The young lady was disconsolate, her lover in despair. At this juncture, John Mobberley, with whom, after his expulsion from the hall, Sale sought refuge, came forward, and offered to settle five thousand pounds on the young lady if Mr. Vernon would consent to her marriage with his nephew. Moved by this consideration, and by his daughter’s tears, the squire at length yielded; the money was paid down, and the young couple united. Thereafter, Wrigley Sale moved in the best society in the county; kept a good nag, hunted with all the neighbouring squires (for most country clergymen with good livings were fox-hunters in those days), dined with them, and drunk with them; and as this mode of living led him into expenses far beyond his means, he was obliged to have recourse to John Mobberley, from whom, at different times, he managed to borrow a couple of thousand pounds, for which he gave his bond. A few years afterwards Sale’s position was greatly improved. His father-in-law, the squire, with whom the advowson rested, presented him with the valuable living of Marston when it became vacant; and he had now twelve hundred a year, and a capital residence. Still, he did not pay back the money he had borrowed from John Mobberley, nor was he ever dunned for it by the old trump, as he called him, who told him he would leave him the bond when he died, but he must expect nothing more from him. With this arrangement Doctor Sale (for he had now obtained his doctor’s degree) was well content. Not so, however, his son Malpas — as will appear in the course of this history.
As may be easily imagined, John Mobberley, who pretended to be nothing more than a plain farmer, never supposed himself upon any terms of equality with Doctor Sale’s aristocratic connexions and friends, and he declined all invitations to meet any of them at the vicarage. For this the vicar was not sorry, for he began to feel ashamed of an old uncle, trump though he might be, who had amassed a fortune by selling cheeses; but his wife, who could not forget old John’s generosity to her, and who was too conscious of her own proud descent and high connexions to think herself degraded by associating with a worthy old farmer, regretted the old man’s absence. She often called at Nethercrofts — often took Doctor Sale with her when he would not have gone of his own accord; but John Mobberley rarely passed the gates of the vicarage. Of course, when staying at Marston, I went there when I chose; but though I liked Mrs. Sale extremely, the vicar was a good deal too proud and pompous to please me.
Malpas Sale and I were very intimate. He was three years older than I, and much taller; very handsome, but effeminate looking, with small features, as delicate as those of a woman; very small hands and feet; an exceedingly pale, almost sickly, complexion; and large dark eyes, which, though shaded by long silken lashes, and ordinarily soft in expression, would sometimes emit fierce and sinister glances. He had fine black hair, which hung in wavy curls about his face.
Malpas used often to come over to Nethererofts, and we went fishing and shooting together, for I had already begun to handle a gun, and was a tolerable shot. I liked him well enough, but I never felt any great regard for him, his manner not being calculated to inspire affection, for he had a strong tendency to sneer, and his jests were always sarcastic. His laughter had more of derision than enjoyment about it. Nevertheless, he could be very amusing when he chose, and on the whole was a pleasant companion.
But when it became known that my uncle meant to make me his heir, his manner changed. He came to Nethercrofts as usual, but appeared to shun me, and when we met seemed resolved to pick a quarrel. I was equally resolved he should not, and seldom made any reply to the bitter and provoking things he said to me; but I could not always command my temper, and on one occasion an outbreak took place which ended in a fight between us. We were alone toge
ther in the barn, when he began, as usual, to jeer me about some trifling matter, and finding his remarks produce no effect, he proceeded to taunt me with being my uncle’s favourite, insinuating that I had used unworthy means to become so. This was more than I could bear; and I told him in plain terms he was uttering falsehoods.
“You think yourself sure of old Mobb’s money,” he said, “and give yourself airs in consequence; but if the old cheesemonger knew as much about you as I do, what mischievous tricks you play, and how you turn him and the old woman into ridicule behind their backs, he wouldn’t leave you a shilling.”
“How dare you make such shameful assertions, Malpas?” I cried, reddening with passion; “so far from ridiculing my uncle, to whom I am so much indebted, and whom you so impertinently nickname old Mobb, I have always checked your sneers at the odd ways, as you term them, of him and my aunt. But I comprehend the motive of your anger. You are disappointed because you are not so great a favourite as I am, and vent your spleen upon me, who have done nothing to offend you.”
“But you have offended me, and what is more, you have injured me,” Malpas rejoined. “You have told lies about me to old Mobb, and have alienated his regard from me. Before you came, I was the favourite, and should have continued so, and been his heir, but for your underhand practices.”
So, then, the secret is fairly out, I thought; and I could not help laughing at the way in which he had betrayed himself. This exasperated him more than the bitterest retort I could have made.
“Take care of yourself, my lad!” he cried; “the game is not all your own yet. Consummate hypocrite as you are, I will unmask you, and display you in your true colours to my uncle.”
“You have displayed yourself in your true colours to me, Malpas,” I rejoined, “and they are not over creditable to you. But you say I have told lies about you to my uncle. This I positively deny. I have said nothing to your disadvantage to him or to any one. As to underhand practices, you ought to be ashamed of entertaining such unworthy suspicions; but I suppose you judge of me by yourself. You have also called me a hypocrite; and unless you retract the word —
“What will you do, my young cock?” he interrupted, crowing like chanticleer, and enchanted that he had roused me at last. “We shall see — for I shan’t retract a syllable. Now then, what’ll you do?”
My answer was a blow, which knocked him from his perch. When he got up, his pale cheeks had turned absolutely green with rage.
“We’ll soon settle this,” he cried. “Come out into the croft.”
I followed him out as he rushed through a side door. We went behind a haystack, and our jackets were off in a moment. He attacked me before I was quite ready for him, and fought in a very unmanly way, more like an infuriated animal than a human being, tearing my cheeks with his long nails, kicking me severely on the shins, and biting my hands like a wild cat when we closed. To put a stop to this I gave him a tap on the nose, which drew his claret plentifully, and sent him reeling backwards. I thought he had got enough, for he stood still and took up his jacket, as if searching for a handkerchief to stanch the blood. But he brought out a knife instead, and was opening it, when I knocked it from his grasp, and set my foot upon it. Thus disarmed, and finding himself no match for me — for though the younger and the lesser lad of the two, I was the stronger and the more active — be began to cry, and declared in a very abject manner that he yielded.
“Do you retract what you have said about me?” I demanded scornfully.
“I do,” he replied.
“And you won’t call my uncle ‘old Mobb’ or the ‘cheesemonger’ any more?”
He promised he wouldn’t; and I extended him the hand bearing the blue impression of his teeth. He took it with evident repugnance.
Just then we became aware of the presence of a third party, and perceived my uncle a short distance off, leaning on his staff.
“Halloa! what’s the matter?” cried the old man, between the intervals of a violent fit of coughing; “fighting, eh? (Ugh, ugh.) Ought to be ashamed of yourselves. (Ugh, ugh.) Two young gentlemen, and disgrace yourselves in this way. What would your mother say, Malpas, if she could see you now, with that bleeding nose? (Ugh, ugh.) And what would Mrs. Patten say to your scratched face, Mervyn? (Ugh — ugh — ugh.)”
“The quarrel wasn’t of my seeking, uncle,” Malpas hastily replied. “I didn’t begin it. He struck me first.”
“You said something to provoke him, no doubt,” rejoined my uncle. “You are older than he, and ought to know better.”
“Allow me to explain, uncle,” I said.
“No, sir, I don’t want any explanations,” interrupted the old man. “I don’t want to know the cause of the dispute. I only want to prevent its repetition. I won’t hear either of you. (Ugh, ugh ) You are both in the wrong, and it’s immaterial to me who is the most to blame. (Ugh, ugh.) Shake hands and be friends, and let’s hear no more about it. Go to the pump and wash the stains from your faces. (Ugh, ugh.)”.
As we set off to obey the injunction, leaving him expectorating freely after this lengthy harangue, Malpas observed to me:
“You’ll not say anything about the knife to old Mobb, Mervyn?” — .
“I’ll give you another thrashing, if you call him that name again,” I replied. “Recollect how largely your father is indebted to him and hold your peace.”
This effectually silenced him.
After this occurrence, Malpas was very civil to me, and we became better friends than we had been for some time previously. He was also very attentive to my uncle, and I thought, if any one could be accused of trying to curry favour with the old man, it was he, and not I. However, I did not concern myself about his proceedings, and my uncle showed no increased regard for him. I thought, however, from hints let drop occasionally by the old man, that he had got some notions into his head respecting me which he had not previously entertained. Somehow or other, he found out that I had caught the owl, and was very cross with me for disobeying him. Then Talbot was lamed, and it was said that I had beaten him with a heavy stick, though I was much too fond of him to beat him at all. The great boar had lost his curly tail, and the appendage being unaccountably found in my pocket, it proved a great bore to me. But the climax was put to my offences by one of such an aggravated nature, that it threw me into disgrace. My aunt’s favourite tom-cat was shot, and it was supposed — nay, proved — that I had done the ruthless deed. Poor Tom, who was fond of exercising his claws, had certainly scratched me rather severely, and it was said I had breathed vengeance against him. No such thing. The next morning master Tom was missing, and after vainly calling to him, he was at last found by Malpas in the garden, with half an ounce of shot in his head. Never shall I forget my poor old aunt’s distress at the sight of her favourite, held up before her by the heels like a great jack-hare by Malpas.
“Zounds and fury! — who killed the cat?” cried my uncle, coughing terribly “Ay, who indeed?” said my aunt;—” poor pussy!”
“My goodness! here’s a pretty piece of work!” screamed Hannah Massey, rushing out of the dairy. “Who can have done it?”
All eyes were directed to me, and, though I was perfectly innocent, I looked and felt like a culprit.
“It must be this young imp of the devil. He’s always in mischief,” cried my uncle, shaking his stick menacingly at me. “Where’s Sam Massey? He’ll tell us something about it.”
Sam was accordingly called, and, being questioned, was obliged to admit that I had taken out my gun on the previous evening, and that he had heard one or two reports apparently at the back of the house. This was enough. In vain I declared I had only fired once, at a rabbit, and had missed it. My assertions were disbelieved. I was pronounced guilty of taking the life of the cat by violence and with malice aforethought, and incurred the angry denunciations of my uncle, and, what was far worse to bear, the tearful reproaches of my aunt, who mourned the death of her favourite.
This incident unquestionably shook m
e in my uncle’s good opinion, and auguries, very unfavourable to my ultimate succession to the property, were drawn from it by interested parties; and Malpas was considered now to have the better chance. But whatever the old man’s secret intentions might be, he did not publish them to the world at Nethercrofts, and everybody was left to doubt and speculation.
Soon after this I was summoned back to the Anchorite’s, and to school; and several months elapsed before’ I again visited my uncle.
CHAPTER IV.
MALPAS AND I ATTEMPT TO CROSS MARSTON MERE DURING A HARD FROST — AN ADVENTURE ON THE ICE.
THE Christmas holidays had commenced, and I went over to Marston. I hoped my uncle had forgotten all my transgressions, real or supposed; and it seemed he had, for he received me with as much kindness as heretofore. My aunt was not quite so gracious. I was sorry to find her grown a great deal more feeble; and it was clear she couldn’t last much longer. She had got a new tabby cat; but she told me, with tears in her eyes, that she didn’t love him half so well as poor Tom.
Malpas, who was an Etonian, had come home likewise, and never allowed a day to pass without paying a visit to Nethercrofts, chiefly under pretence of joining me in my amusements, but secretly, I believe, with the view of gaining the good graces of my uncle, in which he fancied he had made considerable progress.
It was a winter of unusual severity; and though the cold pinched the old folks sadly, it did us lads a world of good. The blood spun through my veins, and my spirits were so elastic, that I could scarcely contain myself for delight. I had taken to skating, and, like all my other pursuits, devoted myself to it with ardour. I used to be off to the mere at six in the morning — almost before it was light; and oh! how I enjoyed the exercise, — what rosy cheeks I had, — and what an appetite for breakfast. No tea and toast, nor any such effeminate luxuries then, but a good jorum of boiled milk and bread, or wholesome meal pottage. And as to the coarse viands at dinner, how I relished them! — how I devoured the pickled pork and peas-pudding, or the salt beef and cabbage, and huge slice of suet-dumpling sweetened with treacle.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 441