The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  My first business was to present my queen to the state party, and they all looked very much pleased with her, Mrs. Sale complimenting her on her good looks, and congratulating me on my good fortune. I then ordered the musicians to strike up a country-dance, and taking our places at the head of it, we were soon actively engaged. My pretty little partner danced uncommonly well, and with so much spirit, that I was quite sorry to find myself at the bottom of the dance. But the life and soul of it was Simon Pownall. He had a jest for everybody, and made everybody do his or her best. When he got to the top it was quite wonderful to see the capers he cut — how he cantered down the middle, and galloped back again. And but little inferior to him was Chetham Quick, whose lithe limbs were thrown about in a surprising manner. He was quite his master’s double, and imitated all his flourishes. In the course of the dance I found myself under the mistletoe with Sissy, but I did not dare to repeat Malpas’s experiment, more especially as the jealous Rufus was standing by, when, to my great surprise, he said, with a laugh. “Dunna be bashful. Kings is privileged. Yo’n more right than the jackanapes who tuk the liberty afore you.”

  “Right, Ned,” cried Chetham Quick, who was skipping by at the moment, and overheard him. “It’s part of the royal prerogative — he! he! Suitable to the occasion — Twelfth Night, or What you Will — Shakspeare — ahem!”

  So I readily took advantage of the suggestion, and gave her a hearty kiss; and if Ned had wanted to annoy Malpas, who witnessed the proceeding, he could not have adopted a better expedient, as the looks of the latter showed plainly enough.

  As Malpas seemed inclined to interrupt the mirth of the evening by ill-humour, I determined to plague him. So I caused it to be announced, through the medium of Simon Pownall, that I should assign partners to all the women for the next dance, and I gave Malpas to Peninnah. He was obliged to obey the mandate, though he did so with a very ill grace. In the dance after that, the queen chose partners for the men, and then Malpas made sure she would select him; but no such thing, she gave her hand to Chetham Quick, and assigned little Rue to her disappointed admirer, who, however, flatly refused compliance, and for this act of lese majesté I adjudged that he should salute the oldest and ugliest woman present. But this he also refused. Ned and Chetham now disappeared to prepare for the Plough Dance.

  After partaking of some refreshments, of which, after our violent exercise, we stood in need, our master of the ceremonies, Simon Pownall, now called out to us to make way for the Fool Plough; whereupon the whole of the company drew up in lines, and the barn-doors being thrown wide open, a dozen men entered, clothed in clean white woollen shirts, ornamented with ribands, tied in roses, on the sleeve and breast, and with caps decked with tinsel on their heads, and tin swords by their sides. These mummers were yoked to a plough, likewise decked with ribands, which they dragged into the middle of the barn. They were attended by an old woman with a tall sugar-loaf hat, and an immense nose and chin, like those of Mother Goose in the pantomime. The old beldame supported her apparently tottering limbs with a crutch-handled staff, with which she dealt about blows, right and left, hitting the toes of the spectators, and poking their ribs. This character was sustained by Chetham Quick, and very well he played it, to judge by the shouts of laughter he elicited. By the side of Old Bessie was an equally grotesque figure, clothed in a dress partly composed of a cow-hide, and partly of the skins of various animals, with a long tail dangling behind, and a fox-skin cap, with lappets, on the head. This was the Fool. Over his shoulder he carried a ploughman’s whip, with which he urged on the team, and a cow’s horn served him for a bugle, from which he ever and anon produced unearthly sounds. Notwithstanding the disguise, there was no difficulty in recognising Ned Culcheth as the wearer of it. The entrance of the mummers was welcomed by shouts of laughter from the whole assemblage, and the hilarious plaudits increased as they drew up in the middle of the barn, and, unyoking themselves from the plough, prepared for the dance. The spectators then formed a ring round them. Chairs, on an elevated position, had been provided for Sissy and myself, who, as king and queen, were entitled to superior accommodation, and we therefore looked on at our ease. The musicians now struck up a lively air, and the dance began, the mummers first forming two lines, then advancing towards each other, rattling their swords together, as if in mimic warfare; retreating; advancing again, and placing all their points upon the plough; forming a rose; next a four-square rose; then bounding over each other’s heads, laying down their swords, joining hands, and dancing round Old Bessie and the Fool, who remained near the plough, dancing very funnily by themselves. A general clapping of hands showed how well this dance was liked by the company, and the mummers were brought by Simon Pownall to be presented to the king and queen.

  All went on very well till it came to the turn of the Fool. Just as he made his obeisance, which Simon took care should be low enough, Malpas suddenly leaped upon his back, and throwing him on the ground, set his foot on his neck, while the prostrate man was prevented from rising by Phaleg, who held him by the shoulders. Malpas then seized the Fool by the tail, and tugged so lustily at it, that it came off altogether; and then, and not till then, did Ned disengage himself from the gipsy’s gripe. Exasperated by the laughter and shouts of the assemblage, Ned seized the ploughman’s whip, and before he could be prevented, laid it soundly across Phaleg’s shoulders, ending with a severe cut at Malpas. Phaleg was not a man to put up calmly with the treatment he had experienced, and in his turn he assailed Ned; but he was put out of the way in a trice by a stunning blow from the huge fist of the keeper. Malpas was furious, as he might well be, and vowed he would be revenged, and, though Sissy herself entreated him to stay, he quitted the party in high dudgeon. Luckily, before this incident, Doctor and Mrs. Sale had retired, for I should have been really sorry if the latter had witnessed it. When his passion had subsided, Ned seemed heartily ashamed of himself, and scarcely dared to face his wife, who was as cross with him as such a pretty creature could be. However, I contrived to make peace between them. Good-humour being once more restored, we had some merry gambols, and then another country-dance, and with this the entertainment concluded, for it was eleven o’clock, and, as I have previously observed, we kept good hours at Marston.

  My uncle Mobberley remained to the last, and would have stayed longer, if there had been any excuse for doing so, for he was very well amused. Early in the evening a bowl of gin-punch had been made for him by Tom Shakeshaft, and it proved to be so good that even the vicar and the curate condescended to share it with him. When they departed, which they did with Mrs. Sale at ten o’clock, pipes were produced, the bowl was replenished, and a party of my uncle’s old Nag’s Head cronies collected round him, to help him to discuss it. Very merry they all were, as merry as us younger folk, and when the party broke up they had got through a third bowl.

  You may be sure that when eleven o’clock struck, which was proclaimed to us by the inexorable Pownall, the usual valedictory ceremonies observed on such occasions were not neglected. There were a great many tender last words, a great deal of kissing under the mistletoe, a great deal of squeezing of hands, a great deal of whispering, and a great many arrangements made about seeing young damsels safely home across the fields. And Simon Pownall afterwards informed me that some half a dozen happy marriages were the result of Tom Shakeshaft’s Twelfth-Night merry-making.

  Well, at length we all separated, some going one way, and some another, while we shaped our course towards Nethercrofts, my uncle, who was in a high state of elevation, marching between Sam Massey and Pownall, the latter having volunteered to go home with him.

  I ought to have mentioned that, just as I had quitted the barn, Peninnah passed me, and whispered, in a boding tone:

  “Recollect what I said this morning.,’

  CHAPTER VII.

  SHOWING HOW MY UNCLE MOBBERLEY. AND I WERE VERY PAINFULLY SURPRISED ON OUR RETURN HOME.

  A DEEP prolonged howl startled us as we entered the little orcha
rd.

  “What’s that?” my uncle cried, stopping.

  “It’s Talbot!” I exclaimed. “He has got shut out, and is howling to be let in.”

  “Don’t like it,” Pownall observed to me in an undertone—” bodes no good.”

  The shadow of a large bird flitted past, and a hoarse croak was heard overhead.

  “Worse and worse,” the barber-surgeon muttered. “Nightcrow. A death will soon follow.”

  I shuddered at these prognostications, for the dismal sounds, I confess, awakened a superstitious feeling of dread in my own breast. And I likewise thought of the gipsy’s boding words. Otherwise there seemed nothing to fear. The night was spiritually beautiful and tranquil, with myriads of stars paving the deep vault above. The farmhouse glittered in its case of snow, and the hoar plum-trees around us looked as if laden with diamonds, like the gardens in some Arabian story of enchantment. Talbot now came up to us with his tail between his legs, looking at us with wistful eyes, howling mournfully. I tried to silence him, but ineffectually.

  “He would tell us something, if he could, poor fellow,” I thought.

  A tap at the back door near the dairy procured us admittance, and we entered the house-place. A good fire was blazing on the hearth, and a table was set before it, on which were some cold viands and bread. All looked snug and comfortable — but my aunt was not to be seen.

  “Phoebe — where art thou, Phoebe?” my uncle cried out. “Gone to bed — eh? I never knew her to do so before.”

  “Nah — nah — mester, hoo wouldna go to bed and yo’ out,” old Susan replied. “Dame Hutchi’son went whoam at ten o’clock, that’s two hours ago, for it’s just on the stroke of twalve now. Yo’ be’n late whoam to-neet, mester, boh I reckon yo’n been enjoying yoursel’, and when folks does that, time flees without their knowin’ it.” — .

  “Oh! ay, I recollect, she’s in the parlour,” said my uncle, taking off his great-coat. And he called ont, “Phoebe! Phoebe! I’m come home.”

  “Maybe hoo’s asleep,” the old woman remarked. “I hanna been near her sin Dame Hutchi’son went, for hoo took up her Bible, and towd me to leave her, and set out supper; and when I’d done that I set me down i’ your chair, mester, and took a nap mysel’, and I didna waken up till I heerd yo’ at th’ dooer — that’s the truth. Boh I’ll go an’ see efter her.”

  “No, I’ll go and see myself,” my uncle said, staggering towards the door, and opening it.

  Pownall and I followed him, and it was well we did so.

  “Well, Phoebe, lass,” he cried, “I’m late home to-night, but it’s Christmas time, and Twelfth Night, and we’ve had a rare merry-making at Tom Shakeshaft’s. I wish thou hadst been there, to see the fun, old lass, that I do. It put me in mind of the old times thou wert talking about. And I thought of thee, old woman, when I saw that young thing, Sissy Culcheth, skipping about. She’s a bonny lass, that; but, bless thy old heart, thou wert once as bonny thyself, and turned all the lads’ heads, and mine among ’em — ha! ha! Come, now I’m in the humour to talk of our young days, when I went to court thee, and brought thee to Nethercrofts, and thou won’t give me a word in answer. What’s the matter wi’ thee? Art asleep — eh?”

  And then, as if he had all at once become sensible of some terrible calamity, he uttered a loud cry, that alarmed the whole house, and exclaimed, “Gracious Heaven! she’s dead!”

  “Dead!” Pownall ejaculated, springing forward, and catching the old man in his arms, who otherwise must have fallen to the ground.

  Alas! it was true. My poor aunt was gone. And her end must have been easy indeed, for she was leaning back in the chair as if asleep, and nothing indicated that the parting of the spirit from its earthly tenement had been attended even with a struggle. Her life had been breathed out like a sigh. The Bible was open before her, as if she had leaned back to meditate on what she had read, and so expired.

  A candle, long unsnuffed, stood upon the table. She must have been dead more than an hour, Pownall said. I was greatly shocked, and felt stunned, as if by a violent blow.

  The shock completely sobered my uncle; and, as he was now fully sensible of the loss he had sustained, it was piteous to witness his distress and hear his self-reproaches. We all stood by mournfully and in silence, for we respected his grief.

  After awhile he arose from the seat in which Pownall had placed him and, taking the cold hand of his wife, pressed it to his lips.

  “How little did I think when I left thee, my poor Phoebe,” he ejaculated, “that I should never see thee more alive — thou that hast been my partner for more than fifty years! — and better partner man never had, truer wife, or worthier woman. I knew it must come to this at last, — that we must separate; but I hoped to have gone before thee; for what shall I do without thee? Thou didst always guide me right; didst always speak truth to me; wert always what a wife should be. And I have been revelling while thou wert dying.” A convulsive sob heaved his breast and choked his utterance; but, recovering himself, he added, “Well, thou art only gone before me, for I know I shall soon follow thee. Farewell! true heart and virtuous woman; thou has been, indeed, to me a jewel above all price.” Having said thus much, he sat down, and, covering his face with his hands, wept aloud.

  It was a deeply affecting scene. I believe no eye was dry, and I am sure mine were not, for I cried bitterly.

  At length my uncle recovered himself sufficiently to give directions to those about him relative to the removal of the body. He spoke very kindly to me, and said:

  “Ah! Mervyn, thou hast lost a good friend in thy poor aunt. But comfort thyself, lad. Thou hadst her last blessing as well as I; and it will profit thee, as the blessings of the righteous ever do.”

  After this, Simon Pownall prevailed upon him to retire, undertaking to see all his directions fully carried out, and promising to stay till morning. And very well it was that he did so, for without his aid I believe my uncle would have died that night. His moans could be heard throughout the house.

  The poor old man was terribly prostrated, and when he appeared next day a great change was visible in him. But he now bore the weight of his grief with manly resignation. There were no more outbursts of sorrow. The flood-gates had been opened; the torrent had gushed forth; nothing but the deep, black void was left. The vicar and his wife came early to condole with him, and from Mrs. Sale he really did seem to derive comfort. His tears again flowed as she spoke of his wife, but they were not tears of anguish and reproach, such as he had shed the night before. Malpas also presented himself, and so overacted his feigned grief, that I am sure my uncle saw through it.

  Some old customs were observed, such as watching by the body, and placing a pewter plate upon it, filled with salt; and, on the day of the funeral, arvil-bread and burnt wine were distributed among the mourners. My uncle attended the sad ceremonial, and supported himself well through it. The burial service was read by Doctor Sale, and a large crowd of the villagers was assembled on the occasion, and one might read the esteem in which my aunt had been held in their dejected countenances. Snow was falling thickly at the time, and the pall of the coffin was white with it. To me the scene was doubly sad, for the grave adjoined my mother’s, and my thoughts were running upon her as well as upon the kind relative I had lost. The coffin was lowered down; and as I looked at my uncle, with his venerable head bowed upon his breast, and his scanty locks exposed to the snow, I thought there was warrant for what he said to the sexton and his assistant—” Ye need scarcely trouble yourselves to fill up that grave, lads, for ye’ll soon have another to put into it.”

  But my uncle was a strong-minded man, and though he felt my aunt’s loss keenly — perhaps more keenly than he showed it — he would not give way to grief, but bore up against it resolutely, and after a week’s struggle, during which it appeared doubtful whether he would ever be himself again, obtained the mastery, and resumed his former habits. But he missed his old partner at every turn; and when any question of household c
oncern was put to him which she would have answered, he looked well-nigh bewildered. Sometimes he would glance towards the sofa on which she had sat, as if about to address her, and then, turning back quickly, would mutter, “Oh! I forgot — she’s gone.”

  He never again entered the room where she died.

  But he thought he might be suddenly taken off, and displayed great anxiety as to the settlement of his worldly affairs, frequently talking them over with Simon Pownall, who, since my aunt’s death, became his sole adviser. He sent for Mr. Gripper, of Knutsford, an attorney, and made a new will; and whether Pownall was aware or not of the disposition he had made of his property, and that it was in my favour, I cannot say, but he now treated me with great obsequiousness.

  On the day after Mr. Gripper’s visit, my uncle called me into his bed-room, where he now sometimes sat, and pointing out a drawer in an old bureau near the bed, said:

  “Thou’lt find my will there, Mervyn. I’m glad thou hast thy aunt’s blessing, my dear. It strengthened me in my purpose. A good woman, my dear, — a truly good woman, who never did wrong in her life. There are few such left behind her. The best thing I can wish for thee is, that thou mayst meet with some one like her; and that thou mayst live as happily with thy wife as I have done with mine. Ah! but it’s hard to part with a friend of five-and-fifty years’ standing.

  There’s my will, I say. Thou’lt know all about it one of these days, — mayhap, sooner than thou think’st.” And, as if afraid of exhibiting any further emotion, he signed to me to leave him.

  Of course, an end was put to all our Christmas festivities, and to amusement of every kind, and the house was for a time so changed that I would fain have returned to the Anchorite’s, but I could not leave my uncle in his affliction. However, he got better, as I have related; and as the time for my departure was close at hand, I announced it to him. He seemed loth to part with me, but did not remonstrate, as he knew I must go back to school.