“I guessed whom you referred to, doctor, when you proposed your plan to Mrs. Brideoake,” I replied; “and I felt sure no one could be found more willing to assist her than Mrs. Mervyn, while neither the poor lady nor her children need ever be made aware to whom they are indebted.”
“Well, then, since you agree with me in opinion, my young friend, we will go to the Anchorite’s at once. I am not fond of begging — and wish I had been allowed to have my own way — but there is no help for it in this case.”
We then got into the old chariot again, and, having stopped for a few minutes at the auction-rooms in the Exchange, where the doctor handed in the catalogue, with the books marked in it which he wished to purchase, we drove to the Anchorite’s.
Mrs. Mervyn was at home, and received the doctor very courteously, and he immediately entered upon the object of his visit, concluding by stating that he had been emboldened to make the request, not only by his knowledge of her most charitable disposition, but because he was aware of her strong feeling towards the Jacobite cause.
“I am not permitted to disclose the name of the lady for whom I venture to solicit your assistance, madam,” he said; “neither, perhaps, would you desire to know it; but when I tell you that she belongs to one of those unfortunate families in the north of England, who suffered in the Rising of’15, I am sure I have said enough to enlist your strongest sympathies in her behalf.”
“You have, indeed, doctor,” Mrs. Mervyn replied, the tears springing to her eyes; “and I shall be indeed happy if you will point out a way in which I can be useful to her — not now, but hereafter.” As she said this, she unlocked a coffer, and taking out a roll of bank-notes, gave them to the physician, adding, “I very rarely wish to know whom I am fortunate enough to be able to serve, but in this instance I must say my curiosity is aroused, and, if not disagreeable to her, I should be truly happy to make the lady’s acquaintance.”
I was so delighted that I felt disposed to tell her at once, but the doctor checked me by a look.
“lam truly grieved that I cannot comply with your request, madam,” he replied; “but the lady is singularly proud, and if she discovered—”
“She would discover nothing from me,” Mrs. Mervyn interrupted.
“I do not for a moment imagine it, madam. But I fear it must be delayed — there are reasons—”
“Very well, doctor, I shall urge you no further. But I must repeat the hope that you will not hesitate to apply to me again. I am always ready in such cases, and more particularly in one where my feelings are deeply interested, like the present.”
“The sum you have given is more than ample to meet any present emergency,” said the doctor, who had glanced at the amount of the notes. “And now, like all solicitants who have obtained their suit, I must make my bow. On some future occasion I will crave permission to examine your library and its manuscript treasures.”
“Come and examine it to-morrow, and dine with me afterwards,” said Mrs. Mervyn. “I happen to have a little dinner party, to which you will be a great acquisition.”
“I see only one objection to the arrangement, madam — I expect Doctor Bray, on a visit to me — and he arrives to-day.”
“Pray bring him with you,” Mrs. Mervyn said; “I shall be delighted to see Doctor Bray, of whom I have heard so much.”
“You will find him a little eccentric in manners, and perhaps rather too Johnsonian in his talk, madam,” Doctor Foam said.
“Never mind that,” she replied. “Mervyn will like to see so celebrated a person, so he shall dine with us too. I shall expect you and your learned friend, doctor.”
The physician bowed.
“I think I must take this young gentleman back with me,” he said; “he will like to see a family in which he is interested made happy.”
“As you please, Doctor Foam,” she replied; “and though I am not permitted to know who my Jacobite friends are, I am glad Mervyn is more fortunate.”
“You will know them some day, I am sure, my dear Mrs. Mervyn, and like them as I do,” I replied, for I was overjoyed at her conduct, and not only loved her dearly, but felt quite proud of her.
The doctor walked through the garden, on the way to the carriage, and promised himself a great treat, on some occasion, in examining Mrs. Mervyn’s hothouses and greenhouses.
As we drove back again to town, I told him that I thought good accommodation for the family might be obtained at Marston, and added, that I knew of a cottage (I was thinking of Ned Culcheth’s) which I was sure would suit them exactly. The doctor said a better spot could not be selected. Marston was remarkably salubrious, and he would recommend it to Mrs. Brideoake. It was then agreed that I should ride over on the day but one following, as I could not miss the dinner on the morrow, and engage the lodgings.
Arrived once more at Preston-court, we climbed the steep staircase, and were speedily admitted by little Apphia, who smiled as she beheld us, and we saw at once the change that had been effected. The provisions supplied by the doctor’s care were spread on the table, and had evidently been partaken of by mother and daughter; perhaps the first hearty meal they had enjoyed for months. A bottle of old Madeira was opened, and its fragrance perfumed the apartment. But the chief object of attraction was the invalid himself, who was seated in the easy-chair sent by the doctor, and wrapped in the worthy man’s flannel dressing-gown. He looked very wan and feeble, but his eye dwelt with gratitude on Doctor Foam and on me.
The physician felt his pulse, and said he was going on capitally. “He will be none the worse for another glass of Madeira,” he added, pouring it out and handing it to him.
As John, with trembling hand, conveyed the generous wine to his lips, Doctor Foam turned to Mrs. Brideoake, and, taking the bank-notes from his pocket-book, placed them in her hands.
“The lady I mentioned to you, madam” he said, “has commissioned me to present you with this sum of money. It will, I hope, fully meet the present exigency, and be the means of restoring your son to you in health. A cottage at Marston, in Cheshire, will be engaged for you, and in a few days John will be strong enough, I trust, to be conveyed thither.”
For the first time Mrs. Brideoake’s pride was shaken, and she seemed completely overcome by emotion.
“Oh, sir!” she ejaculated, “I cannot thank you as I ought.”
“You must not thank me, madam,” he replied; “you must thank your own unknown friend.”
“I do — I do,” she rejoined; “but you have been the instrument, doctor. The blessings of a poor widow will requite you!”
“What, you want to thank me too, eh?” said the doctor, turning to little Apphia, who had crept up to him. “You must let me see the roses which you will pick up at Marston.”
“That I will, shy — I will bring you plenty,” replied Apphia, taking the words literally.
Meanwhile, I had approached John, and said a few words to him, when the doctor, who had now discharged his commission, fearing the invalid might be over-excited, put a stop to our further conversation, and beckoning me to follow him, I was obliged to obey the summons.
CHAPTER X.
A VISIT TO THE BUTLER’S PANTRY — A DINNER-PARTY AT THE ANCHORITE’S — DOCTOR BRAY AND MR. CUTHBERT SPRING.
WHEN any secret information is required, servants are sure to furnish it, and what Mrs. Mervyn could not have learnt from me respecting the objects of her bounty, she had already obtained from Mr. Comberbach, as I discovered on my return home in the evening. Our butler was in the pantry cleaning plate, preparatory to the dinner on the following day, and as I chanced to pass the door he requested me to step in for a moment.
The pantry was quite a chamber of horrors, the walls being covered with prints representing the tragical fate of the persons composing our butler’s martyrology. Nowhere else could be seen such a direful collection of hangings and decapitations; and I wondered what pleasure Mr. Comberbach could have in contemplating them. The scaffold on Tower Hill was repeated I at l
east a dozen times, the prominent figures being Kilmarnock, Balmerino, Lovat, and Charles Ratcliffe, Lord Derwentwater’s brother. There was the execution on Kennington Common of the unfortunate Jemmy Dawson, whose fate Shenstone has so pathetically bewailed, and the Carlisle and Cottonborough tragedies. Interspersed among these were several broadside ballads, or “Laments,” headed with cuts as appalling as the prints. On the mantel-shelf were a couple of skulls, looking very yellow and grim, and asserted by our butler to be those of his luckless progenitors. A waggish friend told him he must have lost his own head when he put the others there. Then there were the powder-puff and brass basin belonging to the -owners of the skulls; and the comfortable arm-chair now occupied by our butler had once stood, he affirmed, in the shop of the valorous shavers, who went before him, in Old Mill Gate.
Our butler was a very respectable looking man, fat and florid, but not unwieldly; and be not only knew how to decant a bottle of old port, but to discuss it too, if opportunity offered. In age, he was hard upon sixty, and was very particular as to his dress. Indeed, when fully rigged out, he looked as grand as a lord, for he wore a sky-blue coat with gilt buttons, a white waistcoat with a satin under-waistcoat of the royal Stuart tartan (so arranged as to look like the riband of an order of knighthood), knee-breeches, and black silk stockings of a very fine web. Our butler was not a little vain of his large calves and small feet; and, as became the descendant of a line of barbers, he wore powder in his hair. Fastened to his under-waistcoat, and so placed as to have the appearance of a decoration, was an immense brooch, surrounded by mock brilliants, containing a miniature of Prince Charles Edward.
“Pray, Master Mervyn,” Mr. Comberbach said, as he rubbed away at a large two-handled silver cup, “may I inquire after Master John Brideoake?” And seeing me stare at the question, he winked knowingly, and continued—” Nay, you needn’t make no secret of it with us, sir. We knows it all.” (Our butler had a way of mixing himself up with his mistress in his observations.) “We knows whom you and Doctor Foam wisited to-day; and I’ll tell you how we comes for to know it. The doctor’s coachman, old Andrew Beatson, is a crony of mine; so, says I to him, as I takes him a pot of our mild October to the garden-gate, where the carriage was a-standing, ‘So, Andrew,’ says I, ‘you’ve brought home Master Mervyn — from school, eh?’ Says he to me, a-blowing off the froth, ‘My sarvice to you, Mr. Cummerbaych.’ (Thus our butler pronounced his own name.) ‘No, sir, we comes from Preston-court, i’ Friar’s-gate.’
‘Preston-court!’ says I; ‘that’s a queer place, Andrew! What could young master be doing there?’
‘Why, a poor lad is ill as lives there,’ says he; ‘one John Brideoake — a schoolfellow of his’n — and he got the doctor to wisit him — that’s it.’ ‘Oh! that’s it?’ says I; ‘thank you, Andrew.’
‘Nay, thank you, Mr. Cummerbaych,’ says he; ‘you’ve a werry good tap here. I don’t care how often I tries it.’ So, hoping to see him soon again, I wishes him good day, and when missis arterwards inquires whether I knows if you have any friend at school as is unwell, and as comes of a Jackeybite fam’ly, I sees it all at once, and, says I, ‘Yes, mem; John Brideoake, whom he and the doctor have been to wisit this morning, afore they corned here. His fam’ly is Jackeybite, mem.’”
“How do you know that, Mr. Comberbach?” I asked.
“How do I know it?” our butler replied, with a cunning smile. “Never you mind that, sir.” And, putting the cover on the silver cup, and holding it aloft by both handles, he exclaimed, “Historikil plate this, sir, — the werry flagon out of which the young prince drank when he brexfarsted here, on his march to Cottonborough, as you’ve oftentimes heerd missis relate. I reverences this cup, and could kiss it, only I should spile its polish. Ah! Master Mervyn, what a pity them good old times can’t come over again! How I should like to have waited at table at that ‘ere famous brexfarst; I’d have played my grandfather’s part, and shouted— ‘Live Charles Ed’ard, and down with the “Lector of Hanover!’”
And in his excitement he knocked off the cover of the cup, which, in its fall upset the box of red plate-powder, scattering its contents over his apron and lower garments. As soon as matters ‘ were put to rights, and I had done laughing, I asked him what Mrs. Mervyn said when he told her about John Brideoake.
“Why, let me see. She said, says she, ‘I’m almost sorry I axed you the question, Mr. Cummerbaych; for, to tell you the truth, I scarcely expected an answer.’ Then says I, ‘Ma’am, if you had only given me a hint, I wouldn’t have answered it.’ But I seed she wanted to hear more, so I tells her all I knew — and that wasn’t much. And now, Master Mervyn, may I ask you who these Brideoakes is? We don’t recollect the name, — and we knows all the old Jackeybite fam’lies. We knows the Tyldesleys, the Daltons, the Hiltons, the Sandersons, the Heskeths, the Standishes, and the Shuttleworths; but we never heerd tell of the Brideoakes — never.”
“I can give you no information, Mr. Comberbach.”
“You’re a werry discreet young gentleman, I must say,” he rejoined, with a look of some annoyance; “but allow me to obsarve, in my missis’s name, that there is no occasion for myst’ry in this case, our object being to sarve the fam’ly. You’re aware of our attachment to the Good Cause, and how ready we are to aid those who suffered for it.”
“Oh, yes, I’m aware of all that, Mr. Comberbach; but I really know no more than you do yourself.”
Our butler shook his head, and smiled incredulously. Taking another piece of plate out of the great chest which was standing open before him, he fell vigorously to work upon it with the polishing leather, chanting the while an old Jacobite ballad:
“Macintosh is a soldier brave,
And of his friends he took his leave,
Unto Northumberland he drew,
And marched along with a jovial crew.
With a fa la la ra da ra da.
“My Lord Derwentwater he did say
Five hundred guineas he would lay,
To fight the militia, if they would stay,
But they all proved cowards, and ran away,
With a fa la, &c.
“The Earl of Mar did vow and swear
If that proud Preston he came near,
Before the Right should starve, and the Wrong should stand,
He would drive them into some foreign land.
With a fa la, &c.
“Macintosh is a valiant soldier,
He carried a musket on his shoulder,
‘Cock your pistols, draw your rapper,
Damn you, Forster, for you’re a traitor.’
With a fa la,” &c.
Leaving him singing, I went up-stairs to Mrs. Mervyn, and though, after what I had heard in the pantry, I expected to be questioned by her, she made no allusion whatever to the Brideoakes.
On returning from school next day, in anticipation of the dinner-party at which I was allowed to assist, I found our butler and two hired waiters in the hall. Mr. Comberbach was arrayed in all his finery, with his plaid satin under-waistcoat very skilfully displayed, and his large brooch glittering like a star upon his breast.
“Well, sir,” he said, with a smirk, “they’re come, sir.”
“Who’re come?” I exclaimed, almost expecting him to mention the Brideoakes, upon whom my own thoughts were running.
“Doctor Foam and his friend Doctor Bray, sir. Lor’ bless us, Master Mervyn, it’s a parfit pleasure to see a man like that. He’s none of your every-day humdrum parsons, as wears a black coat and white choker like other folks — not he! He’s full dress, band and cassock, shorts and silks, and a wig, sir, — ay, sich a wig! I tuk him for a bishop when I sees his full-bob, and he tuk me for a lord when he beholds my brooch. And werry respectful bows we makes each other, till at last Doctor Foam kindly undeceives us. I warn’t displeased at the mistake a bit, nor were Doctor Bray; for, says he, ‘You are premature, my good friend — whatever I may be when the Whigs comes in, I’m not a bishop yet.’
‘You’ll be a bishop afore I’m helewated to the peerage, doctor,’ says I; ‘but I thought the Wigs must be corned in,’ I adds, eyeing his bob-major. ‘ Aha!’ cries he, laughing, ‘you can joke, eh? jackanapes!’
‘Jackeybite, sir,’ says I—’ we’re all Jackeybites here.’ Ajad he laughs ready to split his fat sides and walks off, for he sees he’s no match for me at a rippertee.”
And our butler grinned and winked at the two waiters, who nodded their heads and grinned in return, as much as to say they entirely agreed in the estimate he formed of his own powers “They’re up-stairs in the library,” Mr. Comberbach said.
On this hint I went thither, and found Doctor Foam examining some thick folio volumes of manuscript Jacobite correspondence, which were generally locked up in the bookcase, but had no doubt been laid out for him by Mrs. Mervyn. He was so deeply engaged that he did not remark my entrance, but continued reading letter after letter.
At last he closed the volume, exclaiming, “Very strange! very strange indeed!” And then observing me, he added, “Ah! my young friend, I didn’t know you were here. My exclamation was occasioned by a very curious discovery which I have just made in glancing through this Jacobite correspondence. I have chanced upon some letters which show that a friendly intercourse subsisted between the main branch of the family which your worthy relative so kindly aided, and the unfortunate Ambrose Mervyn. Not having yet had time to go through the whole of the correspondence, I cannot say precisely how it ended. But I must borrow the volume from Mrs. Mervyn, to examine the letters at my leisure. I dare say she will trust me with it. And now I see you fancy you will be able to make out the secret; but though I have furnished you with a clue to it, you will not; for the real names are not given, and portions of the correspondence being in cypher, you won’t be a bit the wiser if you search. Thus much I may tell you. The people you are interested in come of a very good family, and have more title to your regard than I was aware of. If upon investigating the matter I find my conjectures correct, I may perhaps consider it my duty to acquaint Mrs. Mervyn with my accidental discovery. But I shall say nothing at present. Apropos of the Brideoakes, I am glad to be able to report to you that John is decidedly better. I have now no fears of him. Of course, you go to Marston to arrange about the lodgings to-morrow? And now let me present you to Doctor Bray.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 449