The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “I be noways afeard to show myself i’ broad dayleet,” Phaleg said, “and if your honour win only let me know when I can wait upon you at the vicarage, I win ca’ and tell you summat you may be pleased to lam.”

  “Hang you for an importunate rascal!” Malpas cried, impatiently. “Call to-morrow morning if you will, but don’t keep me any longer, now. I owe you a thousand apologies for detaining you thus, colonel,” he added, turning away. And taking his friend’s arm, they marched quickly off the ground.

  While the conversation just described took place between the gipsy and Malpas, the surgeon was engaged in dressing my bruised arm, and he applied some strong stimulant to the injured part that made it smart excessively. Mr. Rushton had bound up my arm, and was making a sling with a silk handkerchief to support it, when Phaleg came and planted himself right in front of me, with his thick bludgeon under his arm, and an impudent grin on his swarthy face.

  “How d’ye like the feel of cold lead, mester?” he asked, perceiving me wince a little with the pain. “Uncommon pleasant — ben’t it? You once put half a charge of swan-shot into me, and every devil’s pellet — each on ’em as big as a pea — had to be picked out. That wad ha’ made you grind your teeth, and kick out a bit. I’m not sorry to see you writhe i’ your turn.”

  “I tell you what, you insolent scoundrel,” Cuthbert Spring cried, “you’ll have another taste of cold lead yourself, that may do your business effectually, if you and your comrade don’t be off pretty quickly.”

  “Me and my son be doin’ no harm to nobody,” Phaleg rejoined’ in a tone of surly defiance; “and we’ve as much right to be here as you, or anybody. I shan’t stir, and I advise you not to molest me, or mayhap you’ll get the worst on’t.”

  Armed as he was, Phaleg did seem an awkward customer, and his son, though a lighter weight, appeared well able to support him. For the last few moments I had been considering what course to pursue. If I had been able to use my right arm, I would have seized the rascal without hesitation; but though the odds were in our favour, I doubted whether we could master the pair of ruffians. Cuthbert Spring had threatened to use the pistols, but Phaleg knew well enough that the weapons were not loaded, It might be as well, therefore, to temporise. Moreover, I called to mind the mysterious conversation I had had with the elder gipsy in Marston churchyard some years ago, and resolved to try whether anything could be extracted from him.

  “No harm shall be done you, Phaleg, if you keep quiet,” I observed, in a tone, calculated, as I thought, to appease him. “Give heed to what I’m about to say to you. You once offered to sell me a secret. Are you still willing to dispose of it, or have you made a better bargain elsewhere?”

  “Oh! you’re on that tack, eh?” the gipsy cried, in a jeering tone, and with an insolent grimace. “You intend goin’ roundabout, I perceive; but I’ll come to the pint at once, like a plain-spoken chap as I be. Now gie good heed to me, young mester. Twice I meant kindly by you, and both times you sarved me an ill turn. I’ve sworn not to forgie you. When I met you that night i’ Marston kirkyard, I would ha’ dealt fairly with you; but you and that infernal keeper hunted me like an otter i’ th’ mere, and weel-nigh drownded me, besides tearin’ my flesh to bits wi’ your great hounds. I have a secret as ‘ud make a man on you — a gen’l’man. But,” he added, with a savage look, while his black eyes blazed with vindictive malice, “I’d not sell it you for twice — aye, thrice as much as I axed then.”

  Cuthbert Spring and the surgeon, as may well be supposed, stared in astonishment at what they heard, and the former took out a powder flask and made a hasty attempt to load one of the pistols. But Phaleg was upon him in a twinkling.

  “Put that by!” he cried, with a deep oath, and brandishing his bludgeon as he spoke, “or Ize do ye a mischief.”

  “Hold hard, Phaleg!” I exclaimed, grasping his arm with the hand I could still employ. “I will engage that my friend shall not meddle with you. Leave him alone,” I added to Cuthbert Spring—” he’s dangerous.”—’

  “Ay, I be dangerous,” Phaleg cried, shaking off my hold, “as he’ll find, and you too, if you tries me.”

  “What does the fellow want?” Mr. Spring demanded, uneasily. “Are we to be robbed and maltreated, and offer no resistance?”

  “Fair words, mester, or we shall come to blows,” Phaleg rejoined, in a menacing voice. “You’ll nother be robbed nor moltrayted by me or my son. We be tinkers, as I telled his honour, Capt’n Sale, just now, an ams an honest livelihood. I want nowt from you nor onybody else; but I expects civil usage, and I’ll have it,” he added, with another deep oath. “There, now you knows my mind, And he” (pointing to me) “knows it too; and he onderstands by this time what he have lost by playin’ cross wi’ me.”

  Without another word he turned away, and motioning to his son, they ran towards the Raven’s Clough, and plunged down its woody banks.

  Before they had reached the covert, Cuthbert Spring inquired why I had let them go? I replied that the attempt to detain them would have been attended with great risk, and that it would be idle now to follow them, and Mr. Rushton concurred with me in opinion. “But don’t suppose,” I said to Mr. Spring, “that I have done with the rascal. I mean to have another interview with him before long. He must hide pretty closely if he hopes to baffle my search for him.”

  In a few minutes more all preparations were made for our departure, and we quitted the field. The incident that had just occurred formed the subject of our discourse as we walked along. Cuthbert Spring thought that immediate information should be given to the police at Dunton about Phaleg, but I dissuaded him from taking the step, as I had a scheme of my own for dealing with the gipsy.

  Before we reached the spot where the carriages had been left, my bruised arm began to give me great pain; and after getting into the chaise, the motion of the vehicle increased my anguish so much that I determined to stop at Dunton, and pass the night at the Stamford Arms. Thither accordingly we drove, and the hour being now late, we had to knock up the house. However, I soon gained admittance, and on beholding me with my sleeve ripped up, and my arm in a sling, the landlord immediately divined what had happened. Indeed, he now owned that he had previously suspected my intentions. He promised that a comfortable bed should be prepared for me directly.

  Cuthbert Spring did not alight but said he would come over to me on the morrow, and bring my luggage from the Palace Inn at Cottonborough, as I might feel disposed to recruit myself by a few quiet days at Dunton. In taking leave of me, he said in a tone of great kindness, and not altogether void of emotion, “I told you you would come out of this affair with credit to yourself, — and you have done so. I fully appreciate the motives which, I am sure, induced you to fire into the air. You acted nobly. Here are the letters you intrusted to my charge,” he added, delivering them to me. “I am truly happy in having to return them.”

  With this, he drew back in the chaise to make room for Mr. Rushton, who took a place beside him, for the sake of companionship on the road; and having ordered the other carriage to follow, both gentlemen bade me good night, and drove off.

  Previously to his departure, the surgeon had given me a phial, the contents of which he directed me to apply to my bruised arm; adding, with a laugh, that he felt sure I should not require any further attendance on his part. The village apothecary would suffice, he said, if I needed further aid.

  Shortly afterwards, I sought my couch. The landlord aided me to disrobe, and would gladly have learnt some particulars of the duel, but I did not gratify his curiosity. It will be readily conceived that I did not sleep much that night.

  CHAPTER VI.

  A SUMMER MORNING IN DUNTON PARK — SAD INTELLIGENCE.

  MY arm was very stiff next morning, but, the pain having in a great degree abated, I did not think it needful to call in the village surgeon. Having converted a black silk neckerchief into a decent-looking sling to support my injured limb, and put on a Cool overcoat and a broad-leaved bro
wn hat to shade me from the sun, I sallied forth, with the intention of proceeding to Marston. Before starting, I took care to order dinner for seven o’clock; giving particular directions about a bottle of the wonderful old port for Mr. Spring.

  It was a tempting day for a walk; rather warm, but a pleasant breeze tempered the heat. For some little distance, the road was the same as that which I had taken on the previous night; but with different feelings I now pursued it! Nerve oneself as one may, the thought of an approaching conflict, the issue of which may be fatal, is anything but agreeable. I was glad the duel was over — and without bloodshed. I had sustained a trifling injury, but it gave me no concern; whereas, if I had shot Malpas, I might ever afterwards have been a prey to remorse. Certainly, I should not have enjoyed the bright sunshine and the lovely prospect of wood, vale, and lake, as much as I now enjoyed them. Occasionally a saddening thought connected with Apphia would intrude itself, overshadowing me like a dark cloud; but the exhilarating influences I have described soon enabled me to chase it away.

  On reaching Dunton Park, instead of proceeding along the highway, I leaped the moss-grown pales, and shaped my course through the thickest part of its magnificent woods. How tranquillising is the deep stillness of an ancient grove on a summer’s day! How favourable is such a spot for contemplation! Ever and anon I sat down beneath the ample shade of some gigantic’ tree, and indulged in a pleasing reverie. A herd of fallow-deer, a chance squirrel, rabbits, and a few songsters of the grove were the only living objects in view. If I reclined thus, like Jaques, my meditations were neither moody nor misanthropic. Though I looked upon myself as an injured man, my feelings towards my fellows were far from unkindly. My desire was to mix more with the world, and form fresh friendships, for I felt convinced that happiness can always be found if the right way of seeking it is only taken.

  While I was thus musing, the sudden flight of the herd of deer which had been couching beneath the shade of some evergreen oaks on the skirts of the wood, the cries of a jay and the chattering of magpies, made me aware that an intruder was at hand; and I presently saw a keeper, habited in a velveteen jacket and leather leggings, ride out of the covert. The man was mounted on a strong, shaggy-looking pony, which he appeared to guide entirely by voice, for he never touched the reins — his hands being occupied by a rifle, which he rested upon the saddle. He was accompanied by a coal-black bloodhound, and after galloping for a few minutes after the flying herd, by the help of the hound he singled out a fine buck, and then suddenly halting, leaped to the ground, levelled, and fired. The deer fell with a single bound, being apparently hit between the horns. The keeper then placed the carcass of the noble animal upon the back of the pony, and secured it from falling by tying cords to the legs.

  While watching the man during this operation, I became convinced that it must be Ned Culcheth. Those broad shoulders and athletic frame — those six feet of stature — those tremendous whiskers and forest of red hair — those manly features and that bold deportment, could belong to none but Ned. But how came he — one of Mr. Vernon’s keepers — to be shooting a buck in the domains of Lord Amoundemess? Be this as it might — entertaining no doubt as to the identity of the personage with Ned — I went to the borders of the grove and hailed him. My voice arrested him just as he was setting off. He knew me directly, and hurried towards me — the hound keeping close at his heels, and the pony, with its load, trotting after him, like a dog of a larger breed, and halting when he halted.

  A very cordial greeting passed between us, for I had a great liking for the honest fellow. I had not seen him for three or four years, and now that I scanned his features more closely, I perceived that he was much changed. Anxiety was visible in his open countenance, and a frost seemed to have settled upon the tips of his glowing whiskers. I began to fear something had gone wrong with him. In explanation of his presence in Dunton Park, he told me that he was now in the service of its noble owner; and while imparting this piece of information, he heaved a deep sigh. However, he made an effort to appear cheerful, and cried:

  “Why, you be grown quite a man, I declare, Mester Mervyn — and a fine man, too, as ever I clapped eyes on. But what be the matter wi’ your arm? — not broken, I hope, sir?”

  “Oh! a mere nothing, Ned — an accidental shot, that’s all.”

  “A pistol-shot, may be?” Ned rejoined, with a sly look. ‘ I did hear as how there war some shootin’ on Crabtree-green last night, and it wouldn’t surprise me to larn that you got hit there — by accident, of course, sir.”

  I turned off the question with a laugh, and directing my attention to the hound, remarked, while patting the animal’s head, “What a noble hound you have got, Ned! — a Saint Hubert, eh?”

  “A Saint Hubert he be, sir,” Ned replied. “He comes from the forest of the Ardennes, they tells me, and be one of the true race from Saint Hubert’s Abbey. He were sent to Squire Vernon fro’ foreign parts, and the squire gied him to me; and a better gift he couldn’t have bestowed — for Hubert — I calls him Hubert, sir, — hasn’t his match.”

  “A perfect hound, Ned, I’ll warrant him,” I replied, regarding him with a sportsman’s admiration—” he bears about him all the marks of keen scent, great swiftness, and extraordinary force and endurance. When I first beheld him just now, I called to mind an old distich by a huntsman of Lorraine, which might be engraved on his collar:

  “‘My name came first from holy Hubert’s race,

  Souyllard my sire, a hound of singular grace.’

  I congratulate you on the possession of such a hound, Ned. But it is time to inquire after the other occupants of your kennel. How are my old friends and your faithful companions, Gaunt and Lupus?”

  “Lupus be dead more nor a year ago,” the keeper replied; “but poor owd Gaunt be still livin’, though too stiff for work, so I leaves him at home to tend the house.”

  “A trusty watch-dog I’m sure, old as he is,” I rejoined. “But I have been sadly remiss, Ned. I ought to have asked long ago after sweet Sissy? How is your darling little wife?” I never was more startled in my life. I thought the strong man would have dropped. He shook as if an ague had seized him, and staggered towards a tree, against which he leaned for support.

  Suspecting I had harmed his master, Hubert glared at me with his deep-set red orbs, while his lips curled fiercely. For my own part, I was exceedingly distressed. But I had never heard of poor Sissy’s death. And that Ned must have lost her I now felt certain, from the emotion he displayed.

  I thought it best to let him be — and, indeed, I did not know how to comfort him. Sissy had always been a great favourite of mine, and it was sad to think that so fair a flower should be cut off thus prematurely.

  At length, Ned made an effort to rouse himself, and throwing back his head as if to ease his labouring breast, he came slowly towards me. I took his hand, and looked kindly into his haggard countenance.

  “I have been abroad for some time, Ned, and am only just returned,” I said. “I was not aware of the heavy loss you have sustained, or I wouldn’t have said anything to distress you.”

  “Ay, ay, it be a heavy loss, sure enough — heavier a’most than I can bear,” Ned groaned. “Mine were once a happy home — no man’s more so. Sissy made a palace of my humble dwelling — leastways I thought it so. When I cum’d home tired and jaded after a long day’s work, her smiles and cheerful words set me right at once. You ha’ been i’ my cottage often, sir, and know whether she kept it tidy or not. There wasn’t a cleaner cottage in the county — that I’ll uphold. And as to the missis herself — but I won’t speak about her. You know what she were.”

  “I do, Ned. She was the prettiest woman of her class I ever beheld — and as good as she was pretty.”

  “Hold, sir!” he cried, with a look I shall never forget. “Don’t say a word about her goodness. It were her misfortune that she was so pratty. Better she had been the plainest lass i’ Cheshire than turn her beauty to ill account.”

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p; “I dare not ask for an explanation of your words, Ned,” I replied, inexpressibly shocked; “but I hope I mistake their meaning. At all events, let me implore you to think kindly of the dead.”

  “Sissy ben’t dead, sir,” he rejoined, with a stern look. “Would she were! Then I could truly lament her. She have betrayed me — she have left me. But she ben’t dead — no — she ben’t dead,” he repeated with a fearful shudder.

  Hubert uttered a low growl, and again glared fiercely at me.

  I hardly knew what to say to the poor keeper, for his deep affliction quite unmanned me, but at length I addressed him thus:—” If any one else, but yourself, had told me this, Ned, I would have flatly contradicted the statement. Even now I can scarcely believe it. If Sissy has proved false, I shall lose my faith in all the rest of her sex.”

  “I wish I could doubt it myself, sir,” he replied. “ But it be only too true. Heaven knows I dearly loved her — better than life! I thought of nothing but her; and couldn’t do enough to please her. She only had to ax an’ have, so far as my poor means went; and as to failin’ i’ constancy to her, I could as soon ha’ failed in duty to my Maker. But,” he added, with intense bitterness, “I suppose I warn’t handsome enough for her — I warn’t fine gen’l’man enough — I couldn’t talk softly enough.”

  “And she left you, then, for some one who styled himself a gentleman, Ned r” I demanded. “Am I to understand you so?”

  “Ay,” he replied, “she left me who valleyed her more than silver and gowd — more than a’ the treasures on airth — for one who only took her for an hour’s pastime, and then cast her off. I don’t know what black art he used to wean her affections fro’ me — for I think her love were mine once — I don’t know whether she struggled against his snares — but she fell into ‘em, and left me. And this I can say for myself, sir — and say it wi’ truth — she left as fond and faithful a husband as ever woman had.”