“But you are pursued!” I cried, pointing to the road on the further side of the mill-pool. “Yonder is Doctor Sale’s carriage. No doubt your mother has likewise been to John’s cottage, and has traced you here.”
“Let her come. I will not return with her, unless John means to give me up.”
“I will afford you an asylum,” John replied; “but who shall say, in my infirm state of health, how long I may be able to offer it you?”
“Cannot I help you, Apphia?” I exclaimed. “You might give me rights, even more sacred than those of a brother, to aid you and protect you.”
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Mervyn, for your devotion,” she replied. “But, alas! I cannot profit by it. I have given a promise — a solemn promise to my mother — never to bestow my hand upon any one without her consent — and I am well assured she will never consent to my union with you?”
“I had not foreseen this,” John said, mournfully. “A hope was springing in my breast that I might see you both happy — but you have wholly crushed it, Apphia. I lament that you have uttered this rash promise — but having given it, you must, perforce, keep it.”
“I do not think so,” I rejoined, warmly. “Such a promise ought not to be exacted by a parent, and can never be binding on a child.”
“If the child voluntarily chooses to place such an obligation upon her conscience, she must abide by it,” John rejoined. “Apphia cannot be released, except by her mother.”
“You are right, John,” she replied. “I fear there will always be an insuperable bar between me and Mervyn. I must therefore look to you — and to you alone. And yet, perhaps, I ought not to place you in this position. You will have lasting differences with our mother, on my account.”
“Do not consider me, Apphia,” he said. “I would not offend our mother if I could help it — and I will strive to reason with her now. Failing my endeavours in this respect, my home is your home.”
“I thank you, John,” she replied, earnestly.
“Your decision is only just made in time,” I cried, “for here comes Mrs. Brideoake.”
As I spoke, the carriage drove up to the little bridge near the mill. A footman immediately came down from the box, crossed the bridge, and returned the next moment with Mavis, who doffing his cap, evidently told the occupants of the carriage that the persons they sought were there. On receiving this information, the steps were instantly lowered, and Malpas Sale and Mrs. Brideoake alighting, proceeded towards the mill.
“We will await their coming here, Apphia,” John said to his sister. “You had better withdraw, Mervyn, for your presence might tend to complicate matters. Retire behind those palings,” he added, pointing to the palisades of a gardener’s shed. “You will then hear all that passes. I desire to have you for a witness. Should I need you, I will call you. Take Ned Culcheth with you; he would be in the way.”
Feeling that no time must be lost, I ran towards Ned, and rousing him as well as I could from the state of apathy into which he had sunk. I half dragged him behind the palings which John had indicated, and which completely screened us from view. —
We had only just gained this retreat, when I heard voices, and placing myself in a position that enabled me to see without being seen, I beheld Mrs. Brideoake, attended by Malpas, approach her son and daughter. John made a respectful salutation to his mother as she approached, taking off his hat as she drew near, and remaining uncovered during the whole of his interview with her. On her part, she treated him with the utmost coldness — did not shake hands with him — but eyed him with severe displeasure. As to Malpas and John they might have been utter strangers to each other, so distant was the manner in which their salutations were made.
Apphia took refuge behind her brother, and remained with her eyes fixed upon the ground.
“You are aware what brings me here, John,” Mrs. Brideoake began, in a dictatorial tone, and as if determined to enforce obedience to her commands. “Apphia has left me in an extraordinary manner, and I am sure you will see the propriety of her immediate return to her duty.”
“Apphia has fully explained her sentiments to me,” John replied, in tones the gentleness of which contrasted strongly with his mother’s haughty accents, “and I can therefore speak for her. She is quite willing to return to you, and to obey your behests as heretofore—”
“I am glad of it,” Mrs. Brideoake interrupted. “No more need be said, then.”
“Pardon me, mother, much remains to be said. That you desire my sister’s happiness and worldly prosperity I do not doubt, and that in choosing a husband for her, you have chosen one who, in your own opinion, justifies your selection, I am ready to grant. But the heart cannot be controlled, and Apphia feels that to marry without love — in her case, at least — would be to marry to certain misery. She therefore — through me — beseeches you not to seek to force her inclinations, but to leave her the free exercise of her will; and on this understanding she will willingly, cheerfully return to you. I also join my earnest entreaties to hers that you will accede to her request.”
No supplication could be more gently, more respectfully preferred. But John’s humility served only to heighten his mother’s imperiousness of manner.
“I can make no terms with a disobedient child,” she said. “I order Apphia to return to me. She will disobey at her peril.”
“A word more, mother,” John urged, in the same respectful manner as before. “Apphia is most unwilling to resist your mandates, believe me when I say it. Surely, surely, after what I have stated, you cannot wish to doom her to unhappiness? Neither after what he has heard, can the gentleman to whom she is affianced desire fulfilment of the contract.”
“Since I am appealed to,” Malpas said, “I must answer that I have placed myself entirely in Mrs. Brideoake’s hands. I am naturally unwilling to surrender one to whom I am devotedly attached — and I shall not of my own accord break the contract I have entered into. But if Mrs. Brideoake desires it, I will forego all claim to her daughter’s hand. Not otherwise. Indeed, I am at a loss to understand the meaning of this sudden change in Apphia’s feelings towards me. She entered into this engagement deliberately — and as far as I am able to judge, voluntarily; but within the last week her sentiments seem totally altered, and she appears to regard me with aversion.”
“The cause of the change is ehsily explained,” Mrs. Brideoake said. “It is because by the return of Mervyn Clitheroe, a foolish attachment which she indulged in as a child has been revived in her breast. But,” she added sternly, addressing Apphia, “let her mark me well; if she thwarts my inclinations, she may rest assured that, under no circumstances, and on no pretence, will I consent to her marriage with the object of her fancied regard. And you, John,” she continued, turning to him, “who argue for her, let me point out to you the mischief you are doing, by combining with your undutiful sister against me. It is your fault if I am compelled to mention matters without due regard to delicacy. Listen to me with attention, and you will see how little of a brother’s regard for a sister’s welfare there is in your opposition to me. My dear friend, Mrs. Mervyn,” she continued, slowly and emphatically, “has executed a deed, by which she settles one half of her large property — and a large property it is, being upwards of four thousand pounds a year — upon Apphia, on her marriage.”
“On her marriage with Malpas Sale, and no other?” John asked quickly.
“On her marriage with Malpas Sale, and no other,” Mrs. Brideoake repeated, deliberately. “Malpas is the person specified in the settlement, which would become null and void in the event of Apphia’s union with — say, Mervyn Clitheroe. The marriage is appointed for Malpas’s next birthday, when he will be twenty-five, and will consequently attain his majority, according to the terms of his uncle Mobberley’s will. At the same time, he will come into two thousand pounds a year — so that the fortunes of bride and bridegroom will be fairly balanced.”
“Having heard this statement, which I ca
n confirm,” Malpas said, “Mr. Brideoake will, no doubt, give it due consideration.”
“It merits consideration, indeed,” John replied, after a moment’s pause. “You had better take time for reflection, Apphia.”
“I require none,” his sister replied, firmly. “I decide at once. No pecuniary consideration shall induce me to enter into this marriage, and I am sure it was not with any design of forcing my inclinations, that kind, excellent Mrs. Mervyn acted thus generously towards me. Having no claim upon her bounty — no expectations from her — I do not now feel disappointed; but I am not less grateful for her kindness, though I cannot accept the gift with its conditions.”
“And this is your decision, Apphia?” her mother cried, severely. “You had better pursue the course recommended you by your brother, and reflect. Bear in mind that you will not only forfeit this large property, but — my love and protection — my love and protection,” she sternly repeated.
“I cannot help it, mother,” Apphia answered, meekly. “I shall strive to bear your displeasure, hoping that time may soften it.”
“Be not mistaken — time will never soften it,” Mrs. Brideoake cried, furiously. “Have I reared you — have I toiled for you — have I paved your way to fortune — ungrateful, disobedient child, only to find you turn upon me thus? But tremble! Your ingratitude and disobedience warrant me in invoking condign punishment upon your head.”
And as she spoke she raised her arm, as if about to pronounce a malediction. Affrighted at the gesture, Apphia flung herself at her feet, and clasped her knees.
But Mrs. Brideoake was held in check by one who had never before asserted supremacy over her. For the first time in his life her son turned a menacing and indignant look upon her, and she gazed upon him, as all who beheld him did, in astonishment and awe.
John seemed endowed with superhuman power, and drawing up his tall figure to its full height, he regarded his mother with eyes that flashed with lightning.
“Forbear, mother!” he exclaimed, stretching out his hand towards her. “In my sacred character, which you are bound to respect, I command you to desist! You have no just cause of offence against your daughter. She has ever been dutiful towards you, and if she now rebels against your authority, it is because you exact too much. Heaven has not ears for invocations like yours, and if you call down curses upon your child, be assured they will recoil on your own head. Rise up, Apphia, rise up, and come to me. I have made every effort to soften our mother’s obdurate heart; but in vain. She casts you off, my poor child. Be it so. I receive you. If there should be remorse and repentance for this day’s unhappy proceedings, they will not rest with us.”
Mrs. Brideoake, who had appeared quite confounded by her son’s address, now made an effort to retrieve the ground she had lost.
“John, John — you ought not to take part with her, but with me,” she cried. “You share her disobedience.”
“Peace, mother, and let us part!” John replied. “I will never reproach you, though, when you think of me hereafter, you may sometimes reproach yourself. Neither, I am sure, will Apphia reproach you, even if you refuse to make her happy by assenting to her union with the only man she can love. I would that we might part with you in a better frame of mind, and that you would leave your blessing with us.”
“My blessing — never! — ungrateful as you both are,” she rejoined, with asperity; “you will both repent this step — bitterly repent it.”
“It is to be hoped, for your own sake, that you may repent it, mother,” John replied.
Mrs. Brideoake made a movement, as if to quit the spot.
“Nay, tarry a moment, my dear Mrs. Brideoake,” Malpas said. “Let us have something like an amicable understanding, if we can, ere we separate. I will not further press the fulfilment of the contract between myself and Apphia; but, as she has alleged no stronger reason than change of mind for the avoidance of her solemn engagement, I will still venture to hope that, ere long, another change may occur, and I may be reinstated in her good opinion, which, for no fault of my own that I can discern, I appear to have forfeited. All I will beg, therefore, is to be permitted to visit her as a friend, and I will undertake not to renew my proposition unless it shall be agreeable to herself.”
“The proposal appears reasonable,” John rejoined. “What answer do you make, Apphia?”
But before she could reply, a soft and plaintive voice was heard singing a Welsh song, and little Grace and her companion were seen advancing along a path that led towards the party.
“It is Sissy Culcheth! — I am sure it is!” Apphia exclaimed.
As she spoke the song ceased, for poor Sissy, perceiving the party, hurried towards them. Her lap was full of wild flowers and she offered a branch of honeysuckle to Apphia.
I had kept my eye on Malpas. When the voice of the poor singer was heard he became pale as death, trembled, and would no doubt have taken to flight, if he could have framed a plausible excuse for his sudden departure. But when Sissy came up, he found his position intolerable, and was moving off, when John Brideoake caught hold of his arm and detained him.
“Stay a moment, sir,” John cried, sternly. “I am compelled to put some interrogations to you. You have just stated that my sister can allege no stronger reason for refusing to fulfil her contract with you than change of mind. A plea seems now to be furnished her, which, if correct, cannot be resisted. A charge of the gravest character has been brought against you in reference to this distracted woman. Can you look the poor creature in the face, and declare solemnly, and as you will render a final account of your actions to Heaven, that you are not the cause of her present lamentable condition?”
“I trust not,” Malpas replied, shuddering, and averting his head.
“Look at her, I say,” John continued, “ and do not equivocate in your answer. Did you, or did you not, lure her from her husband’s home?”
“These questions are only put to me for the purpose of enabling Apphia to break her engagement with me,” Malpas said, trying to feign indignation, though his faltering tones showed how differently he was affected, “and they do not deserve to be answered. Enough for me to declare at once that all such assertions respecting me, by whomsoever made, are false and calumnious. The person with whom this unhappy woman left her home is Simon Pownall.”
“If so, you cannot object to an ordeal which I will propose, with a view to test your innocence?” John said.
“What ordeal do you mean?” Malpas asked, in faltering tones.
“You shall see,” John replied. “Here, Sissy,” he cried, taking the hand of the poor creature, who was busily engaged in picking out a sprig of blooming eglantine from her bundle of flowers, “come this way. An old acquaintance wishes to see you. Look at him. Do you not know him — Mr. Malpas Sale?”
Poor Sissy at first had not heeded what was said to her, but continued to pursue her occupation. On hearing the name, however, which John repeated more than once, with marked and peculiar emphasis, she looked up, and fixing her eyes on Malpas, a fearful change came suddenly over her countenance.
“It is he! — it is he!” she shrieked. “It is the pad man of my treams. It is he who is to take me from my huspants, and cause my death!”
Then uttering a piercing scream, and placing her hands before her eyes, as if to exclude some dreadful vision, she would have sunk to the ground, if Apphia had not supported her.
On hearing this cry, Ned, who had with difficulty restrained himself, rushed forth, and I followed him, for I feared, from the expression of his countenance, that he might do some desperate act.
Malpas seemed as if he would have gladly sunk into the earth when the vengeful husband stood before him.
“Look at me,” Ned vociferated; “look at me, thou blackhearted shaking villain. Dost know me? Dost know me, I say?”
Malpas made no answer, but turned to fly.
But the grasp of a giant was laid upon him. Seizing him by the shoulder, Ned plucked him round as easi
ly as if he had been a child. They were again face to face.
“Well, what do you want with me?” Malpas faltered.
“Satisfaction! — that’s what I want,” Ned thundered; “satisfaction for the wrongs done me. And, by the Heaven above us! I’ll have it.”
“What do you want satisfaction for, my good fellow?” Malpas said, trying to appease him. “I’ve done you no harm.”
“Thou liest!” Ned cried. “Thou hast done me a wrong which nothing but blood can wipe out — and thy blood I’ll have. I have tarried thus long for vengeance because I doubted thy guilt, but her cries have accused thee. Prepare thyself if thou canst — thy hour is come.”
“Hear me, Ned,” Malpas cried, seriously alarmed by the other’s infuriated aspect. “I swear to you that I have not injured you as you suppose.” —
“Oaths like thine won’t weigh with me,” Ned cried. “Thy victim there gives thee the lie. Look at the wreck thou hast made, and ask thyself if I am likely to spare thee.”
“This madman will do Mr. Sale a mischief,” Mrs. Brideoake said. “Will nobody fly for assistance? Nay, then, I must go myself. There will be murder done. Help! help!”
And she ran screaming towards the mill.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 475