The fete concluded at eight o’clock. Many of my rustic guests of either sex would have liked it to be prolonged, I make no doubt, but I did not care to gratify their inclinations, and as soon as the more important guests had taken their departure, I withdrew, leaving it to Mr. Ponder to announce the close of the festivities. On a hint from him, delivered with his customary politeness, the company began to disperse immediately, and in less than an hour the green was as quiet as it had been on the previous evening, all traces of the entertainment having disappeared.
I must not omit to mention that, in taking leave of me, Major Atherton, said very kindly, that he should be delighted to be of service to me, if I would show him how — and he trusted I would consider him in the light of an old friend: “In that character, let me observe,” he said, “that I think Apphia Brideoake a very charming girl — worthy of a life’s devotion — and I sincerely hope you may obtain her hand.”
I thanked him heartily for his friendly offers and good wishes, and we parted.
About nine o’clock on that same night I mounted my horse, and started on my expedition to Cottonborough, where I hoped to arrive by midnight. The few things I took with me were placed in my saddle-bags. Had I been free from anxiety, I should have greatly enjoyed my ride. But black care followed me like a shadow, and would not be dismissed. The night was fine and not dark, for though the moon was invisible, the deep vault was without a cloud, and thickly studded with stars. The roads were in good order, and I trotted on at a brisk pace, and almost without stoppage, until I neared Dunton Park.
Arrived at the foot of the hill which is crowned by those lordly woods, I drew in the rein, and was proceeding leisurely along, when I heard the clatter of horse’s hoofs, and soon afterwards perceived a man galloping towards me. Something must have caught the animal’s foot, for he suddenly stumbled and threw his rider. Fearing mischief might have occurred, I rode forward, but ere I got to the spot, the man had regained his legs, and remounted his horse. I expressed a hope that he was not hurt, but he answered in a most uncourteous tone; “What is that to you, sir? Go on your way.”
It was Malpas Sale. My enemy had already recognised me. After addressing me in the rude manner I have described, he would have ridden off, but I caught hold of his rein, and forcibly detained him.
“Stay!” I thundered. “Chance has brought us together, and we do not part till you have rendered me an account of your villanous proceedings.”
“This language to me, sir!” he cried, foaming with rage. “You must be drunk or mad. Leave go the rein at once —
“You shall not stir, I tell you,” I rejoined in a determined tone, “till you have rendered me an account of your infamous transactions with Simon Pownall. I know the errand on which you are come from Windsor. It is to buy the will from Pownall — the will constituting me heir to our uncle’s property.”
“Who told you this?” he demanded.
“No matter whence my information is derived,” I rejoined; “it is correct. But I will take such steps as will effectually stop your nefarious design.”
“Take any steps you please, sir,” he rejoined, scornfully. “ I defy you.”
“You are over-confident, methinks, with such a peril as this hanging over your head,” I remarked.
“There is no peril hanging over my head,” he replied, with contemptuous audacity. “My position is perfectly secure, and it is not in your power, or in the power of any living person, to shake it. Mark what I say, and ponder upon it. I am beyond dispute — beyond dispute, I repeat, sir — heir to our uncle Mobberley’s property.”
And he again laughed defiantly.
“Then you would give me to understand that the nefarious transaction has been completed,” I cried; “that you have obtained possession of the will which was fraudulently purloined by Simon Pownall. Is it so? Speak out, without equivocation.”
“I will speak — if only to annihilate your hopes,” he rejoined. “No witnesses are present, so it matters not what passes between us. Learn then, to your confusion, that the precious document, on which your castles in the air have been built, is destroyed — destroyed, I say. All evidence is for ever removed. How say you now, sir? Will the property be yours or mine? — ha! ha!” —
My hold of the rein involuntarily relaxed, and, finding himself free, he awaited no reply, but striking his horse sharply with the whip, galloped off, leaving me utterly confounded.
CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH I APPEAR IN A NEW CHARACTER.
SOME minutes elapsed before I recovered from the stupefaction into which I had been thrown by Malpas’s startling declaration; and by this time the sound of his horse’s hoofs had died away in the distance. I did not attempt to follow him, but while pursuing my journey towards Cottonborough, I set myself deliberately to examine the probability of his astounding statement. Little inclined as I was to credit it, I could not but fear that it might be correct. A falsehood of such magnitude could scarcely have been advanced without premeditation, and with such unparalleled audacity. Neither, unless he had felt perfectly secure, would he have ventured to defy me so insolently. No, no! he must have obtained possession of the will, and have destroyed it, as he had affirmed.
And yet, on the other hand, it was difficult to conceive how the bargain had been so expeditiously concluded between him and the rapacious scoundrels with whom he must have had to deal. How had their demands been satisfied? Pownall had declared in my hearing that he was resolved to have a large sum, and his confederates would be little less extortionate. Malpas was not overstocked with money. Rather the reverse, I fancied. How, at a moment’s notice, on his arrival from Windsor, had he managed to raise the funds necessary to complete the iniquitous transaction? Promises to pay, written or otherwise, were not likely to serve his turn with crafty rascals like Pownall and his associates. It must be cash down with them. Since this was certain, how was the money procured?
There was another view of the case. The robber might himself have been plundered. Pownall might have been tricked out of his expected gains. Phaleg and his son had plotted to steal the will, and might have succeeded in their design. But admitting this latter supposition to be the true one, the difficulty of the purchase-money was not removed. Sold the will must have been by Pownall or the gipsies: in either case it must have been well paid for. Again, the question arose — where did the money come from?
The answer must be given by Malpas. His enforced reply must needs throw some light upon the mysterious affair, and lead very probably to his detection. If it could be proved that he had borrowed a large sum at this particular juncture, he must either produce the money, or show that it had been lawfully expended. Again his accomplices would find it difficult to conceal their spoil. Through them the dark plot might be unravelled. Pownall’s meditated flight to America must be prevented, and the gipsies be placed under the surveillance of the police.
Meditations, such as these, occupied me during my ride to Cottonborough. Five miles off, the town became distinguishable through the darkness by its many-twinkling lights. As I advanced, these lights increased in number and brilliancy, until I began to fancy there must be a general illumination in the town. But it was only the cotton-nulls lighted up for night-work. Where toil ceases not during the twenty-four hours, gas cannot be stinted, and it is largely consumed in the Cottonborough factories. The huge, ugly fabrics glistened like fairy palaces. By gaslight all defects are hidden. But it was with more sorrow than admiration that I regarded them as I rode past.
I put up at the Palace Inn that night, as was my wont.
Next morning, at ten o’clock precisely, as I had appointed with Apphia, I was in waiting near the garden-gate of the Anchorite’s. I did not ring the bell, or give any intimation of my arrival, but patiently awaited the appearance of Mr. Comberbach. At last he came. The gate was partly opened, and the butler, peeping out, beckoned me to him. My first inquiries were whether any improvement had taken place in Mrs. Mervyn’s health.
> “She is rayther better, thankee, sir, but still dangerously ill,” Mr. Comberbach replied. “Yesterday, we all of us thought the poor dear lady was going to pop off the shelf altogether; but she has rallied a little since then. The sight of dear Miss Apphia did her a world of good, and she slept tolerably well last night, and awoke somewhat easier this morning.”
“I must see her, Comberbach,” I cried. “I know you can manage to get me into her room, if you choose.”
“You give me credit for a great deal more power than I possess,” he replied. “It would have been an easy matter once, but now your humble servant is of small account at the Anchorite’s. However, a plan has occurred to me, or rather, I should say, it was suggested by Molly Bailey — for accomplishing the desired object. But it’s very hazardous — very hazardous, indeed, sir.”
“I care not. I will adopt it,” I exclaimed.
“You mistake me, sir,” he replied. “I mean that the plan is hazardous to me and Molly Bailey, and may occasion the loss of our places.”
“I should be truly sorry for such a result as that,” I said.
“But you must not run so great a risk for nothing. Divide that with Molly Bailey.” And I placed a five-pound note in his hands.
“Excessively obleeged to you, sir, I’m sure,” he replied, bowing. “Molly and I always say you are a very generous young gentleman, and deserve support. I’ll try and get you into the room. But you must be extremely cautious, and not say a word, if you can help it, while Mrs. B. is by. Molly Bailey will use her best endeavours to get her out of the room for a short time, so as to give you an opportunity of saying a word to our poor dear lady.”
“That is all I require, Comberbach,” I cried. —
“And you and Molly may depend upon my gratitude, if I can set matters right.”
“Well, I hope you may, sir; but I’m not remarkably sanguine,” he replied, shaking his head. “Mind, if you’re discovered, Mrs. B. must never learn who let you in.”
“She shan’t learn it from me, you may depend, Comberbach,”
I replied.
Satisfied with this assurance, he allowed me to pass through the gate, and directed me to make my way through a side walk, which was screened by a shrubbery, to the back of the house; begging me not to leave the covert of the trees until I heard him cough. I complied with his instructions, and was soon summoned from my place of concealment by the signal, when I perceived him standing at an open door. In another moment I was in his pantry.
“And now the plan, Comberbach!” I cried. “What is it?” —
“I don’t know that you’ll altogether approve of it, sir,” he replied. “It’s Molly Bailey’s idea, not mine. You will have to personate Captain Sale.”—’
“Personate him!” I exclaimed, in disgust. “Ridiculous! I shall do nothing of the sort.”
“I knew you would object, sir,” he replied; “but there’s no help. The part must be adopted, or your errand here will be fruitless. Mrs. B. has received a letter from the captain — so Molly Bailey tells me — announcing that he will be here to-day. Consequently Mrs. B. won’t be surprised by your appearance.”
“Nonsense, man, she will instantly recognise me,” I cried, hastily.
“I don’t think so, sir,” he answered. “My poor dear lady’s chamber is darkened, and Mrs. B. generally sits at the further side of the bed — so if you are careful you won’t be detected. Luckily, Captain Sale left a suit of clothes behind when he was last here. If you will condescend to put them on, you’ll look just like him.”
And as he spoke, he opened a press, and took out a braided, military-looking frock-coat, and some other habiliments, which I recognised as belonging to Malpas.
“Here you are, sir!” he cried. “Put on this coat and you’ll be the captain himself. Doctor Sale wouldn’t know the difference — though he might think his son improved. I’ll remain, outside while you make the change. Call me when you’re ready.”
With this he left me, closing the door after him.
My dislike to the part I was about to assume was overcome by the results that might possibly ensue from the scheme; and I felt that if I missed this opportunity of gaining admittance to Mrs. Mervyn, [another might not occur. Hastily throwing off my attire, I proceeded to put on the dress laid out for me, and in a few minutes the metamorphosis was complete. Malpas being about my height, and nearly of the same make, his apparel fitted me exactly, and when Mr. Comberbach shortly afterwards came in, he exclaimed, with a laugh, “You’ll do, sir. If I had met you as you are now, I should have thought you were Captain Sale. Now you must take the trouble to go back to the garden-gate by the same way you came here — then ring the bell — and I’ll be with you in a trice. This will prevent any suspicion on the part of Fabyan Lowe, or of Mrs. B. herself, if she should happen to see you. Here, take the captain’s foraging cap, sir, and keep your handkerchief to your face as you come towards the house.”
Obeying his instructions to the letter, I returned to the garden-gate, and rang a lusty peal, as if I had just arrived. Mr. Comberbach almost instantly answered the summons, and smiled approval. As he preceded me along the broad gravel-walk, I kept my handkerchief to my face, and adopted, as nearly as I could, the airy gait of Malpas. As we approached the house, Fabyan Lowe presented himself, but, without giving the prying rascal time to address me, the butler hurried forward, and bade him take word to Mrs. Mervyn that Captain Sale had arrived. The ill-favoured man-servant, evidently suspecting nothing, departed on his errand without delay, and Mr. Comberbach ushered me up-stairs to the library, where he left me. I was under great apprehension lest Mrs. Brideoake might come forth to speak to me; and my relief was proportionate when, as the inner door opened, instead of the Gorgon visage I apprehended, I beheld the good-humoured countenance of Molly Bailey.
“Please to step this way, Captain Sale,” Molly said, smiling significantly at me. “Mrs. Mervyn will see you, sir. Thank goodness, she is better this morning — much better! Mrs. Brideoake is with her, and Miss Apphia. This way, captain.”
Summoning up all my resolution, I followed her with gentle tread. Crossing a passage, she paused before a partly-open door, which I knew to be that of Mrs. Mervyn’s chamber, and said, in a tone calculated to be heard by those within, “Make as little noise as you can, captain, and speak very low. My missis is easily disturbed.”
With this she pushed the door gently open, and I stepped softly into the sick lady’s chamber.
CHAPTER VI.
SHOWING WHAT SUCCESS ATTENDED THE STRATAGEM.
As I had been apprised by the butler, the apartment was so much darkened that the chances were against my immediate detection. The window-curtains were closely drawn, and the only light afforded was from a small shaded lamp, placed on the table in a remote corner of the room, near to which Mrs. Brideoake was seated.
Keeping out of the influence of this lamp, I gently approached the poor sufferer, who was propped up on her couch by pillows. She looked very feeble and attenuated, but held out her hand kindly as I drew near. I bent over her, as well to hide my emotion as to conceal my features from Mrs. Brideoake, and in a low tone expressed my satisfaction at finding her somewhat better. Apphia had been seated near her, but moved away on my entrance, supposing me to be Malpas.
“I am thankful you are come, Malpas,” she said, feebly. “I much desired to speak with you relative to your engagement with this dear girl.”
“What of it, madam?” I inquired, in a low tone, trembling with emotion.
“Answer me, Malpas,” she said. “ Are you still in the same mind? Do you really wish the contract to be fulfilled?”
“Why make these strange inquiries, dear Mrs. Mervyn?”
Mrs. Brideoake said, rising from her seat, and approaching the foot of the bed. “No change, I am convinced, can have taken place in Malpas’s sentiments towards my daughter; neither can he desire to break the solemn engagement into which he has entered with her. Why should you suppose so?”
“Do not be cross with me,” Mrs. Mervyn returned. “I only want an assurance from the young people that they continue attached to each other.”
“Take the assurance from me, dear madam,” Mrs. Brideoake said. “They do.”
Apphia uttered an exclamation of dissent, which caught the ears of the sick lady.
“What is that you say, child?” she cried, quickly. “Have you any objection to make? If so, speak! You know how anxious I am for your happiness.”
“She has none, madam — she has none,” Mrs. Brideoake rejoined, glancing menacingly at her daughter.
“Come hither, my dear,” Mrs. Mervyn cried. And as Apphia timidly approached, she turned towards her, and said: “I may not be long spared to you, and indeed I had begun to fear I should never behold you again; but my prayers have been granted, and I have you beside me once more. During my illness something has whispered to me that you are unhappy, and repent of your engagement with Malpas. If it be so, it is not too late to retreat. Do not let any consideration prevent you from avowing the truth.”
“You distress me, and you distress Apphia by these doubts, my dear Mrs. Mervyn,” Mrs. Brideoake hastily interposed. “My daughter is not so fickle as you imagine her; and as to retreating from her engagement, you may rest perfectly satisfied she will never do anything of the sort. She will not venture to contradict me, I am sure,” she added, gazing steadfastly at Apphia.
“But speak, my dear child — speak!” Mrs. Mervyn cried. “Let me have the answer I require from your own lips. Do you really love this young man?”
Thus exhorted, Apphia might have confessed the real nature of her sentiments in regard to Malpas; but, as I looked up at the moment, our eyes met, and she recognised me.
“Yes, madam, I really do love him,” she said.
Mrs. Brideoake, who had doubtless expected a very different response, appeared surprised and greatly relieved.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 482