“Let us get out of this dreadful turmoil,” he cried. “I am quite bewildered by what has just passed, and seem to be in a troubled dream.”
“From which you will wake to wealth and rank,” I replied. “Come with me, and I will take you where you will find the quiet you need.”
And lending him the support of my arm, which he really needed, we walked on together, passing through St. Ann’s-square and the market-place, and never halting till we reached the precincts of the noble old Collegiate Church. Without bestowing more than a momentary glance at this reverend structure, we crossed the churchyard, entered Long Mill-gate, and soon stood before the old school. Yes! there it was — there was the dear old F. G. S. — unchanged to all outward appearance since the days of our boyhood. How many recollections did the sight of this simple edifice — simple it was not in our eyes — conjure up! I saw John once more — a pale, sickly, shabbily-attired lad — and heard unfeeling gibes and taunts addressed to him. Little did those who jeered him for his mean habiliments and his half-starved looks reck that he was of far more exalted birth than themselves! I saw myself — full of health, spirit, energy — hopeful of the future, contented with the present — and I felt that I could not, with entire regard to truth, say as much for myself now that I had become a man.
After gazing for some minutes at the exterior of the school, we passed through the gate, and stepped into the little courtyard — once so familiar to us, and so often trodden by, our juvenile feet. From the open doors of the school came the buzz and hum of youthful voices, and I would fain have taken a peep inside; but John urged me to come away, and we proceeded to the Chetham Hospital, which I have already described as closely adjoining the Free Grammar School.
A wicket in the ancient stone gateway admitted us to the large quadrangular court used as a playground by Blue-coat Boys; and as we slowly crossed the wide area, my companion began to feel more at ease. The monastic and college-like air of the buildings around us delighted him. It was like coming home, he said. The happiest hours of his early life had been spent in the library we were about to visit. Entering at the low-browed door of the ancient hospital, snatching a glimpse at its huge kitchen, and passing the refectory, we ascended an oaken staircase, and gained a long gallery, with railed enclosures containing shelves full of venerable tomes.
In one of these nooks we found the librarian, a grave, elderly personage, attired in a rusty suit of sable, and John having obtained from him two folio volumes of the “Patres Apostolici,” in Greek and Latin, while I contented myself with old Izaac Walton, we repaired to the reading-room, and finding it totally untenanted, seated ourselves at an ancient oak desk placed in the depths of an oriel window — John’s favourite place of study in bygone days. Here we remained during the whole of the afternoon — sometimes reading, sometimes conversing in a low tone, but never interrupted, for we were the sole occupants of the chamber. In this calm retreat, John gradually regained his tranquillity, and when the deep bell of the old church struck four, warning us to depart, it was not without a pang that he quitted the place.
Our next step was to proceed to my hotel, where we partook of a little dinner, and our slender meal over, we went to Doctor Foam’s residence. Afflicting news awaits us. Doctor Foam, it appeared, had been again hastily summoned to the Anchorite’s by Mr. Comberbach, who had declared his conviction that his mistress would not live through the night. Before setting out, the doctor had left a few lines for John, begging him to await his return, and of course I bore my friend company.
For several hours we were kept in a state of most painful suspense, and it was past nine o’clock ere the doctor returned. He came into the room where we were at once, and, alarmed by his looks, I rushed towards him, entreating him to relieve my anxiety by a single word.
“Tell me she lives, doctor — that will suffice!” I exclaimed.
He shook his head mournfully.
“I am the bearer of ill tidings,” he said.
“Shall I never behold her again?” I cried, in a voice of anguish.
“Not in this world,” he rejoined, solemnly. “Dear Mrs. Mervyn has passed away from amongst us.”
I sank backwards, and buried my face in my hands. I am not ashamed to own that I wept bitterly, for I had lost the best friend I had ever possessed, and one whom I dearly loved.
At last the worthy doctor came to me, and, after addressing a few consolatory remarks to me, said:
“Bear up manfully against this affliction. All your firmness is needed. I have not yet exhausted my stock of bad news.”
“What more remains?” I cried, looking inquiringly at him.
“You are chiefly concerned in what I have to tell,” the doctor said, addressing John, who was nearly as profoundly affected as myself. “Mrs. Mervyn has not made the will I desired.”
“All seems to go wrong at present!” I exclaimed, in a tone of deep disappointment.
“Compose yourself, my good young friend, and hear me out,” Doctor Foam said, kindly. “Mr. Tester and I were too late. The will prepared to-day could not be executed, and a will, previously made, must, therefore, be acted upon. Lady Amicia Wilburton is now absolute and uncontrolled mistress of the Anchorite’s and all belonging to it.”
“Nothing left to Apphia? — nothing to John?” I cried.
“Nothing to any one — except to the lady I have named,” Doctor Foam rejoined.
“Heaven be praised!” John exclaimed. “I have escaped this snare. Apphia shall return with me at once to Weverham.”
“Do nothing rashly, I implore of you,” Doctor Foam returned. “Weigh it well over, before you remove her entirely from her mother. You are now too well acquainted with Lady Amicia’s character not to be aware of the consequences of such a step.”
“I shall return to-night,” I cried. “My business here is ended. Farewell, doctor!”
Doctor Foam made no attempt to detain me, but when John also rose to depart, he begged him to stay, saying he wished to have some further conversation with him.
CHAPTER XI.
DELAMERE FOREST.
I HELD to my resolution, and notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, rode back that night to the mill. The exercise did me good. If I had retired to rest at Cottonborough, I should not have slept a wink. Mrs. Mervyn’s death was a great shock to me, and the circumstances attending it made it doubly distressing. What might be in store for me I could not tell, but at present nothing but ill-luck attended me, and it seemed as if I was doomed to disappointment.
Next day, during the afternoon, I walked over to Weverham, to inquire after John and his sister, but nothing had been heard of them. I did not extend my walk to Owlarton Grange, for I was in no mood for society, and it would have been extremely painful to me to enter into a detail of the distressing events that had just occurred. Kind as friends may be, there are times when we shun them; and at this juncture I grieve to say that I felt like a misanthropist. But I did not indulge the feeling long.
On my return from Weverham, I found that a country lad had brought me a note from Ned Culcheth. The missive was rather strangely expressed and somewhat difficult to decipher, for Ned was not much skilled in penmanship, but I made out that he wished me to meet him at nine o’clock that night, at the Headless Cross, in Delamere Forest. He entered into no explanation as to the object of the meeting; but I felt sure that it was not for any trifling cause that he would summon me. It is needless to say that I at once decided to go; and the many conjectures which the note gave rise to offered a reasonable distraction to my harassing thoughts.
Shortly after eight o’clock that evening I mounted my horse, and proceeded along the Tarporley road, in the direction of Delamere Forest. Though a general highway, the Tarporley road was little frequented at this hour, and I do not think, in the course of five or six miles which I traversed, that I encountered as many individuals.
The district I was approaching had a solitary character at all times. The well-cultivated land about We
verham, with its orchards, its rich pastures and large corn-fields, its thick hedgerows graced with numberless detached trees, its beautiful copses, its deep doughs full of hazels, its homesteads and larger habitations, had given place to a sterile heathy tract, only partially reclaimed, and but thinly inhabited. For the last mile I had not discerned a single cottage. Plantations of Scotch firs and pines had succeeded the beech-trees, the oaks, and the elms, to be seen so frequently, and of such luxuriant growth, in the more favoured locality I had left behind, while the hedges had given place to rough palings or stone walls.
As I advanced, the country became even more dark and dreary looking, being, in fact, little more than a black, boggy waste — perilous to any one who should attempt to ‘cross it at night, from its numerous pitfalls, and treacherous quagmires and morasses. Who so incautiously approached too near one of the latter would be infallibly engulphed in its oozy bed.
This black and sterile waste, which of the vast woods that had once covered it could only now boast a few stunted trees, was, in fact, the famous Delamere Forest. To me it had a special attraction, as being the scene of many of the strangely-fulfilled prophecies of Robert Nixon. Weird traditions of all kinds were attached to it. In its coverts and thickets in olden days the royal hart had often been unharboured by the huntsman, and the wild boar speared; but all beasts of venery had long since vanished, and the only creature left, indigenous to the soil, was the rabbit that burrowed in the sand-banks. For centuries neglected and undrained, the mighty forest had become a pestilent marsh, and such of its ancient trees as had been spared by the woodman’s axe had sunk into the pools and mosses, whence huge blocks were occasionally recovered, looking as if charred by fire.
A change, however, came at last. Many hundred acres of the waste had been enclosed and cultivated, and it was evident that in due time the whole would be reclaimed. Meanwhile, that part of the heath at which I had arrived was left very nearly in its pristine wild state, and furnished little occupation save to the turf-cutter. About half a mile off, in the midst of the moor, lay a little lake, or tarn, called Oak Mere, whose inky waters were much resorted to by wild-fowl. Further on was a curious group of small hills, known in the district as the Seven Lowes, and not far from these mounds was another pool.
In this direction the heath was bounded by a long and high ridge running on towards the beautiful village of Kelsal, and the summit of the furthest point of this mountainous barrier was crowned by an ancient British camp, popularly known as Kelsborrow Castle, whence a magnificent view might be obtained. Beyond Oak Mere were several morasses, designated respectively, from persons or circumstances connected with them, Riley Moss, Thieves’ Moss, Relics’ Moss, Crap Moss, and Blakeford Moss. Further on there were two more morasses — Pinney Moss and Midgel Moss. Between these two last-named marshes was a large dismal-looking swamp — for pool it scarcely deserved to be called — full of sedges and reeds, known as Great Blake Mere; and not far from it was another piece of water called Hatchew Mere. There were four wells in the forest, each with a legend attached to it, the most noteworthy being Hind’s Well and Swan’s Well, and two ancient crosses, both referred to in the prophetic rhymes of Nixon, namely, the Headless Cross, and the Maiden’s Cross. On the side of the forest opposite to Kelsborrow Castle rose two eminences, respectively known as Castle Cob and Glead Hill Cob; and when I have mentioned the two large inclosures called the Old Pale and the New Pale, the chief features of this singular district will have been specified. Beautiful heaths of various kinds bloomed in the forest, and among the plants that grew there were the bilberry and cranberry, the asphodel, the bog myrtle, and the marsh-cistus.
The night was fine, but cloudy, with a soft southerly breeze, and generally speaking no very great extent of the forest was discernible. All distant objects on the black heathy track were plunged in obscurity, while even those near at hand could hardly be distinguished. But when light was suddenly thrown on the scene by an outburst of the moon, the waste was revealed in all its gloomy grandeur. The predominant colour of the moor was a rich dark purple, caused by the heath covering its boggy soil; but here and there streaks of white glistening sand crossed it, while patches black as jet told where the turf had been cut. The surface of the moor was irregular and uneven — now swelling into heathy uplands, now sinking into little dells and valleys, in the midst of which lay the tarns.
The sky was overcast as I approached the place of rendezvous, and when within a hundred yards of the Headless Cross, I strained my eyes through the gloom in the vain hope of descrying Ned’s stalwart figure. The darkness was too great to allow any object to be discerned at that distance. All at once the clouds drifted past, and the welcome radiance streaming down, showed me Ned seated on the ancient stone. On the same instant I became visible to him, though my horse’s hoofs must have long since admonished him of my approach.
Springing up at once, he advanced to meet me, and on nearing him, I cried out:
“Well, here I am Ned, punctual to the appointment. On what sort of errand have I come?”
“It isn’t from me that you’ll gain an answer to that question, sir,” he replied; “but from the pretty gipsy girl, Rue. She it was who commissioned me to bring you, between nine and ten o’clock to-night, to a secluded spot in the midst of the heath, which I dare say you know, called the Chamber of the Forest; promising to meet you there, and give you some important information. If you failed to keep the appointment, she said, you would ever after regret it; and she impressed caution so strongly on me, that I judged it safest only to write a few words to you, feeling sure you would guess my meaning.”
“You did quite right, Ned,” I replied. “But let us haste to the Chamber of the Forest. I am all impatience to learn what Rue has to communicate. She won’t disappoint me, you think?”
“No fear of that, sir,” he rejoined. “Her manner showed she was in right earnest. She seemed to be roused by some strong passion — revenge, mayhap.”
“Revenge against whom, Ned?” I asked.
“Nay, that is more than I can tell, sir,” he replied. “She didn’t take me into her confidence. I only judge from her looks.”
Our brief colloquy over, we left the high road, and, entering upon the heath, proceeded towards the spot mentioned by the keeper. Our shortest way of reaching it would have been to pass by Oak Mere, and cross the marshy tract adjoining it; but this part of the forest was much too dangerous to traverse at such an hour, and we were therefore obliged to diverge considerably to the right, to make sure of firm ground. This devious route brought us within a short distance of an old pit, where some victims of the Great Pestilence had been buried, and which is known as the Plague Hole. After this we pushed on in silence, not without risk, but fortunately without further hindrance than was caused by the necessity of making an occasional detour in order to avoid a quagmire, until at last we were within a bowshot of the place we sought.
The Chamber of the Forest, once the centre of the vast woods of Mara or Delamere, was now nothing more than a scanty group of venerable trees, looking like the remains of an ancient Druidical grove. On beholding these scathed and hoary denizens of the wood, I jumped from my horse, and consigning the bridle to Ned, walked forward alone towards the grove. I did not observe Rue at first, but, as I advanced, a female figure, wrapped in a cloak, detached itself from the trunk of one of the largest of the trees, and stood before me.
“So you are come,” Rue said. “An eventful night this may prove to you.”
I inquired in what way.
“Have you no guess?” she rejoined. “But I won’t keep you in suspense. Do as I bid you, and you may chance to recover the property of which you have been unjustly deprived.”
“You promise me this?” I exclaimed, joyfully.
“Hush! not so loud!” she replied. “I don’t promise it. How can I? I can only point’ out the way to you. What you want you must win. If you fail, it will be from lack of prudence and courage.”
“Then
I hope I shall not fail,” I replied. “How can I reward you for the service you are about to render me?”
“I claim no reward,” Rue returned. “All I require is, that two persons whom I shall presently name to you, shall be exempted from harm. Will you promise this — on the word of a gentleman. I have little reason to place faith in a gentleman’s word — nevertheless, I will take yours.”
I reflected for a moment before making an answer.
“You hesitate!” she cried angrily. “Then my lips are closed. Depart as you came.”
“Nay,” I replied,”
“I was bound to consider your proposal before acceding to it. I will give the promise you require, and keep it faithfully. I do not mean to imply any doubt as to the sincerity of your intentions towards me, but I would fain learn the motives that induce you to render me this great service?”
“My motives are mixed,” she rejoined; “partly, the desire of vengeance; partly anxiety to prevent the perpetration of a crime. You may not give me entire credit for the latter feeling, but it is so. He who has wronged you has also wronged me, and I know that by foiling his present purpose, I shall inflict the severest punishment on him, while I shall prevent those I love from committing a great offence. Do you apprehend me, or shall I speak yet more plainly?”
“I think I understand you,” I replied. “Have you, then, been ensnared by the arts of Malpas Sale?”
“Ay,” she cried; “I will make no secret of my shame. I was foolish enough to listen to him, and to believe that he loved me. But I soon found out that I had been deceived, and bitterly repented my error. When the charms he feigned to perceive in me no longer pleased him, he slighted me, and, at last, abandoned me altogether. I might have expected as much, but I did not; for, blinded by passion, I placed confidence in his protestations of lasting regard. Lasting regard, forsooth!” she repeated, with bitter scorn—” regard, that barely endured for a month. He soon tired of me, cast me aside, and sought a new object of diversion. Sissy Culcheth’s turn came then. You know what happened to her. My mother strove to save her from the net spread for her, but in vain. She was caught as easily as I had been, and would have shared my fate, if chance had not befriended her. But for me there was nothing left except revenge. I am not of a nature to brook such treatment as I have experienced. With the same degree of fervour that I loved Malpas once, I hate him now. It is to revenge myself on him that I serve you. It is through you that I mean to strike the blow that shall crush him. Have I made myself clear now?”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 485