“As of my own, Mr. Trussell, ‘pon rep!” replied Mr. Cripps, in the same tone.
With this, he inclined his person almost to the ground, and departed.
“Well, I’ve made a tolerable thing of it to-day, ‘pon rep!” he muttered to himself, as he whisked out of the house. “Done nunks out of ten crowns — got the promise of twenty from old Abel — received one from Trussell. This Randulph Crew seems to bring me good luck. On my way home I’ll call on the little barber — put him on the miser’s scent. Something is to be made of this, I perceive. To-night I shall try my hand at the dice-box at the Duke’s.
“My fortune, I hope, is reserved for this cast,
To make me a saver for all my life past;
Be lucky this once, dice! ’tis all I implore,
I’ll reform then entirely, and tempt you no more.”
In this way, he went on soliloquizing and singing till he reached his boat, which lay off the stairs near the palace, and, jumping into it, ordered the waterman, with the air of a lord, and several very fashionable imprecations, to row to Parliament Stairs.
* * *
CHAPTER V.
Abel Again Cautions His Nephew Against the Miser’s Daughter.
Uncle Abel did not join his nephew and brother till dinner was served, and took little part in the conversation that occurred during the meal. Habituated to his humours, Trussell was as lively and amusing as ever, and rattled away like a young man; but Randulph could not help being oppressed by his elder uncle’s grave looks. He also felt, he scarcely knew why, dissatisfied with himself, and wished to regain Abel’s esteem. Thus the dinner passed off; the cloth was removed, and the wine placed on the board. The glasses were filled by the attentive Mr. Jukes, who took especial care that on this occasion one of the oldest and choicest bottles should be brought forth, and his attention was speedily rewarded by a very beneficial change in his master’s temper.
“Well, Randulph,” said Abel, while sipping his second glass, “how do you like your new society?”
“I have seen so little of it at present, sir,” replied the young man, “that I can form no precise opinion; but I must say, that I think Mr. Villiers the best bred man I have ever met with. Lady Brabazon a woman of infinite spirit and wit, and her daughter, Clementina—”
“The most beautiful creature you ever beheld!” supplied Abel, laughing drily; “and you have already lost your heart to her.”
“So far from thinking her the most beautiful creature I ever beheld,” returned Randulph, “she is not to compare with — with—”
He was about to add the name of the miser’s daughter, but the looks of his uncles, both of which were fixed on him, though with a very different expression, checked him.
“I know what you are about to say, Randulph,” observed uncle Abel, sternly; “you were going to mention Hilda Scarve. Once for all, let me caution you against alluding to her. I have a particular reason for disliking her father — for hating him, indeed, for my feelings towards him are of the bitterest kind, and I cannot endure to hear of any one connected with him.”
“Well, sir, your wishes shall be obeyed, so far as it is in my power to obey them,” replied Randulph; “but I should not be dealing frankly with you, if I did not tell you that I think them a little unreasonable. I can easily understand that Mr. Scarve may have offended you, but his daughter—”
“Randulph,” cried Abel, fixing his grey eye upon him, “you are in love with that girl, or rather, you fancy yourself so; for love, though sown at once, requires time to bring it to maturity. You must subdue this passion, if you entertain it. The daughter of such a man must inherit some of his bad qualities.”
“There I think you are unjust, sir,” rejoined Randulph. “And, grant that the father may be objectionable, the mother, whom she evidently takes after, may have been—”
“Randulph!” exclaimed Abel, interrupting him with a sharp cry, “would you drive me mad?”
“What have I said, sir?” asked the young man, in astonishment.
“For Heaven’s sake, hold your tongue!” whispered uncle Trussell, who had in vain been endeavouring to attract his nephew’s attention. “Don’t you see he can’t bear to talk of these Scarves?”
Randulph was greatly disconcerted. In vain he tried to rally; no subject for conversation occurred to him; but at last uncle Trussell came to his relief.
“We are going to breakfast with Beau Villiers to-morrow morning, sir,” he said to his brother. “We were asked to Lady Fazakerly’s drum to-night; and Lady Brabazon invited us to accompany her to Ranelagh.”
“And why didn’t you go?” asked Abel, peevishly.
“Because, sir, I thought it might not be agreeable to you,” returned Trussell.
“Pshaw! what care I about it!” rejoined Abel. “Plunge your charge over head and ears in dissipation! Surfeit him, as the grocers do their apprentices with sweets! Never mind me in future. Do what you will.”
Uncle Trussell winked at Randulph.
“We’ll take him at his word,” he whispered.
But Randulph took no notice of the signal. His heart was too fully occupied with Hilda Scarve; and he felt a rising dislike to uncle Abel which he could not conquer. Excusing himself from taking more wine, he repaired to the garden, and entered the summer-house, where he gazed at the broad and beautiful river flowing past it, and the venerable Abbey on the opposite shore, near which she dwelt whom he now began to acknowledge was mistress of his heart.
* * *
CHAPTER VI.
The Miser and Jacob — A Third Nephew — A Dinner at the Miser’s — Hilda’s Opinion of Her Cousin.
Nothing very particular occurred at the miser’s dwelling after Randulph’s departure. Mr. Scarve took a large account-book from the box beneath his table, together with several papers, from which he proceeded to make extracts; and he thus employed himself for more than an hour and a half, when, his farthing candle having burnt down into the socket, he intimated to his daughter and Mrs. Clinton that it was time to retire to rest.
“You have sat up longer than usual,” he said, “and I have been so busy that I quite forgot to bid you to go to bed. Hilda, your cousin, Philip Frewin, will dine here to-morrow.”
“You have told me that before, sir,” she replied, coldly.
“And I have told you also, that it is my wish you should receive him graciously,” rejoined the miser. “Don’t say a word more on the subject. Good night, daughter — good night, sister Clinton. Here, Jacob, light the ladies up stairs! I have settled my accounts, and don’t want the candle.”
Jacob obeyed, and the ladies were conducted to their room, to retire to rest, as usual, in the dark.
A moment afterwards, Jacob returned, and set the expiring candle on the table.
“Well, Jacob?” said the miser to him, “what did you think of our visitor to-day?”
“What did you think of him, sir?” returned Jacob, evasively.
“Pretty well,” replied Mr. Scarve. “Not wanting in good looks — but improvident — thoughtless in the extreme.”
“Don’t think so,” rejoined Jacob, gruffly.
“You’re no judge of character,” rejoined the miser, sharply. “I read the spendthrift in his whole appearance and demeanour. In short, Jacob, I would rather see no more of him. If he should call again, which is not unlikely, though I gave him a broad enough hint that his visits would be anything but agreeable, you will deny me and my daughter to him.”
“What!” exclaimed Jacob, “do you mean to shut your doors against the son of your old friend? Is that acting like a gentleman, let alone a Christian?”
“The lad is a scapegrace, Jacob — a senseless, romantic, scapegrace,” rejoined the miser.
“Don’t think so,” replied Jacob.
“He has given away his fortune,” said the miser.
“He’ll get it back in time,” was the rejoinder.
“Jacob, you’re a fool!” said the miser.
“Fool or not,” rep
lied Jacob, “if I were you, I would marry my daughter to that young man.”
“When I ask your advice on the subject, it will be time enough to offer it,” rejoined the miser. “You may now retire, Jacob. But first go over the house and see that all’s safe. I thought I heard a noise in the cellar last night.”
“It was the rats, sir,” replied Jacob.
“Indeed!” replied the miser; “then the rats make a pretty chattering with their jaws. Jacob, I suspect it was you.”
“Well, then, it was me,” replied Jacob, doggedly.
“Oh! you confess it?” replied the miser, uneasily. “Where do you get your victuals from? Who supplies you with them, eh?”
“Never you mind, sir,” replied Jacob; “so as it doesn’t cost you anythin’, you needn’t care.”
“True, true!” said the miser; “and yet I should like to know how you get your food.”
“I don’t steal it,” replied Jacob. “But see, the candle’s goin’ out — you had better go to bed.”
“You’re right, Jacob,” said the old man. “Good night! Be sure you look to the house.”
With this he crept off to his own chamber, and, just as he reached it, the candle expired.
Mr. Scarve always arose at daybreak, and generally spent two or three hours before breakfast at his accounts. On the morning following the events previously related, he remained longer than usual in his own room, and when summoned to breakfast by Mrs. Clinton at nine o’clock, he descended with a large deed under his arm. The family breakfast consisted of milk and water, the proportions being one-third of the former liquid to two of the latter — a small loaf of bread, but neither butter nor meat. Of this meagre fare all parties partook sparingly, and the meal was soon ended. Hilda had generally little appetite, but on this occasion she ate less than usual, and her father remarked it.
“I fear you are not well to-day,” he said; “I am sorry for it, for I wished you to be in good looks to receive your cousin.”
“I have no wish to see him,” she replied, with a look of inexpressible disgust.
“Then you have no wish to please me,” he rejoined.
The miser made no further remark at the time, but when the scanty remains of breakfast were removed, and he was left alone with his daughter, he said— “Hilda, I want a word with you. I have long desired to converse with you on a subject nearest my heart. It relates to your cousin, Philip Frewin. You can scarcely be ignorant that he seeks your hand. But if you are ignorant of his intentions, I must now acquaint you with them. I have a very high opinion of him, not merely because he is my nephew, but because he is a very prudent, careful person, and will take care of what he has got. He is directly the reverse of the weak, young man who was here last night.”
“So he appears, sir,” replied Hilda, significantly.
“Philip is very rich, Hilda,” pursued the miser; “he is worth fifty thousand pounds, if he is worth a penny. And, in short, it is my pleasure, if he should propose to you, as I expect he will, that you accept him.”
“Then it is fit, dear father, that you should know what my answer will be to his proposal,” she replied.
“What will it be?” asked the miser.
“A positive and decided refusal,” she returned.
“Hilda!” exclaimed the miser, furiously— “Hilda!”
“Do not urge me further, father,” she rejoined, calmly; “upon this point I am firm.”
“You are captivated by the fair face and showy figure of the prodigal who was here last night,” cried Mr. Scarve, carried away by his passion; “but mark me, I will never consent to such a match. If you wed him, neither he nor you, nor any child or children of yours, shall ever have a penny of mine! — I’ll disinherit you all! He is a beggar, and a beggar’s wife you shall be. If the fool had but kept fast hold of the estates, all might have been well — I might have consented; but as it is, I will never listen to his suit. No, Hilda,” he continued, moderating himself, “the husband for you is Philip Frewin, my sister’s son — one who knows the value of money, and will take care of it, — one who hates extravagance in all ways. I can commend him as a thoroughly well-principled, well-conducted young man.”
“He may be all you describe, — though I doubt it,” she replied; “but I do not desire to marry.”
“Tush!” rejoined the miser, impatiently— “every woman desires to marry. It is her first object — what she is brought up for — the end and aim of her existence.”
“But surely, father,” replied Hilda, with a half smile, “every woman desires to marry the man she loves. Her heart must have something to do with her choice.”
“Pshaw!” cried the miser, “mere idle talk, — mere girl’s fancy. Before you have been married a week, you will love your husband better than any man in the world. A husband should not be chosen for his good looks, but for his good qualities; for his pecuniary, rather than his personal advantages; and for his ability to take care of you, your property, and your children. Such a one is Philip Frewin — such a one is not Randulph Crew.”
“I wish you would not mention Randulph Crew so often, father,” replied Hilda, in some little confusion; “I do not understand why his name should be brought forward.”
“Nor I,” rejoined the miser; “and I’ll take care not to mention it again. But enough has been said on the subject. You know my wishes; don’t dispute them. Go to your chamber, child; go to your chamber!” And he turned away from her to pore over the deed before him. Hilda gazed at him for a moment, irresolutely, and then sighing deeply, withdrew.
A guest being expected at dinner, some little preparation was made. The repast was to consist of a few ribs of beef baked upon half-a-dozen potatoes, followed by a small batter pudding, likewise baked.
Punctually at two o’clock, at which hour the miser dined, a knock was heard at the door, and Jacob, answering the summons, admitted a tall, thin young man, with very sharp features, dressed in an old worn-out grey cloth coat, with plated metal buttons, that might have belonged to his grandfather; a tattered plush waistcoat; darned worsted hose; a scratch wig, looking as if it had been picked up in the kennel; and old shoes, with high quarters fastened by small iron buckles. This extraordinary personage was welcomed with great cordiality by his uncle, who seemed to contemplate his miserable appearance with the utmost satisfaction.
Hilda, however, would scarcely behave civilly to him, though the young man paid her great attention, and whenever her father’s back was turned, put on a manner that filled her with disgust. At the close of dinner, the miser called for wine, and a bottle was brought him, containing barely a glass, as was proved when Jacob poured it out. Mr. Scarve pressed his nephew to take it, but the young man declined. The miser then raised the glass to his lips, but put it down untasted, observing— “No, I don’t require it — indeed, I am better without it. Put it back again, Jacob. I drink your health, nephew, in a glass of water.”
“And I return the pledge in the same wholesome beverage,” returned Philip Frewin. “I never take any other, sir,” he added, ogling Hilda in an intolerable manner. “I drink to you, fair cousin,” and as he spoke he gulped down a large draught, but with a very bad grace.
“I don’t think for all he says that he’s accustomed to such draughts,” thought Jacob. “He doesn’t look like a waterdrinker.”
Dinner was no sooner over than Hilda withdrew with her aunt to her own room; nor would she, though her father sent Jacob to summon her, return.
“Girls have strange fancies, Philip,” he said, to his nephew. “Her mother was just as whimsical. I don’t think, though she married me, that she cared for me.”
“Since I have your consent to the match, sir, that is all I care for,” replied Philip. “Love will come in good time. My cousin Hilda is a charming girl, and would be a prize without a penny, but with what you propose to give her—”
“To leave her, Philip — to leave her — not to give her!” interrupted the miser, hastily. “I shall give her
nothing during my lifetime.”
“Not make any settlement?” asked Philip, uneasily.
“None whatever,” replied the miser; “but I shall require a settlement on your part. You are rich, Philip, and can make a good settlement.”
“No settlement on your part, uncle!” muttered Frewin, “and a large one demanded on mine! This requires consideration.”
“No it doesn’t,” said the miser, sharply; “for if you hesitate, you sha’n’t have her. My daughter shall not be refused by any man, even by my sister’s son. You shall take her on my terms, or not at all.”
“I will gladly take her so, uncle,” replied Philip.
“You will do wisely,” rejoined the miser, more calmly. “And now I’ve good news for you, Phil — rare news! You know — for our attorney, Diggs, will have told you — that I have advanced fourteen thousand pounds to Sir Bulkeley Price on the mortgage of one of his estates in Flintshire. Now, the estate is worth upwards of twenty thousand pounds — perhaps more, because there are several copper mines upon it. Well, I have given Sir Bulkeley notice to pay over the money. He has paid no attention to the application; and if I do not receive the money at six o’clock, at which hour it must be paid or tendered, I shall foreclose — yes, foreclose, nephew — and the estates will become mine — your wife’s hereafter, and your children’s.”
“And mine,” thought Philip. “I sincerely congratulate you, uncle,” he added, aloud, “and hope nothing may happen to deprive you of your rights.”
“Nothing is likely to happen now, Philip,” replied Mr. Scarve. “The estate is as good as my own — I have just been reading over the description of it in the deed of mortgage — and a noble estate it is. But since Hilda won’t come down, it is scarcely worth while for you to stay longer. Come and dine with me this day week, and I will try and fix the day. Meanwhile, I will speak with my daughter, and bring her to her senses.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 291