“I myself am wishful it should do so,” replied the miser.
“In that case, there can be nothing to hinder it,” rejoined Diggs; “always provided Mr. Frewin agrees to the arrangement, unless — but I presume you have consulted your daughter on the subject.”
“My daughter has been accustomed to act in accordance with my wishes,” returned the miser, coldly.
“I am glad to hear it, sir,” said Diggs. “I merely threw out the suggestion, fearing an obstacle might occur in that quarter. My apprehension was that the young lady should not share in our good opinion of Mr. Frewin, inasmuch as she might possibly attach a little more importance to external appearances than we do, forgetting the more essential qualities. I am quite of opinion that a father has a right to dispose of his daughter as he thinks fit. All laws divine and human give you that power, and you are perfectly justified in exercising it.”
“I act as I believe for the best,” replied the miser. “And now,” he added, as if anxious to change the subject, “let us talk on other matters. This is the bond from Mr. Villiers; the annuity from Sir Thomas Lightfoot: and the four thousand pounds Lady Brabazon wants to borrow.” And he forthwith plunged into details in which it is unnecessary to follow him.
At the end of half an hour, Diggs rose to depart, and Jacob was summoned to attend him to the door. There was a significance in the porter’s manner that satisfied the astute attorney he had been playing the eavesdropper. He thought it therefore expedient to make friends with him, and he accordingly slipped a crown into his hand as he went forth. Jacob did not refuse the gift, but growled out as he fastened the door, “This and a thousand such sha’n’t bribe me to betray my young missis. I overheard all their scheming, and she shall know it as well.”
Returning to the parlour, he found the miser preparing to retire, and assisted him, for he was still very feeble, to get up stairs. The miser’s bed-room was not a whit better furnished than the lower apartment. An old bedstead, without hangings, stood at one side, while opposite it was a wash-stand of the commonest description. A number of old trunks, and one or two pictures in a very dusty condition, were reared against the walls. The window was partly boarded up, partly grated. There was a small closet at the further end of the room, and a side door, though now fastened up, communicated with the chamber occupied by the two ladies. A small table, a stool, two large and stout oaken chests, clamped with iron, and a bureau of the same material, constituted the furniture of the closet. On the floor were laid the bags of gold. Having glanced at the heap, and counted it with his eye, the miser dismissed Jacob for the night, with the strictest injunctions to keep on the watch, for fear of any attempt to break into the house. And the better to enable him to protect the premises, he gave him a pistol, — one of a brace, which he always kept loaded at his bed-side. As soon as Jacob was gone, and he had locked the door, he set down the candle on the floor, and with trembling eagerness unfastened one of the sacks, and counted its glittering contents. The sum was right. He undid another, and found it correct; another, and another, and the same result, until all were emptied, and the floor was covered with gold. The miser gazed at the shining treasure, vainly trying to satiate his greedy soul with the sight; and then at last, as if unable to contain himself, he threw himself upon the heap in a species of delirium, clutching handfuls of the coin, and throwing them over him. His transports having subsided, he arose, again filled the sacks, tied them up, and, in a state of high nervous excitement that forbade any hope of sleep, sought his couch.
Jacob, meanwhile, on quitting his master, crept stealthily to the ladies’ chamber, and tapped against the door. The summons was immediately answered by Hilda, who anxiously inquired what was the matter? Jacob replied, in a low tone, that he wished to say a word to her before she retired to rest. Having delivered himself thus, he stole down stairs, and Hilda, who was a good deal alarmed, almost instantly followed him. He then told her what had passed between Mr. Scarve and his attorney, concluding thus: “I ought to be ashamed of myself, I know, Miss, for listening, and it’s not my habit, I assure you. But being aware that Mr. Diggs is Mr. Philip’s attorney, as well as master’s, and coupling his visit with what occurred this morning, I had some misgivings as to his errand, and therefore I did as I have told you.”
Greatly disturbed by the intelligence, Hilda thanked the porter for his zeal, and returned noiselessly to her room, where she found relief in a plentiful flood of tears. Mrs. Clinton tried to soothe her, but it was long before she could succeed in doing so.
“What is to be done, dear aunt?” cried Hilda; “I know my father too well to doubt that, having resolved upon this hateful match, he will leave nothing undone to accomplish it. But I will die sooner than give my consent.”
“I scarcely know how to advise you, my dear niece,” replied Mrs. Clinton, “I do not like to counsel you to disobey your father, and yet I feel he ought not to force your inclinations.”
“Alas!” exclaimed Hilda, again bursting into tears, “I have no friend to turn to.”
“Yes, you have one,” replied Mrs. Clinton, “who will, I am sure, assist you, and protect you, if necessary. But do not question me further on the subject to-night. Rest satisfied with my assurance. And now, sweet niece, dry your tears, lay your head on the pillow, and try to compose yourself to slumber. Perhaps all will be right, and there may be no occasion to apply to any one. God bless you! good night!” Hilda complied with her aunt’s suggestions, — but sleep shunned her eyelids.
Jacob, who was really apprehensive that an attempt would he made to break into the house that night, determined to remain on the watch, and with that view ensconced himself in the miser’s arm-chair, where, however, he found it impossible to resist the approaches of the drowsy god. His slumbers were long and sound, but were at length broke by the creaking of a door. Instantly starting to his feet, he snatched up the pistol which lay on the table beside him, and presented it at the head of the intruder, who proved to be his master. Mr. Scarve was in his night dress, over which he had hastily slipped the robe he ordinarily wore, and thus seen in the bright moonlight, for he had no candle, looked almost like an apparition.
“Lord bless us!” exclaimed Jacob, lowering the pistol; “how you do frighten one! I took you for a househreaker, and I am not quite sure now that you aren’t a perturbed sperrit.”
“I almost wish I was dead, Jacob,” replied the miser, dolefully. “I cannot sleep.”
“Don’t wonder at it,” replied the other, gruffly. “You’ve a bad conscience. I can sleep soundly enough, even in that cheer.”
“I envy you, Jacob,” groaned the miser.
“Ay, riches don’t always bring peace,” continued Jacob, “especially when they’ve been unjustly obtained. But I’ll tell you what’ll make you sleep as sound as a rock. Give up all idea of marrying your daughter to your miserly nephew Philip Frewin. It’s that as disturbs you. You know you’re doing wrong in harbouring such a thought.”
“They’re all leagued against me, — all!” shrieked the miser. “Scoundrel, you have been listening to what passed between me and Mr. Diggs.”
“I won’t deny it,” replied Jacob, stoutly; “I have. And I tell you you’re sacrificing your daughter. Your nephew isn’t what he seems, and Mr. Diggs is helpin’ him to deceive you. You’ll find ’em out when it’s too late.”
“You are mad, or drunk, or both,” cried Scarve, fiercely.
“If I am mad, it’s a very composed and collected kind of madness,” rejoined Jacob; “but I should like to know which of us seems most like a madman; you, who can’t rest in your bed, or me, who can sleep like a top in that cheer?”
“Well, well, I sha’n’t bandy words with you,” rejoined the miser, whose teeth were chattering with cold. “Is all safe?”
“I suppose so,” answered Jacob. “I’ve heard nothing. Have you?”
“I thought I did?” replied the miser, “but it might be your snoring.”
“Well, go to bed,” retur
ned Jacob; “it’s the best place for you. You’ll catch your death of cold standing there. If it’ll be any comfort to you, I won’t go to sleep again. I suppose it can’t be far off midnight.”
“It has just gone two,” rejoined the miser; “I’ve heard the Abbey clock strike all the hours,” And, refusing Jacob’s offer of assistance, he groped his way to bed.
“I wouldn’t be him for all his wealth,” thought the porter, as he listened to his retreating footsteps.
Jacob was as good as his word. He kept watch till it was broad daylight, and then, thinking all secure, betook himself to bed for a couple of hours.
The family assembled at breakfast as usual. The miser looked unusually haggard, and Hilda’s countenance betrayed the mental suffering she had undergone. Little was said during the scanty meal; and as soon as it was over, Mr. Scarve signified to his sister-in-law that he wished to have some private conversation with his daughter, upon which they were left alone together. He then, without any circumlocution, and in a much more peremptory manner than he had adopted before, told her that he intended to give her to her cousin, and that he would listen to no further objections on her part.
“I cannot believe you will persist in this cruel resolution, sir,” cried Hilda. “What have I done to deserve such treatment? But do not think you will succeed in your design. I repeat what I said yesterday. Neither entreaties, nor threats, shall induce me to marry my cousin.”
“I will discard you, then,” rejoined the miser, furiously.
But finding her wholly unmoved by the menace, he commenced pouring forth a torrent of invectives against the sex in general; complaining of the anxiety and torment they occasioned all those with whom they were connected, whether in the relation of wife, sister, or daughter; charging them with wilfulness, perversity, and blindness to their own interests; and ending by ordering her off to her own chamber, whither she was very glad to retreat.
By no means satisfied with himself, he next tried to occupy his mind by referring to his account book; but it would not do, and unable to sit still, he paced the room to and fro. He hoped that Jacob would shew himself, that he might have an object to vent his anger upon; but the porter, having some notion of the storm that was brewing for him, kept sedulously out of the way. He then resolutely returned to the account-book, and had at last succeeded in fixing his attention to it, when a knock was heard at the door, and Jacob presently afterwards appeared, and informed him that Mr. Cordwell Firebras was without. The miser slightly started at the name, but hastily ordered Jacob to admit him. A friendly greeting took place between the miser and Firebras, at which Jacob was rather surprised, for he did not remember to have seen the latter before; but he thought, in spite of all his affected cordiality, that his master would have willingly dispensed with his visitor’s company.
Warned by what had occurred on the previous night, Mr. Scarve ordered Jacob to go below, and took the precaution to see that his injunctions were obeyed. Though the porter’s curiosity was considerably excited by what was going forward, he did not dare to listen for fear of a discovery, and he accordingly whiled the time by applying to his secret store of provisions. In about an hour and a half, he was summoned by his master, who told him he was going out on business, and desired him to attend him to his room, whither he proceeded.
“I suppose you want your coat, sir,” said Jacob; and, opening a drawer in the chest, he took an old sad-coloured garment from a faded handkerchief in which it was wrapped, and assisted his master to put it on. This done, he brought an old three-cornered hat, edged with tarnished lace, and, dusting it, gave it to the miser, together with a crutch handled stick.
Having locked the door of the closet, removed the key, and put it in his pocket, Mr. Scarve next went through the same operation at the door communicating with the gallery.
“I shall not return till evening, Jacob,” he said: “take care of the house during my absence.”
“It must be important business to keep you out so long,” replied Jacob, staring at the information.
“The business is important,” rejoined the miser; “but I wish you would check your tendency to familiarity — it is growing upon you, and I am weary of it.”
With this, he descended to the lower room, and taking some papers from Cordwell Firebras, which the latter had been reading, put them in his pocket, and they quitted the house together.
* * *
CHAPTER XII.
Hilda’s Interview with Abel Beechcroft.
Jacob lost not a moment in communicating his master’s departure to his young, mistress; and Hilda, on hearing it, immediately came down stairs with her aunt.
“And now, my dear niece,” said Mrs. Clinton, “since such a favourable opportunity presents itself, I would advise you to apply for counsel as to how you should act to the person I told you would befriend you. This letter, committed to my care by my poor sister and your mother, was written to be delivered in case of an emergency like the present — which she, but too surely, foresaw might arise, — and it cannot fail of accomplishing its object.”
“It is addressed to Mr. Abel Beechcroft,” said Hilda, glancing at the inscription on the letter as she took it from her aunt. “Why, that is the uncle of the young man who was here the night before last. I cannot take it to him.”
“Why not?” cried Mrs. Clinton.
“Because it would look like — but why need I care what construction is put upon my visit, since my heart acquits me of any improper motive,” said Hilda. “Aunt, I will go — that is, if you think it will answer any good purpose.”
“I am sure it will,” urged Mrs. Clinton.
“But if my father should accidentally return during our absence,” rejoined Hilda.
“I do not think it likely he will do so,” returned the aunt; “but if he should, I must bear the brunt of his displeasure. Go, my love: something tells me the visit will be productive of great advantage to you. Jacob will accompany you.”
Hilda yielded at length to her aunt’s entreaties, and having put on her walking attire, quitted the house with Jacob. Instead of going over Westminster Bridge, they proceeded to Parliament Stairs, where Jacob said he had a friend, a waterman, who would lend him a boat, in which they could cross the river. Nor did he assert more than the truth. On reaching the stairs, the first person he encountered was the friendly waterman in question, who, on learning his wishes, immediately ran down and got his wherry ready. Having placed Hilda within it, Jacob took off his coat, and plying the oars with as much skill as the best rower on the Thames could have done, speedily landed her at Lambeth, and secured the boat, where he inquired the way to Mr. Beechcroft’s house. A walk of a few seconds brought them to it. Hilda’s heart trembled as she knocked at the door; but she was re-assured by the kindly aspect of Mr. Jukes, who answered the summons. She stated her errand to the butler, who appeared not a little surprised, and, indeed, confounded at the announcement of her name. After a short debate with himself, Mr. Jukes said his master was at home, and she should see him; and without more ado, he led the way to the library, and entered it, followed by the others.
Abel was seated beside an old-fashioned bookcase, the door of which was open, disclosing a collection of goodly tomes, and had placed the book-stand supporting the volume he was reading, in such a position as to receive the full light of the window. So much was he engaged in his studies, that he did not hear their approach. In the hasty glance which Hilda took of the pictures on the wall, the most noticeable of which were a copy of Rembrandt’s ‘Good Samaritan,’ and a fine painting on the subject of Timon of Athens, she thought she could read somewhat of the character of the owner of the house. Little time, however, was allowed her for reflection, for Mr. Jukes, advancing towards his master’s chair, leaned over it, and whispered a few words in his ear.
“What! — who — who did you say?” exclaimed Abel, half-closing the book he was reading, and looking sharply and anxiously round. “Who did you say, Jukes?”
�
��Miss Scarve, sir,” replied the butler; “she has brought you a letter.”
“Tell her I won’t receive it — won’t open it,” cried Abel. “Why did you not send her away? What brings her here?”
“You had better put that question to her yourself, sir,” replied Mr. Jukes, “for she is in this room.”
“Here!” exclaimed Abel, starting to his feet. “Ah! I see — I see. O God! she is very like her mother.”
“Calm yourself, I entreat, sir,” said Mr. Jukes; “I would not have admitted her,” he added, in a low tone, “but that she told me the letter was written by her mother, and left to be delivered to you under peculiar circumstances, which have now arisen. I couldn’t resist a plea like that, — nor could you, sir, I’m sure.”
“A letter written to me by her mother!” cried Abel, shivering, as if smitten by an ague. “Leave us, Jukes, and take that man with you.”
“Come, friend,” said Mr. Jukes to Jacob, who, with his crab-stick under his arm, stood gazing curiously on, “you had better adjourn with me to the butler’s pantry.”
“Thank’ee kindly, sir,” replied Jacob, in tones a little less gruff than usual, for he was somewhat awe-stricken; “I would rather stay with my young missis.”
“But don’t you see you’re in the way, man,” rejoined Mr. Jukes, impatiently; “they can’t talk before us. Come along.” And despite his resistance, he pushed Jacob out of the room, and closed the door after him.
“You have a letter for me, Miss Scarve, I believe;” faltered Abel in a voice hollow and broken by emotion.
“I have, sir,” she replied, giving it to him.
Abel looked at the address, and another sharp convulsion passed over his frame. He, however, controlled himself by a powerful effort, and broke the seal. The perusal of the letter seemed to affect him deeply, for staggering to his chair, he sank into it, and covering his face with his hands, wept aloud. It was some minutes before he arose. Hilda, who had watched him with much concern, was surprised to see how calm he looked. He had indeed regained the mastery he usually held over his feelings.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 296