The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “True,” replied the miser, in some confusion; “these diamonds are certainly very brilliant. Your ladyship shall have the sum you require upon them. And we will talk about the other matters at some future time.”

  With this, he unlocked the little chest beneath the table, and producing a small tin cash-box, opened it, took forth a rouleau of goldsmiths’ notes, counted them, and delivered them to her ladyship. Lady Brabazon twisted the notes carelessly between her fingers, and then placed them in her bag; after which she divested herself of the diamonds, gave them to the miser, and at the same time, as if to shew she was not offended with him beyond the hope of reconciliation, she accorded him her snow-white hand, which he pressed to his lips. This ceremony performed, he ushered her to the street door, where her carriage was waiting, and bowed her to its steps.

  “Mr. Villiers’s,” said Lady Brabazon, to her servant, as he closed the door. “The odious wretch!” she added to herself, “to make such a proposal to me! However, I have got the money.”

  As the miser returned to the parlour, he rubbed his skinny hands together, and muttered laughingly to himself— “So she affects virtuous indignation, as if I didn’t know she only wants the money for her lover, Beau Villiers. But she shall be mine, and on my own terms too. She is certainly a fine woman — a very fine woman. What do you want, sirrah?” he added, raising his eyes, and perceiving Jacob standing before him.

  “Don’t you mean to take some steps about this robbery?” asked the porter.

  “What’s that to you, rascal?” rejoined the miser, angrily. “You can watch the stable when the steed’s stolen, can you? Curse on your neglect. You shall quit my service in a week.”

  “No I won’t,” replied Jacob, doggedly. “This mornin’ I’d have quitted you with pleasure, but now I’m sorry for you — you’ve been unfortunate, and I won’t go.”

  “A curse on your pity!” cried the miser. “I won’t be plagued with you any longer.”

  “You’re not in a fit condition to judge for yourself just now,” returned Jacob. “Think it over about discharging me when you are calmer. I am sorry for you, I tell you — that is, I’m sorry for your loss, though I hope it may soften your obdurate heart towards your daughter. If you do turn me away. I hope you will give me a recommendation to Mr. Abel Beechcroft. Ah! his is a place worth livin’ in. It would have done you good to see the dinner I sat down to to-day with the servants. There was a cold sirline o’ beef, a hot potato-pie, a piece of pickled pork, and as much strong ale as I chose to drink.”

  “Peace, sirrah!” cried Scarve; “what satisfaction can it be to me to hear how a profuse gentleman wastes his substance on a set of thankless hirelings?”

  “They’re not thankless, sir,” rejoined Jacob, “they all love him, and speak well of him.”

  “And what is their opinion worth?” sneered Scarve. “Full pockets are better than the empty praises of a set of idle, pampered menials.”

  “I don’t think so,” replied Jacob; “and I only wish I was such a pampered menial as Mr. Jukes.”

  “Well, I’ll recommend you to Mr. Beechcroft, with all my heart,” rejoined Scarve; “and I wish he may take you, for I couldn’t do him a worse turn. You’ll soon eat him out of house and home. But come with me to my room.”

  So saying, he led the way upstairs, pointed to the open window and the empty chest, and asked Jacob, with a bitter sneer, “whether he could make anything of them?”

  Jacob gazed curiously at the window for some time without offering a remark, and then proceeded to examine the chamber. All at once, his eye alighted upon a small piece of paper, which he instantly picked up. A few lines were traced upon it in pencil, but before he could ascertain their import, the paper was snatched from him by his master, who read as follows:— “It must be done this morning. The money is in a chest in the dressing-room, which is accessible from the little garden at the back of the house. You can reach this by a small entry opening upon the area in front of the abbey. A rope ladder will do the rest. Alarm no one if you can help it; and above all, let no violence be used. If you are discovered, I will take care no harm befals you.” No signature was attached to this mysterious document, neither was it directed. The upper part of it had likewise been torn off.

  “You had better let me take that letter to Tom Blee, the thief-taker,” said Jacob. “He’ll make something of it, I’ll warrant him.”

  “No,” replied the miser, who remained gazing upon the paper, apparently wrapped in thought; “I shall stir no further in the matter.”

  “Well, if I was disposed to turn house-breaker,” rejoined Jacob, “you’re just the person I should like to begin with; I should feel sure of gettin’ off easy.”

  The miser raised his eyes, and fixing them sternly on him, remarked— “Take care what you say, Jacob. Many a man has been hanged for lighter words than you have just uttered.”

  He then pointed to the door, and Jacob withdrew. After remaining by himself nearly an hour, he prepared to go down stairs. As he passed his daughter’s chamber, he heard the sound of her voice in conversation with her aunt, and put his hand into his pocket to see that the key was safe. Repairing to the parlour, he called to Jacob to bring him something to eat. A little cold meat and bread were placed before him by the porter, of which he partook very sparingly, although he had eaten nothing since the morning, and his thirst was quenched with a glass of water. The eatables removed, he took out his account-book, and some other papers, and began to occupy himself with them. About eight o’clock, another knock was heard at the door, and Jacob came to tell him Mr. Cordwell Firebras was without, having come by appointment to see him.

  “Admit him!” replied the miser.

  Thus empowered, Jacob departed, and presently afterwards returned with the individual in question.

  “I am punctual, you see, Mr. Scarve,” said Mr. Firebras, with a smile, as he entered the room.

  “You are, sir,” replied the miser, gravely. And while his visitor threw himself into a chair, he ascertained that Jacob descended into the cellar.

  “And now, Mr. Scarve,” said Firebras, “let us proceed at once to business. I conclude you have got the five thousand pounds for me.”

  The miser shook his head, and proceeded to detail the robbery that had been committed upon him. Firebras heard the narrative with a smile of incredulity.

  “This story may do very well for some persons, Mr. Scarve,” he said, at its close, “but I am too old a hand to be duped by it.”

  “Do you doubt my assertion, sir,” cried the miser, angrily.

  “I will not quarrel with you, Mr. Scarve,” replied the other, with provoking calmness; “I have too many public disputes on hand to engage in private ones, — especially on my own account. I consider your statement as an excuse — and I must say, a poor one; that is all. You had better say at once, and frankly, that you have changed your mind, and will not advance the money.”

  “I have already explained the cause of my inability to do so,” rejoined the miser, with stern significance; “and it must suffice.”

  “Well sir,” cried Firebras, “you have grievously disappointed me — and you will disappoint others as well. You know that if the cause prospers, you will have a hundred per cent, for your money — and you profess to wish it well, I must have a thousand pounds tonight.”

  “That I may possibly manage,” rejoined Scarve; “but I cannot give it you in gold. Lady Brabazon has just deposited her jewels with me for that amount.”

  “So you can lend her ladyship money, tho’ you refuse it to me,” returned Firebras, reproachfully. “Your admiration of the fair sex is greater than your devotion to the good cause. But let me have the jewels since better may not be!”

  “Here they are,” replied Scarve, producing the case; “you must give me a receipt for them.”

  “Willingly,” said Firebras, taking up a pen. “I shall put them down as a thousand pounds in money.”

  “You must put them down as fifte
en hundred,” cried the miser, hastily— “I am not to run all this risk for nothing.”

  “Extortioner!” exclaimed Firebras, between his teeth. “However, it shall be as you will. King James the Third is your debtor for fifteen hundred pounds. There.”

  “How very strange!” ejaculated the miser, as he took the memorandum. “Your writing is exactly like that of a letter I found in my closet just now, and which was evidently dropped by one of the robbers.”

  “A letter!” exclaimed Firebras, uneasily. “Have you got it? Let me look at it.”

  The miser produced the scrap of paper, and placed the memorandum beside it. The handwriting in both cases was precisely the same.

  “That handwriting is rather like mine, undoubtedly,” said Firebras, with the most perfect composure. “But do you mean to say this paper was found in the room where the robbery was committed?”

  “It was found there by Jacob,” rejoined the miser. “Shall I call him to add his testimony to mine?”

  “Oh, by no means!” replied Firebras. “Well, Mr. Scarve, as I may be considered as the indirect means of your losing this money, I will take care, if the good cause prospers, that the amount is made up to you.”

  “You had better confess at once that you caused it to be taken,” said the miser.

  “You are resolved I shall criminate myself,” replied Firebras, laughing— “but I have no doubt it is in good hands.”

  “Then I am satisfied,” said Scarve. “Now mark me, Mr. Firebras. In the event you have named, I expect that fourteen thousand pounds to produce me twenty thousand. Give me a memorandum to that effect. Nay, you can write it at the back of the letter.”

  Firebras smiled, and complied, and Mr. Scarve smiled too, as he compared the memorandum with the writing on the other side of the paper. And this was all that passed between them.

  “I shall call on you to-morrow,” said Firebras, rising to depart. “I have something to say to you relative to your nephew, to whom you told me you intended to give your daughter.”

  “What of him?” cried the miser, eagerly.

  “Not now — not now,” replied Firebras. “I have some one in view who will suit her much better, and make a better husband. Good night!”

  Upon this, Jacob was summoned by his master, who ordered him to conduct his visitor to the door.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XVII.

  Mr. Cripps’s Alarming Intelligence — Randulph’s Introduction to the Jacobite Club — Sir Norfolk Salusbury and Father Verselyn — The Treasonable Toast — Dangerous Position of Randulph — His Firmness — Punctiliousness of Sir Norfolk Salusbury.

  Cordwell Firebras, on quitting the Little Sanctuary, bent his steps towards Tothill-street. He was laughing to himself, probably at what had just occurred, when hearing quick footsteps behind him, he turned, and beheld Mr. Crackenthorpe Cripps. The valet’s looks so much alarmed him that he instantly stopped, and inquired what was the matter.

  “Oh, lud! I’m quite out of breath,” gasped Mr. Cripps, putting one hand affectedly to his side, while with the other he held a scented handkerchief to his nose.

  “Speak, sirrah, and don’t keep me in suspense!” cried Firebras— “what’s the matter, I say?”

  “Danger — a dungeon — death on the scaffold is the matter,” replied Mr. Cripps. “You have betrayed yourself most indiscreetly, Mr. Firebras — you have, ‘pon rep!”

  “In what way?” demanded the other, uneasily.

  “Your conversation with Mr. Randulph Crew, in the cloisters yonder, was overheard,” returned Mr. Cripps— “yes, you may well start, sir — I repeat, it was overheard by Peter Pokerich, the barber, and, his sweetheart, Thomasine Deacle, the mercer’s fair daughter. The little fellow was planning how to make the most of the discovery, when fortunately I chanced to call upon him, and with great ingenuity — though I say it — contrived to throw dust in his eyes, as he has done into those of so many of his customers. Ha! ha!”

  “This is awkward,” said Firebras, thoughtfully. “Will Pokerich join us, think you? — and if so, can he be trusted?”

  “Hum!” exclaimed Mr. Cripps, throwing himself into a musing posture, “that requires consideration. I think I might manage him. But I must be paid for the service, Mr. Firebras, — well paid, sir.”

  “Unquestionably,” returned the other. “Prove yourself useful, and you shall never find me ungrateful.”

  “Then there’s the fair Thomasine,” pursued Mr. Cripps; “she must be silenced, too. Egad, I’ll make love to her. But I must be paid for that likewise.”

  “Surely the lady will be reward enough,” laughed Firebras.

  “On the contrary, I shall have her on my hands,” replied Mr. Cripps. “But I won’t demand more than my due, sir— ‘pon rep! Allow me to offer you a pinch of snuff. I shall now go back to the barber, and, when matters are settled, you may expect me at the Rose and Crown.” And raising his hat, and making a profound bow, he strutted off.

  Ruminating on the intelligence he had received, Cordwell Firebras proceeded to Petty France, where he struck off on the right into Gardiner’s-street, and entered the Rose and Crown. Nodding familiarly to the landlord, who came from the bar to meet him, he marched on towards a back room, where Randulph was seated.

  “I am sorry to have quitted you so long, my dear young friend,” he said; “but I have been detained by Mr. Scarve.”

  “Have you seen Hilda?” asked the young man.

  “No,” replied Firebras; “but I intimated to her father that I had a good match in view for her, and that I should speak to him on the subject to-morrow.”

  Further conversation was interrupted by the landlord, who ushered in Sir Bulkeley Price. The Welsh baronet hurried forward, holding out both his hands towards Firebras; but he started, and looked exceedingly surprised on beholding Randulph.

  “I need not present my young friend, Mr. Randulph Crew, to you, Sir Bulkeley,” said Firebras; “for I believe — nay, indeed, I know — you are already acquainted with him.”

  “I have passed a great part of the morning with Mr. Crew,” said Sir Bulkeley, bowing, “but I was not aware he belonged to our party. I am extremely glad to find it is so.”

  Before Randulph could reply, the door again opened, and a gaunt, tall personage entered the room, who was announced by the host as Sir Norfolk Salusbury. Never had Randulph seen so extraordinary a figure as was now presented to his gaze. Sir Norfolk was more than six feet high, with a very meagre, but withal muscular-looking frame, and large, prominent features. He held himself so exceedingly erect, that he seemed in considerable danger of falling backwards. He was dressed in a cinnamon-coloured coat of rather antiquated fashion, a scarlet waistcoat edged with gold, black velvet breeches, and white silk hose. He had large lace ruffles at his wrists, and a flowing lace frill at his breast. His well-powdered peruke was terminated by a long thick cue, which, as it hung perpendicularly down, showed how much the small of his back was taken in. His features, which were rather harsh, were as inflexible and rigid as if carved in mahogany. He seemed utterly unable to smile. His eyes were grey and cat-like, and surmounted by black bushy brows. But it was not so much his dress, his features, or his figure, that attracted attention: it was his extraordinary formal deportment. No Spanish hidalgo ever moved with greater solemnity and dignity: his limbs creaked like rusty hinges; and there was something in his whole air and manner that irresistibly reminded Randulph of Don Quixote.

  “Welcome, Sir Norfolk,” said Cordwell Firebras, advancing towards him; “allow me to present my young friend, Mr. Randulph Crew, to you.”

  “I am happy in the acquaintance of the representative of so ancient a name,” returned Sir Norfolk, bowing stiffly. “Eum cognoscere gaudeo. Sir Bulkeley Price, I salute you. It did not enter into my expectations to meet you. I conceived you were still montivagous and eremitical in the principality.”

  “I arrived yesterday, Sir Norfolk,” said Sir Bulkeley, advancing towards him, and shaking him by
the hand. “How long have you been in town?”

  “My sojourn in the capital hath not as yet exceeded the septimanal limit,” replied Sir Norfolk.

  “In plain English, you have not been here more than a week,” laughed Sir Bulkeley; “but I am as much surprised to see you as you can be to see me.”

  “My advent was inopinate and repent, Sir Bulkeley,” rejoined Sir Norfolk. “Affairs of State drew me hither.”

  Again the door opened, and two grave-looking personages, announced as Father Verselyn and Mr. Travers were ushered in by the landlord. Father Verselyn, the foremost of these, was a tall, thin, middle-aged man, with a dark complexion, and a sinister and perfidious expression of countenance. He was habited like a layman — indeed, it would not have been safe to appear in any priestly dress — in a sober-coloured suit, a full-bottomed black wig, which he wore without powder, and spectacles. Mr. Travers was a short, square-built person, with a broad face, and a searching, severe look. He was likewise very plainly attired, but had nevertheless the appearance of a person of condition. Courteous greetings were interchanged between the new comers and the others; and Randulph was secretly entertained by the formality with which Sir Norfolk returned their salutations. He was, in turn, introduced to the strangers, but could scarcely control the dislike with which Father Verselyn, inspired him. The party then broke up into little groups, and much whispered conversation ensued, in which Randulph took no part. In about a quarter of an hour, the landlord entered the room, and, bowing to the company, said, “I believe, gentlemen, you are all assembled. The room upstairs is ready, if you are disposed to adjourn to it.”

  The proposition being assented to, the landlord threw open the door, and a slight contest occurred between the two baronets, as to which should offer the other precedence.

  “I prae, Sir Bulkeley,” said Sir Norfolk; “I will scale the staircase after you.”

  Thus exhorted, Sir Bulkeley, who thought it good breeding not to dispute a point of needless ceremony, went on. Sir Norfolk marched after him with majestic steps, and the rest of the party followed. The landlord ushered them into a large room, lighted by a chandelier suspended from the ceiling. In the centre of the apartment was a circular table covered with bottles and glasses. Having hung up their hats against the wall, the company sat down to the table, and a few bumpers went briskly round.