“On another point — namely, your interview with the mysterious individual beneath the cloisters of Westminster Abbey, I do not deem it prudent to write.
“In conclusion, my dear son, I beseech you to pause in your headlong career, to abandon the worthless society you have formed, and to place yourself under the guidance of your uncle Abel. He can save you. And that he may do so is the fervent prayer of your most affectionate mother,
“Sophia Crew.”
Randulph read this letter over and over again, and each time with fresh self reproaches. He thought his mother viewed his indiscretions in too serious a light, but he could not disguise from himself that her fears were well grounded. What chiefly affected him, however, was the passage referring to Hilda, and its re-perusal caused him to pace his chamber with agitated steps.
At last he became calmer, and sought his couch; but he could not sleep, and in the morning arose feverish and unrefreshed. His uncles were at the breakfast-table before him; but though both noticed his dejected and haggard appearance, neither commented upon it. On the contrary, Trussell was livelier than usual, and rattled away about the masquerade to be given at Ranelagh on the following day, dilating upon the amusement to be expected at it. All at once Randulph broke silence.
“I do not intend to go to the masquerade, uncle,” he said.
“Not go!” exclaimed Trussell, laying down a piece of broiled ham which he was conveying to his mouth. “Not go! — why not, in the name of wonder?”
Abel eyed his nephew narrowly.
“I have been too much at such places of late,” replied Randulph.
Trussell burst into a derisive laugh.
“I see how it is,” he said; “you have received a dose of good counsel from your mother, and are labouring under its effects.”
“I trust I shall profit by the advice I have received,” replied Randulph; “and as the first step towards it, I mean to abstain from the masquerade at Ranelagh.”
Abel fastened his grey eyes upon him, as if he would read his soul, but he made no remark.
“Well, well, do as you please, my dear boy,” said Trussell,— “do as you please. I sha’n’t attempt to persuade you. But a moment’s reflection will convince you that your mother is not in a condition to judge of your conduct. She can only learn what you are doing by report; and report always exaggerates. Her alarm is quite natural. You are a devilish handsome fellow — very much liked by the women, — very much courted by persons of quality. People in the country are terribly afraid of pretty women and great folks; but you know that both are perfectly harmless. My only uneasiness about you,” he added, with a dry cough, and a side glance at his brother, “is, that your means are rather inadequate to your expenses. But you may be richer one of these days.”
“I see little prospect of it,” muttered Abel.
“I think there is every prospect of his making a good match, sir, — but that is neither here nor there,” replied Trussell.
“I hope you don’t allude to Beau Villiers’s cast-off mistress, Lady Brabazon,” said Abel. “I would rather he married Kitty Conway than that worthless woman. There is at least some honesty about the actress.”
“Do not be apprehensive on that score, uncle,” rejoined Randulph; “I am not likely to be so duped: my eyes are opened to my folly.”
“How long will they continue so?” sneered Abel. “Satiety begets loathing, but with a fresh appetite you will begin anew.”
“I hope he will,” said Trussell; “for I cannot for the life of me, discover the harm he has committed.”
“It would surprise me if you did,” observed Abel, contemptuously.
The conversation here dropped, and the party continued their breakfast in silence. At its close, the older uncle quitted the room.
“You were somewhat rash in forming the resolution you have just announced, Randulph,” observed Trussell, as soon as they were alone; “I didn’t like to say so before my brother, but I felt quite sure of your going to the masquerade, notwithstanding your declaration to the contrary.”
“You are mistaken, sir,” replied Randulph, with the air of a person who has come to an unalterable determination.
“No, I am not,” rejoined Trussell, smiling; “and when I tell you that Hilda Scarve will be there, I rather fancy you will acknowledge the correctness of my remark.”
“Ah! that alters the case, indeed,” exclaimed Randulph. “But are you sure of what you tell me?”
“As sure as we are now sitting together,” replied Trussell. “She is going there under the escort of her relation, Sir Norfolk Salusbury.”
“Then of course I must go,” cried Randulph. “I wouldn’t lose the chance of meeting her for the world.”
“But you forget — you have been too much at such places of late,” jeered Trussell.
“One more visit can make no difference,” rejoined Randulph.
“But there’s no knowing what it may lead to,” pursued Trussell. “Recollect your eyes are open to your folly — ha! ha!”
“Laugh as much as you please, uncle,” replied Randulph. “I do not go to see the masquerade, but to meet Hilda.”
“Well, I’m glad of your determination, whatever plea you put it upon,” rejoined Trussell, seriously.
At this juncture Abel re-appeared.
“Well, Randulph,” he said, regarding him— “still of the same mind? — No masquerade tomorrow, eh?”
“I fear you will have little confidence in me in future, when I tell you I have decided upon going,” replied Randulph, colouring with shame.
“I expected as much,” replied Abel, coldly. “I knew you would not be proof against your uncle’s powers of persuasion.”
“Indeed, sir, I have not persuaded him,” said Trussell. “Have I, Randulph?”
“You have not,” was the reply.
“Then let me give you one piece of advice, Randulph,” observed Abel. “Don’t boast of your good resolutions until you have given them a trial.”
CHAPTER VI.
The Fair Thomasine’s Visit to Hilda — Her Mysterious Communication — In What Way, and by Whom the Attempt to Carry off Hilda Was Prevented — The Miser Buries His Treasure in the Cellar.
During all this time, the miser continued to lead precisely the same life as before. Notwithstanding his application to Abel Beechcroft, Jacob Post had not quitted his master’s service; for with all their bickerings and disagreements, the porter was strongly attached to him. A word, moreover, from Hilda had turned the scale, and decided Jacob upon staying. Things, therefore, went on in their usual way. Diggs had contrived, by producing deeds and other documents, which appeared regularly executed, to convince the miser that his nephew’s account of his circumstances was correct. But the project of the alliance was dropped, or suffered to remain in abeyance, and Hilda endured no further annoyance respecting it. But it must not be imagined she was perfectly tranquil. On the contrary, she was haunted by the recollection of Randulph, who had made a much deeper impression on her heart than she had at first supposed; and though she made the strongest efforts to banish his image from her thoughts, they were unsuccessful. The very jealousy she had experienced increased the flame; and her casual encounter with him as she was returning from Lady Brabazon’s, tended to keep it alive. She saw nothing of him, except that her father now and then told her, with a bitter sneer, that he had become excessively dissipated. But she now began to find excuses for him, and blamed herself for having acted harshly towards him on their last interview. Her solitary life, too, contributed to foster her passion. She had little to dwell on besides him, and his image being most frequently presented to her imagination, insensibly became linked with her affections.
One morning, when her father was from home, and she was sitting in her own room, Jacob tapped at the door, and informed her that the mercer’s daughter from over the way, Miss Thomasine Deacle, was below, and begged to speak with her.
She instantly came down stairs, and found the young
lady in question awaiting her, and very finely dressed, being attired in a red and yellow damask gown, with a red satin stomacher, bands at her ruffles, and a pretty little fly-cap similarly bedizened. She was gazing round the room with the greatest curiosity, but on seeing Hilda, she rushed towards her, and wringing her hands, exclaimed, in tones of the deepest commiseration, “And is it in this miserable place that loveliness like yours is immured! What a marble-hearted tyrant your father must be!”
Hilda looked at a loss to comprehend the meaning of this address.
“I beg pardon,” pursued the fair Thomasine, “but I am so horror-stricken by the sight of these naked walls, and this desolate apartment, that I may, perchance, have expressed myself too strongly. Oh! how can you exist here, Miss Scarve?”
“I contrive to do so, strange as it may appear,” replied Hilda, smiling.
“This is a moment I have for months sighed for,” cried the fair Thomasine, falling into a theatrical attitude. “I have longed to commune with you. You will soon understand me, as I understand you. Yes, Hilda Scarve and Thomasine Deacle, however disproportionate their rank, will be constant and attached friends. From this moment I devote myself to you. We have both many feelings in common. We both love — and have both been disappointed; or rather, our affections have been betrayed.”
“I must beg you to cease this absurd strain, Miss Deacle, if the interview is to be continued,” replied Hilda, somewhat haughtily. “I have neither loved nor been disappointed.”
“Nay, fear me not,” rejoined the fair Thomasine. “Your secrets will be as secure in my bosom as in your own. I am a woman, and know of what a woman’s heart is composed. I deeply sympathize with you. I know how tenderly you love Randulph Crew, and how unworthy he has proved himself of your regard.”
“Really, Miss Deacle,” cried Hilda, blushing. “I cannot suffer you to talk in this way.”
“I only do so to shew you that you may have entire confidence in me,” replied the fair Thomasine. “Ah! Mr. Crew is very handsome, — very handsome, indeed. I do not wonder at his inspiring a strong passion.”
“You are mistaken in supposing he has inspired me with one,” rejoined Hilda, somewhat piqued. “I hope you do not come from him.”
“Oh, no,” replied the fair Thomasine; “but if I can do aught to forward the affair — if I can convey any message to him — command me.”
“It is time to put an end to this nonsense,” said Hilda. “If you have nothing else to speak to me about, except Mr. Randulph Crew, I must wish you a good morning.”
“One object in my coming hither, Miss Scarve, I will frankly confess, was to make your acquaintance, and, I trust, form a lasting friendship with you,” replied the fair Thomasine, somewhat discomposed. “But my chief motive,” she added, assuming a mysterious look, and lowering her voice to those deep tones in which fearful intelligence is announced in a melo-drama, “was to inform you that an attempt will be made to carry you off to-night!”
“Carry me off!” exclaimed Hilda, alarmed.
“Ay, carry you off!” repeated the fair Thomasine. “Dreadful, isn’t it? But it is what all heroines, like ourselves, are subject to. I may not tell you who gave me the intelligence, but you may rely upon it. Most likely, you have some suspicion of the hateful contriver of the base design. Our sex are seldom deceived in such matters. I was bound to secrecy, but I could not keep the matter from you. Whatever happens, I must not be implicated. Promise me I shall not be so.”
“You shall not,” replied Hilda.
“And oh, Miss Scarve,” pursued the fair Thomasine, “to appreciate my regard for you — to understand me thoroughly — you must know — though I tremble to mention it — that you are my rival — yes, my rival. Your matchless charms have estranged the affections of my beloved and once devoted Peter Pokerich. Still, I feel no resentment against you — but, on the contrary, I admire you beyond expression. A time may come when I may be useful to you; and then forget not your humble, but faithful friend, Thomasine Deacle.”
“I will not — I will not,” replied Hilda, who began to entertain some doubts as to her companion’s sanity. “I am greatly obliged by your information, and will not fail to profit by it. Good morning.”
“Farewell!” exclaimed the fair Thomasine, pathetically. “I fear I am imperfectly understood.”
Hilda assured her to the contrary, and summoning Jacob, he ushered her to the door.
As soon as the fair Thomasine had departed, Hilda acquainted her aunt with the intelligence she had received. Mrs. Clinton was inclined to put little faith in it, but recommended that their relation, Sir Norfolk Salusbury, should be consulted on the subject. To this, however, Hilda objected, and Jacob Post was summoned to the conference.
“Don’t say a word about it to any one — not even to master,” said the porter, on being appealed to; “leave the affair to me, and I’ll warrant you, Master Philip Frewin, — for I’ve no doubt it’s him, — sha’n’t wish to renew the attempt. Go to bed just as usual, and think no more of the matter. You shall hear all about it next mornin.”
“But had you not better have some assistance, Jacob?” said Hilda. “Such attempts are always made with sufficient force to ensure their execution.”
“I want no assistance, Miss,” replied Jacob “not I. Half a dozen of ’em may come if they choose — but they sha’n’t go back as they came, I’ll promise ‘em.”
“I think you may rely upon Jacob, niece,” observed Mrs. Clinton.
Hilda thought so too, and it was therefore resolved that nothing should be said to the miser on the subject, but that the porter should keep watch in his own way. Shortly afterwards, Mr. Scarve came home. The day passed off as usual, and Hilda and her aunt retired to rest early — a signal of intelligence passing between them and Jacob as they withdrew.
It so happened, on this particular night, that the miser, who was busy with his papers and accounts, signified his intention of sitting up late, and ordered Jacob to place another farthing candle before him, to be lighted when the first was done. This arrangement not suiting Jacob at all, he declined obeying the order, hoping his master would go to bed; but he was mistaken. The miser continued busily employed until his candle had burnt into the socket, when finding that Jacob had neglected to provide him with another, he went grumblingly to the cupboard for it.
Hearing him stir, Jacob, who was on the alert, entered the room. “Do you know it’s eleven o’clock, sir?” he said. “It’s time to go to bed.”
“Go to bed yourself, you careless rascal!” rejoined the miser, angrily. “I told you I was going to sit up, and ordered you to get me another candle. But you neglect everything — everything.”
“No I don’t,” replied Jacob, gruffly. “You’re growin’ wasteful, and it’s my duty to check you. You’re hurtin’ your eyes by sittin’ up so late. Come, go to bed.”
“What the devil’s the meaning of this, rascal?” cried the miser, sharply and suspiciously. “You’ve some object in view, and want to get me out of the way. I shall sit up late — perhaps all night.”
Seeing his master resolute, Jacob, after muttering a few inaudible words, withdrew. In an hour he partly opened the door, and popped his head into the room. The miser was still hard at work.
“Past twelve o’clock, and a cloudy mornin!” he cried, mimicking the hoarse tones of a watchman.
“What! still up!” cried the miser. “Get to bed directly.”
“No, I shan’t,” replied Jacob, pushing the door wide open, and striding into the room; “it’s not safe to leave you up. Them accounts can just as well be settled to-morrow. Come,” he added, marching to the table, and taking up the candle, “I’ll see you to bed.”
“Set down the candle, rascal!” cried the miser, rising in a fury— “set it down instantly, or I’ll be the death of you.”
Jacob reluctantly complied, and looked hard at him, scratching his head as he did so.
“I see you’ve something on your mind,” cri
ed the miser, fiercely. “Confess at once that you intend to rob and murder me. Confess it, and I’ll forgive you.”
“I’ve nothin’ to confess,” rejoined Jacob. “It’s merely regard for your welfare as keeps me up. If you’d be advised by me, you’ll go to bed — but if you won’t, you must take the consequences.”
“What consequences, sirrah?” cried the miser, angrily. “Are you master here, or am I?”
“You are,” replied Jacob— “more’s the pity. If anythin’ happens, it’s not my fault. I’ve warned you.”
“Stay, rascal!” vociferated the miser, who felt somewhat uneasy— “what do you mean? what do you apprehend?”
“I sha’n’t tell you,” replied Jacob, doggedly. “I can be as close as you. You’ll know if you stay up long enough.” So saying he disappeared.
The miser was seriously alarmed. Jacob’s mysterious conduct was wholly incomprehensible. He had never acted so before, and after debating with himself what it would be best to do, Mr. Scarve resolved to fetch his sword, and remain on the watch. Accordingly, he crept up-stairs, and possessed himself of the weapon, and as he passed the ladies’ chamber, on his return, he heard them stirring within it, while the voice of Mrs. Clinton issuing from the keyhole, said, “Jacob, have they been here?”
“Not yet,” replied the miser in a whisper, which he tried to make as like the porter’s gruff voice as possible.
Fully satisfied that he had discovered a plot, but fearful of being subjected to further interrogations, which might lead to his discovery, if he stayed longer, the miser hurried down stairs, muttering as he went— “Here’s a pretty piece of work! That rascal Jacob is at the bottom of it all. I’ll discharge him to-morrow morning. But first, to find out what it means. How lucky I chanced to sit up! It’s quite providential.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 308