Resuming his seat at the table, he placed the sword before him, and went on with his accounts. The door was left partially ajar, so that, being very quick of hearing, he could detect the slightest sound. One o’clock, however, arrived, and the house remained undisturbed. Another half hour passed by — still, no one came. His second candle had burnt low, and he was calculating with himself whether he should light a third, or remain in the dark, when footsteps were distinctly heard on the stairs. He snatched up the sword, and rushed to the door, where he encountered Jacob with his crabstick in his hand.
“Oh! I’ve caught you, rascal, have I?” he cried, seizing him, and placing the sword at his throat.
“Leave go!” said Jacob, dashing him off. “Don’t you hear ‘em? They’ve come to carry off your daughter.” And snatching the candle from him, he darted up stairs.
The miser’s house consisted of two stories, exclusive of the attics. His own bed-room and that of his daughter lay on the second floor. The attics were wholly unoccupied, and filled with old lumber, which no one but himself would have harboured. The doors were kept constantly locked, and the windows boarded up. But it was evident that the parties who had got into the house, had effected an entrance from the roof. Indeed, Jacob soon after found this to be the case. On reaching the landing, he perceived three masked figures descending the stairs. The foremost of them, a slightly built person, rather gaily attired, and provided with a lantern, turned to his companion, and said, “‘Pon rep! we’re discovered, and had better beat a retreat.”
The person behind him, however, who was a stout-built fellow, seemed to be of a different opinion.
“No, curse it, no!” he cried, “we won’t go back empty-handed. He is but one man, and we’ll carry her off in spite of him. Lead us to Miss Scarve’s chamber directly, sirrah!” he cried to Jacob, “or we’ll cut your throat.”
“Oppose us not, my good fellow,” said the first speaker, “we mean you no harm, ‘pon rep! Our business is with your young mistress. Conduct us to her chamber, and you shall have a crown for your trouble.”
“You shall have a cracked crown for yours!” cried Jacob, bringing down his crabstick with such force, that if it had hit its mark, it would have more than realized his threat. As it was, a quick spring saved the party against whom it was aimed. He let fall the lantern, and ran up the stairs. The person behind him, uttering a tremendous oath, drew his sword, and made a thrust at Jacob, who parried it with his crabstick, and in his turn dealt his assailant a blow on the arm that disabled him. Howling with pain, and venting the most terrible imprecations, the fellow turned and fled, and the third person seeing the fate that had attended his companions, followed their example. Darting up stairs, they passed through an open door in the attics, scrambled over a heap of lumber, and got through a small dormer window.
It was fortunate for the fugitives that Jacob, who was close at their heels, got entangled in the lumber, or they might not have escaped so easily. When he extricated himself, they were gone, nor could he discover any trace of them. It appeared probable that they had passed over to the roof of the adjoining house, and dropped upon some leads, whence they had gained a passage which was concealed from view. Thinking it unnecessary to pursue them further, Jacob fastened the window, and descended to the lower part of the house, where he found the miser, together with Hilda and her aunt.
“Well, you have secured them?” cried Mr. Scarve. “Hilda has told me what it all means.”
“No,” replied Jacob, “but I have fairly routed them.”
“Who was the leader?” cried the miser— “Randulph Crew?”
“More likely your nephew,” returned Jacob. “But I can’t swear to any one. There was three of ‘em, and they was all masked.”
“I owe you a thousand thanks for my preservation, Jacob,” said Hilda.
“You may now rest in safety,” replied Jacob. “I’ve fastened the window, and I warrant me they won’t make a second attempt.”
Repeating her thanks, Hilda then retired with her aunt.
“Have you no idea who it was?” said the miser.
“Not the least,” returned the other; “and I’m only sorry I couldn’t identify Mr. Frewin.”
The miser made no reply, and whatever his suspicions might be, he kept them to himself. The attempt, however, alarmed him on another account. If this house, which he had considered securely barricaded, could be so easily entered, other equally lawless characters, and whose aim might be plunder, could obtain admission. He had large sums with him, for with the true avaricious spirit, he loved to see and to handle his gold, and not even the loss of interest could induce him to part with it. Resolving to hide his treasure where it could not be discovered, on the following night, when he concluded all were at rest, he crept stealthily down stairs with two heavy money-bags on his back. With some effort, for the lock was very rusty, he opened the door of an old disused wine cellar. There was nothing in it but an empty barrel, which lay in one corner. Having looked anxiously round, to see that he was not watched, he laid down the bags, and crept up stairs for two more. These were heavier than the first, and he laid them down with as little noise as possible. He had to go back a third time, and returned equally laden. He then repaired to a small coal-hole adjoining, where was deposited a scanty supply of fuel, which scanty as it was, he intended should last for many months to come, and provided himself with a shovel and an old broom. A fourth ascent supplied him with a box, in which he placed the bags, and he then commenced operations upon the floor of the cellar. With great difficulty, for he worked with the utmost caution, he got out a few bricks, and then his task became easier. Having made a hole sufficiently deep to hold the box, he deposited it within it, and covering it over with earth, restored the bricks as well as he could to their places, jumping upon them and pressing them down with his feet. Lastly, he swept all the loose earth together, and tossed it into the empty barrel.
More than an hour was thus employed, and when all was over, he leaned against the wall in a complete state of exhaustion. While thus resting himself, his eye wandered to the door, which was slightly ajar, and he thought he perceived some one behind it. Instantly darting towards it, he threw it wide open, and beheld Jacob.
“Villain!” he shrieked, raising his shovel, “I’ll murder you!”
“No, you won’t,” replied Jacob, dauntlessly.
“What have you seen, rascal?” cried the miser, trembling with fury. “Tell me that — speak!”
“Put down the shovel, and then I will, but not otherwise,” answered Jacob. “Well, then,” he added, as the request was complied with, “I’ve seen you bury a box.”
“You have!” screamed the miser. “And you know what it contains?”
“I do,” replied Jacob. “Some one always sees these things; and it’s well for you, and those to come after you, — that, in this case, it was an honest man like me.”
“An honest man!” cried the miser, ironically. “Such a one would be asleep in his bed at this hour, and not prying into his master’s affairs.”
“And what should his master be doin’, eh?” retorted Jacob. “Shouldn’t he be in bed, too, instead o’ creepin’ about his house as if he was doin’ some guilty deed, and afraid o’ bein’ detected? Which is worse, him as buries money, or him as looks on while its buried? I tell you what it is, sir, — in my opinion, he who acts so deserves to be robbed. Nay, I’m not goin’ to rob you. Don’t be afraid! But I repeat, you deserve to be robbed. What was money made for? — not to be buried there. Spend it, and give yourself comfort. You haven’t many years to live; and then you may be put where you’ve put your gold. But I preach to a deaf ear.”
While Jacob was speaking, the miser remained leaning on the shovel, as if considering what he should do. At length, he groaned out— “Well, you’ve baffled my design, Jacob. Dig up the chest!”
“No I won’t,” was the surly reply.
“You won’t?”
“No,” replied Jacob, “
I’ll not be art or part in anythin’ of the sort. He as hides may find. Since you’ve buried the treasure, e’en let it rest. The secret’s safe with me.”
“Will you swear it?” cried the miser, eagerly.
“I will, if that’ll content you,” replied Jacob.
“I’ll trust you, then,” rejoined Scarve.
“Only because you can’t help yourself,” muttered Jacob.
The miser took no notice of the remark, but quitting the cellar, locked the door, and fastened the padlock outside.
“You’ll never enter this place without my leave, Jacob,” he cried— “nor betray my secret?”
“I’ve sworn it,” replied the porter, gruffly. And he turned off into his own room, while the miser went up stairs with a heavy heart.
Some days after this occurrence, Sir Norfolk Salusbury called upon Hilda. The Welsh baronet was rather a favourite with the miser, for though they had few qualities in common, yet Sir Norfolk’s peculiar character suited him. He never asked a favour — never wanted to borrow money — never required any refreshment. All these circumstances recommended him to the miser’s good opinion. With Hilda he was a still greater favourite. She liked his stately, old-fasnioned manner; and though she could have dispensed with some of his formality, she preferred it to the familiarity of the few persons of quality whom she had encountered.
On the present occasion, after much circumlocution, Sir Norfolk informed the miser that there was to be a masquerade, or, as he termed it, “a grand assemblage of personated characters in masks,” in a few days at Ranelagh, and he begged to be permitted to take his daughter to it.
“It is a useless expense,” muttered the miser.
“I confess I should like to go very much,” said Hilda. “I have never seen a masquerade; and I am told those at Ranelagh are magnificent.”
“This will be unusually magnificent,” replied Sir Norfolk; “and as you have expressed a wish on the subject, I will procure you a masquerading habit, and a ticket, if your father will allow you to go.”
“In that case I see no objection,” said the miser, “provided I am not obliged to accompany her. I abominate such fooleries.”
“I will gladly undertake the curation of her,” said Sir Norfolk.
“And you are the only man I would trust her with, Sir Norfolk,” rejoined Scarve. “I know you will take as much care of her as I could myself.”
Sir Norfolk acknowledged the compliment by a stately bow. And it was then arranged, to Hilda’s great satisfaction, that a court dressmaker should wait upon her on the following day, to prepare her a dress for the masquerade. All were pleased with the arrangement; and the miser was in high glee that he had obliged his daughter without putting himself to trouble or expense; while Sir Norfolk was equally gratified in being able to afford pleasure to his fair cousin.
CHAPTER VII.
The Progress of Mr. Cripps’s Love Affair — Mr. Rathbone Appears on the Scene — Stratagem of the Valet — Mr. Jukes Visits the Widow.
Mr. Cripps still continued unremitting in his attentions to Mrs. Nettleship, and had made such progress in her affections, that on Mr. Rathbone’s return from the country — an event which occurred about ten days after the memorable visit to Marylebone Gardens — she told him she feared she could not fulfil her engagement with him, and besought him to allow her to break it off. But Mr. Rathbone declared he would do no such thing, and reminded her of a trifling penalty of three thousand pounds which was attached to the violation of the marriage contract on her part. He then upbraided her warmly with inconstancy; recalled to her recollection the professions of regard she had once expressed for him; and concluded by vowing to be the death of his rival. Mrs. Nettleship bore his reproaches with the utmost composure; but on hearing his final threat, she uttered a faint scream, and sank overcome by emotion into a chair. Mr. Rathbone offered her no assistance; but clapping his hat fiercely on his head, and flourishing his stick in a menacing manner, hurried out of the room.
“Oh la!” exclaimed Mrs. Nettleship, getting up as soon as he was gone, “there will be a duel — a sanguinary duel — and I shall have caused it, wretched woman that I am!”
But no duel ensued — perhaps to the widow’s disappointment. On being made acquainted with the precise terms of the contract, of which he had hitherto been kept in ignorance, Mr. Cripps looked very grave, and advised her on no account to come to a decided rupture with Mr. Rathbone.
“But the three thousand pounds can make no difference to you, Mr. Willars,” said Mrs. Nettleship— “better pay it, and have done with him.”
“On no account, my angel,” replied her admirer. “We must manage to outwit him, and obtain his consent.”
And strange to say, the cunning valet did contrive, not only not to quarrel with his rival, but even to make a friend of him. Foreseeing that Mr. Rathbone would infallibly find out who he was, and expose him, he determined to be beforehand with him, and he therefore told the widow that he had concocted a scheme, by which he was certain of outwitting her affianced suitor; but it was necessary to its success that he should assume the part of his own valet, Crackenthorpe Cripps.
“I don’t like the idea of your being taken for a walet at all, Mr. Willars,” said Mrs. Nettleship— “and I can’t see what purpose it’ll answer?”
“It is indispensable to my scheme, my angel,” replied Mr. Cripps. “You know these things are always so managed in the comedies, and they are the best models one can follow. Masters constantly put on their servants’ clothes, and servants those of their masters. Nothing more common, both on the stage and off it. And only think if we can trick him out of the three thousand!”
“Ah, that would be something, certainly,” said Mrs. Nettleship. “I must have been a fool to enter into such an engagement. But I thought I loved him then.”
“You must indeed have been wanting in your usual judgment, sweetheart,” replied Mr. Cripps; “but you hadn’t seen me. The only course now left is to out-manouvre the insensible dolt, and that, depend upon it, we’ll do. The idea of personating my valet was suggested to me by the address of the drunken old fellow we met in Marylebone Gardens.”
“I recollect,” replied Mrs. Nettleship. “He called you his nephew — said your name was Cripps — and that you were Mr. Willars’s walet. I remember it as well as if it had happened yesterday.”
“Disagreeable occurrences always dwell in one’s remembrance longer than pleasant ones,” rejoined the valet, forcing a laugh. “You must introduce me to Mr. Rathbone as Mr. Cripps. Leave him to find out the rest.”
The device worked exactly as its contriver desired and anticipated. Mr. Rathbone was astounded when he learnt that his rival was a valet; and he was so staggered by Mr. Cripps’s dress, assurance, and deportment, that he was firmly convinced he was a gentleman in disguise. The inquiries he made only added to his perplexity. He ascertained that Beau Villiers had a valet named Cripps; but the description given of him did not tally with the appearance of Mrs. Nettleship’s lover, and at last he became satisfied that the interloper was the master and not the man.
“I tell you what, Mrs. Nettleship,” he said one day, “this gay admirer of yours isn’t what he pretends to be.”
“Indeed, Mr. Rathbone!” exclaimed the widow, smiling “What is he, then?”
“A great rake and a coxcomb,” replied the other, angrily. “He’s his own master. No, I don’t mean that exactly — he’s disguised as his walet — that’s it.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Rathbone?” simpered the widow. “I declare I don’t understand you.”
“Why, I mean that this walet — this Mr. Cripps, as you suppose him, is no walet at all,” replied Rathbone. “He’s Mr. Willars, the great beau.”
“Oh, you’re entirely mistaken, Mr. Rathbone,” said the widow, smiling.
“I hope he means honorably by you, that’s all,” sneered Rathbone. “Ah! here he comes,” he added, as Mr. Cripps entered the room. “Your most obedient, Mr. Willars.
”
“My name is Cripps, sir — Crackenthorpe Cripps, at your service,” replied the valet, with a smirk of satisfaction.
“Poh! poh! nonsense! — don’t crack-jaw me,” cried Rathbone— “I know better. You can’t impose on me, sir. I know a gentleman from a walet when I see him.”
“Your opinion is too flattering, sir, to allow me to be angry at it,” replied Mr. Cripps, bowing profoundly.
“There! — that bow alone would convict you,” cried Rathbone. “Who ever saw a walet make his honours in that style?”
“Do me the favour to try my snush,” said Mr. Cripps, taking out the beau’s handsomest box, which he had borrowed for the occasion.
“Further proof!” exclaimed Rathbone; “look at that snuff box set with brilliants! — those rings on his fingers! — Very like a walet, indeed.”
“You shall have it all your own way, sir,” said Mr. Cripps, again bowing: “but there’s an old gentleman outside, who will tell you you are mistaken.”
“An accomplice, I’ll be sworn,” cried Rathbone. “But I should like to see him.” and proceeding to the passage, he returned the next moment with Mr. Jukes, while Mr. Cripps seated himself, and winked significantly at the widow. On entering the room, the old butler glanced round it curiously.
“Well, sir, you look like a servant, at all events,” cried Mr. Rathbone. “Pray who is the individual before us? — who is he?”
“I’m sorry to betray him, because he’s my own kinsman,” replied Mr. Jukes; “but I cannot suffer him to impose on a respectable lady.”
“Who do you say he is?” demanded Rathbone.
“I repeat, I’m sorry to expose him,” replied Mr. Jukes; “but the truth must be told. He’s my nephew, Crackenthorpe Cripps, chief valet to Mr. Villiers.”
“There, sir, I told you my statement would be corroborated,” said Mr. Cripps, with a side-glance at the widow.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 309