The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “So!” he exclaimed, without losing his composure, “we have had a listener here, eh! You have heard what has passed between us, Mr. Beechcroft?”

  “Some part of it,” replied Abel; “and I applaud my sister’s conduct as much as I condemn yours. You have stated that you can compel me to give my consent to my nephew’s marriage with Hilda Scarve. Be pleased to prove the assertion, sir.”

  “You have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Beechcroft, because I have not had time to put my plan in operation,” replied Firebras; “nevertheless, if I can prove to you that I can recover your nephew’s property — and that I will only do so on the condition of your giving your unqualified consent to his union with Hilda Scarve, you will not refuse it?”

  “Coupled as it is with the other condition you have annexed to it, I should deem it my duty to do so,” rejoined Abel. “But you must excuse me if I say that I distrust your power of getting back my nephew’s property.”

  “I shall not make the rejoinder which I should do to one of less pacific disposition than yourself, Mr. Beechcroft,” replied Firebras, sternly. “But you have doubted my word unjustly. I can, if I choose, get back Randulph Crew’s property.”

  “Are you one of his father’s creditors then?” demanded Abel.

  “It matters not what I am,” returned Firebras. “It must suffice that I can make good my assertion.”

  “If you are not a creditor,” rejoined Abel, “I can obtain the property for him as readily as yourself.”

  “You are welcome to make the experiment,” said Firebras, with a slight laugh of defiance. “Mrs. Crew, I have the honour to wish you a good morning. Though my plans have been somewhat precipitated by your worthy brother, I still am not without hopes that he will come into them; and at all events, his presence at the interview will save you the necessity of explanation. Your son, I trust, will speedily be master of his property, the husband of Hilda, and—”

  “A Jacobite,” supplied Abel.

  “Precisely,” said Firebras, laughing. “Good morning, Mr. Beechcroft.” And turning from Abel he left the room.

  “That is a daring and a dangerous man,” said Abel to his sister.

  “A highly dangerous man,” she replied; “and Randulph must be preserved from him.”

  “He must,” replied Abel. “I shall make it my immediate business to ascertain how far there is a probability of his being correct in his statement about the property. It was fortunate that I chanced to come back. Jukes told me there was some one with you, and from his description of the person, I felt sure who it must be. Let us go into the garden, and talk this matter over further.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER IV.

  Treats Of The Miser’s Illness; and the Discovery of the Mysterious Packet by Hilda.

  Hilda Scarve had soon a new cause of anxiety. Not only was she uneasy about Randulph, whose recovery was not quite so rapid as had been anticipated, but her father’s state of health began to occasion her considerable alarm.

  While walking out, he got caught in the rain; and on his return home though drenched to the skin, refused to change his clothes. A low fever was the consequence; and holding apothecary’s stuff, as he termed physic, in abhorrence, he would take nothing to carry it off, and owing to this neglect, that which was a slight matter in the commencement, ended in becoming a serious illness.

  One day, in spite his daughter’s entreaties, he would go forth; and, after being absent for a few hours, during which, as it appeared, he had walked to a considerable distance, he returned in such a state of exhaustion, that Hilda was quite terrified at it. All, however, she could prevail upon him to take was a small basin of weak water gruel, but without even a teaspoonful of wine or brandy in it. The next morning he was considerably better, and Hilda thought the crisis past; but she was mistaken, and so was her father; for, fancying that the exercise of the previous day had done him good, he went out again, walked further than before, got caught a second time in the rain, and tearfully increased the fever.

  On this occasion, he was persuaded to take off his wet clothes, and to go to bed, and even to have a small fire lighted in his chamber, where none had ever before been lighted in his time. Watching this operation with the utmost anxiety; he called to Jacob, who was laying the fire, not to waste the wood, though only three or four small chips were used; next blamed him for putting on too much coal; and lastly, forbade him to light it. Jacob, however, ventured to disobey his orders, and having applied a match to some bits of paper stuck in the bars, quitted the room. As soon as he was gone, the miser instantly sprung out of bed, and without much difficulty extinguished the only partially-kindled fire.

  Shortly afterwards, Hilda came into the room, and finding what had happened, besought him to let the fire be lighted, and at last wrung from him a most reluctant assent. But again another accident occurred. More paper was lighted, the wood caught, and began to crackle in the bars. The chimney, however, smoked, and Jacob peeping up it to ascertain the cause, perceived that it was stopped by a wisp of straw. He immediately thrust up his arm, pulled down the obstacle, and in so doing, dislodged two heavy bags, which fell into the fire with a rattling noise proclaiming the nature of their contents. At this sound, the miser, who had been sinking into a slumber, instantly sprang up, and uttering a wild cry, ordered both his daughter and Jacob out of the room. They knew him too well to disobey, and as soon as they were gone, he got out of bed again, plucked the bags from the fire, which luckily had not burnt the sacking, and, locking them carefully up in a strongbox, placed the key under his pillow.

  But the idea of the discovery of his hoard haunted him, and, combined with the fever, prevented the possibility of slumber. He tried to recollect the different places where he had hidden money, and, unable to call them all to mind, grew almost distracted. Hilda would willingly have sat up with him, but he would not allow her; neither would he permit Jacob to do so. He waited till he thought all were asleep, and then rising, wrapped himself in his dressing-gown, and proceeded to examine several nooks and crannies in the room, in which he had placed small sums of money. All his hoards were safe, except one. He had put ten guineas in a glove about two months before, and fancied he had hidden it behind a shutter. But it was not there, and, convinced that Jacob had discovered it, and purloined it, he was about to descend and tax him with the robbery, when he all at once recollected that he had placed the glove under a broken plank near the hearthstone. He immediately took up the board, and there, sure enough, was the lost treasure.

  Made easy by this discovery, he restored the glove to its place, and returned to bed. Still, he could not rest. An idea took possession of him, that the money he had buried in the cellar was gone, and unable to shake off the notion, he arose, and habiting himself as before, took the rushlight that burnt by his bedside, and, with trembling but cautious steps, went down stairs. Arrived at the cellar, he set down the rushlight, and cast an almost piteous look at the cask, beneath which he had buried his gold, as if seeking to know whether it was still there. At last, he summoned up resolution for the task, and repairing to the coal-hole, possessed himself of the shovel, and commenced digging up the box.

  Anxiety supplied him with strength, and in less than half an hour, he had got out the box, opened it, and counted the money bags, which he found all right. He would have counted the gold within them as well, but neither his strength nor time would allow him to do so. While thus employed, he formed a terrible exemplification of the effect that avarice may produce upon the mind. There he worked, burning with fever in a damp cellar, half naked, for he had taken off his dressing-gown to enable him to ply the spade with greater freedom; — there he worked, as if life and death were in his efforts, and almost looked, such was his ghastly appearance, like a corpse digging its own grave.

  It was a fearful sight to see, and it was witnessed by one upon whom it made a lasting and forcible impression. This was his daughter. Hearing him go down stairs, she had followed him, and saw what he was about,
but did not dare to interrupt him, apprehensive of the consequence. At last, when he had got out the box, and examined its contents, she hoped all was over, and, proceeding to Jacob’s room, roused him, and telling him what had happened, bade him watch his master, and then retired to her own chamber.

  Jacob obeyed, and having seen the former occurrence, was at no loss to comprehend what was now happening. He accordingly, stationed himself at the door, and saw through the chink, for it was left ajar, that the miser was filling up the hole, and restoring the place to its former appearance. It was wonderful, and almost incredible, to see how that feeble old man shaken by sickness, and tottering on the verge of the grave, toiled — how he persevered — how he took the earth out of the cask — how he filled up the hole — how he restored the bricks to their places — how he trod them down with his naked feet. Jacob was amazed, and almost felt as if he was in a dream. But he was suddenly roused to full consciousness as the miser having finished his task, leaned upon his spade to rest himself, but being completely overcome, uttered a deep groan, and fell with his face upon the ground.

  Instantly rushing towards him, Jacob found him senseless, and at first, thought him dead, but perceiving some symptoms of animation about him, he lifted him up in his arms as easily as if he had been a child, and carried him up stairs to bed. He then informed Hilda what had happened, and she hastened to apply such restoratives as she possessed, and which ere long, to her infinite satisfaction, brought him back to consciousness. But he was not himself for some hours, and rambled incessantly about his treasure, which he imagined had been taken from him. Nature, however, at length asserted her sway, and he dropped asleep. During his slumbers, Jacob brought the chest up stairs with the money-bags in it, and placed it at the foot of his bed.

  The miser did not wake till late in the following morning, and he was then very faint and light-headed. He swallowed a basin of strong broth, prepared for him by his daughter, with great greediness, for he was as much exhausted by want of food as from any other cause, and in the course of a few hours gained strength considerably. As he got better, his head cleared, and he began to recollect something of the events of the previous night. At first, he thought he must have dreamt of digging up his treasure; but by degrees becoming satisfied that he had really done so, he grew exceedingly uneasy, and desired to know how he had been put to bed.

  Hilda then told him, and shewed him where the chest was placed, assuring him all was safe. Still he was not wholly satisfied, and later in the day determined, in spite of all dissuasions to the contrary, to get up.

  Left to himself, he locked the door, and examined the bags, which were all tied in a peculiar manner, and sealed, and their appearance satisfied him they had not been opened. He had not been long up, when he felt so dreadfully ill, that, for the first time in his life, he began to think his end approaching. Falling back in his chair, he shook as with an ague, while cold perspiration burst from every pore. The fit, however, passed off, and he made an effort to crawl to the door, and call Jacob. The latter instantly answered the summons, and looked so unmistakeably alarmed at his master’s appearance, that the other could not but notice it.

  “You think me very ill, Jacob?” said the miser. “Don’t be afraid of frightening me, speak the truth, — I know you do.”

  “Why, yes,” rejoined Jacob; “you don’t look well, certainly. If I was you, and I’d any affairs to arrange, I’d settle ’em quickly, for fear of accident, — that’s all.”

  “I understand,” replied the miser, with a ghastly grin; “but I’m not going to die just yet, Jacob, — not just yet, — don’t think it.”

  “I’m sure I hope not,” replied Jacob; “for though we haven’t agreed over and above well of late, I should be sorry to lose you.”

  The miser turned away, and crept back to his chair, sinking into it exhausted by the effort he had made.

  “I want you to go to Grey’s Inn, Jacob,” he said, at length, “to tell Mr. Diggs to come to me.”

  “What, to make your will?” rejoined Jacob. “Well, I think you’re right there. No harm in bein’ on the safe side.”

  “Never mind what I want him for,” rejoined the miser; “do as I bid you.”

  “I wish you’d let me bring some other ‘turney i’stead o’ that smooth-faced, palaverin’ Diggs,” said Jacob. “A will’s a serious affair, and I should be sorry you did an injustice that can’t be repaired.”

  “Don’t argue with me, rascal, but begone!” cried the miser.

  “I don’t like fetchin’ Diggs,” said Jacob. “Couldn’t I make a will for you. A few words would do it — I leave all my property and possessions, whatsoever and wheresomdever, to my lawfully begotten daughter, Hilda Scarve. — That’ll be quite enough, and far better than any will Mr. Digges’ll make for you. Besides, it’ll cost you nothin.”

  “This fellow will kill me!” groaned the miser. “Do go, Jacob,” he added, imploringly.

  “Well, I can’t resist that,” said Jacob; “but as you hope to be forgiven hereafter, don’t act unjustly by your daughter.”

  “If you continue faithful to me to the last I’ll leave you a handsome legacy, Jacob,” said the miser; “a handsome legacy — but not a farthing if you disobey me.”

  “I don’t want a legacy,” replied Jacob. “I’d rather not have it. But don’t you forget your wife’s sister, poor Mrs. Clinton. You’ve used her hardly this many a year. Make it up to her now.”

  “I must look ill, indeed!” groaned the miser, “since the rascal dares to talk to me thus. Will you go or not?” he asked.

  “Oh yes! I’ll go,” said Jacob. “Shall I send your daughter to you.”

  And receiving a faint reply in the affirmative, he quitted the room.

  About an hour after this, he returned with Diggs, who was closeted with the miser for a long time. Jacob knew that some writing must be going forward, for he was ordered to take pen and ink up stairs; and he would fain have played the spy, but he could not do so without being detected. At length he was summoned by Diggs, who desired him to call a coach. He was not long in meeting with one; and on informing the attorney that it was ready for him, he was almost struck dum with astonishment, by an order from the latter to take down the chest containing the money bags, and place it in the vehicle.

  “Why, you don’t mean to send that chest away?” he said to his master.

  “Yes, that chest — that identical chest, my good fellow,” said the attorney.

  “But I must have the order from master’s own lips, or I won’t obey it,” said Jacob, doggedly.

  “Will you be pleased, sir, to tell your servant what he is to do?” said Diggs, impatiently.

  “Take away the chest,” said the miser.

  “What this with the money in it — this here?” asked Jacob, giving it a sounding knock.

  “Ay,” rejoined the miser.

  “Well, if I must, I must,” said Jacob, shouldering the chest; “but it would have been safer in the cellar than where it’s a-goin’ to.”

  He had scarcely placed his burthen in the coach when Diggs followed him, and jumping into the vehicle, ordered him, with a triumphant glance to shut the door, and bid the coachman drive to his chambers.

  “Gray’s Inn, coachee!” cried Jacob, as he complied; “and may you break your fare’s neck as you go,” he added, in a lower tone.

  His mind lightened, apparently, by what had taken place, Mr. Scarve remained perfectly quiet during the rest of the day, and retired early to rest; but he passed another sleepless night, and was seized with a new panic about his money. The next day, finding himself unable to go down stairs, he ordered Jacob to bring up all his boxes, and to place them near him. His fever increasing, and assuming somewhat of the character of an ague, he consented to have a small fire kept up constantly in his bedroom, and set his chair close beside it. In addition to his dressing-gown, he wrapped an old blanket over his shoulders, and tried to keep his lower limbs warm by clothing them in a couple of wo
rsted hose. His bed being totally destitute of hangings, he had a sheet hung up against the lower end of it to keep off the blaze of the fire which he fancied disturbed him during the night. These slight comforts were all he permitted himself, and he remained as inflexible as ever on the score of medicine, and medical advice.

  “A doctor can do no good,” he said to Jacob, who urged him to send for one: “if abstinence won’t cure a man, no physic will.”

  “Well, perhaps you’re right sir,” said Jacob; “but I wish you’d think less o’ your worldly affairs, and more o’ your sperretual ones. Look at that pictur’ over your chimney-piece, and see how Death is takin’ away the covetous man’s treasures before his very eyes. It might be intended as a warnin’ to you.”

  The picture, alluded to by Jacob, was a copy of one of Holbein’s designs of the Dance of Death suspended over the chimney-piece, and with the scriptural motto underneath it— ‘Stulte, hac nocte repetunt animum tuam: et quae parasti cujus erunt?’ — did seem to have a fearful and, solemn application to the present conjuncture. The miser shuddered as he looked at it, but he would not acknowledge the justice of the porter’s remark.

  Of late, he had begun to entertain a dislike to Jacob, and would scarcely suffer him to come near him. Having seen him, when opening one of the boxes, take up an old stocking-foot in which a few pieces of silver were tied up, he took it into his head that he designed to rob him; and his fears being magnified by his perturbed imagination, he soon persuaded himself that he also intended to murder him. To prevent any such design, he placed a loaded pistol on the chimney-piece near him, and hung a drawn sword on a peg, so as to be within reach in case of need. These weapons he carried with him to his bed-side at night.

  But he grew daily worse and worse, and his faculties became more and more enfeebled. He rambled about the house at night almost in a state of somnambulism, muttering strange things about his treasure, and frequently visiting the cellar where he had buried the chest, unconscious that it was gone.