“This way — this way, my handsome gentleman and fair lady,” said Doctor Gaynam, repeating his customary formula, and leading the pair down a passage in which there was a glass door, giving a view of a wedding-party, drinking and dancing. “We are ready for you,” he added, opening a door and ushering them into a small back room, where were two other persons, who turned out to be the clerk and the register. The latter was seated at a desk, and had a large book, like a ledger, before him.
“As you may not be aware of the practice here, Sir,” said Doctor Gayman to Sir Singleton, “I will take the liberty to inform you of it. Our rule is always to take the fees beforehand, to prevent misunderstanding — merely to prevent misunderstanding, sir.”
The old beau immediately produced his purse, and gave five guineas to the clergyman, a couple to the register, and one to the clerk. This liberality produced a corresponding effect upon the parties.
“I have the honour to see Sir Singleton Spinke, sir, I believe?” said the register. “Is that the name you desire to be married by?” he added, significantly.
“Certainly,” said the old beau; “and the name of the lady is—”
“The name I wish to be married by is written down on this paper,” said Kitty, in a low tone, delivering a leaf torn from her tablets, to the register.
“Ah, the dear, sly rogue!” cried Sir Singleton, squeezing her hand.
Doctor Gayman then placed the parties on either side of him, and commenced reading the service. The register gave the lady away, and at the same time placed the slip of paper before the clergyman, who proceeding with the ceremony gave out the lady’s name as Kitty — an appellation which somewhat astounded the old beau. He, however, repeated the words after the Doctor, and so did the lady, and in due time the marriage was completed. Just as the ring was placed on the bride’s finger, two other persons entered the room; but as they kept near the door, and as Doctor Gayman supposed them to be another couple waiting their turn to be united, no notice was taken of them. But when all was over these two persons advanced and proved to be no other than Peter Pokerich and the fair Thomasine.
“Why, what in the name of wonder, is this?” cried the old beau, staring in astonishment. “The likeness is marvellous. Are there two fair Thomasines? But no, — it can’t be. Who the deuce have I married?”
“You shall see,” replied the bride, unmasking.
“Kitty Conway!” exclaimed Sir Singleton.
“Yes, Kitty Conway is the name her ladyship was married by.” said the register; “I’ve just entered it in the book.”
“We’ve come to offer you our best congratulation, Sir Singleton,” said Peter.
“And to wish you many years of happiness,” added the fair Thomasine.
“Well, I’m nicely tricked indeed,” cried the old beau. “Egad,” he added, gazing at the bride, who really looked very beautiful, “I don’t know but what I’ve the best of the bargain after all. Kitty is decidedly the smarter and the prettier of the two, and if she has flirted a little, I don’t mind it.”
“Lady Singleton Spinke,” he said, giving her his hand, “our carriage awaits us. I know nothing of these persons,” pointing to Peter and the fair Thomasine. “Mr. Register, will you have the goodness to tell my servants to drive home — to Pall Mall?”
Lady Spinke waved her hand kindly to the barber and his companion, who watched her enter the carriage, and drive off.
“Upon my word, I begin to think I’ve thrown a good chance away,” said the fair Thomasine, with something like a sigh.
“Oh I don’t say so, my darling,” cried Peter; “there’s no certainty in a Fleet marriage. It may be set aside in a month.”
“Now, my handsome couple,” cried Doctor Gayman, who had followed them to the door, “don’t you want the parson? — won’t you step in and be married? The fees will be only twelve shillings to you — one shilling the clerk, and one the register.”
“What say you, sweetest,” said Peter— “shall we be for ever united?”
“For ever!” echoed the fair Thomasine. “Why, you’ve just said that a Fleet marriage can be set aside in a month. No, I thank you. If I am married at all — especially to a barber — I’ll be married properly. Take me back to the Little Sanctuary directly.”
* * *
CHAPTER VIII.
Of the Visit of Philip Frewin and Diggs to the Miser, and What They Obtained from Him.
Having made his escape from the watchmen, as before related, Philip Frewin ran on, without stopping, past Charing Cross and Whitehall, until he reached King-street, when he relaxed his pace. He then struck into Ox Yard, and entered the Crown Inn, within it, pushing past the waiter, who stared aghast at his blood-stained appearance — though broken pates were matters of common occurrence in those days — and made his way to a room where he found Diggs seated at a table, with glasses and a bowl of punch before him. The attorney had been asleep, but he roused himself on Philip’s entrance.
“Why, you appear to have come off the worst in this encounter?” he said, looking at him.
“I was afraid it would be so.”
“Ay, devil take it!” exclaimed Philip. “He’s a more desperate fellow than I thought him. We should have done well enough, but for Jacob Post.”
“Jacob Post!” repeated Diggs— “how came he there?”
Philip told him what had occurred.
“Well, I thought it an ill-advised proceeding from the first,” said Diggs, as the other concluded his recital. “I wish you hadn’t chanced to hear that he was going to sup with Kitty Conway. This would never have happened!”
“Curse him!” cried Philip, furiously. “He has robbed me of two mistresses and a fortune, and I’ll be revenged on him — deeply revenged! — I swear it!”
“It is vexatious,” replied Diggs, coolly, “and he has crossed your path somewhat unluckily. Still, as far as Kitty Conway is concerned, I think he did you a service in taking her off your hands. But, I repeat, I’m sorry you meddled with him to-night. You have enough to do just now without thinking of revenge, and the greatest triumph you can have over him will be to get as much as possible from your uncle Scarve, and thereby reduce Hilda’s fortune — for, take my word for it, she will marry him when the old man dies.”
“And his days are numbered?” observed Philip.
“Undoubtedly,” replied Diggs. “Ah, Philip! if you had but played your cards well, what a fortune might be yours! It would have repaired all your folly and extravagance.”
“Come, come, Diggs, no preaching,” said Philip, angrily. “What is past is past.”
“But I will preach, as you call it,” cried the attorney, somewhat sharply; “because I am the chief sufferer by your extravagance. You have squandered a noble fortune in all sorts of debauchery — have been a profligate and a gambler; and are now little better than a sharper. I have lost some thousands by you, and I must and will be repaid!”
“You shall be repaid,” replied Philip, in a deprecatory tone.
“But how! — and when?” thundered the attorney— “how, and when, sir? — answer me that?”
Philip was silent. “You can have the five thousand pounds you got from my uncle,” he said, at length.
“That is gone,” replied the attorney.
“Gone!” cried Philip— “why, you offered to place the money in my hands yourself!”
“I have found a better use for it,” said Diggs; “and during your absence, it has been removed.”
Philip uttered a deep imprecation.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve done with it,” said Diggs; “I’ve given it to a most important client of mine — an agent for the Jacobite party, to whose use it will be applied. Your uncle Scarve is a Jacobite, and I told him this money would be employed for that cause, and gave him a memorandum that if it prospered he should receive double the amount. Therefore, I am all right, and to be plain with you, I never meant you to have the money.”
“You are a consummate scoundre
l, Diggs, and have tricked me most infamously,” said Philip, angrily.
“No such thing,” replied Diggs.
“I say you have,” cried Philip. “I have wasted my property, it is true; but you have helped me to do it by your extortionate demands. You have raised money for me at such usurious interest, that you have beggared me while you enriched yourself.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” cried Diggs, leaning back in his chair, and indulging in a loud fit of merriment.
“I’ll not be laughed at,” cried Philip, striding up to him, and shaking his hand in his face; “leave off — or I’ll make you.”
“Sit down,” said Diggs, calmly; “you’ll gain nothing by passion, but may by quietude.” Accustomed to obey him, Philip sullenly complied.
“Now listen to me,” pursued the attorney; “for I’ve a good deal to tell you, and that will surprise you. You know that Randulph Crew’s father died greatly embarrassed, and that Randulph assigned his estates to the creditors.”
“Well, what of that?” asked Philip.
“You shall hear, if you’re quiet,” cried Diggs, “but not otherwise. Mr. Crew’s principal creditor was a person named Isaacs, a Jew, who had advanced him money at most usurious interest.”
“As you have done to me,” observed Philip. “The man who gets into such hands is sure to be ruined.”
“Cunning as he was,” pursued Diggs, without noticing the remark, “Isaacs got into difficulties, and assigned his securities to his chief creditor, Mr. Nettleship, a tallow-chandler in the city, who died about a year ago, and whose affairs proving greatly embarrassed, the arrangement of them was committed to me by his surviving partner, Mr. Rathbone. On examining the claims on the Crew estates, I found they could not be legally substantiated, and therefore, instead of being worth sixty thousand pounds, as he imagined, the securities are not worth a twentieth part of that amount. These facts being made known to the agent of the Jacobite party, who is, as I have stated, a client of mine, he wished to get these papers into his hands, and Mr. Scarve’s money has been appropriated to their purchase.”
“The devil it has!” exclaimed Philip; “and what use does the agent intend to make of them?”
“He means to give Randulph back his property, provided he joins the Jacobite cause,” replied the attorney, “but on no other condition. And in my opinion it will never be fulfilled. But what is more, your uncle Scarve is bound under a heavy penalty to give his daughter to Randulph Crew. But neither will this be accomplished, unless the young man turns Jacobite.”
“And what is all this to me?” cried Philip; “or rather what am I to gain by it?”
“That depends upon yourself,” replied Diggs. “It is plain you can never marry your cousin Hilda. And it is plain also that if Randulph turns Jacobite, he will marry her, and obtain his property again. You have, therefore, no hope but in persuading your uncle to make you his heir.”
“And do you think that can be accomplished?” asked Philip, eagerly.
“I think it may he,” replied the attorney; “and if attempted, no time should be lost.”
“Why not make the experiment to-night?” said Philip. “Jacob is out of the way.”
“That is something certainly,” replied the attorney; “but the hour is late.”
“There is no telling what may happen tomorrow,” said Philip. “Let us make the attempt.”
After a little consideration, Diggs assented; and Philip retired to an inner room, where he washed the sanguine stains from his face, mended his broken pate with a patch, and covered all with an old scratch wig. He then put on the tattered garb he was accustomed to wear on his visits to his uncle, and returning to Diggs, who eyed him contemptuously, they quitted the inn by a private door, and proceeded to the Little Sanctuary. Giving a loud knock, they were answered by Mrs. Clinton, who seemed greatly surprised, and by no means pleased, to see them, and asked what they wanted. Diggs replied that he had business with Mr. Scarve that could not be delayed, and, pushing past her, walked down the passage towards the parlour, followed by Philip, where they found Hilda. She had been seated at the table, reading that sacred volume which exercises the most soothing influence on the mind in seasons of trouble; but she arose on hearing their approach. Diggs repeated what he had stated to Mrs. Clinton, and asked permission to walk upstairs to the miser’s room.
“Your business must be important if it cannot be postponed till to-morrow,” said Hilda.
“It cannot be postponed, Miss Scarve,” replied the attorney; “in your father’s present state of health, delays might be dangerous, and the urgency of the case must plead my excuse.”
“Well, sir, if you are resolved to see him,” replied Hilda, “you will find him in his own room sitting by the fire. You know your way.”
“I do,” replied the attorney, going towards the stairs.
“You need not expect Jacob Post home tonight, Hilda,” observed Philip Frewin; “he has got shut up in the watchhouse for assisting Randulph Crew in a street disturbance. I saw them taken off myself.” And chuckling at the alarm produced by this intelligence, he followed the attorney up-stairs.
The miser was seated, as Hilda had stated, in his easy chair, near the fire; his knees thrust into the scantily-supplied grate; and his skinny hands extended over the flame. A farthing candle was burning on the table. On hearing the door open, he cried, without looking round, in a querulous tone— “So you’ve come at last, Jacob, have you? Where have you been, rascal? You’ve kept me up very late, for I couldn’t go to bed till you came home. I’ll leave you nothing in my will, if you serve me such a trick again — nothing!”
“It’s not Jacob, sir,” said the attorney, advancing— “it’s me — Mr. Diggs.”
“Diggs!” exclaimed the miser, looking round. “What brings you here at this time? — who have you got with you?”
“Your nephew, sir — Mr. Philip Frewin,” replied the attorney. “I’ve come at rather an unseasonable hour, sir, but I thought I had better not delay my visit.”
“You think me in danger, Diggs — I know you do — and that’s the reason of your coming,” said the miser; “everybody fancies that I’m going to die; even Abel Beechcroft paid me a visit t’other night to tell me so. But though I’m ill enough, God knows, it’s not all over with me yet. I may come round, Diggs — may come round. But to your business.”
“My business relates to your nephew, Mr. Scarve,” said the attorney. “I know you are much too strong minded to fear the approach of death; and though I trust my apprehensions may prove groundless, I hold it my duty to tell you that I consider your condition precarious. You may get better—”
“But the probability is I shall not,” interrupted the miser, with a ghastly grin, “that’s what you mean to say, sir. Go on.”
“I wish to know your sentiments in reference to the proposed alliance between Mr. Frewin and your daughter,” pursued the attorney. “If anything should happen to you, is it your wish that she should marry him or Randulph Crew?”
“She shall never marry Randulph Crew!” shrieked the miser. “I’ll disinherit her rather.”
“Leave your property away from her if she disobeys your injunctions and weds him — that will answer the purpose,” said Diggs.
“I will — I will,” rejoined the miser; “and what is more, I will leave it from her if she does not marry Philip Frewin.”
“If such is your intention, the will had better be drawn up at once,” said the attorney; “I will get writing materials, and prepare.”
The miser assented, and turned his head thoughtfully towards the fire, while Diggs took up the candle, and went down stairs for pen and ink. Though longing to address his uncle, Philip did not dare to do so, for fear of disturbing the present favourable position of things. The next moment, Diggs returned, and sitting down at the table, commenced drawing up the will. The miser watched the progress of his rapid pen in silent curiosity, and Philip Frewin did his best to hide the intense interest he took in the proc
eedings. At length, the attorney completed his task, and having glanced it over, turned to the miser, and commenced reading it. The effect of the instrument, which was most strongly worded, was to place Hilda completely in the power of Philip Frewin.
“Its just what I wished,” said the miser, as Diggs finished; “I’ll sign it.”
As he tottered to the table, and sat down in the seat relinquished for him by Diggs, who placed the will before him, and a pen in his trembling fingers, the door was opened, and Hilda entered the room. Though greatly startled by her appearance at this critical juncture, the attorney commanded himself as well as he could, and said hastily to the miser— “Sign it, sir — sign it.”
But the latter would not be deprived of his triumph. He looked up at his daughter, and said, “I’m about to put an effectual bar to your marriage with Randulph Crew.”
“And do you forget your solemn contract with his father?” she rejoined. “Will you not fulfil that?”
“That contract is little better than a moral obligation upon Mr. Scarve,” said Diggs; “it cannot be enforced — certainly not upon his representatives.”
“Father,” said Hilda, stepping forward, and laying her hand upon the will, “I beseech you not to sign this paper. You are not sufficiently yourself to do so, and it is infamous in Mr. Diggs to practice on you thus. Keep it by you, and sign it if you will, when you have well considered it; — but not now — not now.”
“You think me worse than I am, Hilda,” said the miser, regarding her fixedly; “but I will undeceive you. It is true that at times my mind wanders, and my memory fails me; but I am perfectly myself at this moment — perfectly so. In proof of it, I will tell you what I am about to do. I am resolved you shall not marry Randulph Crew, and as I feel when I am gone that you may not respect my injunctions, I have taken care to place my property in such a state, that if you do not obey them, you forfeit it. There stands your husband, or my heir.”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 321