The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Left to himself, the miser remained for some time cowering over the fire, and drew closer to it as it burnt lower, and diffused less warmth. At last, as it threatened to go out entirely, he scraped up all the cinders he could collect from the hearth, and throwing them upon it, kept it slightly alive.

  Suddenly, as if something had crossed him, he arose, and going to the table on which the writing materials were left, took up a pen; but after gazing some time vacantly at the paper he laid it down again, muttering “Another time! another time!”

  He then took off part of his clothes, and got into bed. But sleep fled his eyelids; and dismal thoughts, which he vainly sought to shake off, took possession of him. At length, he sunk into a sort of trance, during which a hideous night-mare, in the shape of a mountain of gold, laid its heavy hand upon him. Half stifled, he started bolt upright in bed, and gazed timorously round the imperfectly-lighted chamber. It was a gusty night, and the noise of the casements creaking in the wind, added to his fears.

  Unable to endure this state of nervous apprehension longer, he sprang out of bed, and hastily wrapping himself in his dressing-gown, took down the pistol from the hook over the chimney, and proceeded to the closet where he fancied he heard some one trying to break in, and examined the window, but it appeared perfectly secure.

  No sooner, however, was one source of dread removed than another was aroused. His hoards might be gone! Terrified by this idea, he flew to all his hiding places, and placed their contents on the table. His dim eyes sparkled with unnatural brilliancy as he gloated over them.

  While telling over the pieces and weighing them in his hand, a new recollection crossed him. Snatching up the candle, he hurried to a small cupboard at one side of the room, at the bottom of which lay a heap of old rags and rubbish, apparently put there out of the way. Hastily removing this dusty pile, some halfdozen leathern bags were exposed to view.

  “Here they are! — here they are!” he exclaimed, with a cry of childish delight “Oh, my darlings! — my treasures! — how glad I am to see you. You give me new life. Talk of physic — pshaw! there is none like gold. The sight of it cures me in an instant. I feel well — quite well; no, not quite,” he added, as a sudden giddiness seized him, and he had to catch at the closet door for support; “not quite well, but better — much better. What a memory mine must be to forget these bags — each containing two hundred guineas — that’s twelve hundred! Twelve hundred guineas! and I had forgotten them. I hope I have not forgotten anything else. Let me see — Oh, my head! — my head!” he continued, shaking it mournfully. “My memory’s clean gone! — clean gone! But what shall I do with these bags? they’re not safe here. Jacob may find them in cleaning the room. I’ll hide them in the cellar with the other treasure.”

  Utterly forgetful that the chest had been removed, he immediately set about executing his design. Listening at the door to hear that all was still, he took up two of the bags, with the intention of carrying them down stairs; but finding them too heavy for him, he was obliged to content himself with one, and thus, in transporting them all to the cellar, he had to perform six journeys.

  The last had nearly proved fatal, for, as he tottered down the cellar steps, he missed his footing, and rolled to the bottom. With some difficulty he got up again; but heedless of the bruises he had received, he picked up his candle, which was extinguished in the fall, and returned to his bed-chamber to light it at the fire. This done, he procured the shovel, and repairing to the cellar, commenced his task.

  In his present state of debility and exhaustion, it cost him infinite labour to get up the bricks, and he was frequently obliged to desist from the toil, and rest himself; but though he shook in every limb — though thick damps burst from every pore, he still persevered.

  Having got out the bricks, he carefully scraped off the surface of the loose sandy soil. Surprised that the spade met with no resistance, his alarm was instantly excited, and he plunged it deeply into the ground. But no chest was there!

  For a few minutes he stood transfixed with despair. It never occurred to him that he had himself removed his treasure, but he concluded he had been robbed of it. At length, his anguish found vent in a piercing cry, and he rushed towards the door, with the intention of calling up Jacob, but the recollection that forced itself upon him that the porter was from home checked him.

  Other imperfect ideas thronged upon his bewildered brain. A glimmering recollection of digging up the chest crossed him, but he fancied he must have taken out its contents and buried them deeper in the ground. Somewhat calmed by this idea, he commenced digging anew with frightful ardour, and soon cleared out the soil to nearly the depth of three feet.

  But as he found nothing, his apprehensions returned with new force, and paralysed his efforts. Throwing aside the spade, he groped about in the sandy soil with his hands, in the hope of finding a few pieces of gold. A single piece would have satisfied him, — but there was none — nothing but little pebbles mixed with the sand. His moans, while thus employed, were truly piteous.

  At this juncture, his candle, which had long been expiring in the socket, went out, leaving him in total darkness. A mortal faintness seized him at the same time. He tried to get out of the hole, but fell back with the effort, — his head striking against the bricks. He struggled to get up again, but in vain — his limbs refused their office. He tried to cry out for help, but a hollow, rattling sound alone issued from his throat.

  At length, by a conclusive effort, he did continue to lift his head from the ground; but that was all he could do. His hands clutched ineffectually at the sandy soil; his frame was powerless; and a stifled groan broke from his lips.

  But this condition was too horrible for long endurance. The muscles of his neck relaxed; his head fell heavily backwards; and after a gasp or two, respiration ceased.

  Thus died this unhappy man, unattended, in a cellar, half entombed in the hole digged as a hiding place for a portion of his wealth — wealth, for which he had sacrificed all his comforts, all his feelings, all his affections, and for which alone of late he had seemed to live! Thus he perished — a fearful example of the effects of the heart-searing vice, of which he was the slave and the victim!

  * * *

  CHAPTER XII.

  Abel Beechcroft Finds the Body of the Miser in the Cellar — His Reflections Upon It — Jacob’s Grief for His Master.

  Unconscious of the awful catastrophe that had occurred, Hilda, whose eyes had never closed since she sought her pillow, arose at an early hour, and set out for Abel Beechcroft’s residence.

  Abel had not yet left his room, but she found Mr. Jukes astir, and in some alarm at the absence of Trussell and Randulph; but she allayed his fears by telling him what she supposed had happened. She was then shewn into the library, and shortly afterwards Abel Beechcroft made his appearance. He was prepared for some disastrous tidings, and the moment he saw her, her looks confirmed his fears. After a kindly greeting, she proceeded to recount to him the infamous scheme practised upon her father by Philip and Diggs.

  “This is worse than even I anticipated,” said Abel, as she closed her recital. “Your father is infatuated on the subject of his nephew, whose conduct, as well as that of his attorney, is scandalous. I will go with you at once. If not too late, and he is in his right mind, I think I can use such arguments with your father as will induce him to alter his iniquitous design.”

  “I hope so,” sighed Hilda, “but I have great misgivings.”

  As they were quitting the room, they were stopped by Mrs. Crew.

  “You up at this hour, sister?” cried Abel, somewhat discomposed.

  “I was informed that Miss Scarve was here,” replied Mrs. Crew; “and I therefore hurried down as fast as I could. As an old friend of her mother, I naturally felt anxious to see her.” And she embraced Hilda affectionately.

  “I am sorry to abridge your first meeting with the daughter of an old friend, Sophia,” interposed Abel, “but when you are told that her father,
who, you know is in a very precarious condition, has been prevailed upon to make a will in his nephew’s favour, you will see that not a moment must be lost in trying to induce him to revoke it.”

  “I do, — I do,” replied Mrs. Crew. “But where is Randulph?”

  “He did not come home last night,” replied Abel, sarcastically.

  “Not come home!” echoed Mrs. Crew, turning pale. “What can have happened to him?”

  “Nothing very particular,” replied Abel, hastily. “Trussell is absent likewise. You will see them both at breakfast, I dare say. But we are losing time. Good morning, sister.”

  “Farewell, Hilda!” exclaimed Mrs. Crew, again embracing her. “I hope all will be accomplished that you desire. But if it should not be, it will serve only to increase our—” and she laid a slight emphasis on the pronoun— “interest in you. I already love you as if you were my own daughter.”

  “And believe me, your attachment is fully requited, madam,” replied Hilda. And she quitted the house with Abel Beechcroft, who displayed considerable impatience during her interview with his sister.

  On their arrival at the Little Sanctuary, they were admitted by Mrs. Clinton, for Jacob had not yet returned. After some little consideration, Abel went up alone to the miser’s room, and, knocking two or three times, and receiving no answer, opened the door.

  Approaching the bed, he found it empty, with the clothes turned down, as left by the miser, and casting a hurried glance into the closet, to satisfy himself that no one was there, he hastily ran down stairs to Hilda, to acquaint her with the alarming discovery he had made.

  She was greatly terrified, but after a moment’s reflection, suggested that her father might possibly have gone down to the cellar, and related the circumstance which she herself had once witnessed there. Concurring in the opinion, Abel offered immediately to go in search of him, and dissuading Hilda, who secretly shared his worst apprehensions, from accompanying him, took a candle, and descended to the cellar.

  As he entered the vault, he indistinctly perceived a ghastly object; and springing forward, held up the light, so as to reveal it more fully. His fancy had not deceived him. There in a grave, — evidently digged by his own hands, — lay his old enemy — dead — dead!

  While Abel was wrapt in contemplation of this miserable spectacle, and surrendering himself to the thoughts which it inspired, heavy steps were heard behind him, and Jacob rushed into the cellar.

  “Where is he?” cried the porter, in accents of alarm. “Has anything happened? Ha! I see.” And pushing past Abel Beechcroft, he precipitated himself into the hole with his master.

  “All’s over with him!” he cried, in a voice of agony and self-reproach, and grasping the cold hand of the corpse— “this would never have happened if I had been at home. I’m in a manner his murderer!”

  “Another hand than yours has been at work here, Jacob,” said Abel; “and terrible as your poor master’s fate has been, it may prove a salutary lesson to others. There he lies, who a few hours ago was the possessor of useless thousands, the value of which he knew not — nay, the very existence of which he knew not — for the few bags of gold beside him were the only palpable treasure he owned. There he lies, who tormented himself with a vainer quest than ever lured the blind searcher after the philosopher’s stone! There he lies, the saddest and most degrading proof of the vanity of human desires, having died the death of a dog, with no heart to grieve for him, no eye to weep for him!”

  “You’re wrong in sayin’ no one grieves for him, sir,” rejoined Jacob, in a broken voice, “because I do. With all his faults, I loved him — nay, I think I loved him the better for his faults — and though I often talked of leavin’ him, I never really meant to do so.”

  “Your feelings do you credit, Jacob, and are consistent with the notion I had formed of you,” said Abel.

  “I couldn’t have said as much to him while he was alive,” blubbered Jacob, “not if he would have given me half his treasure to utter it. But I’m sorry I didn’t hear his humours better now.”

  “A natural regret, Jacob,” said Abel. “The compunction we feel for unkindness exhibited by us to the dead should teach us consideration to the living. I could forgive your poor master all but the last act of his life.”

  “What was that?” asked Jacob looking up.

  “The leaving his property away from his daughter,” replied Abel. “Philip Frewin visited him late last night with Diggs, and induced him to make a will in his favour.”

  “Hell’s curses on them both!” roared Jacob, in a furious tone, springing out of the excavation. “And Philip came here! That was the reason, then, why we were locked up in the watch’us. I thought there was somethin’ in it. They did well to get me out of the way. If I had been at home, I’d have killed ’em outright, if I had been hanged for it, sooner than this should have happened. And do you mean to say, sir, that he has disinherited Miss Hilda entirely?”

  “Unless she marries Philip Frewin,” replied Abel.

  “You’ve dried my eves with a vengeance!” cried Jacob. “I could almost find in my heart to spurn his avaricious old carcase. But it’s not altogether his fault. The crime lies chiefly at the door of that scoundrel Diggs. But such a will won’t hold good, sir, will it?”

  “I hope not,” sighed Abel. “But I must go up stairs to our young mistress, to acquaint her with her bereavement. It will be your care to remove the body.”

  And with a slow footstep, and saddened air, he quitted the vault.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIII.

  Diggs and Philip Unexpectedly Arrive — The Miser’s Will Is Read, and Philip Declares His Intention of Acting upon it — Abel Unbosoms Himself To Hilda.

  Abel’s looks, as he approached Hilda, convinced her of what had happened, and rendered the announcement of the melancholy tidings he had to communicate almost superfluous.

  “You have lost a father, my dear child!” he said, in a tone of the deepest commiseration; “but you have a friend left, who will endeavour to supply his place.”

  Hilda could only thank him by her looks.

  “Under any circumstances, this would have been a heavy blow to you,” pursued Abel, “but under the present, it comes with additional severity. Still, I am sure you have fortitude to support the trial; and I trust, with the blessing of God, to restore you to your rights. Need I say my house is your home, and that of your worthy aunt, whenever you choose to remove to it.”

  “I feel your kindness deeply, very deeply, sir,” she rejoined, “but as long as circumstances will permit me, I will stay here.”

  Just then a knock was heard at the door, and as no answer was returned by those within, it was opened, giving entrance to Philip Frewin and Diggs. They both appeared disconcerted on seeing Abel Beechcroft, but Diggs instantly recovered himself, and looking round, at once conjectured what had happened.

  “Miss Scarve,” he said, “we were passing by the house, and seeing the street door open, — a very unusual occurrence here — entered without knocking. I hope and trust nothing is amiss.”

  “Go into the cellar, and satisfy yourself,” said Abel Beechcroft, sternly.

  “Good God, sir, you don’t mean to insinuate that Mr. Scarve has died in the cellar!” cried the attorney.

  “Oons! I hope not!” exclaimed Philip, scarcely able to conceal his satisfaction. “How is my uncle, Hilda?”

  “My father is dead,” she replied, in a freezing tone.

  “Dead!” repeated Philip, “Lord bless me! how very sudden. Lucky we happened to turn in, Diggs. Can we do anything for you, cousin?”

  Hilda made no reply, but the attorney immediately interposed.

  “As your uncle’s executor, and in a manner his heir, Mr. Frewin,” he said, “it is your duty to seal up all his chests, cupboards, bureaux, and drawers, without delay. I will assist you.”

  “Hold!” exclaimed Abel, “I give you both notice that Miss Scarve considers that the will under which you pr
opose to act, has been fraudulently obtained; and she will dispute it.”

  “Miss Scarve will act as her feelings dictate, or she may be advised, sir,” replied the attorney; “but, in the meantime, it will be right for Mr. Frewin to take proper precautions. Let us go to Mr. Scarve’s chamber, sir.”

  So saying, and disregarding the looks of disgust directed against them by Abel, they went up stairs.

  “Oh! do not leave me till they are gone, Mr Beechcroft,” said Hilda.

  “I will not,” he replied, taking a seat beside her.

  Meanwhile, the attorney and his companion proceeded about their task with some semblance of feeling, but real indifference. Having glanced through the room up stairs, and swept all the poor miser’s hoards, which were strewn about the table, into a chest, which he locked, Diggs called Philip’s attention to the position of the pen and paper, saying, “I am almost certain he meant to write something — perhaps revoke his will — but it was too late — ha! ha!”

  With a sly chuckle, he then proceeded to seal up all the boxes and cases. In this task he was assisted by Philip Frewin, and they had just concluded it, when heavy footsteps were heard on the stairs, and the next moment the door was thrown open, and Jacob entered the room, carrying in his arms the body of his master, which he deposited on the bed.

  “And this is how he died? said Philip, casting a shuddering glance at the corpse.

  “Ay, ay, you calculated your chances nicely,” rejoined Jacob. “You’d cheat the devil, you would. But you haven’t got the fortune yet.”

  “Harkee, friend Jacob,” said Philip, “I will thank you to speak more respectfully to me in future, or I will let you know who is master here.”

  “You shall never be my master,” replied Jacob; “and if I only get the word from my young missis, see if I don’t turn you both out of the house, neck and heels.”