“What! you here, sir!” cried Mr. Deacle, in astonishment. “Then you have heard what has passed. Go in to my daughter, and make her mind easy directly.”
“If he doesn’t I’ll give him another taste of the crabstick,” said Jacob.
“But it would be highly indecorous, improper, in me to go in just now, Mr. Deacle,” remonstrated Peter.
“Not more indecorous than listening at the door,” rejoined the mercer. “Go in directly, sir.”
“Ay, go!” added Jacob.
And Peter, seeing that opposition was in vain, opened the door and sneaked in. A stifled scream and an hysterical laugh succeeded his entrance.
The mercer accompanied Jacob to the street door; and, as he passed through the shop, pointed out the different rich stuffs to him.
“I wish you could induce your young mistress to come and look at my assortment of stuffs,” he said; “it is the choicest in town, though I say it, who should not say it. I have garden silks, Italian silks, brocades, tissues, cloth of silver, ditto gold, fine Mantua silks, right Genoa velvets, English ditto, embossed ditto. Or if she wants commoner stuffs, I have fine thread satins, both striped and plain, fine Mohair silks, satinets, burdets, Persinnets, Norwich crapes, anterines, silks for hoods and scarves, hair camlets, sagathees, shalloons, and right Scotch plaids. Can you recollect all these articles?”
“I should need a better memory than I have to recollect half of ‘em,” replied Jacob.
“I would send her some stuffs to look at, if you think her father wouldn’t object,” said the mercer: “this black velvet would suit her exactly; or this rich Italian silk.”
“It would cost me my place to take them,” replied Jacob, “and yet, as you say, they would become her purely. But it’s of no use thinking of them,” he added, walking away.
“One word more, Jacob,” said Mr. Deacle, detaining him, and whispering in his ear— “I did not like to ask the questions before the women — but they do say your master’s a Papist and a Jacobite.”
“Who say so?” cried Jacob, loudly and gruffly. “Speak up, and tell me!”
“Why, the neighbours,” replied the mercer, somewhat abashed.
“Then tell ’em from me that it’s a lie,” rejoined Jacob. And, heedless of any further attempts to detain him, he strode away.
One night, about a month after the incident above related, which took place at the latter end of April, 1774, just as Peter Pokerich was in the act of shutting up his shop, he observed a horseman turn out of King-street, and ride towards him. It was sufficiently light to enable him to discover, on a nearer approach, that the stranger was a young man, about one or two and twenty, with a tall, well-proportioned figure, at once vigorous and symmetrical, extremely regular and finely formed features, glowing with health and manly beauty, and slightly, though not unbecomingly, embrowned by exposure to the sun. Apparently disdaining to follow the fashion of the period, or proud of his own waving, brown locks, the young man suffered them to fall in their native luxuriance over his shoulders. The fashion of his dark green riding-dress — which, illmade as it appeared in the eyes of the knowing barber, revealed his fine figure to great advantage, as well as, his general appearance — proclaimed him from the country. Looking hard at Peter as he advanced, the stranger drew up beside him.
“Can you tell me where Mr. Scarve lives,” he asked.
Peter started, and stared at his interrogator in speechless astonishment. The young man looked surprised in his turn, and repeated the inquiry.
“Miser Scarve — beg pardon — Mr. Scarve; but he is generally known by the former name hereabouts,” cried Peter. “Oh yes, sir; I do know where Mr. Starve lives.”
“Then probably you will have the goodness to direct me to the house,” returned the young man. “This is the Little Sanctuary, is it not?”
“Yes, sir, yes,” replied Peter. “But what may be your business with Miser Starve — beg pardon again! — Mr. Scarve?”
“My business is not of much consequence,” rejoined the young man, somewhat coldly and haughtily, “but it refers to Mr. Scarve himself.”
“Beg pardon, sir; no offence, I hope,” returned Peter, in a deprecatory tone; “but Mr. Starve — bless me, how my tongue runs — Mr. Scarve is such a very odd man. He won’t see you unless your business is very particular. Will you favour me with your name, sir?”
“My name is Randulph Crew,” returned the stranger.
“Crew — Crew!” repeated Peter; “that should be a Cheshire name. Excuse the liberty, but are you from that county, sir?”
“I am — I am,” replied the other, impatiently.
“Ah! knew it at once, sir. Can’t deceive me,” rejoined Peter. “Fine head of hair, sir, very fine; but must lose it. Very well for Cheshire — but won’t do in London. The ladies will laugh at you. Nothing so ungenteel as one’s own hair. I’ve a fine head of hair myself, but can’t wear it. Must have a wig. Wigs are as essential to a gentleman’s head now-a-days as lace to his clothes. I have wigs of all sorts, all fashions, all prices; the minor bob; the Sunday buckle; the bob-major; the apothecary’s bush; the physical and chirurgical tie; the scratch, or blood’s skull covering; the Jehu’s Jemmy, or white-and-all-white; the campaign; and the Ramellies. If you’ll step in, I’ll shew you the last new periwig — the Villiers — brought in on the great beau of that name, — have heard of him, I dare say, sir, — and which all our brights, smarts, putts, and jemmies, are wearing. I have the counterpart of Beau Villiers’s own perriwig, which, between ourselves — for it must go no farther — I obtained from his gentleman, Mr. Crackenthrope Cripps. It is quite a wonder. Do step in, sir, and look at it. It will quite ravish you.”
“Thank you, friend; I am content with the covering nature has given to my head,” replied Randulph.
“And with very good reason, sir,” replied Peter; “but fashion, sir, — fashion is arbitrary, and has decreed that no man shall wear his own hair. Therefore, you must, perforce, adopt the perriwig.”
“Will you shew me Mr. Scarve’s residence, or must I apply for information elsewhere?” cried the young man, wearied with the barber’s loquacity.
“Not so fast sir, not so fast,” replied Peter. “I must tell you something about the old gentleman first. Do you know him, sir?”
Randulph Crew uttered a hasty negative. “Then I do,” continued Peter. “Terrible miser, sir, terrible; denies himself all the comforts of existence; makes his family and servants live upon a bare bone for a week; thinks of nothing but his gold; and as to his daughter—”
“Oh, he has a daughter, has he?” interrupted Randulph. “I was not aware of it. Is she at all like him?”
“Like him, no!” echoed Peter. “She’s beautiful beyond description.” But thinking such commendation rather injudicious in the present case, he added, “at least some people say so, but, for my own part, I can see nothing to admire in her.”
“Well, perhaps I may see her, and judge for myself,” replied Randulph.
“Perhaps you may,” quavered Peter. “He is just the man to captivate her,” he thought. “I wish I could misdirect him. But most probably Jacob won’t admit him.”
“And now, friend, will you shew me the house?” cried Randulph.
“With pleasure, sir, with pleasure,” replied Peter, pointing to the opposite habitation; “there it is, — at the corner.”
Vexed at having been detained so long and so unnecessarily, Randulph Crew turned his horse’s head, and, dismounting before the miser’s door, knocked loudly against it with the butt-end of his heavy riding-whip. Peter anxiously watched his proceedings, but as no answer was returned to the summons, he began to hope the young man would go away. But in this he was disappointed, for the latter renewed his application, and did not desist till checked by the gruff voice of Jacob Post, who shouted from a little grated window, through which he reconnoitred the intruder, “Halloo! what’s the matter? who’s there?”
“Is Mr. Scarve at home?” asked Randu
lph. “I want to see him.”
“Then you can’t,” rejoined Jacob, in his harshest accents, but which sounded like music in the ears of the attentive Peter.
“But I must, and will see him,” rejoined Randulph in a peremptory tone. “I have a packet to deliver to him — to his own hands — an important packet. Tell him that.”
“A Jacobite, I’ll be sworn,” cried Peter to himself; “I must watch him narrowly. I should feel gratified in being the means of hanging that young man.”
“Well, I’ll take your message to my master,” growled Jacob, after a short pause. “But I must scrutinize you a little before I admit you. You seem to me, so far as I can make out, to have a good deal of the cut of a highwayman about you.”
“He, he, he! good, Jacob, good!” tittered Peter.
Some minutes elapsed before Jacob, who had disappeared, returned. A heavy tread was heard along the passage leading to the door, succeeded by the rattling of a chain, the clanking of bars, and the shooting back of a couple of ponderous bolts. The door was then thrown open, and exhibited the great gaunt figure of Jacob, holding a lantern in one hand, the light of which he threw full upon the face of the young man, while he kept the other hand, which grasped the redoubted crabstick, out of view. Satisfied, at length, with the investigation, he growled forth, “It’ll do. Master’ll see you. You may come in.”
“That for your trouble, friend,” said Randulph, slipping a crown into Jacob’s hand, as he tied his horse’s bridle to a ring in the door-post.
“I wonder what this is given for?” muttered Jacob, as he pocketed the coin. “It’s the only suspicious thing I’ve noticed about him. I must keep an eye upon him. But I dare say he only wants to see my young mistress, and she’s worth more than twenty crowns to look at.”
Thus ruminating, he admitted Randulph into the passage, locked and bolted the door, took the light out of the lantern and placed it in a copper candle-stick, and led the way towards a back room.
While the door was being fastened, Peter Pokerich darted across the way, shouting to Randulph, “I’ll take care of your horse, sir.” No attention, however, being paid to the offer, he hurried back for a light, and began carefully to examine the saddle, peering into the holsters, and trying to open the saddle-bags, to see whether he could obtain any clue to the supposed Jacobite principles of the owner.
* * *
CHAPTER II.
The Miser and His Daughter — Randulph delivers the Package to the former — Its reception.
Meanwhile, as Randulph Crew followed his conductor along the passage, the boards of which, being totally destitute of carpet or cloth, sounded hollowly beneath their feet; as he glanced at the bare walls, the dusty and cobweb-festooned ceiling, and the staircase, as devoid of covering as the passage, he could not but admit that the account given him by the barber of Mr. Scurve’s miserly habits was not exaggerated. Little time, however, was allowed him for reflection. Jacob marched quickly in, and pushing open a door on the right, ushered him into his master’s presence.
Mr. Scarve was an old man, and looked much older than he really was, — being only sixty-five, whereas he appeared like eighty. His frame was pinched, as if by self-denial, and preternaturally withered and shrivelled; and there was a thin, haggard, and almost hungry look about his face, extremely painful to contemplate. His features were strongly marked, and sharp, and his eye gray, keen, and piercing. He was dressed in a threadbare cloth robe, trimmed with sable, and wore a velvet nightcap, lined with cotton, on his head. The rest of his habiliments were darned and patched in an unseemly manner. He was seated near a small table, on which was laid a ragged and dirty cloth, covered with the remains of his scanty meal, which Randulph’s arrival had interrupted. Part of a stale loaf, a slice of cheese, and a little salt, constituted the sum total of the repast. Everything in the room bespoke the character of its owner. The panelled walls were without hangings or decoration of any kind. The room itself, it was evident, had known better days and richer garniture. It was plain, but handsome in its character, and boasted a large and well-carved chimney-piece, and a window filled with stained glass, displaying the armorial bearings of the former possessor of the house, though now patched in many places with paper, and stopped up in others with old rags. This window was strongly grated, and the bars were secured in their turn by a large padlock placed inside the room. Over the chimney-piece there were placed a couple of large blue and white china bottles with dried everlasting flowers stuck in their necks. There were only two chairs in the room, and a stool. The best chair was appropriated by the miser himself. It was an old-fashioned affair, with great wooden arms, and a hard leathern back, polished like a well-blacked shoe by frequent use. A few coals, carefully piled into a little pyramid, burnt within the bars, as if to shew the emptiness of the grate, and diffused a slight gleam, like a hollow laugh, but no sort of heat. Beside it sat Mrs. Clinton, an elderly maiden lady, almost as wintry-looking, and as pinched as her brother-in-law. This antiquated lady had a long thin neck, a large nose, very, very retroussee, and a skin yellow as parchment; but the expression of her countenance, though rather sharp and frosty, was kindly. She wore a close-fitting gown of dark camlet, with short tight sleeves, that by no means concealed the angularities of her figure. Her hair, which was still dark as in her youth, was gathered up closely behind, and was surmounted by the small muslin cap then in vogue.
The object, however, that chiefly rivetted Randulph’s attention on his entrance was neither the miser himself, nor his sister-in-law, but his daughter. Her beauty was so extraordinary that it acted like a surprise upon him, occasioning a thrill of delight, mingled with a feeling of embarrassment. She had risen as he entered the room, and gracefully, and with much natural dignity, returned his salutation, which, through inadvertence, he addressed almost exclusively to her. Hilda Scarve’s age might be guessed at nineteen. She was tall, exquisitely proportioned, with a pale, clear complexion, set off by her rich raven tresses, which, totally unrestrained, showered down in a thick cloud over her shoulders. Her eyes were large, and dark, luminous but steady, and indicated firmness of character. Her look was grave and sedate, and there was great determination in her beautifully formed but closely shut lips. Both her aspect and deportment exhibited the most perfect self-command, and whatever effect might be produced upon her by the sudden entrance of the handsome visitor, not a glance was suffered to reveal it, while he, on the contrary, could not repress the admiration excited by her beauty. He was, however; speedily recalled to himself by the miser, who rapping the table impatiently, exclaimed in a querulous tone, “Your business, sir? — your business?”
“I have come to deliver this to you, sir,” replied Randulph, producing a small packet, and handing it to the miser. “I should tell you, sir,” he added in a voice of emotion, “that it was my father’s wish that this packet should be given to you a year after his death, but not before.”
“And your father’s name,” cried the miser, bending eagerly forward, and shading his eyes so as to enable him to see the young man more distinctly, “was — was—”
“The same as my own, Randulph Crew,” was the reply.
“Gracious heaven!” exclaimed the miser, falling back in his chair, “and he is dead? — my friend — my old friend!” And he pressed his hand to his face, as if to hide his agony.
Hilda bent anxiously over him, and tried to soothe him, but he pushed her gently away.
“Having discharged my mission, I will now take my leave,” said Randulph, after a slight pause, during which he looked on in silent astonishment. “I will call at some other time, Miss Scarve, to speak to your father respecting the packet.”
“No, stay,” cried Hilda, hastily. “Some old and secret spring of affection has been touched. I entreat you to wait till he recovers. He will be better presently.”
“He is better now;” replied the miser, uncovering his face, “the fit is past; — but it was sharp while it lasted. Randulph Crew,” he added faintly,
and stretching out his thin hand to him, “I am glad to see you. Years ago, I knew your father well. But unhappy circumstances separated us, and since then I have seen nothing of him. I fancied him alive, and well, and happy, and your sudden announcement of his death gave me a great shock. Your father was a good man, Randulph, a good man, and a kind one.”
“He was indeed, sir,” rejoined the young man, in a broken voice, the tears starting to his eyes.
“But somewhat careless in money matters, Randulph; thoughtless and extravagant,” pursued the miser. “Nay, I mean nothing disrespectful to his memory,” he added, perceiving the young man’s colour heighten. “His faults were those of an over-generous nature. He was no man’s enemy but his own. He once had a fine property, but, I fear, he dissipated it.”
“At all events, he greatly embarrassed it, sir,” replied the young man; “and, I lament to say, that the situation of his affairs preyed upon his spirits, and no doubt hastened his end.”
“I feared it would be so,” said the miser, shaking his head. “But the estates were entailed. They are yours now, and unembarrassed.”
“They might have been so, sir,” replied the young man; “but I have foregone the advantage I could have taken of my father’s creditors, and have placed the estates in their hands, and for their benefit.”
“You don’t mean to say you have been guilty of such incredible folly, for I can call it nothing else,” cried the miser, in a sharp and angry tone, and starting to his feet. “What! give the estate to the very men who ruined your father! Have you been rash and unadvised enough to break down the barriers that the law had built around you for your protection, and let in the enemy into the very heart of the citadel. It is the height of folly, — of madness I should say.”
“Folly or not, sir,” returned the young man haughtily, “I do not repent the step I have taken. My first consideration was to preserve the memory of my father unblemished.”
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