“Unblemished, pshaw!” cried the miser. “You would have cleared the spots from your father’s fair name much more effectually if you had kept fast hold of the estates, instead of reducing yourself to the condition of a beggar.”
“Father,” exclaimed Hilda, uneasily, “father, you speak too strongly — much too strongly.”
“I am no beggar, Sir,” replied Randulph, with difficulty repressing his anger, “nor will I allow such a term to be applied to me by you, or any man. Farewell, sir.” And he would have left the room, if he had not been detained by the imploring looks of Hilda.
“Well, then, you are reduced to the condition of a poor man, if you prefer the term, and therefore must be a dependent one,” said the miser, who seemed utterly reckless of the pain he was inflicting. “But for your own folly, you might now be worth three thousand a-year, — ay, three thousand a-year, for I knew your father’s rental. Why you are more thoughtless, more improvident than him — who went before you. You have sold your birth-right for less than a mess of potage. You have sold it for a phantom, a shade, a word, — and those who have bought it laugh at you, deride you. Out upon such folly! Three thousand a-year gone to feed those birds of prey — those vultures — that ravened upon your father’s vitals while living, and now not upon his offspring — it’s monstrous, intolerable! Oh! if I had left my affairs in such a condition, and my daughter were to act thus, I should not rest in my grave!”
“And yet, in such a case, I should act precisely as this gentleman has acted, father,” rejoined Hilda.
“If you approve my conduct, Miss Scarve, I am quite content to bear your father’s reproaches,” replied Randulph.
“You speak like one ignorant of the world, and of the value of money, Hilda,” cried the miser, turning to her. “Heaven be praised! you will never be in such a situation. I shan’t leave you much — not much — but what I do leave will be unembarrassed. It will be your own, too; no husband shall have the power to touch a farthing of it.”
“Have a care, father,” rejoined Hilda, “and do not clog your bequest with too strict conditions. If I marry, what I have shall be my husband’s.”
“Hilda,” cried the miser, shaking with passion, “if I thought you in earnest I would disinherit you!”
“No more of this, dear father,” she rejoined, calmly, “I have no thought of marrying, and it is needless to discuss the point till it arises. Recollect, also, there is a stranger present.”
“True,” replied the miser, recovering himself. “This is not the time to talk over the subject, but I won’t have my intentions misunderstood. And now,” he added, sinking into the chair, and looking at Randulph, “Let me inquire after your mother? I remember her well as Sophia Beechcroft, and a charming creature she was. You resemble her more than your father. Nay, restrain your blushes, I don’t mean to flatter you. That which is a beauty in a woman, is a defect in a man; and your fair skin and long hair would become your sister, if you have one, better than yourself.”
“Really sir,” rejoined Randulph, again reddening, “you make strangely free with me.”
“I made free with your father before you, young man,” rejoined the miser; “and it was for telling him a piece of my mind that I lost his friendship. More’s the pity! — more’s the pity! I would have served him if he would have let me. But to return to your mother. You acted unjustly to her, as well as to yourself, in not retaining the family estates.”
“My mother has her own private property to live on,” replied the young man, who winced under the stinging observations of the miser.
“And what’s that?” rejoined Mr. Scarve, “a beggarly — I crave your pardon — a pitiful hundred a-year or so. Not that a hundred a-year is pitiful, but it must be so to her with her notions and habits.”
“There you are mistaken, sir,” replied Randulph; “my mother is entirely reconciled to her situation, and lives accordingly.”
“I am glad to hear it,” replied the miser, in a sceptical tone; “I own I did not give her credit for being able to do so, but I hope it is so.”
“Hope, sir,” cried Randulph, angrily; “is my word doubted?”
“Not in the least,” rejoined the miser, drily; “but young people are apt to take things on trust. And now, as you have fooled away your fortune, may I ask what you are about to do to retrieve it? What profession, or rather what trade do you propose to follow?”
“I shall follow neither trade nor profession, Mr. Scarve,” replied Randulph. “My means, though small, enable me to live as a gentleman.”
“Hum!” cried the miser. “I suppose, however, you would not object to some employment. An idle man is always an expensive man. But what brought you to London?”
“My chief motive was to deliver that packet to you,” replied Randulph. “But I must own I was not altogether uninfluenced by a desire to see this great city, which I have never beheld since I was a mere boy, and too young to remember it.”
“You are a mere boy still,” rejoined the miser; “and if you will take my advice you will go back more quickly than you came. But I know you won’t, so it’s idle to urge you to do so. Youth will rush headlong to destruction. Young man, you don’t know what is before you, but I’ll tell you — it’s ruin — ruin — ruin — d’ye hear me? — ruin.”
“I hear you, sir.” replied Randulph, frowning.
“Hum!” said the miser, shrugging his shoulders; “so you won’t be advised. But it’s the way with all young people, and I ought not to expect to find you an exception. I suppose you mean to stay with your two uncles. Abel and Trussell Beechcroft.”
“Such is my intention,” replied Randulph.
“I have not seen them for years,” pursued Scarve; “but if you are not acquainted with them, I’ll give you their characters in brief. Abel is sour, but true — Trussell, pleasant, plausible, but hollow. And you will judge of my candour when I tell you that the first hates me, while the latter is very friendly disposed towards me. You will take to the one and dislike the other, but you will find out your error in time. Mind what I say. And now let us look at the packet, for I have kept you here too long, and have nothing to offer you.”
“There is nearly a glass of wine left in the bottle in the cupboard,” interposed Jacob, who had stood stock still during the whole of this interview, with the candle in his hand. “Perhaps the gentleman would like it after his journey.”
“Hold your tongue, sirrah,” cried the miser, sharply, “and snuff the candle — not with your fingers, knave,” he added, as Jacob applied his immense digits to the tufted wick, and stamped upon the snuff as he cast it on the floor. “What can this packet contain? Let me see,” he continued, breaking the seal, and disclosing a letter, which he opened, and found it contained a small memorandum. As he glanced at it, a shade came over his countenance. He did not attempt to read the letter, but folding it over the smaller piece of paper, unlocked a small strong box that stood at his feet beneath the table, and placed them both within it.
“It is time you went to your uncle’s, young man,” he said to Randulph, in an altered tone, and more coldly than before; “I shall be glad to see you some other time. Good night.”
“I shall be truly happy to call here again, sir,” replied Randulph, looking earnestly at Hilda.
“Jacob, shew Mr. Crew to the door,” cried the miser, hastily.
“Good night, Miss Scarve,” said Randulph still lingering. “Do you often walk in the parks?”
“My daughter never stirs abroad,” replied the miser, motioning him away. “There, get you gone. Good night, good night. — A troublesome visitor,” he added to Hilda, as Jacob departed with the young man.
Jacob having again placed the candle in the lantern, unbolted and unlocked the door, and issuing forth, they found Peter Pokerich standing beside the horse.
“You may thank me that your horse is not gone, sir,” said the latter. “People in London are not quite so honest as the villagers in Cheshire. Well, you have seen
Mr. Scarve, I suppose, sir. What do you think of him and of his daughter?”
“That I pity your taste for not admiring her,” replied Randulph.
“Not admiring her!” cried Jacob, with a hoarse laugh. “Did he tell you he did not admire her? Why he’s dying with love of her, and, I make no doubt, was jealous of your good looks — ho! ho!”
“You are insolent, Mr. Jacob,” rejoined Peter, angrily.
“What, you want another taste of my crabstick, do you?” said Jacob. “It’s close at hand.”
“Don’t quarrel, friends,” laughed Randulph, springing into the saddle. “Good night, Jacob. I shall hope ere long to see your old master and young mistress again.” With this he struck spurs into his steed, and rode off in the direction of Westminster bridge.
“Well,” said Peter, as he crossed over the way to his own dwelling, “I’ve managed to get a little out of his saddlebag, at all events. Perhaps it will tell me who and what he is, and whether he’s a Jacobite and Papist. If so, let him look to himself; for, as sure as my name’s Peter Pokerich, I’ll hang him. And now for the letter.”
* * *
CHAPTER III.
The Brothers Beechcroft — Mr. Jukes — The Arrival — The Walk in Saint James’s Park — Randulph’s Introduction to Beau Villiers and Lady Brabazon.
The two brothers Beechcroft, Randulph’s uncles, lived in a retired house in Lambeth, close to the river, and a little to the west of the palace. Both were middle-aged men, — that is to say, — for it is difficult to determine what is the middle age, now-a-days, though it was not quite so difficult to fix the period in the last century, — one was fifty-six, and the other ten years younger, and both bachelors. That they lived together, and in this retired way, was not so much matter of choice as of necessity on the part of the younger brother, Trussell, for he would have preferred, if it had been in his power, a gayer kind of life. But fortune decreed it otherwise. The father of the brothers was a wealthy merchant, who was determined to make an elder son, and he accordingly left the bulk of his property, except some trifling bequests to his daughter Sophia (Randulph’s mother) and Trussell, to his first-born Abel. Abel, however, behaved very handsomely upon the occasion. He instantly made over to his brother what he considered his rightful share of the property, and to his sister another division. In neither case did the gift prosper. Trussell soon squandered away all his modicum in gaming and every other sort of extravagance, while Sophia’s portion was dissipated, though in a different way, by her thoughtless and improvident husband. There are, indeed, so many ways of getting rid of money, that it is difficult to say which is the most expeditious; nor would it be easy to tell whether Trussell or his sister soonest got rid of their brother’s bounty. A small sum had been settled upon Mrs. Crew by her father, at the time of her marriage, and on this she now lived.
Completely reduced in circumstances, Trussell was thrown upon his brother, who very kindly received him, but compelled him to live in his own quiet manner. This did not suit the more mercurial brother, and he more than once tried to live on his own resources; but failing, in the attempt, he was compelled to come back to the old quarters. Now that age had somewhat calmed him, he was more reconciled to his situation. Having little money to spend, for his brother of course regulated his allowance, he could not indulge in any of the dearer amusements, — he could neither play nor frequent the more expensive coffee-houses, clubs, theatres, opera, or other places of public entertainment, except on rare occasions. But he was daily to be seen sauntering on the Mall, or in Piccadilly, and as he had a tolerably extensive acquaintance with the beau monde, he was at no loss for society. The Cocoa-Tree and White’s were too extravagant for him, — the Smyrna and the Saint James’ too exclusively political, — Young Man’s too Military, — Old Man’s too much frequented by stock-jobbers, — and Little Man’s by sharpers, — so he struck a middle course, and adopted the British. This was during the day-time, but after the play; if by chance he went thither, he would drop into Tom’s or Will’s coffee-houses, to talk over the performance — to play a game at picquet — or to lose a half-crown at faro. But nothing would tempt him to risk, even the smallest sum, at hazard. The ordinaries he rarely attended; never, indeed, unless invited by a friend to dine with him at one of them.
Such was Trussell Beechcroft’s daily routine. Perfectly well-bred, of easy and polished manners, good taste, and imperturbable temper, he was an acceptable companion everywhere, and it was a matter of surprise to all that he had not got on better in the world. Trussell was about the middle height, somewhat corpulent and short-necked, and had a round full face. He was by no means handsome, nor had he ever been so, but his features were decidedly prepossessing. He was scrupulously neat in his attire, and a little, perhaps, too attentive to personal decoration for an elderly gentleman: at least his brother thought so.
Abel Beechcroft was a very different character. Some early disappointment in life, in a matter of the heart, it was reported, had soured his temper, and given a misanthropic turn to his mind. He mingled little with the world, and when he did so it was only to furnish himself with fresh material for railing at its follies. He was a confirmed woman-hater, shunned the society of the sex, and never would see his sister after her marriage, because she had in some way or other, though in what was never disclosed, been connected with the bitterest event in his life. In person, Abel was short, thin, and slightly deformed, having very high shoulders, almost amounting to a hump; and his neck being short, like his brother’s, his large chin almost reposed upon his chest. His features were somewhat coarse, with a long prominent nose, and pointed chin, but his broad, massive forehead, and keen gray eyes, gave a great degree of intelligence to them, while his shrewd, satirical expression redeemed them from anything like a common-place character.
It has been said that he lived quietly, but he also lived very comfortably. Nothing could be more snug than his retreat at Lambeth, with its fine garden, its green-house, its walls covered with fruit trees, and its summer-house with windows commanding the river, and frescoed ceiling painted in the time of Charles the Second, at which epoch the house was built, and the garden laid out. Then he had some choice pictures of the Flemish school, two or three of Charles’s beauties, undoubted originals, by Lely and Kneller, but placed in his brother’s room, to be out of his own sight — an arrangement to which Trussell raised no objection; plenty of old china, and old japanned cabinets; a good library, in which the old poets, the old dramatists, and the old chroniclers found a place; and above all a good store of old wine. He was in fact by no means indifferent to good cheer, and enjoyed life in his own way with a keen zest. He had an old butler who managed all for him, for he would never suffer a female servant to come in his sight, and this person, Josiah Jukes, or as he was generally called, Mr. Jukes, was the only individual that ever presumed to contradict him.
Randulph’s uncles had been apprised of his visit to town, and they were therefore expecting his arrival. The journey from Knutsford in Cheshire, whence he had started, occupied five days. He was attended by a raw country lad, who served him as groom, and whom he had sent forward to announce his arrival to his uncles, while he left the packet with Mr. Scarve; but poor Tom Birch, for so the lad was called, missed his way, and instead of turning to the right after crossing Westminster bridge, went to the left, and strayed to Saint George’s Fields; nor was it till an hour after his master’s arrival that he found his way to the house in Lambeth.
Abel Beechcroft, who had expected his nephew early in the day, and had in fact waited dinner for him — a compliment he very rarely paid to any one, — became, as he did not appear, waspish and peevish to a degree that his brother’s patience could hardly tolerate. He grumbled during the whole of dinner, which he declared was uneatable, and when the cloth was removed, began to find fault with the wine.
“This bottle’s corked,” he said, as he tasted the first glass; “all the fault of that young fellow. I wish I had never promised to receive h
im. I dare say some accident has happened to him. I hope it may turn out so.”
“You don’t hope any such thing, sir,” remarked Mr. Jukes, a little round rosy man in a plain livery, “you don’t hope any such thing, so don’t belie yourself, and do your good heart an injustice. The wine’s not corked,” he added, taking the bottle to the sideboard, and tasting it. “Try another glass. Your palate’s out of order.”
“And well it may be, Mr. Jukes,” replied Abel, “for my digestion has been sadly disturbed by this waiting. Ah! I find I was mistaken,” he added, tasting the glass poured out for him, “there is nothing the matter with the wine.”
“On the contrary, sir, I think it an excellent bottle,” remarked Trussell, “and I propose that we drink our worthy sister’s good health, — Heaven bless her! Much I should like to see her! — and her son’s safe and speedy arrival.”
“Come, sir, you cannot refuse that pledge,” said Mr. Jukes, filling his master’s glass. “I must drink it myself,” he added, again carrying the bottle to the sideboard.
“Well, I wonder what we shall find Randulph like,” mused Trussell, “for we have not seen him since he was a little fellow not higher than this table, when his poor father brought him to town.”
“By the same token that his poor father borrowed two thousand pounds of me at the time, every farthing of which I lost,” growled Abel.
“Well, well, no matter sir. You never felt the loss, so what does it signify,” remarked Mr. Jukes.
“I have no doubt Randulph will be a very fine young man,” pursued Trussell; “Sophia writes word that he is her exact image, and she was certainly the finest woman of her day.”
“Ay, ay!” cried Abel, shrugging his shoulders uneasily. “Change the subject, brother. Change the subject.”
For some minutes there was a profound silence, which was at length broken by Abel.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 288
