“I am glad to hear you say so, uncle,” rejoined Philip, “for I almost began to fear there might be a rival in the case.”
“A rival! — pshaw!” cried the miser, with a slightly embarrassed look. “It is true that Mr. Randulph Crew called here last night; — he is a very handsome young man, and fit to win a girl’s heart. But I don’t think Hilda heeded him.”
“Indeed, sir!” replied Philip, uneasily. “Well, never mind what impression he made — she is mine, if you give her to me.”
“And that I do nephew — on the terms I have mentioned, but no other,” rejoined the miser. “Tuesday next, at two. Jacob, show Mr. Frewin to the door. Good bye, nephew — good bye!”
Philip was then ushered forth by Jacob, who eyed him surlily askance, as he conducted him to the door, and shook his hand behind his back as he departed.
“That skinflint shall never marry my young missis,” he muttered, “if I can prevent it.”
On reaching King-street, Philip Frewin snapped his fingers derisively in the air, and quickening his pace, did not stop till he reached the door of a tavern in the Rhenish “Wine-yard,” in that street, and entering it, proceeded at once to a private room. Then, bursting into a loud laugh, he dashed his old wig to the ground, and trampled upon it; threw off his tattered coat and waistcoat, and proceeded to rid himself of the rest of his attire. He next equipped himself in a smart suit of green velvet, put on a campaign wig, and added lace ruffles to his shirt.
“I am glad to get rid of those horrid masquerade habiliments,” he muttered; “the part is a devilish disagreeable one to act. But no matter — it is worth playing! My fair cousin will like me all the better when she knows my real character. And now I must hasten to Diggs, to tell him how I’ve prospered, and instruct him how to proceed.”
On being informed by Jacob of her obnoxious cousin’s departure, Hilda came down stairs with her aunt, and bore her father’s reproaches with a meekness that, instead of allaying his fury, served to increase it. At length she ventured to say, “Why do you wish me married, sir? I am quite content as I am, and could not be happier. I think — nay, I am sure — if I quitted you, you would feel very desolate.”
“Weigh that over before it’s too late,” interposed Jacob. “I’m sure I should feel very desolate. I don’t think I’d stop with you.”
“Hold your tongue, sirrah!” cried the miser, sharply. “I can live very well alone, Hilda,” he added, turning to her, “and I should like to see you comfortably settled before I die. I don’t want you to become the prey of an adventurer.”
“If that is all you are afraid of, father, you may rest quite easy,” she replied. “And do not suppose I speak from any feeling of prejudice, but I think you are deceived in my cousin.”
“Deceived, Hilda! In what way?” asked the miser.
“By his apparent carefulness — by the manner in which he seems to adapt himself to your notions and peculiarities,” she replied. “Recollect, too, that, owing to circumstances, you have seen and known so little of him, that, but for the fact of his being your nephew, he might be an entire stranger. Forgive me, sir, if I say you are not acting in this case with your usual caution. You trust too much to Philip’s own representations.”
“You think so,” said the miser— “but you are wrong. I have made inquiries through one who would not deceive me — my attorney, Mr. Diggs — and I am assured that Philip is the most careful person breathing.”
“I hope you don’t except yourself,” muttered Jacob.
“In fact, I hear nothing but good of him from Diggs,” pursued the miser, not choosing to notice the remark; “and what is better, I know — for I have seen the will — that his father left him fifty thousand pounds — fifty thousand pounds, Hilda! — twenty of which he shall settle on you.”
“Do not suffer this notion to get possession of you, I entreat, dear father,” she replied. “If he had a million of money, I would never marry Philip Frewin.”
Here Mrs. Clinton, who had in vain endeavoured to throw in a word, interposed, and engaged Hilda in conversation. The miser referred to his mortgage-deed; and the description of the estate, which he looked upon as his own, restored him to good temper.
* * *
CHAPTER VII.
The Payment Of The Mortgage Money.
Nearly an hour having elapsed, Mr. Scarve arose, and called to Jacob, who had retired to the cellar. The summons not being answered as expeditiously as he desired, he called again, and Jacob made his appearance, brushing the moisture from his lips, and trying to swallow down a huge morsel that stuck in his throat.
“You have been eating, rascal!” cried the miser, “and drinking, too! Faugh! how the knave smells of beer!”
“If I have been eatin’ and drinkin’” said Jacob, clearing his throat by a violent effort, “it hasn’t been at your expense.”
“Well, go and see what’s o’clock,” said the miser, who did not appear particularly angry.
“What’s o’clock!” exclaimed Jacob, in surprise. “Why, I’ve lived with you these twenty years, and never was sent on such a message before. What do you want to know what’s o’clock for?”
“What’s that to you, sirrah?” rejoined the miser, with more anger in his words than in his tones or looks. “But I’ll tell you thus much, I never in my life wished a day to be passed so much as I do this?”
“You excite my curiosity, father,” said Hilda. “Why do you wish it passed?”
“Because, if a certain sum of money is not paid to me before six o’clock, I shall be the possessor of one of the finest estates in Wales,” replied the miser. “It must now be five; in another hour I shall be safe — safe, Hilda! — the mortgage will be foreclosed — the estate mine! Mr. Diggs will be here at six. If I obtain this prize, Jacob, you shall drink my health in the glass of wine I put back in the bottle.”
“Then it’ll be the first time I ever so drunk it,” replied Jacob.
“Take care it isn’t the last, you thankless varlet!” rejoined the miser. “Don’t stand chattering there! Go and see what’s o’clock.”
As Jacob departed to obey his injunction, Mr. Scarve paced to and fro within the room, rubbing his hands, and chuckling to himself. Five minutes nearly elapsed before Jacob returned; and when he did so, it was with a countenance of very peculiar significance.
“Well, is it five?” cried the miser.
“No; it’s fourteen,” replied Jacob.
“Fourteen!” exclaimed the miser. “What do you mean? You’re drunk, sirrah — drunk on the promise of a glass of wine.”
“No, I’m not,” replied Jacob. “I mean that there’s a troop of fourteen horsemen at the door. There! — don’t you hear ‘em? They make noise enough, I should think.”
And as he spoke, a loud knocking, mixed with shouts and laughter, came sounding down the passage.
“It is the mortgage-money, father,” said Hilda.
“It is — damnation!” cried the miser, stamping on the ground.
“At first I took the troop for a gang of highwaymen,” said Jacob, “when their leader, a fat, bloated old fellow, calls out to me in an imperious tone, ‘Tell your master, the miser,’ says he, ‘that Sir Bulkeley Price has brought him his money. He is not yet owner of an estate in Flintshire.’ And then all his followers burst out a-laughin’; and I don’t think they’ve done yet.”
“Curses on them!” cried the miser, furiously, “and on him too! They sha’n’t enter my dwelling. I won’t receive the money. Send them away! Tell them I’m not at home, Jacob.”
“It won’t do, sir,” replied Jacob; “they know you’re at home, for I told ’em so. And as to refusing the money, why should you do that? They’ve brought it in great bags — bags of gold, of five hundred pounds each.”
“Five hundred devils!” cried the miser, foaming with rage. “What! bring such a sum as that in broad day! I shall be exposed to all my prying neighbours.”
“That you will,” rejoined Jacob; �
��they’re all at the windows looking on. There’s Mr. Deacle, the mercer, over the way, and his wife and daughter; and the inquisitive little barber next door; and the ironmonger’s wife and her family at the Blackamoor’s Head; and the vintner’s at the Man-in-the-Moon, and—”
“Hold your peace,” cried the miser, furiously, “or I’ll strangle you! I’ll not be insulted thus by any man! Fetch me my sword!”
“Father!” exclaimed Hilda, “why do you excite yourself thus? Sir Bulkeley Price has but done what was right; he has brought you back your money.”
“What is it o’clock, Jacob? — did you ascertain that?” cried the miser.
“Not five, sir — not five,” replied Jacob.
“Oh! perdition seize him! he is in time,” cried the miser. “But I’ll be revenged. I’ll have his blood if I can’t have the estate. My sword, Jacob! What! you won’t move? Nay, then, I’ll fetch it myself!” And opening a side-door, he rushed up a small flight of steps leading to his bedroom.
“Some mischief will happen, Jacob,” cried Hilda, with a terrified look. “I never saw my father so agitated before. I’ll go forth myself, and entreat Sir Bulkeley to depart.”
“Don’t expose yourself to the insults of his servants, miss,” rejoined Jacob. “I did not tell master a quarter what they said of him.”
But despite his entreaties, and those of her aunt, who also endeavoured to detain her, she rushed forth, followed by Jacob.
On gaining the street, Hilda found Jacob’s statement perfectly correct. A troop of fourteen horsemen, with Sir Bulkeley Price at their head, were drawn up in front of the house. Most of them were well mounted, though a few of the number rode stout Welch ponies. All had swords at their sides, and pistols in their holsters, as was needful from the amount of money they carried; every man having been provided with two bags, each containing five hundred pounds in gold, slung over his saddle-bow. A pile of these precious sacks lay at the door, and some of the men were now adding to the heap, while others were unslinging bags from their comrades’ saddles. The whole company were in high glee, and laughing loudly. The leader of the troop. Sir Bulkeley Price, was a stout, portly gentleman, whose swollen inflamed cheeks and mulberry nose showed he was by no means indifferent to the pleasures of the table. A claret-coloured velvet riding-coat, buttoned to the throat, displayed his full chest and rather commanding figure to advantage; while a well-powdered, full-bottomed perriwig contrasted strongly with his rubicund and fiery visage. Hilda’s appearance created a great sensation among the lookers-on, and especially attracted the attention of the barber, who was chattering with Mr. Deacle about the occurrence, and of the fair Thomasine, who was leaning out of an upper window, just above her father’s sign of the Three Pigeons.
“There’s Miss Scarve!” cried Peter, calling to Thomasine.
“I see her,” replied the mercer’s daughter. “Poor thing, how I pity her — to be exposed to such insults! I long to fly to her assistance.”
“Do, do!” cried Peter. “I’ll fly with you.”
“No, don’t,” said Mr. Deacle; “you had better not interfere. Lord bless me! I wonder what it all means.”
Heedless of what was passing around her, for she heard her father’s furious voice in the passage, Hilda rushed towards Sir Bulkeley Price, and, in a tone of the most earnest entreaty, cried, “Oh, sir, I implore you to go away! My father is fearfully incensed — some mischief will happen!”
“You are Mr. Scarve’s daughter, I presume?” returned Sir Bulkeley, politely taking off his hat. “I should never have suspected him of owning aught so beautiful. But why should I go away, Miss Scarve? I am merely come to pay your father a sum of money which I borrowed from him.”
“But it is the manner of paying it, sir, — the public manner, — the exposure that incenses him,” cried Hilda. “I would not for twice the amount, that this had happened.”
“I dare say not,” replied Sir Bulkeley; “but your father has forced me into the measure. My estate would have been forfeited if I had not repaid the money by six o’clock. It is as unpleasant to me as it can be to him; but I had no alternative.”
At this moment a loud, angry cry was heard at the door, and the miser appeared, brandishing his drawn sword at it. His mad career was opposed by Jacob, whose wig was knocked off in his endeavours to push him backwards.
“Villain!” cried the miser, shaking his hand at Sir Bulkeley, “villain, you shall repent your insolence! Release me, Jacob! Let me get at him?”
“No you sha’n’t!” replied Jacob, who had to exert all his strength, such was the miser’s fury, to keep him back.
Mr. Scarve’s vociferations of rage were now drowned by the hootings and jeers of the Welch baronet’s attendants, who did all in their power to incense him further. Terrified by the cries, Hilda clasped her hands in agony, and again addressed herself to Sir Bulkeley.
“As you are a gentleman, sir, I beseech you to withdraw,” she said.
“Such an appeal, and from such lips, is irresistible,” replied Sir Bulkeley, again raising his hat.
“He is no gentleman, Hilda!” shrieked her father, who overheard what was said. “Come away, girl, I command you — leave him to me!”
“Well crowed, old cock!” cried one of the attendants, in mockery. And all laughed jeeringly, as before.
“Hold your tongues, you saucy knaves!” cried Jacob, fiercely regarding them; “or, as soon as I’m at liberty, I’ll break some of your addle pates.”
“For pity’s sake, — go, go!” cried Hilda to the baronet, “and take the money with you. Another time will do for payment.”
“Pardon me, Miss Scarve,” replied Sir Bulkeley; “another time will not do. I mustn’t jeopardise my estate. — Mr. Scarve,” he shouted to the miser, “here is your money — fourteen thousand pounds, in gold. — Friends,” he added, looking round at the crowd of spectators in the street, and at the windows, “I call you all to witness, that this money is paid before six o’clock. I will take your word, Miss Scarve, for a receipt, and for the delivering up of the mortgage deeds.”
“Take hence your money, villain!” vociferated the miser, “I want none of it.”
This exclamation was followed by a roar of derisive laughter from the baronet’s attendants.
“Silence them — oh, silence them, sir!” cried Hilda, imploringly.
Sir Bulkeley looked majestically round, and his attendants became instantly mute. At the same time, Jacob forced Mr. Scarve into the house; and Hilda, hastily expressing her thanks to the baronet, withdrew. In a few seconds, the whole of the bags of money were collected, and placed on the threshold. Sir Bulkeley would not, however, depart till Jacob returned, when he committed the heap to his custody.
“What have you done with your master?” he asked.
“He has fainted, and his daughter is tending him.” replied Jacob.
“Well, take him that restorative,” rejoined Sir Bulkeley, pointing to the money-bags; “it will speedily revive him.”
So saying, he rode off with his followers, amid the acclamations of the spectators. The same persons next began to hoot Jacob, and even seemed disposed to assail him; but being now provided with his crabstick, he presented such a menacing and formidable appearance, that those nearest him slunk off.
In the hurry of the moment, it has been omitted to mention, that when Hilda retired, the fair Thomasine uttered a scream, and fainted. Made aware of the circumstance, both by the cry and the disappearance of the mercer and his wife from the windows, Peter Pokerich quitted his own dwelling, and flew to render aid. With some little difficulty, the sensitive damsel was brought to herself; but when restored to consciousness, she was very palpitating and hysterical, and leaned against the wall, with her head upon her hand, in the attitude of a tragic heroine.
“Oh, the indignities that that sweet creature has endured!” she gasped. “She is a model of filial piety, and more to be admired than the Grecian Daughter.”
“Much more,” said P
eter, “though I don’t recollect the particular attractions of the lady you mention.”
“Would I were her friend!” cried the fair Thomasine. “Would I might pour my sorrows into her sympathetic bosom!”
“What hinders you from doing so?” asked the barber.
An hysterical sob was all the fair Thomasine’s answer.
“Fourteen thousand pounds!” exclaimed Peter, almost unconsciously. “What a fortune Hilda Scarve will be!”
“She would be a fortune without a farthing,” cried the fair Thomasine.
Meantime the crowd dispersed; but not before Jacob had noticed some suspicious-looking personages eyeing the bags of treasure lying at the door in a very alarming manner.
“I shall have to keep strict watch to-night,” he thought. “Such a public delivery of money as this is almost an inducement to robbery. We ought to have a couple of watchmen.”
Thus ruminating, he removed the whole of the bags, twenty-eight in number, and each containing five hundred pounds, into the passage. He then locked, bolted, and barred the door, and afterwards conveyed the treasure into the room generally used by Mr. Scarve.
The miser, as he had stated to Sir Bulkeley, had fainted. The unhappy man recovered just as Jacob brought in the last two bags, and seeing the treasure before him, uttered a wild shriek, broke from his daughter and sister-in-law, who were tending him, and, throwing himself upon the heap, relapsed into insensibility.
* * *
CHAPTER VIII.
The Mysterious Letter — The Landlord of The Rose and Crown — Cordwell Firebras.
It will now be necessary for a short space to retrace the current of our story. Peter Pokerich, as related in a previous chapter, crossed over to his own house with the letter he had abstracted from Randulph’s saddle-bags, and immediately proceeding to examine it, found it was addressed to Mr. Cordwell Firebras, at the Rose and Crown, Gardiner’s-street, Petty France. This not tending greatly to enlighten him he tried to obtain a peep at its contents by pressing down the sides between his finger and thumb; but not being able to make out anything in this way his curiosity got the master of him, and he broke the seal; but so dexterously and carefully that he felt confident that he could restore it to its original appearance if needful. He then read as follows: —
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 292
