The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Meanwhile, as Philip Frewin did not make his appearance, Kitty Conway became very impatient, and turning a deaf ear to all the high flown compliments showered upon her by Sir Singleton Spinke, entreated Randulph to go and see what her friend was doing. The young man could not very well refuse compliance with the request, and he accordingly entered the music-hall, and returned in a few minutes with Philip, who finding the coast clear, recovered his composure, and tendering his thanks, in a very abject manner, to Randulph, got into the boat with Kitty, and ordered the men to row to Savoy Stairs. Randulph was too angry with himself, and now too indifferent to the fascinations of the pretty actress, to return the tender glance with which she favoured him on her departure.

  The incident, however, afforded abundant merriment to his companions, who were greatly diverted by his looks, which they attributed to jealousy; and they endeavoured to remove the feeling by assuring him that Kitty had exhibited a decided preference for him. His uneasiness was not relieved by the admiration expressed of the miser’s daughter by Beau Villiers; nor was Trussell altogether pleased to find the Beau so much captivated. That Hilda should have passed at the precise juncture seemed to surprise everybody.

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  CHAPTER XIV.

  Randulph’s Interview with Cordwell Firebras in the Cloisters of Westminster Abbey.

  Shortly after this, the party entered their boat, and returned to Whitehall Stairs. Randulph had been so much engrossed by his own feelings that he forgot the stranger, and only called him to mind a few minutes after he had landed, and when it was too late to look for him. He did not however forget his appointment with the writer of the mysterious letter, and regardless of the construction that might be put upon it, told his uncle he had a particular engagement, which he must keep, at six o’clock. Trussell smiled significantly at the announcement, but made no remark, and proposed that they all should dine at one of the French ordinaries in Suffolk-street. Beau Villiers pleaded an engagement, but Sir Singleton acquiesced, and the trio repaired to the ordinary, where an excellent dinner was set before them.

  Randulph, mindful of his appointment, in spite of the jokes of his companions, who strove to detain him, got up from table at five o’clock, and took his way past Charing cross and Whitehall, towards the Abbey. He could not resist the impulse that prompted him to pass through the Little Sanctuary, and felt half disposed to call at the miser’s, and offer some explanation of his conduct to Hilda. Though the absurdity of the notion caused him to abandon it almost as soon as formed, he lingered before the house for a few minutes, in the hope of discerning some of its inmates, but was disappointed. He then entered Peter Pokerich’s shop, to inquire the way to the Abbey cloisters.

  It chanced that the little barber was about to take a walk with the fair Thomasine, who was standing with him, and he offered to conduct Randulph to the cloisters; but this the young man, who had his own reasons for not desiring the attendance of the inquisitive barber, declined, but in such a way as to excite Peter’s curiosity, who secretly determined to follow him. As soon as Randulph was gone, he mentioned his design to the fair Thomasine, who was nothing loath to accompany him, and they set out together, taking special care to keep out of Randulph’s view. The young man shaped his course towards the Abbey, and skirting its western extremity, passed under the archway leading to the play-ground of Westminster school. Here he paused, and, addressing a porter, was directed towards another archway, through which he passed, and entered the cloisters. On seeing this, Peter, still accompanied by his fair companion, ran forward, and finding that Randulph was walking in the south ambulatory, they struck into the west, being still able to watch him through the open columns.

  Randulph, meanwhile, unconscious that he was the object of such scrutiny, slowly traversed the ambulatory, and, charmed with the exquisite groined arches of its roof, hoary with age, and the view afforded through the shafted windows looking into the quadrangle, of the reverend buttresses and of the Abbey, almost forgot the object that brought him thither. He was arrested at the eastern extremity by the ancient inscriptions and brasses, pointing out the resting-places of the old abbots Laurentius, Gislesbertus, and Vitalis, when a heavy footstep sounded on his ear, and looking up, he beheld the stranger. Before he could recover his surprise at this unexpected apparition, the new comer advanced towards him, and with a slight inclination of the head, and a singularly significant smile, said— “So, you have kept your appointment with me, Mr. Randulph Crew.”

  “Are you, then, Mr. Cordwell Firebras?” exclaimed Randulph, in surprise.

  “I am so called,” replied the other.

  “I was little aware, sir, when I saw you this morning at the barber’s, how soon and how strangely we should be brought together again,” rejoined Randulph; “but this in some measure accounts for the manner in which you have hunted me throughout the day. Perhaps, you will now explain your motive for so doing, as well as for summoning me hither.”

  “All in good time, young man,” replied Cordwell Firebras, gravely. “Before I advert to my own concerns, let me say a word on yours. Answer me truly; have you not conceived an affection for Hilda Scarve? Nay, you need not answer; your hesitation convinces me you have so. Circumstances led you into acting very injudiciously this morning at the Folly, and, I fear, your conduct may have produced an unfavorable impression on Hilda’s mind, for I watched her closely. But heed not this. I will set all to rights. I have much influence with her father. He designs her for another, — the apish gallant of the pretty actress who fascinated you this morning. But you shall have her, nevertheless, — on one condition.”

  “Despite the singularity of your address, there is an earnestness in your manner that inspires me with confidence in you, sir,” rejoined Randulph; “the rather, that you told me this morning you were an old friend of my father’s. I will freely confess to you that I am captivated by the miser’s daughter, and that I would hazard much to obtain her. Now, on what condition do you propose to make her mine?”

  “You shall learn presently,” replied Firebras, evasively. “Let us take a turn along the cloisters,” he added, moving slowly forward.

  They marched on together in silence, until they reached the eastern angle of the ambulatory, when Firebras, suddenly halting, laid his hand upon Randulph’s arm, and fixing a searching look upon him, said, “Young man, I will tell you what you must do to gain the miser’s daughter?”

  “What? what?” demanded Randulph.

  “You must join the Jacobite party,” replied Firebras, “to which her father belongs — to which your father belonged — and to which your mother also belongs.”

  Surprize kept Randulph silent. But neither he nor his companion were aware that this treasonable speech had been overheard by Peter Pokerich, and the fair Thomasine, who having stolen upon them unperceived, were ensconced behind the shafts of the adjoining arches.

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  CHAPTER XV.

  Mrs. Clinton’s Alarm — The Miser’s Unexpected Return — The Disappearance of the Mortgage Money — The Effrontery of Philip Frewin and Diggs.

  Day wore on, and Mrs. Clinton, who began to wonder at her niece’s prolonged stay, became extremely apprehensive lest Mr. Scarve should return before her, and discover her absence. She had just despatched her scanty dinner, having waited more than an hour for Hilda, removed the things that they might not excite the miser’s suspicion, in case of his sudden return, and sat down to her needlework, on which she was diligently, though almost mechanically employed, when she was startled by a sound like the opening of a window, followed by a stealthy tread, in one of the rooms upstairs. The idea of robbers instantly occurred to her, for she recollected the large amount of gold in the house, as well as the public manner in which it had been paid, and she felt how likely it was that an attempt might be made to carry it off, especially if it had been ascertained that she was alone in the house. She had heard of murders committed in lone habitations, in broad day, and, in most cases, upon defenceless f
emales like herself; and filled with indescribable terror, she rushed forth with the intention of giving the alarm. Before she gained the passage, a knock was heard at the street door, and hurrying to it, she hastily, and with trembling hands, unfastened it, and beheld the miser. If she was startled by his appearance, he was not less so by her at and fixing a terrible look upon her, he demanded why Jacob had not let him in? Receiving no answer, he pushed roughly into the passage, and clapping the door hastily to, proceeded to the parlour.

  Poor Mrs. Clinton scarcely knew what to do, but at last she followed him, and found him pacing to and fro within the room, like one distracted. As soon as he saw her, he ran towards her, and seizing her arm, cried, “Where is Jacob? Is the rascal gone out without leave? Why don’t you speak, woman? Have you dared to send him out? — or has Hilda?”

  “He will be back directly,” replied Mrs. Clinton, almost frightened out of her senses. “I expected him long before this.”

  “Then he is gone out,” cried the miser, as if he could scarcely credit what he heard; “and Hilda, I suppose, is gone with him?”

  Mrs. Clinton returned a terrified affirmative.

  “And where are they gone to, in the devil’s name?” roared the miser.

  “I am not at liberty to say,” replied Mrs. Clinton.

  “I will have an answer,” cried the miser, glaring at her, as if he would annihilate her. “Where is she gone?”

  “You will extort nothing from me by this violence,” returned Mrs. Clinton, firmly.

  “Then you shall quit my house to-night,” he rejoined fiercely. “I will not have my authority set at nought. Seek another home, madam, and another protector.”

  The poor lady hung her head, but made no reply.

  “Mrs. Clinton,” he continued, with forced calmness, “I put it to yourself, — and unless I have been altogether mistaken in you, you will not be insensible to the appeal — I put it to you to say, whether, when I demand, as a father, to know what has become of my daughter, you can reconcile it to your conscience to refuse to tell me?”

  “I will tell you thus much, sir,” she replied, after a pause; “Hilda has been induced to take this step solely in consequence of your declaration that you would compel her into a marriage with her cousin. She is gone to consult a friend.”

  “What friend?” cried the miser, springing towards her. “I insist upon knowing.”

  “Well then, you shall know, sir,” replied Mrs. Clinton. “She is gone to see Mr. Abel Beechcroft.”

  If a heavy blow had been dealt him, the unhappy man could not have been more staggered than by this information. He turned away in confusion, muttering— “Abel Beechcroft! Why should she go to him?”

  “Because her poor mother left a letter to be delivered to him, if circumstances should render it necessary,” replied Mrs. Clinton.

  “And you gave her that letter?” cried the miser?

  “I did,” she replied.

  “And you sent her to her father’s bitterest enemy for advice?” he continued. “It is well! It is well!” And he strode to the side door, as if with the intention of mounting to his bed-room.

  Up to this moment, Mrs. Clinton had forgotten the circumstance that had so recently alarmed her, but she now recalled it, and ran after him, crying, “Sir! sir!”

  “What does the woman want?” demanded the miser, turning fiercely upon her.

  The answer stuck in her throat. Dreading to provoke a fresh explosion of rage, she muttered some unintelligible excuse, and retired.

  The miser, meanwhile, having obtained access to his chamber, threw his hat upon the bed, passed on, and unlocked the door of the closet. Marching up to the large chest in which he had deposited the bags of gold on the previous night, he sat down upon it, and was for some time lost in deep and painful reflection. He then rose, and taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, applied one of them to the lock of the chest. It would not turn, and imagining he must have made some mistake, he drew it out, and tried another. This however, did not fit at all, and returning to the first, he perceived on examination that it was the right one. On examining it, he found to his surprise and dismay, that the chest was not locked. Well knowing he had not left it in this state, he felt convinced that something was wrong, and it was long before he could prevail upon himself to raise the lid. When he did so, he fell back with a cry of anguish and despair. The chest was empty!

  For some minutes, he remained as if transfixed, with his hands stretched out, his mouth wide open, his eyes almost starting from their sockets, and fixed upon the void where his treasure should have been. At length he shrieked, in accents of despair— “I have been robbed — robbed of my gold robbed — robbed! It is a wicked thing a cruel thing to rob me. Others do not love gold as I love it. I love it better than wife, child, mistress — better than life itself. Would that they had killed me rather than take my gold. Oh! those fair shining pieces, so broad, so bright, so beautiful! what can have become of them?”

  After a pause, during which he experienced the acutest mental anguish, he looked around to see how the robbery could have been effected. A moment’s examination shewed him that the iron bars in front of the little window opposite the chest had been removed. “The villains must have found entrance there?” he cried, rushing towards the window, and clambering upon an old oaken bureau that stood near it, he pushed it wide open, and stretching his long scraggy neck through it, gazed into the little garden beneath.

  Unable to discover anything, he drew back from the window, and casting his eyes over the bureau perceived that the dust with which it was covered had been slightly brushed away; but whether by himself or the depredators, it was now of course impossible to determine. A bottle standing on one corner of the bureau had not been removed. It was plain, however, that admittance had been gained through the window, and it was equally clear that the plunderers had gone direct to the chest, of which they must have possessed a key, for the lock, though strained, had not been forced. Maddened by these reflections, and unable to account for the occurrence, he again vented his fury in words.— “I have it!” he shrieked— “it is that accursed Welch baronet who has robbed me. He paid me the money in this public way only to delude me. I’ll charge him with the robbery — I’ll prove it against him — I’ll hang him. Oh! it would delight me to hang him. I would give a thousand pounds to see it done. A thousand pounds! What is that to the fourteen thousand I have lost? I shall go mad — and it were happy for me that I should do so. Philip Frewin will refuse to marry my daughter. Her portion is gone — gone! Why did I go forth with Firebras? I ought to have taken my seat on that chest — to have eaten my meals upon it — to have slept upon it. Night nor day should I have quitted it. Fool that I have been — I have been rightly served — rightly served. And yet it is hard upon me — an old man to lose all I held dear — very hard!” And falling upon his knees, with his hands clasped together, beside the vacant chest, he wept aloud.

  This paroxysm of rage and grief having subsided, he again arose, and descended to the parlour, where he found Mrs. Clinton anxiously waiting his re-appearance. She instantly divined what had happened, and retreated before him as he advanced, almost fearing from his looks that he would do her a violence. Shaking his clenched hand, and foaming at the mouth, he attempted to discharge a volley of imprecations against her, but rage took away the power of speech, and he stood gesticulating and shaking before her — a most appalling spectacle.

  “For Heaven’s sake, sir, compose yourself,” she cried, “or you will have a fit, or some dangerous illness. You frighten me to death.”

  “I am glad of it,” he shrieked. “I have been robbed — the mortgage-money is gone — the fourteen thousand pounds. D’ye hear, woman? I’ve been robbed, I say — robbed!”

  “I feared as much,” replied Mrs. Clinton; “but the robbery cannot have been long effected, for just before you knocked at the door I heard a window creak, as I thought in your room.”

  “You did!” screamed the mi
ser. “And why not tell me this before? I might have caught them — might have got back the spoil.”

  “If you hadn’t frightened me so much about Hilda, I should have told you,” replied Mrs. Clinton, in a deprecatory tone. “But your violence put it out of my head?

  “Hell and fiends!” ejaculated the miser; “what is Hilda, what are fifty daughters, compared with my gold? If you had enabled me to recover it, I would have forgiven you all the rest. Don’t stand trembling there, fool, but come with me, and let us see whether we can discover any traces of the robbers.”

  So saying, he hurried towards a small back door in the passage, the bolts of which were so rusty that he had considerable difficulty in removing them; but this effected, he passed into the garden, A most miserable and neglected place it was, and almost wholly overgrown with long rank grass, such as is to be seen in some city churchyards. But it had once been prettily laid out, as was evidenced from the lines of box bordering the flower-beds, as well as from the trellised arbour and greenhouse. The appearance of the latter made the desolation of the place more complete than it would otherwise have been. The glass was removed from the frames — one of the walls had been pulled down, and the bricks and plaster were lying scattered about, together with a heap of broken flowerpots, and a number of worn-out and battered gardening implements. The arbour was covered with the net-like folds of a dead creeper, and the trellis-work was decayed and falling to pieces. The little window, to which access had been gained by the robbers, was on the upper story, and about sixteen feet from the ground. The miser gazed anxiously and inquiringly at it. All the lower windows, including that of the parlour, which he usually occupied, were closely barred, and had evidently not been disturbed. Those in the attics were boarded up; while of the remainder in the first floor, only the small one in question was open.