The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Throwing one look of compassion at the wounded man, Randulph darted into the closet, and, peeping out of the window, perceived that it looked upon the roof of a shed. Dropping upon this building, he gained a narrow alley, which led him into King Street.

  As soon as Randulph had made good his retreat, Firebras opened the door, and gave admittance to the landlord and some half-dozen attendants.

  A surgeon was instantly sent for, and Philip placed in a chair, while Cordwell Firebras assisted in bandaging up the wound. It bled internally, and Firebras’s experience told him it was highly dangerous.

  “What do you think of my hurt?” asked Philip, whose aspect had already become ghastly and cadaverous.

  “I’ll not deceive you,” replied Firebras; “you’re a dead man.”

  “But my murderer will be hanged for it, won’t he?” cried Philip, with an indignant look.

  “You were fairly hit,” replied Firebras. “If anybody deserves hanging, it’s Captain Culpepper. I saw the foul blow he aimed at Randulph.”

  At this moment, Diggs entered the room, and was horror-stricken at beholding the condition of Philip Frewin.

  “Why, what dreadful mischance is this!” he cried, gazing at him. “I hope you’re not seriously hurt?”

  “They tell me I am mortally wounded,” replied Philip, with a groan; “and I believe they’re right. I have only been made my uncle’s heir to mock me!”

  “What, is Mr. Scarve dead?” cried Firebras, in surprise,

  “He died last night,” replied the attorney, “and Mr. Frewin, as he has just told you, is his heir — provided Hilda refuses to marry him.”

  “The devil!” exclaimed Firebras; “this has been a lucky blow for Randulph. I’m glad he was not aware of the fact, or the thing might have looked like premeditation.”

  “Get me a chair, Diggs, instantly!” cried Philip, “and take me to the Little Sanctuary. I will see Hilda before I die — and if she refuses to marry me, I’ll make my will at once. I have strength to sign it.”

  “What madness is this?” cried Firebras.

  “It’s no madness,” replied the other. “Get me a chair — quick — quick!”

  Thus exhorted, Diggs gave the necessary instructions, and shortly afterwards a chair was brought into the room by two porters and the wounded man placed in it. Attended by Firebras, Diggs, Culpepper, and Mr. Molson, who chanced to be the nearest surgeon, and who had just arrived, — he was transported to the miser’s dwelling.

  On arriving there, Cordwell Firebras hastily explained to Jacob, who answered the knock at the door, the object of their coming, and bade him urge his young mistress to see the wounded man. As soon as he had satisfied himself of the truth of the statement, which was so extraordinary that he could scarcely credit it, Jacob directed the chairmen to bring their burthen along the passage into the parlour, and Philip Frewin was got out and placed in the miser’s old seat.

  The chairmen then withdrew, and Jacob ran up stairs to tell Hilda what had occurred, while Mr. Molson said to Philip:

  “If you have any instructions to give, sir, you must not lose time, for you have not many minutes to call your own.”

  “Where is Hilda?” cried the wounded man, “Get pen, ink, and paper, Diggs — sit down — and write what I tell you. Is she come yet?”

  “Yes, she is here,” replied Firebras, as Hilda entered the room. “Miss Scarve,” he added, stepping up to her, “your cousin has been desperately wounded in a duel with Randulph Crew. He has not many minutes to live. Accede to what he proposes to you,” he added, in a low tone.

  “Hilda,” said Philip, in a faint voice, “I have sent for you to ask you, in the presence of these witnesses, whether you consent to marry me?”

  “You are not in a state to ask the question,” she replied, with a look of mingled commiseration and abhorrence. “Think of reconciling yourself with Heaven.”

  “Do you refuse?” cried Phillip, trying to raise himself.

  “If you exert yourself in this way, you will only accelerate your end,” said the surgeon.

  “I will have an answer,” replied Philip— “yes or no.”

  “Consent,” whispered Firebras to Hilda. “It can matter nothing.”

  “I cannot bring my lips to utter the word,” she replied.

  “I require an answer, Miss Scarve,” said Diggs, “as it may affect Mr. Frewin’s interest in the property, and your own.”

  “Then I answer, no!” she replied, firmly. Cordwell Firebras bit his lips.

  “Take down that answer, Diggs,” said Philip. The attorney complied, and when done, requested Culpepper and the surgeon to witness it, which they did.

  “Now, Mr. Frewin, you are in possession of your uncle’s property,” said Diggs.

  “Then, write out a bequest of it all,” said Philip,— “of all, mind — to — to — to—”

  “To whom, sir?” asked Diggs, writing with the greatest rapidity, for he saw that he had not a moment to spare.

  “To yourself,” faintly replied the dying man. In a few seconds, without looking up, or exhibiting any sign of satisfaction, the attorney completed his task.

  “It is done — sign it, sir,” he added, placing the paper before Philip, and giving him the pen, which the latter could scarcely grasp.

  It was a moment of breathless interest to all; and even Hilda bent forward.

  “Where is it?” groaned Philip, trying to fix his glazing eyes on the paper.

  “Here, sir — here,” said Diggs, putting his finger on the place where the signature should be affixed.

  But it was too late. The pen fell from Philip’s grasp, and falling with his face on the table, he expired.

  “Another moment, and I had been master of this property!” cried Diggs, snatching up the unsigned paper.

  “You could not have kept it,” said Cordwell Firebras.

  “Long enough to have answered my purpose,” rejoined the attorney, putting on his hat, and quitting the house. He was followed in his retreat by Captain Culpepper.

  “You are now undisputed mistress of your inheritance, Hilda,” said Cordwell Firebras.

  “Heaven be praised for it!” exclaimed Jacob. “I knew such wrongful acts would never prosper.”

  “To me the event is most fortunate,” said Hilda; “but I wish it could have been purchased at a less price than the life of my unfortunate cousin.”

  “I confess I cannot pity him,” said Firebras. “But you must now think of yourself. You look very pale.”

  “This last strange trick of fortune is almost too much for me,” she rejoined.

  “I would recommend you to seek an asylum with some friend, while the last mournful duties to your father are performed,” said Firebras. “Why not go to Mr. Beechcroft’s? — Randulph’s mother is there.”

  “I think I will follow your advice,” replied Hilda; “for I cannot remain here after the shocking event that has just occurred.”

  “Mrs. Clinton and I will take care of the house and property,” said Jacob. “I’ll go and fetch a coach directly, if you’re going to Mr. Beechcroft’s.”

  And he set out on the errand, while Hilda went up stairs to her room, to make a few hasty preparations for her departure.

  This done, she entered the room in which her father’s remains were laid, and kneeling beside the bed, prayed fervently. She then gazed for a few moments on his wan emaciated features, now rendered yet sharper by death, and pressing her lips upon them, quitted the room. Cordwell Firebras led her in silence to the coach, in which Jacob put the few things she took with her.

  “Where is Mr. Randulph?” asked the latter, as he was about to mount the box.

  “Do you know a summer-house on the banks of a river, near the mill in Millbank?” asked Firebras.

  “What, belongin’ to the Chequers Inn?” rejoined Jacob. “I should know it, seein’ as how I’ve passed many a pleasant hour in it.”

  “Well, be in a boat off it, at midnight,” rejoined Firebra
s, “and you’ll hear something of Randulph.”

  “I won’t fail,” replied Jacob, springing on the box, and ordering the coachman to drive to Lambeth, while Firebras returned to the house to give some directions to Mrs. Clinton.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XV.

  Mr. Cripps’s Altered Appearance — He Mystifies the Fair Thomasine about Lady Spinke — The Seizure of the Jacobite Club Contrived.

  On the same morning as the events previously related, while Peter Pokerich was powdering a barrister’s wig, he was interrupted in his task, by the sudden and rather distracted entrance of the fair Thomasine.

  “What’s the matter, Tommy, dear?” he inquired, unintentionally puffing a great quantity of powder into her face. “Ten thousand pardons, but you quite startled me, and made me miss my aim.”

  “You’ve nearly blinded me, you careless thing,” replied the fair Thomasine, rubbing her eyes; “besides spoiling my fly-cap and filling my hair with your nasty powder. But have you heard the dreadful — the distressing news?”

  “No,” replied Peter. “What is it?”

  “Mr. Scarve has been found dead in his cellar,” replied the fair Thomasine, in a sepulchral tone, suited to the nature of her information, “where he had digged his own grave, and tried to bury himself, to save funeral expenses.”

  “Lord bless us! you don’t say so,” exclaimed Peter.

  “Yes, I do,” rejoined the fair Thomasine; “but turn your powder-puff the other way, or you’ll miss your aim again. I shouldn’t have been sorry for anything that happened to him — but what do you think? — he’s disinherited his own daughter, and left all his property to his nephew.”

  “Oh, the horrid, unnatural old monster!” exclaimed Peter, capering about, and completely emptying the powder-puff in his agitation.

  “Be quiet do, and stand still,” said the fair Thomasine, taking hold of his collar and keeping him down. “Poor Hilda’s not to have a farthing, unless she marries that odious cousin of hers; and if I’m not greatly mistaken in her, she’ll die sooner than consent.”

  “Of course she will!” cried Peter, still plying the exhausted powder-puff. “Oh she’s a noble creature, and quite an example to her sex!”

  “So I think,” replied the fair Thomasine; “and till she marries Randulph Crew, I don’t marry you — that’s positive. Oh, gemini! if there isn’t Mr. Cripps! How altered he is, to be sure!”

  The latter exclamation was occasioned by the entrance of the ex-valet, who was indeed so much changed as scarcely to be recognisable. His coat was threadbare, out-at-elbows, and with the lace upon it tarnished; his waistcoat was in the same tattered condition; his nether garments were bepatched with cloths of various hues; his hose were no longer silk, but cotton very much darned; and steel buckles replaced the diamond appendages to his shoes. His dishevelled peruke stood sadly in need of the aid of Peter Pokerich; his hat was an old cocked one, with one of the sides broken and hanging loose; and a switch supplied the place of his clouded cane. He had no lace at his wrists or at his breast; indeed, it was rather questionable, from the manner in which he buttoned up his coat, whether he had a shirt at all. Fallen, however, as he was, Mr. Cripps was Mr. Cripps still. He wore his tattered apparel with as great an air as distinguished him when equipped in all his finery; flourished his switch as if it had been a magnificent baton; took snuff out of a pewter box with as much grace as when he manipulated one set with brilliants; and brushed away the powder with a ragged handkerchief as airily as when he boasted a perfumed and embroidered mouchoir.

  “The fair Thomasine, as I live,” he said, with a diving bow; “how charmingly you look, ‘pon rep! I’ve just been to Sir Singleton Spinke’s, to offer myself as his valet. But he has heard of my cursed adventure, and won’t engage me.”

  “Did you see Lady Spinke?” asked the fair Thomasine.

  “To be sure,” replied Mr. Cripps, “and can report very favourable of her condition. Her old lord dotes on her. She has large monkeys, and little dogs, black pages, and white china, gold and silver dresses, diamonds, rubies, garnets, pearls, emeralds — everything, in short, that one of your sex can desire.”

  “Except a young husband,” interposed Peter. “I wish my powder-puff was full,” he added, aside; “I’d empty it into his mischievous throat, and choke him.”

  “Young husband! — fiddlestick!” cried Mr. Cripps. “Lady Spinke is a great deal too good a judge for that. She would rather be an old man’s darling than a young man’s warling, as the proverb hath it. And she’s right, i’faith. She twists her old lord round her fingers as easily as a glove.”

  “Just what I should like to do with my husband!” cried the fair Thomasine.

  “You shall twist me round your fingers as easily as you please, my angel!” cried Peter, distractedly. “Plague take him! what can have brought the fellow here?”

  “Her ladyship, I needn’t say, has quitted the stage,” pursued Mr. Cripps. “I heard them talking of going to Ranelagh to-night.”

  “Ranelagh!” sighed the fair Thomasine. “How delightful! and I’ve never been there since the masquerade, and I begin to fear I shall never go there again!”

  “Delightful, indeed! if it only lasts,” said Mr. Cripps, who had received a secret sign from the barber.

  “Lasts! what do you mean?” cried the fair Thomasine.

  “Why, between ourselves,” replied Mr. Cripps, with a laugh, “Sir Singleton has had eleven wives already — eleven Lady Spinkes, by this light. The present lady is the twelfth. They were all married at the Fleet.”

  “Oh, gemini! twelve wives!” exclaimed the fair Thomasine. “What a shocking old Turk!”

  “You would say so, if you know the history of the former Lady Spinkes as well as I do,” replied Mr. Cripps. “There were actresses, singers, opera-dancers, mantua-makers, corset makers, glove-makers, satin-shoemakers, embroiderers, and ladies of other vocations that I forget — but all young, and all very pretty, — Ha! ha! Why, they all came in a body to call upon him, the day after his marriage, and it took half-a-dozen constables to get them out of the house.”

  “And if they had torn out his wicked old eyes, they would have served him right!” cried the fair Thomasine. “I’ve no patience with such doings. Twelve wives! Why, it’s as bad as a seraglio!”

  “Are you now satisfied that you’re not one of them, my angel!” asked the little barber.

  “That I am,” she replied; “but I still adhere to my resolution of not marrying you till Hilda Scarve is united to Randulph. Good morning, Mr. Cripps.”

  The ex-valet made one of his best bows, and handed her to the door.

  “Cudslid! you ought to thank me, Pokerich,” he said, laughing: “the twelve wives did the business, — put her out of conceit with the old knight, eh?”

  “You did it capitally,” replied Peter: “and now, what can I do for you in return?”

  “A great deal,” replied Mr. Cripps. “In the first place, you can dress my peruke, which, as you perceive, is cursedly out of order; in the second, you can perfume me; and, in the third, you can lend me five guineas, for I haven’t a rap to bless myself withal.”

  “As to dressing your wig, that I’ll do with pleasure,” replied the barber! “and I’ll perfume you into the bargain; but I haven’t five pounds to spare — I haven’t, ‘pon rep!”

  “Don’t steal my adjurations, at all events,” cried Mr. Cripps; “they’re the only part of my former self I have left. Devil knows what will become of me! My master won’t give me a character. I’ve lost the twenty guineas lent me by my uncle at the gaming-table, and I can’t even borrow a pistol and a prad to help me to take a purse.”

  A person entering the shop at this moment, Mr. Cripps walked aside, while the barber, offering his customer a chair, went into the back-room in search of a full-bottomed black wig. On more narrowly examining the new comer, Mr. Cripps recognised the Jesuit priest, Father Verselyn, and it instantly occurred to him that he could turn the discover
y to account. Accordingly, he stepped quickly up to him, and said in a low tone:

  “Glad to see you, Father Verselyn — pray sit still, sir. How gets on the cause, eh?”

  “You are mistaken in me, friend,” replied the priest, uneasily.

  “I will soon prove the contrary, sir,” rejoined Mr. Cripps, assuming a different tone. “Unless you tell me where the club now meets, I’ll make you my prisoner.”

  The priest trembled violently.

  “Answer me directly,” cried Mr. Cripps, “or I call the barber to my assistance.”

  “At the Chequers, in Millbank,” replied the priest.

  “I’ll have better assurance than your word,” replied Mr. Cripps. “When is the next meeting?”

  “To-night,” replied the priest.

  “Now, I tell you what, father,” said Mr. Cripps, “I can get three hundred pounds for their capture. You shall share it with me. No buts! A Jesuit never hesitated to betray his friends when it answered his purpose. Choose between a good reward and a prison. But here comes the barber. Do you consent?”

  The Jesuit nodded.

  Having settled his affairs with the barber, Father Verselyn quitted the shop, while Mr. Cripps, making a sign to Peter that he had business on hand, instantly followed him, and soon found that there was no indisposition on the priest’s part to join in the scheme, provided he could do so with safety to himself.

  Discussing their project, they proceeded towards Millbank, and it was arranged, on the suggestion of Verselyn, that the landlord of the Chequers, who was no other than the former host of the Rose and Crown, should be included in their design, and receive a third of the reward.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XVI.

  The Summer-House at the Chequers — The Old Mill — Randulph Overhears the Plot — Dispersion of the Jacobite Club, and the Fate of Cordwell Firebras.

  As Randulph passed through the Little Sanctuary, on his way to Millbank, he paused for a moment before the dwelling of the unfortunate miser. Ignorant of the catastrophe that had occurred there during the night, he could not help thinking that the house had a drearier look than usual; but attributing the notion to his own gloomy thoughts, he attached little importance to it, and passed on.