The very honest fellow was soon upon, horseback, muttering to himself,
"Ten thousand pounds short!--that would never do!--but I must mind
what. I am about, else he will go back and pay the money to this young
chap, and then the whole business will be spoilt. Let me see;" and
he set himself seriously to consider the best means of getting Burrel
either to intrust him with the money--in which case he thought he
might be able to cheat his accomplice, and appropriate the whole of
that part of the spoil--or to pay it at once to Mr. Tims; and in that
event, Harding still calculated on coming in for a share. It was yet
early in the day; but, nevertheless, Master Harding rode as if for
life; for being one of those personages who calculated _almost_ every
chance--the _almost_ is very necessary, for he did not calculate
all--he foresaw that it would be necessary for Burrel, who could not
be supposed to have so large a sum about him, to procure the money
from some other source, knowing that Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson
his master's agents, were part proprietors of a county bank at about
twenty miles distance from Emberton, he concluded that Burrel's first
application would be there where his means of payment would be best
known.
The reason why things seldom answer, which are so beautifully
calculated beforehand, is probably because the smallest event in the
world is brought about by such a compound piece of machinery, that the
most minute wheel going wrong--a pin, a pivot, a spring, a link of the
chain, a cog, a catch, a lever, a balance wheel, getting the least out
of the place--the whole machine falls into a different train of
action, and strikes six when we thought it was about to strike seven.
This trite fact was beautifully exemplified in the case of Harding,
who had calculated to a word what he was to say to his master, and how
soon either he himself or his said master was to set out for the bank
at ----; how long it would take to go, so as to arrive during banking
hours; how long it would take to settle the business with the
partners, and at what precise moment of time either he himself or
Burrel could be back in Emberton. It so happened, however, that, on
reaching the rectory, to his horror and astonishment, he found that
Mr. Burrel, on arriving at that place before him, had got into Doctor
Wilton's carriage, which had been standing at the door, and had gone
out with the worthy clergyman.
How soon they would be back no one could tell, and where they were
gone to was as little known; so that worthy Master Harding had to
remain at the rectory, suffering pangs of impatience, that were not
the less severe because he covered them over as usual with a face of
calm, indifferent gravity. Nevertheless, in order to lose no time, he
immediately proceeded to the stable, and there put his master's horse
in a complete state of preparation to start again at a moment's
notice, while, at the same time, he supplied the beast that brought
him thither liberally with oats, feeling, like Mr. Tims, a sort of
Diogenesian satisfaction at feeding either his horse or himself at
another person's expense. Still he was called upon to practice the
copy-line virtue of patience for no inconsiderable length of time;
for, notwithstanding all his aspirations, Mr. Burrel, or rather Mr.
Beauchamp, did not appear for at least two hours; and the vision of
the banking-house, and its speedy arrangements--the transfer of the
money, and the ultimate ten thousand pounds--floated faint and more
faint before his mental view. "He is a devil of a goer, however, that
Mr. Beauchamp, when he has a mind!" thought the man, consoling himself
with the usual straw-catching delusions of hope, as probability waxed
weakly. "He's a devil of a goer when he has a mind! No man gets over
his miles sooner; and as for Martindale, give him but easy ground, and
the beast would do it well in the time without turning a hair."
As he thus cogitated, the roll of wheels sounded past the stable; and,
on looking out, Harding saw the plain chariot of the divine glide
forward with merciful slowness to the door. The step descended with
the same quiet and tranquil movement, and Henry Beauchamp, with deep
and unusual gravity on his countenance, got out, and entered the
house, followed by Dr. Wilton.
Harding lost no time; but immediately made his arrival known to his
master, and, in a private audience, informed him of Mr. Tims's
betrayal of his secret, and of all he had gathered from Captain
Delaware, at the same time throwing in dexterously a few of those
apparently casual words which he judged most likely to prevent Mr.
Beauchamp from holding any direct communication with the family at
Emberton. He still took care, however, to insinuate the necessity of
immediately supplying the deficiency in the sum promised, and clenched
the impression by directing his master's suspicions toward Lord
Ashborough, and Peter Tims, Esq., of Clement's Inn, solicitor, &c. All
that he dared not urge, on his own part, lest he should ruin his
particular plans by the appearance of impudent intrusion, he allowed
Beauchamp by implication--which is generally a sort of semi-lie--to
attribute to Captain Delaware, trusting that any want of vraisemblance
would be covered by the agitation of his master's mind. In all this he
was wonderfully successful; and the more so because every thing that
he said was fundamentally true, and therefore Henry Beauchamp had no
difficulty in believing it to be so. That gentleman, however,
expressed no surprise. In fact, he had been lately troubled with great
deal more surprise than he liked; and he was returning fast to his old
habit of taking every thing as a matter of indifference, or, at least,
of seeming to do so. Beauchamp thought calmly for a few minutes, and
then asked, "How far is it to ----?" naming the town where the county
bank was situated.
"About twenty miles from Emberton, sir," replied the man; "sixteen or
seventeen from this place."
"What is o'clock?" demanded his master, who, in the agitation of the
preceding night, had forgotten to wind up his watch.
The man drew a fine French repeater from his pocket, and examined its
face; but it lied like himself. Hope backed him against time for ten
thousand; and though the watch was too slow by a quarter of an hour,
he took off ten minutes more from the hour it noted.
"Saddle Martindale!" said Mr. Beauchamp, when he had pondered the
man's reply. "Bring him up directly! Then go back to Emberton, and
to-morrow to London, where, do as I bade you before. If you have not
sent over my dressing-cases here, you need not send them--if you
have--have them brought back, and take them up with the other things."
The man bowed and withdrew; and Burrel, after another moment's
thought, descended to Dr. Wilton's library, and informed his worthy
tutor that he had received a sudden call to a different place, which
compelled him to set out immediately. The cause of his departure he
did not disclose, as he felt a great repugnance to make even so
intimate a friend of all the parties as Dr. Wilton, acquainted with
the circumstances of his cousin's difficulties, although he had not
scrupled, during their drive, to inform the good clergyman, that there
was no longer any probability--if there had indeed ever existed
any--of an alliance between his own family and that of Sir Sidney
Delaware. The cause of his different conduct, in regard to these two
affairs, might perhaps be, that generosity is always taciturn where it
is real--love is always loquacious where it is sure of not being
laughed at.
Whether, in a longer conversation, the good doctor might or might not
have seduced Beauchamp into telling him more, can hardly be
ascertained; for scarcely had he announced his intended departure,
when he was informed that his horse was at the door. Dr. Wilton had no
time to express his surprise; but grasping his young friend's hand, he
repeated twice, "Now mind, my dear Harry, mind! I tell you, I am sure
there is some mistake, or some very base man[oe]uvre, and you have
promised not to quit London till you hear from me."
Beauchamp shook his head mournfully. "It is no use, my dear sir," he
replied; "but, nevertheless, of course I will keep my word."
At the door his servant, while holding the stirrup, demanded, in a
peculiarly humble tone, "Pray, sir, may I expect to see you at
Emberton to-night, for there are several things--"
"I shall be at Ryebury, but certainly not at Emberton," answered
Beauchamp. "If there be any thing unsettled when you come to London,
it must be done afterward."
The man bowed low, perfectly satisfied; and Beauchamp and his horse
went off at a gallop. "That will do it!" said Harding, as he saw his
master depart; and, mounting his own beast, he returned calmly to
Emberton, calculating to a nicety at what hour his master would have
paid the money into the hands of Mr. Tims.
In the mean time, Beauchamp rode on, with a light hand and an easy
seat. He was one of those men who bring in their horses quite fresh,
when every other horse in the field is dead beat; and feeling
confident that he could arrange the whole business and return to
Ryebury before night, he did not put Martindale to the top of his
speed. What was his surprise, however, on passing a village church,
after an hour and a half's riding, to find the hand of the dial--that
fatal indicator, which, in every land, has pointed out from age to age
the dying moment of hopes, and wishes, and enjoyments--demonstrating,
beyond a doubt, that the hour was past, and his journey of no avail.
He rode on to the town of ----, however, but the bank was shut. He
inquired for the partners, but there was only one in the town, and he
was nowhere to be found.
Beauchamp bit his lip, and asked himself, "What is to be done now?"
Some men would have thought, that, having exerted themselves so far,
they had done enough, and would have let matters take their course;
but he was not one of that class. The idea crossed his mind, indeed;
and, to use one of his own expressions, he let it strike against his
heart, to see whether it would ring with the sharp, cold, brazen sound
of worldly feelings; but his heart was of a different metal, a great
deal too soft to respond to such hard selfishness. "For his sake, for
her sake, for all their sakes," he thought, "I must save them from
disappointment and disgrace. This Ryebury miser may very likely have
the money with him, and if not, he is, as he informed me, a proprietor
in the neighboring bank, and therefore can easily arrange the matter.
I will tell him who I really am, and give him a power of attorney to
sell out and pay himself."
With this resolution, he gave his horse half an hour's rest, and then
turned his rein once more toward Ryebury, where, we have already seen
that the way was prepared for his purpose, by the previous knowledge
of his rank and fortune which the miser had obtained from Lord
Ashborough's lawyer. As we have endeavored to show in the preceding
pages, Henry Beauchamp had his full share of weaknesses, among which
was a very tolerable portion of irritable pride. A certain
modification of this feeling had made him determine, from the first,
not to set his foot in the streets of Emberton again. That place, it
is true, had likewise, in his mind, a painful association of ideas as
connected with a bitter disappointment; and although he was always
ready to meet such regrets boldly, if they came alone, yet as they
were mingled, in this case, with mortified pride, his resolution gave
way. He was a rejected suitor--a disappointed lover. He who had
fancied that his heart was proof, had been captivated by a simple
country girl, had danced attendance upon her for several weeks, and
had ultimately been rejected. From the words that his servant had
purposely let fall, he felt sure that the whole town of Emberton were
by this time aware of his disappointment; and if ever you have been
skinned alive, reader, you may have some idea of the irritable fear
which he felt of running against the rough and rasping pity, even of
the insignificant animals of a country town.
Two miles, therefore, before he reached Emberton, he turned off from
the high-road, and having by this time refreshed all his boyish
recollections of the country round, he directed his course to a
hamlet, which lay at a distance of about a mile and a half from
Ryebury, and which was possessed of a little public-house, in the
stable of which he could put up his horse, while he himself proceeded
on foot to the dwelling of the miser. The sun was just down as he
reached the hamlet; and after having examined, with habitual care, the
accommodation for his horse, he walked out, and took his way toward
Ryebury, in the midst of as splendid an evening as ever poured through
the autumnal sky. A flood of rich purple was gushing from the west,
with two or three soft clouds of rose color and gold, hanging about
the verge of the sky, while all the rest was blue, "with one star
looking through it, like an eye." On his right lay the rich cultivated
lands between Emberton and Ryebury: so full of tall trees, hedgerows,
masses of planting and park, that the yellow stubble fields, or the
fresh ploughed fallow, could hardly be perceived amidst the warm,
though withering greens of the foliage. On his left lay a high, wooded
bank, above which peered up the edge of a more distant field; and
beyond it again the hills, and wide downs, that stretched away toward
the sea-side, in the dim purple shadow that covered all that part of
the prospect, taking an aspect of wide and dreary solitude, very
different from the gay, sunshiny look the whole assumed in the
daytime. Yet the scene though full of repose, was any thing but
melancholy. The partridges were calling in the fields round about, the
blackbirds were flying on, from bush to bush, before the passenger,
with that peculiar note, something between a twitter and a song, with
which they conclude their melody for the year, and some gay, laughing
voices in the hamlet which he had just left behind, came mellowed by
the distance, and seemed to speak of hearts at rest, and the day's
labor done. As Beauchamp walked slowly on, with feelings in his bosom
which harmonized indeed with the scene, but which carried all that was
solemn in the aspect of the dying day into a sense of profound
dejection, the light waned; and though the purple became of a still
richer hue, the blue assumed also a deeper shade; the stars looked out
as if to supply the place of the glory teat was passing away, and the
long shadows of the high grounds around, spread something more than
twilight through the valley.
I wish it were possible to tell all the mingled feelings that were
then to be found in the wayfarer's heart, as he walked on; and to
point out how weaknesses, and virtues, and fine and generous
sentiments, and human perversities, all linked arm-in-arm together,
walked along with him on the way; how he felt that life was to him a
blank--that the heart had grown old--that the bubble had burst--that
the toy had lost its splendor; how he felt a pride in the very idea of
serving her and hers, whose conduct had dashed the cup of happiness
from his lip forever--and how he thought that his affection might have
been worthy of a higher estimation; and how he cursed his own folly
for ever suffering his heart to become the debased thing that a woman
could trample upon. But his feelings were infinite, and not to be
defined; for in the rainbow of the human heart, the colors and the
shades are so blended together, and softened away into each other,
that it is impossible to say where one ends and the other begins.
Deep thoughts are most beguiling companions. Why wilt thou write such
truisms, oh, my pen? But deep thoughts are most beguiling companions,
and Beauchamp found himself within a hundred and fifty yards of the
miser's house, ere he thought that he had threaded half the way. It
was just where the path he had been following joined the little wooded
lane that led from Emberton, and rose up the high bank on which the
house was situated. The increasing elevation brought a little more
light; and as Henry Beauchamp advanced, he saw a man and woman--who
had been apparently walking together--part as he came near. The male
figure turned hastily toward the little town; the woman glided away in
the direction of the miser's house, and was lost in the obscurity. All
was again still; but a moment after there was a low, plaintive
whistle, which called his attention for an instant. He heard it again,
but at a greater distance, and thought, "It is the curlews upon the
downs;" and, without giving it any further heed, he walked on, and
rang the bell of Mr. Tims's house, in such a manner as to insure that
his visit would not be long unknown to the inmates.
A bustle within immediately succeeded; and from the very highest
window in the house, the head of Mr. Tims himself was thrust
cautiously forth, like that of a tortoise from its shell, or a
hedgehog beginning to unroll. The next moment he retreated, and his
voice was heard calling from the top of the stairs to the bottom,
"Don't open the door, Sarah! Don't open the door! It can be nobody on
any good errand at this time of night! Don't open the door on any
account!" and again he came to the window to examine once more the
aspect of his nocturnal visitor.
As soon as Beauchamp perceived the black ball, which he conceived to
be the crowning member of Mr. Tims's person, once more protruded from
the flat front of the house, he raised his voice sufficiently to
convey the sounds to the elevated point from which the miser was
reconnoitering, and desired him to come down, and give him admission;
adding, "It is I--Mr. Burrel!"
"Mr. Burrel!--No, no!" cried the incredulous miser. "That is not Mr.
Burrel's voice--no, no, I'm not to be done! Go along, sir!"
"Mr. Tims," said Beauchamp, quietly, "come down to me directly. I tell
you again, I am Mr. Burrel; and having heard that a part of the sum
that Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson--"
"Hush, hush!" cried the miser, now convinced. "Hush, hush!--I will
come down, sir; I will come down directly. I did not know you at
first; but I will come down in a minute. Sarah, get a light there." No
reply. "Sarah, get a light!" again shouted Mr. Tims; and a moment
after, Sarah's voice was heard, demanding what was the matter.
Mr. Tims now speedily descended; but before he would admit his
visitor, he again made him speak through the door, and took a view of
his person by means of a little grated aperture, placed in the upper
part thereof. The examination was satisfactory, and speedily bars
fell, and bolts were withdrawn, and Henry Beauchamp was admitted
within the walls of a place, whose precautionary fastenings were
exactly like those of a prison, with the only difference of being
intended to keep people out, rather than to keep them in. He was
instantly ushered into the invariable parlor, where, by the light of a
solitary tallow candle, white and perspiring under its efforts to give
light in a warm autumn evening, he explained to Mr. Tims the purpose
of his visit.
Mr. Tims, as we have already seen, well knew who Burrel, as he called
himself, really was, even before he told him; and he had also employed
means to ascertain the amount of his property; but in the present
instance, the prospect of deriving some usurious benefit from his
companion's evident anxiety to furnish the money to Sir Sidney
Delaware, forthwith made him take good care to be utterly ignorant of
every thing concerning him, except that he had drawn upon his agents
for a sum which they had not sufficient assets to pay.
He hummed and he hesitated for a considerable time--declared that he
did not doubt that he was Mr. Beauchamp; but, nevertheless, he must
remind him that he had drawn in the name of Burrel; he might be
perfectly solvent; but such things were never safe without good and
sufficient security. He was quite ready to hand over to him the sum he
had received from Messrs. Steelyard and Wilkinson; but as to advancing
the ten thousand pounds more, really he did not see his way in the
business clearly.
Mr. Beauchamp, who was not to be deceived by all this, reasoned with
him for some time; but at length he assumed another tone, and rising,
took up his hat and stick.
"Since this is the case, Mr. Tims," he said, "the matter must be
arranged otherwise. I had proposed to ride on toward London to-night
in the cool; but as you doubt my respectability, I shall return to
Emberton, and by daylight tomorrow set out for the town of ----, where
you know very well that my agents, to whom I before referred you, are
part proprietors of the bank. There the matter will be done at once,
and I shall be back again before Lord Ashborough's lawyer can arrive.
You will, therefore, be so good as to give me the money which you have
already received; we will exchange all vouchers on the subject, and we
will do without you in the further transaction of this business."
This plan, of course, was not that which Mr. Tims proposed to himself,
and the very mention thereof at once brought him to his senses. He
declared that he had no doubt of Mr. Beauchamp's identity, and
respectability, and solvency; and he should be very glad, indeed, to
accommodate him; but, of course, Mr. Beauchamp would not object to
give him a trifling commission in addition to the ordinary interest,
in order to cover the risk.
"There is no risk at all, sir!" replied Beauchamp, somewhat sharply;
"and you are as much convinced at this moment that I am the person I
represent myself to be, as I am myself. However, name the commission
you require; and if, when weighed against a ride of forty miles, I
find it the least troublesome of the two, you shall have it."
After undergoing a slight convulsion in his anxiety to gain all he
could, and yet not to break off the negotiation, Mr. Tims named the
sum; and, although, at another time, Henry Beauchamp would have ridden
ten times the distance sooner than yield to his exaction, yet the
bitter disappointment he had received that morning, and the sort of
mental lassitude that it had left, made him agree to the miser's
demand, though he did it with a sneer. This, however, by no means
concluded the business; for Mr. Tims, calculating on the bonus
promised him by Sir Sidney Delaware, proposed to pay the money over
himself the next day; while Beauchamp--who, from the shuffling he
observed, and a strong suspicion of some foul play on the part of his
uncle's lawyer, did not choose to trust him--required that it should
be immediately given into his own hands. On this point Mr. Tims fought
inch by inch most gallantly. First, he declared that he had not so
much money in the house; next, the necessary stamps could not be
procured; and, lastly, when he saw that he had fairly worn his
opponent out, he acknowledged that he expected a commission from Sir
Sidney Delaware for raising the money; and, showing Beauchamp a letter
from the baronet to that effect, he prevailed upon him to add that sum
also to his note of hand for the ten thousand pounds, trusting to his
own ingenuity to be able to wring it a second time from Sir Sidney
himself. As soon as this was done, there was no longer any difficulty
about the money; and while Beauchamp, furnished with pen and ink,
remained writing in the parlor, with every now and then passing over
his countenance a sneer at himself for having yielded so tamely to the
miser's exactions, Mr. Tims visited some far distant part of his
dwelling, and, after a considerable interval, returned with the whole
of the sum required, which, thanks to the blessed invention of paper,
now lay in a very small compass.
The rest of the business was soon settled, except the matter of a
stamp; and as the miser--although he now frankly admitted that he knew
the quondam Mr. Burrel to be Henry Beauchamp, nephew and heir to Lord
Ashborough--seemed not a little anxious upon this matter, alleging
sagely that Mr. Beauchamp might die, might be thrown from his horse
and killed, _et c[oe]tera, et c[oe]cetera_, his young visitor both
drew up such an acknowledgment as might be afterward stamped, if
necessary, and desired him to send down to Emberton for what was
farther required, promising that he himself would return in an hour
and sign the document, which was still more cautiously to insure the
miser against loss.
He then rose and departed--Mr. Tims viewing, with that mixture of
pity, wonder, and admiration wherewith cowards regard heroes, the
young gentleman issued forth into the dark night air, loaded with so
large a sum, and armed with nothing but a small ash twig, not thicker
than his little finger. Burrel, however, like a great many other
heroes, never suspected for a moment that he was in any danger, and
walked on quite calmly, though he could not help noticing the same
peculiar whistle which he had heard before. Nothing, however, occurred
to interrupt him. A bright moon was now rising up; and, at the
distance of a little more than a mile from the miser's house, just
where the lane opened out upon a wide upland field, he perceived the
figure of a man coming rapidly over the rise. He himself was hid by
the bushes and trees; but, by the walk and air, he immediately
recognized Captain Delaware in the person who now approached. There
would be no use of staying here, at the fag-end of a chapter, to
analyze or scrutinize the train of feelings or of reasonings that made
Beauchamp at once determine to avoid an interview. Suffice it that his
resolution was instantaneous; and pushing through the hedge, near
which he stood, at the cost both of gloves and hands, he walked
forward on the other side of the hedgerow, while William Delaware
passed him within a couple of yards' distance.