CHAPTER LIII -- AND LAST

The fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are nearly

closed. The little that remains to their historian to relate, is

told in few and simple words.

Before three months had passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were

married in the village church which was henceforth to be the scene

of the young clergyman’s labours; on the same day they entered into

possession of their new and happy home.

Mrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and daughter-in-law,

to enjoy, during the tranquil remainder of her days, the greatest

felicity that age and worth can know--the contemplation of the

happiness of those on whom the warmest affections and tenderest

cares of a well-spent life, have been unceasingly bestowed.

It appeared, on full and careful investigation, that if the wreck

of property remaining in the custody of Monks (which had never

prospered either in his hands or in those of his mother) were

equally divided between himself and Oliver, it would yield, to each,

little more than three thousand pounds. By the provisions of his

father’s will, Oliver would have been entitled to the whole; but Mr.

Brownlow, unwilling to deprive the elder son of the opportunity of

retrieving his former vices and pursuing an honest career, proposed

this mode of distribution, to which his young charge joyfully

acceded.

Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to

a distant part of the New World; where, having quickly squandered

it, he once more fell into his old courses, and, after undergoing a

long confinement for some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length

sunk under an attack of his old disorder, and died in prison. As far

from home, died the chief remaining members of his friend Fagin’s

gang.

Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son. Removing with him and the

old housekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage-house, where

his dear friends resided, he gratified the only remaining wish of

Oliver’s warm and earnest heart, and thus linked together a little

society, whose condition approached as nearly to one of perfect

happiness as can ever be known in this changing world.

Soon after the marriage of the young people, the worthy doctor

returned to Chertsey, where, bereft of the presence of his old

friends, he would have been discontented if his temperament had

admitted of such a feeling; and would have turned quite peevish if

he had known how. For two or three months, he contented himself with

hinting that he feared the air began to disagree with him; then,

finding that the place really no longer was, to him, what it had

been, he settled his business on his assistant, took a bachelor’s

cottage outside the village of which his young friend was pastor,

and instantaneously recovered. Here he took to gardening, planting,

fishing, carpentering, and various other pursuits of a similar kind:

all undertaken with his characteristic impetuosity. In each and all

he has since become famous throughout the neighborhood, as a most

profound authority.

Before his removal, he had managed to contract a strong friendship

for Mr. Grimwig, which that eccentric gentleman cordially

reciprocated. He is accordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig a great many

times in the course of the year. On all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig

plants, fishes, and carpenters, with great ardour; doing everything

in a very singular and unprecedented manner, but always maintaining

with his favourite asseveration, that his mode is the right one.

On Sundays, he never fails to criticise the sermon to the young

clergyman’s face: always informing Mr. Losberne, in strict

confidence afterwards, that he considers it an excellent

performance, but deems it as well not to say so. It is a standing

and very favourite joke, for Mr. Brownlow to rally him on his old

prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him of the night on which

they sat with the watch between them, waiting his return; but

Mr. Grimwig contends that he was right in the main, and, in proof

thereof, remarks that Oliver did not come back after all; which

always calls forth a laugh on his side, and increases his good

humour.

Mr. Noah Claypole: receiving a free pardon from the Crown

in consequence of being admitted approver against Fagin: and

considering his profession not altogether as safe a one as he

could wish: was, for some little time, at a loss for the means of

a livelihood, not burdened with too much work. After some

consideration, he went into business as an Informer, in which

calling he realises a genteel subsistence. His plan is, to walk out

once a week during church time attended by Charlotte in respectable

attire. The lady faints away at the doors of charitable publicans,

and the gentleman being accommodated with three-penny worth of

brandy to restore her, lays an information next day, and pockets

half the penalty. Sometimes Mr. Claypole faints himself, but the

result is the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, deprived of their situations, were gradually

reduced to great indigence and misery, and finally became paupers

in that very same workhouse in which they had once lorded it over

others. Mr. Bumble has been heard to say, that in this reverse

and degradation, he has not even spirits to be thankful for being

separated from his wife.

As to Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still remain in their old posts,

although the former is bald, and the last-named boy quite grey. They

sleep at the parsonage, but divide their attentions so equally among

its inmates, and Oliver and Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that

to this day the villagers have never been able to discover to which

establishment they properly belong.

Master Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes’s crime, fell into a train

of reflection whether an honest life was not, after all, the best.

Arriving at the conclusion that it certainly was, he turned his back

upon the scenes of the past, resolved to amend it in some new sphere

of action. He struggled hard, and suffered much, for some time; but,

having a contented disposition, and a good purpose, succeeded in the

end; and, from being a farmer’s drudge, and a carrier’s lad, he is

now the merriest young grazier in all Northamptonshire.

And now, the hand that traces these words, falters, as it approaches

the conclusion of its task; and would weave, for a little longer

space, the thread of these adventures.

I would fain linger yet with a few of those among whom I have so

long moved, and share their happiness by endeavouring to depict

it. I would show Rose Maylie in all the bloom and grace of early

womanhood, shedding on her secluded path in life soft and gentle

light, that fell on all who trod it with her, and shone into their

hearts. I would paint her the life and joy of the fire-side circle

and the lively summer group; I would follow her through the sultry

fields at noon, and hear the low tones of her sweet voice in the

moonlit evening walk; I would watch her in all her goodness and

charity abroad, and the smiling untiring discharge of domestic

duties at home; I would paint her and her dead sister’s child happy

in their love for one another, and passing whole hours together in

picturing the friends whom they had so sadly lost; I would summon

before me, once again, those joyous little faces that clustered

round her knee, and listen to their merry prattle; I would recall

the tones of that clear laugh, and conjure up the sympathising tear

that glistened in the soft blue eye. These, and a thousand looks and

smiles, and turns of thought and speech--I would fain recall them

every one.

How Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day, filling the mind of his

adopted child with stores of knowledge, and becoming attached to

him, more and more, as his nature developed itself, and showed the

thriving seeds of all he wished him to become--how he traced in him

new traits of his early friend, that awakened in his own bosom old

remembrances, melancholy and yet sweet and soothing--how the two

orphans, tried by adversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to

others, and mutual love, and fervent thanks to Him who had protected

and preserved them--these are all matters which need not to be told.

I have said that they were truly happy; and without strong affection

and humanity of heart, and gratitude to that Being whose code is

Mercy, and whose great attribute is Benevolence to all things that

breathe, happiness can never be attained.

Within the altar of the old village church there stands a white

marble tablet, which bears as yet but one word: ‘AGNES.’ There is no

coffin in that tomb; and may it be many, many years, before another

name is placed above it! But, if the spirits of the Dead ever come

back to earth, to visit spots hallowed by the love--the love beyond

the grave--of those whom they knew in life, I believe that the shade

of Agnes sometimes hovers round that solemn nook. I believe it none

the less because that nook is in a Church, and she was weak and

erring.

THE MISER’S DAUGHTER

A Tale

By William Harrison Ainsworth

Author Of ‘The Tower Of London’

l842

‘The delineation of such characters as these I consider as very moral

instruction to mankind, and a lesson more demonstrative of the

perfect vanity of unused wealth, than has lately been presented to the

public.’--Topham’s _Life of Elwes_.

Other and lighter portions of the Tale refer to the adventures of a

young man on his first introduction to town life about the middle of the

eighteenth century, when Ranelagh was in its zenith, and Vauxhall and

Marylebone Gardens in vogue; when the Thames boasted its Folly; and when

coffee-houses filled the place of clubs. The descriptions I believe to

be tolerably accurate; and they are at all events carefully done, with

the view of giving a correct idea of the manners, habits, and pursuits

of our great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Temptations to

pleasurable excess were no doubt sufficiently abundant then.

[[[RANDULPH CREW--THE MISER’S DWELLING IN THE LITTLE SANCTUARY]]]

|In a large, crazy, old-fashioned house at the corner of the Little

Sanctuary in Westminster, and facing the abbey, dwelt, in the year

1744, a person named Scarve. From his extraordinary penurious habits, he

received the appellation of _Starve_, and was generally denominated by

his neighbours ‘Miser Starve.’ Few, if any, of those who thus designated

him, knew much about him, none of them being allowed to cross his

threshold; but there was an air, even externally, about his dwelling,

strongly indicative of his parsimonious character. Most of the windows

in the upper stories, which, as is usual with habitations of that date,

far overhung the lower, were boarded up; and those not thus closed were

so covered with dust and dirt that it was impossible to discern any

object through them. Many parts of the building were in a ruinous

condition, and, where the dilapidations were not dangerous, were left in

that state; but wherever some repairs were absolutely necessary to keep

the structure together, they were made in the readiest and cheapest

manner. The porch alone preserved its original character. It projected

far beyond the door-way, and was ornamented with the arms of a former

occupant of the habitation, carved in bold relief in oak, and supported

by two mermaids sculptured in the same wood. All the lower windows were

strongly grated, and darkened like the upper with long-accumulated dust.

The door was kept constantly bolted and barred, even in the daytime; and

the whole building had a dingy, dismal, and dungeon-like aspect.

[[[RANDULPH CREW DELIVERING THE PACKET TO MR. SCARVE--THE MISER AND HIS

DAUGHTER---RANDULPH DELIVERS THE PACKET TO THE FORMER]]]

|Following his conductor along the passage, the boards of which, being

totally destitute of carpet or cloth, sounded hollowly beneath

their feet, Randulph Crew glanced at the bare walls, the dusty and

cobweb-festooned ceiling, and the staircase, as devoid of covering as

the passage, and could not but admit that the account given him by the

barber of Mr. Scarve’s miserly habits was not exaggerated. Little time,

however, was allowed him for reflection. Jacob marched quickly on,

and pushing open a door on the right, ushered him into his master’s

presence.

Mr. Scarve was an old man, and looked much older than he really

was--being only sixty-five, whereas he appeared like eighty. His frame

was pinched as if by self-denial, and preternaturally withered and

shrivelled; and there was a thin, haggard, and almost hungry look about

his face, extremely painful to contemplate. His features were strongly

marked, and sharp, and his eye, grey, keen, and piercing. He was dressed

in a thread-bare cloth robe, trimmed with sable, and wore a velvet

nightcap, lined with cotton, on his head. The rest of his habiliments

were darned and patched in an unseemly manner. Beside him was a small

table, on which was laid a ragged and dirty cloth, covered with the

remains of his scanty meal, which Randulph’s arrival had interrupted.

Part of a stale loaf, a slice of cheese, and a little salt constituted

the repast.

Everything in the room bespoke the avaricious character of its owner.

The panelled walls were without hangings or decoration of any kind. The

room itself, it was evident, had known better days and richer garniture.

It was plain, but handsome in its character, and boasted a large and

well-carved chimney-piece, and a window filled with stained glass

displaying the armorial bearings of the former possessor of the house,

though now patched in many places with paper, and stopped up in others

with rags. This window was strongly grated, and the bars were secured

in their turn by a large padlock, placed inside the room. Over the

chimney-piece were placed a couple of large blue and white china

bottles, with dried everlasting flowers stuck in the necks. There were

only two chairs in the room and a stool. The best chair was appropriated

by the miser himself. It was an old-fashioned affair, with great wooden

arms, and a hard leathern back, polished like a well-blacked shoe by

frequent use. A few coals, carefully piled into a little pyramid, burnt

within the bars, as if to show the emptiness of the grate, and diffused

a slight gleam, like a mocking laugh, but no sort of heat. Beside it

sat Mrs. Clinton, an elderly maiden lady, almost as wintry-looking and

pinched as her brother-in-law. This antiquated lady had a long thin

neck and a skin as yellow as parchment; but the expression of her

countenance, though rather sharp and frosty, was kindly. She wore a

close-fitting gown of dark camlet, with short tight sleeves, that by

no means concealed the angularities of her figure. Her hair, which

was still dark as in her youth, was gathered up closely behind, and

surmounted by the small muslin cap then in vogue.

The object, however, that chiefly riveted Randulph’s attention on his

entrance was neither the miser himself nor his sister-in-law--it was his

daughter. Her beauty was so extraordinary that it acted like a surprise

upon him, occasioning a thrill of delight, mingled with a feeling of

embarrassment. Rising as he entered the room, she gracefully, and

with much natural dignity, returned his salutation, which, through

inadvertence, he addressed almost exclusively to her. Hilda Scarve’s age

might be guessed at nineteen. She was tall, exquisitely proportioned,

with a pale clear complexion, set off by her rich raven tresses, which,

totally unrestrained, showered down in a thick cloud over her shoulders.

Her eyes were large and dark, luminous, but steady, and indicated

firmness of character. Her look was grave and sedate, and there was

great determination in her beautifully formed but closely compressed

lips. Her aspect and deportment exhibited the most perfect self-command,

and whatever effect might be produced upon her by the sudden entrance of

the handsome visitor, not a glance was suffered to reveal it, while he,

on the contrary, could not repress the admiration excited by her beauty.

He was, however, speedily recalled to himself by the miser, who, rapping

the table impatiently, exclaimed, in a querulous tone--

‘Your business, sir?--your business?’

[Illustration: 0256]

‘I have come to deliver this to you, sir,’ replied Randulph, producing a

small packet, and handing it to the miser. ‘I should tell you, sir,’ he

added, in a voice of emotion, ‘that it was my father’s wish that this

packet should be given to you a year after his death--but not before.’

‘And your father’s name,’ cried the miser, bending eagerly forward,

and shading his eyes so as to enable him to see the young man more

distinctly, ‘was--was----’

‘The same as my own, Randulph Crew,’ was the reply. ‘Gracious heaven!’

exclaimed the miser, falling back in his chair, ‘and is he dead?--my

friend--my old friend!’ and he pressed his hand to his face, as if to

hide his emotion.

Hilda bent anxiously over him, and tried to soothe him, but he pushed

her gently away.

‘Having discharged my mission, I will now take my leave,’ said Randulph,

after a slight pause, during which he looked on in silent astonishment.

‘I will call at some other time, Miss Scarve, to speak to your father

respecting the packet.’

‘No, stay!’ cried Hilda hastily. ‘Some old and secret spring of

affection has been touched. I entreat you to wait till he recovers. He

will be better presently.’

‘He is better now,’ replied the miser, uncovering his face; ‘the fit

is past; but it was sharp while it lasted. Randulph Crew,’ he added

faintly, and stretching out his thin hand to him, ‘I am glad to see you.

Years ago, I knew your father well. But unhappy circumstances separated

us, and since then I have seen nothing of him. I fancied him alive, and

well, and happy, and your sudden announcement of his death gave me a

great shock. Your father was a good man, Randulph--a good man, and a

kind one.’

‘He was, indeed, sir,’ rejoined the young man, in a broken voice, the

tears starting to his eyes.

‘But somewhat careless in money matters, Randulph--thoughtless and

extravagant,’ pursued the miser. ‘Nay, I mean nothing disrespectful

to his memory,’ he added, seeing the young man’s colour heighten. ‘His

faults were those of an over-generous nature. He was no man’s enemy but

his own. He once had a fine property, but I fear he dissipated it.’

‘At all events, he greatly embarrassed it, sir,’ replied Randulph;

‘and I lament to say that the situation of his affairs preyed upon his

spirits, and no doubt hastened his end.’

‘I feared it would be so,’ said the miser, shaking his head. ‘But the

estates were entailed. They are yours now, and unembarrassed.’

‘They might have been so, sir,’ replied the young man; ‘but I have

foregone the advantage I could have taken of my father’s creditors, and

have placed the estates in their hands, and for their benefit.’

‘You don’t mean to say you have been guilty of such incredible folly,

for I can call it nothing else?’ cried the miser in a sharp and angry

tone, and starting to his feet. What! give the estates to the very men

who ruined your father! Have you been rash and unadvised enough to break

down the barriers the law had built around you for your protection, and

let in the enemy into the very heart of the citadel? It is the height of

folly--of madness!’

‘Folly or not, sir,’ returned the young man haughtily, ‘I do not repent

the step I have taken. Mv first consideration was to preserve the memory

of my father unblemished.’

‘Unblemished!--pshaw!’ cried the miser. ‘You would have cleared the

spots from your father’s 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.

[[[RANDULPH CREW INTRODUCED TO BEAU VILLIERS ON THE MALL--ST. JAMES’S

PARK]]]

|Randulph and his two uncles sallied forth, and, crossing Westminster

Bridge, shaped their course towards Saint James’s Park. As they passed

the Little Sanctuary, Randulph could not help gazing towards the

dungeon-like dwelling which enshrined her who had made so deep an

impression upon him. Uncle Abel noticed his look, and partly divining

the cause of it, said,

‘Remember what I told you. Disobey me, and you will rue it.’

Randulph would have made some reply, but he was checked by a significant

glance from uncle Trussell.

Passing through the Gate House, they entered the park by a small doorway

at the end of Prince’s Court. It was now noon, and a warm and genial

day. The avenues of trees then extending between this point and

Rosamond’s Pond were crowded with persons of both sexes, and of all

ranks, summoned forth by the fineness of the weather.

Amused by the scene, Randulph gazed with much curiosity at all presented

to his view. Passing by the Decoy, the party skirted the great canal,

and leaving Rosamond’s Pond on the left, proceeded towards Buckingham

House.

Just at this juncture, uncle Trussell caught sight of a gay party

approaching, and exclaimed, in a joyful tone, to his nephew, ‘As I live,

we are most fortunate! There is the leader of fashion, Beau Villiers,

coming towards us. You shall know him, nephew--you shall know him.

The ladies he is walking with are Lady Brabazon and the Honourable

Clementina Brabazon--a fine girl, Clementina--a remarkably fine girl;

perfect in style and manners--quite a toast among the sparks. The old

fellow at her side, Sir Singleton Spinke, was a great beau in his time,

though never equal to Villiers, who far surpasses even his prototype,

Beau Fielding, in style and taste. You shall know them all.’

‘And nice acquaintances you will make!’ remarked uncle Abel sneeringly.

‘Never mind him, Randulph,’ whispered uncle Trussell. ‘If you know this

set, and they like you, you may know whom you please. Beau Villiers

commands all society, from the highest down to--to------’

[[[RANDULPH CREW INTRODUCED TO BEAU VILLIERS ON THE MALL--ST. JAMES’S

PARK]]]

‘Mr. Trussell Beechcroft,’ replied uncle Abel.

‘Well, down to me, if you please,’ rejoined uncle Trussell, ‘and that

shows it does not extend too low. But, Randulph, I beg you to look at

the beau. Did you ever see a finer man?’

‘He is very handsome, certainly,’ replied Randulph, ‘and remarkably well

dressed.’

‘He is a great coxcomb, a great rake, and a great gamester, Randulph,’

said uncle Abel; ‘beware of him.’

‘Tush, never mind what he says,’ rejoined uncle Trussell, who really

wished to have the éclat of introducing his handsome nephew to the beau.

‘Come along!’

So saying, he took his nephew’s arm and hurried him forward. Pushing

their way through the throng, they soon approached the sentry-box

opposite Buckingham House, near which they encountered the party in

question.

Beau Villiers, who was, indeed, a remarkably handsome man, and dressed

in the extremity of the mode, wore an embossed velvet coat, embroidered

with silver, with broad cuffs similarly ornamented; a white waistcoat of

the richest silk, likewise heed with silver; and tawny velvet breeches,

partly covered with pearl-coloured silk hose, drawn above the knee, and

secured with silver garters. His dress was completed by shoes of

black Spanish leather, fastened by large diamond buckles, and a superb

Ramillies periwig of the lightest flaxen hair, which set off his

brilliant complexion and fine eyes to admiration. He carried a

three-cornered hat, fringed with feathers, and a clouded cane, mounted

with a valuable pebble.

Near the beau walked Lady Brabazon, a gorgeous dame of about

five-and-forty, and still possessed of great personal attractions, which

she omitted no means of displaying. She wore a hoop, and a blue and

silver satin sack. Struck by Randulph’s figure at a distance, she had

pointed him out to the beau, who thereupon vouchsafed to look towards

him.

Behind Lady Brabazon came her daughter, Clementina, a very pretty and

very affected blonde of two-and-twenty, with an excessively delicate

complexion, fair hair, summer blue eyes, and a very mincing gait. She

was exquisitely dressed in the last new mode, with a small escalloped

lace cap, her hair crisply curled at the sides, a triple row of pearls

round her neck, and a diamond cross attached to the chain; and though

she pretended to be interested in the discourse of the old knight, it

was evident her regards were attracted by the handsome young stranger.

As to the old beau, he was, indeed, supremely ridiculous. He was attired

in a richly embroidered cinnamon-coloured velvet coat, with fur cuffs of

a preposterous size, each as large as a modern muff. His pantaloon legs

were covered with pink silk hose; his wrinkled features were rouged

and bepatched; and his wig was tied with a large bow, and had such an

immense queue to it, that it looked as if a Patagonian dragon-fly had

perched on the back of his neck. Lady Brabazon was attended by a

little black page, in a turban and eastern dress, who had charge of

her favourite lap-nile. Uncle Abel drew on one side to allow the

introduction to take place, and to witness it, uncle Trussell stepped

forward, and bowing obsequiously to Beau Villiers, pointed to Randulph,

‘Permit me,’ he said, ‘to introduce my nephew, Mr. Randulph Crew, to

you, Mr. Villiers. He is fresh from the country. But even there, your

reputation has reached him.’

[Illustration: 0264]

‘I am happy to make his acquaintance,’ replied the beau, courteously

returning Randulph’s bow, and eyeing him curiously at the same time. ‘On

my faith, your ladyship,’ he added aloud to Lady Brabazon, ‘the young

man is not amiss, but destroyed by his wretched equipments and rustic

air.’

‘I really think something may be made of him,’ returned Lady Brabazon,

in the same loud and confidential tone. ‘Mr. Trussell Beechcroft,

introduce your nephew.’

‘With the greatest pleasure, your ladyship,’ replied Trussell, obeying

her behest.

‘Come with us,’ said Lady Brabazon to Randulph, after the ceremony had

been gone through. ‘My daughter--Mr. Crew,’ she added, as they passed

along. ‘By the bye, who was that strange old man I saw walking with you

just now?’

‘Who?’ rejoined Randulph evasively, for he felt ashamed, he knew not

why, of acknowledging his uncle.

‘There he is,’ said Lady Brabazon, pointing her fan backwards; ‘he is

staring hard at us, and looks exactly like a--

‘It is my uncle Abel,’ replied Randulph, in some confusion. ‘Your uncle

Abel!’ cried Lady Brabazon, with a scream of who stood on his right.

‘Then the sooner you get rid of uncle Abel the better.’

Abel could not hear the words, but he heard the laugh, saw the gesture,

as well as his nephew’s confusion, and knew that he was the object of

it. He turned away in the opposite direction, muttering to himself as he

went, ‘So, he has taken the first step.’

[[[SIR BULKELEY PRICE BRINGING THE MORTGAGE MONEY TO MR. SCARVE--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, with 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 is 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

shan’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 have 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 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.’

[[[SIR BULKELEY PRICE BRINGING THE MORTGAGE MONEY TO MR. SCARVE]]]

‘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 Welsh 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 periwig 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 toward 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 daresay 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 shan’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 Welsh 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.’

[Illustration: 0272]

‘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 acclamation of the

spectators. The same persons next began to hoot Jacob, and even seemed

disposed to assail him; but being now provided with his crab-stick, he

presented such a menacing and formidable appearance, that those nearest

him slunk off.

[[[HILDA’S VISIT TO ABEL BEECHCROFT]]]

|Hilda yielded at length to her aunt’s entreaties, and having put on

her walking attire, quitted the house with Jacob. Instead of going over

Westminster Bridge, they proceeded to Parliament Stairs, where Jacob

said he had a friend a waterman, who would lend him a boat, in which

they could cross the river. Nor did he assert more than the truth. On

reaching the stairs, the first person he encountered was the friendly

waterman in question, who, on learning his wishes, immediately ran down

and got his skiff ready. Having placed Hilda within it, Jacob took off

his coat, and plying the oars with as much skill as the best rower on

the Thames could have done, speedily landed her at Lambeth, and secured

the boat, where he inquired the way to Mr. Beechcroft’s house. A walk of

a few seconds brought them to it. Hilda’s heart trembled as she knocked

at the door; but she was reassured by the kindly aspect of Mr. Jukes,

who answered the summons. She stated her errand to the butler, who

appeared not a little surprised, and, indeed, confounded, at the

announcement of her name. After a short debate with himself, Mr. Jukes

said his master was at home, and she should see him; and, without more

ado, he led the way to the library, and entered it, followed by the

others.

Abel was seated beside an old-fashioned bookcase, the door of which

was open, disclosing a collection of goodly tomes, and had placed the

book-stand, supporting the volume he was reading, in such a position as

to receive the full light of the window. So much was he engaged in his

studies that he did not hear their approach. In the hasty glance cast

by Hilda at the pictures on the wall, the most noticeable of which was a

copy of Rembrandt’s ‘Good Samaritan,’ and a fine painting on the

subject of ‘Timon of Athens,’ she thought she could read somewhat of the

character of the owner of the house. Little time, however, was allowed

her for reflection, for Mr. Jukes, advancing towards his master’s chair,

leaned over it, and whispered a few words in his ear.

‘What!--who!--who did you say?’ exclaimed Abel, half-closing the book he

was reading, and looking sharply and anxiously round. ‘Who did you say,

Jukes?’

‘Miss Scarve, sir,’ replied the butler; ‘she has brought you a letter.’

‘Tell her I won’t receive it--won’t open it!’ cried Abel. ‘Why did you

not send her away? What brings her here?’

‘You had better put that question to her yourself, sir,’ replied Mr.

Jukes, ‘for she is in this room.’

‘Here!’ exclaimed Abel, starting to his feet. ‘Ah! I see--I see. O God!

she is very like her mother.’

[Illustration: 0280]

‘Calm yourself, I entreat, sir,’ said Mr. Jukes; ‘I would not have

admitted her,’ he added, in a low tone, ‘but that she told me the

letter was written by her mother, and left to be delivered to you under

peculiar circumstances, which have now arisen. I couldn’t resist a plea

like that--nor could you, sir, I’m sure.’

‘A letter written to me by her mother! cried Abel, shivering, as if

smitten by an ague. ‘Leave us, Jukes, and take that man with you.’

‘Come, friend,’ said Mr. Jukes to Jacob, who, with his crab-stick under

his arm, stood gazing curiously on, ‘you had better adjourn with me to

the butler’s pantry.’

‘Thank’ee kindly, sir,’ replied Jacob, in tones a little less gruff than

usual, for he was somewhat awestricken; ‘I would rather stay with my

young missis.’

‘But don’t you see you’re in the way, my good man?’ rejoined Mr. Jukes

impatiently; ‘they can’t talk before us. Come along.’ And despite his

resistance, he pushed Jacob out of the room, and closed the door after

him.

‘You have a letter for me, young lady, I believe,’ faltered Abel in a

voice hollow and broken by emotion.

‘I have, sir,’ she replied, giving it to him.

Abel looked at the address, and another sharp convulsion passed over his

frame. He, however, controlled himself by a powerful effort, and broke

the seal. The perusal of the letter seemed to affect him deeply, for,

staggering to his chair, he sank into it, and covering his face with his

hands, wept aloud. It was some minutes before he arose. Hilda, who had

watched him with much concern, was surprised to see how calm he looked.

He had, indeed, regained the mastery he usually held over his feelings.

‘Pray be seated, young lady,’ he said, handing her a chair. ‘I would

have shunned this interview if it had been in my power, but as it has

been brought about, I will not shrink from it. How can I serve you?’

Hilda then proceeded to explain the object of her visit. Abel listened

to her recital with a quivering lip and flashing eye, and at its close

got up, and took a quick turn round the room.

‘This is only what might be expected from him--scoundrel!’ he

ejaculated. ‘Sell his daughter!--but that is nothing--he would sell

his soul for gold! I beg your pardon, young lady,’ he added, checking

himself, as he saw the pain his exclamations occasioned her, ‘but if you

knew the deep and irremediable injury inflicted on me by your father,

you would pardon this outbreak of passion. He has sacrificed others

without scruple, but he shall not sacrifice you. You may count on my

assistance, my protection, if you choose to confide in me.’

‘I have my mother’s injunction to confide in you, sir,’ she replied.

‘Your mother!’ exclaimed Abel, in a voice of agony. ‘Oh, Hilda! what a

fearful spell is there in that word!--what a host of feelings does

it not summon up! I see your mother again as I remember her in her

youth--beautiful as you are, more beautiful, if possible--certainly more

blooming. I hear the music of her voice as I listen to yours; I feel

again the charm inspired by her presence. You shall learn my history

one of these days, and you will then know why your mother addressed this

letter to me--why it affects me thus.’

‘I can partly guess the cause,’ returned Hilda mournfully; ‘but be

it what it may, it is plain she felt she had a strong hold on your

affections, and that she thought she could rely on you, when she could

rely on no one else.’

‘If she thought so, she judged rightly,’ replied Abel. ‘I consider her

request as a sacred injunction, and will strive to comply with it. And

now,’ he added, changing his tone, ‘I must tell you that your name has

been brought before me of late. My nephew, Randulph Crew, who visited

your father the other night, has spoken of you.’ Hilda slightly

coloured. ‘He will much regret not being at home this morning,’ pursued

Abel, ‘as he might have had an opportunity of further cultivating his

acquaintance with you. But he is gone out with my brother.’

‘I hope it will not offend you to say I am glad of it,’ replied Hilda;

‘I would not willingly have met him.’

‘Why so?’ asked Abel, who, however, looked somewhat relieved.

‘Because, sir, I will be frank with you,’ she replied, ‘and own that my

father attributes my increased dislike of my cousin to a predilection

for your nephew.’

‘And may I expect equal frankness in the reply, if I ask whether there

is any truth in your father’s suppositions?’ rejoined Abel.

‘You may,’ she answered. ‘Your nephew appears a very amiable and

pleasing young man, but having seen him only for a few minutes, I cannot

possibly feel an interest in him beyond such as might be inspired by any

stranger of equally prepossessing appearance and manners. My aversion

to my cousin arises from various causes. I half suspect him of acting a

very base part towards my father, who resolutely shuts his eyes to the

deception.’

‘I will not affect to deny that I am pleased with what you say of your

indifference to my nephew, Hilda,’ returned Abel, ‘because I have other

views in reference to him. As to your cousin, Philip Frewin, I will make

strict inquiries about him, and if your suspicions prove correct, I will

myself unmask him to your father, which may perhaps put an end to the

matter. He lives in Fen-church Street, you say. It so happens that

an old friend of mine, a widow lady, Mrs. Verrai--a friend of your

mother’s, by the bye--resides in that street. She is an excellent woman,

but a little of a busy-body and a gossip, and makes it her business to

know her neighbours’ concerns better than her own. I’ll venture to say

she is acquainted with your cousin’s affairs. I haven’t seen the old

lady of late, because, as you may perhaps have heard, I have little

intercourse with your sex--my habits, and indeed feelings, unfitting me

for their society--but I happen to know from my brother Trussell that

she is well. You had better go to her yourself. I will give you a note

of introduction--though, indeed, it is not needed, for, as I have told

you, she is an old friend of your mother’s. In addition to gaining all

the information you may require respecting your cousin, you will make

a friend with whom you may take refuge, if matters--which we will not

anticipate--should unhappily render such a step necessary.’

‘I will do as you suggest, sir,’ replied Hilda; ‘but suppose I should

encounter my cousin?’

‘Tell him where you are going,’ replied Abel; ‘and depend upon it, if

he is not what he represents himself, he will be the first to take the

alarm. I will myself institute inquiries about him in another quarter.’

With this, he proceeded to a table on which writing materials were

placed, and hastily penned a note, and gave it to Hilda. ‘And now, God

bless you, my dear child!’ he said affectionately. ‘If called upon by

circumstances, you shall never want a father or protector in me!’ He

then rang the bell, and Mr. Jukes presently appeared, who informed him

that Jacob had just sat down to dinner with the other servants.

‘I think, sir,’ he added, in a low tone, ‘it is the first good meal he

has had for many a day, and it would be a pity to disturb him, if Miss

Scarve is not in a very great hurry.’

Abel appealed to Hilda, and as she raised no objection, he proposed to

her to take a turn in the garden till Jacob had finished his meal; and

accordingly opened the window and led her forth. By this time Hilda had

become more composed, and being quite easy with the old man, for whom

indeed she felt a growing regard, she entered readily into conversation

with him; and thus more than half an hour flew by, almost without their

being aware of its flight. At the end of that time, Mr. Jukes made his

appearance, and informed them that Jacob was ready. Abel attended his

fair visitor to the door.

‘If you do not find Mrs. Verrai at home,’ he said, ‘or if anything

should occur to make you wish to see me again, do not hesitate to

come back. But, in any event, you shall hear from me--perhaps see me,

to-morrow. God bless you, my child!’ And taking her hand, he pressed it

to his lips; and when Hilda withdrew it, she found it wet with tears.

While this was passing, Jacob shook the hospitable butler warmly by the

hand, and then strode on before his young mistress, towards the stairs

where he had left the boat. Having placed her within it, and divested

himself of his coat and hat, as before, he inquired where she meant

to go, and being told to London Bridge, pulled off vigorously in that

direction.

[[[‘THE FOLLY’--A FLOATING TAVERN ON THE THAMES--KITTY CONWAY--RANDULPH

PLACED IN AN AWKWARD SITUATION BY PHILIP FREWIN]]]

|The Folly on the Thames, whither Beau Villiers and his party were

steering their course, was a large floating house of entertainment,

moored in the centre of the stream, immediately opposite old Somerset

House. It was constructed in the latter part of the reign of Charles

the Second; and thither the merry monarch, who was excessively fond

of aquatic amusements of all kinds, would frequently repair with his

courtiers and frolic dames. Thither also Queen Mary, the consort

of William the Third, went on the occasion of a grand musical

entertainment; and the place continued in vogue for many years, until

at length, degenerating in its character, it became the haunt of a

very disreputable part of the community. The Folly resembled a large

one-storied house, very long in proportion to its width, built upon an

immense barge. There was a platform at the top, defended by a strong

wooden balustrade, and flanked at each corner by a little turret with a

pointed top, surmounted by a small streamer. These turrets constituted

small drinking and smoking rooms, and were fitted up with seats and

tables. In the centre of the structure was a sort of open belvidere,

covering the main staircase leading to the roof. On this a large flag

was planted. The Folly was approached from the water by steps on three

sides. It was lighted by a range of large and handsome windows, and

entered by two doors, one at the end, and the other at the side. Within,

it contained a long music-hall with a frescoed ceiling, gilded and

painted walls, an orchestra, and the necessary complement of benches,

chairs, and small tables. There was, moreover, a bar, where all sorts

of liquors, materials for smoking, and other tavern luxuries were

dispensed. The rest of the structure was divided into a number of small

apartments for private parties, and, in short, boasted every sort of

accommodation afforded by a similar place of entertainment on shore. In

summer it was delightful--the view of the Thames from its summit being

enchanting. The coolness and freshness, combined with the enlivening

influences of beauty, wine, and music, made it, on its first

establishment, a charming place of recreation; and it cannot be wondered

that the merry monarch, and his merrier court, found it so much to their

taste.

[Illustration: 0288]

As the party approached the aquatic hotel, they perceived a number of

persons, of both sexes, seated on the roof, and in the little turret

parlours, smoking, drinking, or otherwise amusing themselves; while

lively strains of music proceeded from within. Several small craft were

landing their passengers, and from one, a tilt boat, there issued a very

pretty young woman, though of rather bold appearance, who, as she

took the hand of a young man in her ascent of the steps, displayed a

remarkably neat foot and ankle. On reaching the deck, she turned for a

moment to survey the scene, and her eye alighting on Randulph, his good

looks appeared to rivet her regards.

This fascinating creature seemed to be about twenty; had very regular

features, auburn hair, a brilliant complexion--whether wholly unindebted

to art might be questioned--but there could be no question as to the

natural brilliancy of her hazel eyes; and wore a pink silk hooped gown,

made very low in front, so as to display her beautifully formed and

radiantly white neck and shoulders. Her sleeves were very short,

probably so contrived with the view of exhibiting her rounded arms, and

edged with lace. A white silk apron embroidered with silver, a pretty

fly-cap, and a necklace of precious stones, from which depended a

diamond cross, completed her attire. The young man, by whom she was

attended, had a slight thin figure, and sharp, disagreeable features,

with rather an apish expression. He was dressed with much smartness, but

had by no means the air of a gentleman, and seemed to be regarded with

indifference, almost amounting to contempt, by his female companion.

‘Who is that young lady?’ asked Randulph of Sir Singleton, who happened

to sit next him.

‘Let me see!’ exclaimed the old beau, placing his glass to his eye.

‘Ah! gadzooks! ’tis the delicious creature I mentioned to you--the little

Haymarket actress, Kitty Conway!’

‘Kitty Conway! where is she?’ cried Trussell, who heard the remark, but

whose back was towards the object of their admiration.

Sir Singleton pointed her out, and upon the instant every eye was

directed towards her. Whether unable to stand so fierce a fire, or

whether, as is more probable, dragged away by her companion, who did not

appear to relish the notice she attracted, it is needless to inquire,

but pretty Kitty suddenly vanished from their sight.

‘Well, isn’t she delicious?’ cried Trussell to Randulph. ‘Egad! you have

made a conquest of pretty Kitty, my boy. I saw the parting glance she

gave you over her shoulder as she whisked through the door. Don’t lose

sight of her. You can soon put the City beau, by whom she is attended,

_hors de combat_.’

Further remarks were interrupted by the arrival of the boat at the

steps. A strange black-muzzled fellow, in a Guernsey shirt, with bare

arms and bare legs, and who was a regular attendant at the Folly, helped

them to disembark; and his request to ‘be remembered’ by the beau being

met with a very munificent rejoinder, he well-nigh lost his balance in

his glee, and got a tumble into the water.

The party then entered the music-hall, and just as they passed through

the door, Randulph, chancing to look behind him, perceived that the

stranger had likewise landed, and was mounting the steps. The novel

scene, however, before him, so completely engrossed his attention, that

he could think of little else. Upwards of a hundred persons of both

sexes thronged the room; many of the ladies were masked, and a good

deal of freedom marked their conduct. They talked and laughed loudly

and recklessly. At one end of the hall, the benches were taken aside

to allow Kitty Conway and her companion, with some other couples,

to perform the cushion dance. At the upper end of the room stood the

musicians. The party made their way towards the dancers, and the beau

and Sir Singleton praised Kitty’s beauty in tones so loud, and in terms

of admiration so strong, as would have occasioned confusion to any young

lady troubled with a more oppressive sense of bashfulness than she was.

Her partner did not know whether to look pleased or annoyed. He was

evidently overpowered by the presence of Beau Villiers, whom he regarded

with a species of awe; and as these applauses of Kitty gave a fancied

consequence to himself, he was weak enough to be gratified by them.

Towards the close of the figure, a particular step, executed by the

pretty actress, elicited more than usual rapture from Sir Singleton,

and he called to Randulph--‘Look at her, Mr. Randulph Crew. Is it not

delicious?’

At the sound of this name, Kitty’s partner started, and stared so hard

at Randulph, that he could scarcely finish the dance.

‘Upon my word, Philip Frewin, you are a very stupid partner,’ said the

actress to him. ‘If you do not exert yourself more, I shall ask that

handsome young fellow, who is ogling me there, to take my hand in the

next set.’

‘I am quite fatigued, Kitty,’ replied Philip confusedly; ‘let us have

some refreshment--a little rack punch, or a glass of champagne.’

Kitty Conway assented, and they moved off to one of the side tables,

where a waiter speedily placed glasses before them, and opened a

bottle of champagne. It must be confessed--unwilling as we are to admit

it--that Randulph was not altogether proof against the undisguised

admiration of the pretty actress, and that he could not help returning

the tender glances she shot towards him.

Meanwhile the performances went forward; an Irish jig followed, in which

Randulph and Sir Singleton joined; this was succeeded by some comic

songs; and Mr. Villiers, who did not altogether relish the entertainment,

walked forth, and was soon after followed by the others. As they all

stood leaning over the sides of the bark, laughing at what had occurred,

and admiring the gaiety of the scene, a skiff, impelled by a vigorous

rower, as was evident by the progress it made, and containing a young

female, wrapped in a black silk scarf, and with raven tresses, scarcely

covered by a small bonnet, floating in the breeze, rapidly neared them.

Various speculations were put forth as to whether this young female

would prove as pretty on a nearer inspection as she looked at a

distance; but in these Randulph took little part. To speak truth, his

thoughts were running upon the fair syren within, and happening to cast

his eyes towards the platform above, he perceived, leaning over the

balustrade, and gazing at him, the stranger!

At this juncture, Philip Frewin came forth, to see whether his boat was

in readiness, and admonished the watermen, one of whom was philandering

with a buxom damsel, who was leaning over the side of the deck, that he

should start immediately. He had scarcely, however, issued the order,

than his eye fell upon the skiff containing the young female before

mentioned, and which was now close at hand. He started as if an

apparition had met his gaze, ducked down, and would have made his escape

into the music-hall, if Kitty Conway had not placed herself in his way.

Retreat was now impossible, and Philip’s distress was heightened by the

fair actress, who exclaimed, somewhat pettishly, ‘Why do you leave me

here, sir? Why don’t you hand me to the boat?’

Philip was almost at his wits’ end. The skiff containing Hilda and

Jacob--both of whom he had too clearly recognised, though he could not

account for their appearance, unless it were a trick of the fiend to

convict him--was so near, that if he complied with Kitty’s request,

discovery would be inevitable. A plan suddenly occurred to him, by which

he hoped to free himself from risk, and place Randulph, whom he had

reason to regard as a rival, in an awkward dilemma. Without apprising

Kitty of his intention, he drew her forward, and bending down as low

as he could to elude observation, said to Randulph--‘Will you have

the kindness, sir, to hand this lady into her boat? You will do me an

infinite favour; I have dropped a pocket-book in the music-hall, and

must go back to search for it.’

Randulph was a good deal surprised by the proposal, but he

unhesitatingly consented; and, taking Kitty’s hand, which she very

graciously accorded, rewarding his attention by a slight squeeze, led

her down the steps. All this occurred to the infinite amusement of

Trussell, who stood a little back near the door, ogling a rather pretty

damsel, and to the no slight chagrin of Sir Singleton, who, guessing the

intention of Philip Frewin, had pushed forward to offer his services,

but found himself supplanted. But these were not the only witnesses of

the scene. By this time, the skiff-, containing Hilda, had come up,

and with a pang of jealous feeling, neither to be accounted for nor

controlled, she beheld Randulph handing the pretty actress, whose

character she could scarcely mistake, down the steps. Jacob saw what

was passing as well as herself, but, having no jealousy to divert his

attention from other matters, he detected Philip Frewin even in his

disguise, and, resting on his oars, exclaimed, ‘Look! miss, look!--there

is your cousin Philip. Is that the dress he wore yesterday? I told

master he wasn’t what he seemed. Look at him, I say!’

But Hilda was too much agitated to heed these exclamations. She could

see nothing but Randulph and the pretty actress. Nor was she without

embarrassment on her own account; for Mr. Cripps, having recognised her,

pointed her out to his master, and the beau, being much struck with her

beauty, favoured her with a very insolent stare. But if Randulph had

been guilty of disloyalty towards the object of his affections, his

punishment was not long delayed; for, as he handed Kitty into the boat,

which was steadied by the black-muzzled Jack before mentioned, his gaze

encountered that of Hilda, and he was instantly filled with confusion.

He tried to disengage himself from the actress, who, however, sportively

detained him, and, unable to retreat, he cut a most ridiculous figure.

Indeed, he was a little relieved, though he felt how much he should

sink in her esteem, when he saw Hilda bend forward, and order Jacob, who

continued resting on his oars, to pass on. He continued gazing after the

skiff till it was out of sight; but Hilda did not look back.

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.

[[[RANDULPH’S INTERVIEW WITH CARDWELL 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 should all 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.

Mindful of his appointment, Randulph, 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 an evening stroll

with the fair Thomasine, who was waiting for him, and he offered to show

Randulph the way; but this the young man, who had his own reasons for

not desiring the attendance of the inquisitive barber, declined, though

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 loth 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 playground 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. Cardwell Firebras?’ exclaimed Randulph in surprise.

[Illustration: 0298]

‘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 haunted me throughout the day. Perhaps you will now

explain your motive for doing so, as well as for summoning me hither.’

‘All in good time, young gentleman,’ replied Cardwell Fire-bras 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. Circumstances

led you into acting very injudiciously this morning at the Folly, and

I fear your conduct may have produced an unfavourable 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 heavy hand upon

Randulph’s arm, and fixed a searching look upon him. ‘Young man,’ he

said, ‘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.’

Surprise kept Randulph silent. But neither he nor his companion were

aware that this treasonable proposition 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.

[[[THE MISER DISCOVERING THE LOSS OF THE MORTGAGE MONEY]]]

|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 that he must have made some mistake, he

drew it out and tried another. This, however, did not fit at all; and

returning the first, he perceived, on examination, that it was the right

one. Again applying it, and proceeding more carefully, 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 must be

wrong, and it was long before he could prevail upon himself to raise the

lid.

[Illustration: 0306]

When he did so, he started 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 has 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 showed him that the iron bars in front of the

little window opposite the chest had been removed.

‘The villains must have found entrance here!’ he cried, rushing towards

the window. And clambering up 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, 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 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 Welsh 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 to do so. Philip Frewin will

refuse to marry my daughter. Her portion is gone--gone! Why was I

tempted 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 rose and

descended to the parlour, where he found Mrs. Clinton anxiously waiting

his reappearance. 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 frightful and pitiable spectacle.

‘For Heaven’s sake, sir, compose yourself,’ she cried, ‘or you will have

a fit of some dangerous illness. You terrify 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 miser. ‘And why did you 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; and this effected, he passed into the

garden.

[[[RANDULPH REFUSING TO DRINK ‘THE KING’S HEALTH OVER THE WATER’--A

MEETING OF THE JACOBITE CLUB]]]

|In about a quarter of an hour the landlord entered the room, and,

bowing to the company, said, ‘I believe, gentlemen, you are all

assembled; the room upstairs is ready, if you are disposed to adjourn

to it.’ The proposition being assented to, the landlord threw open the

door, and a slight contest occurred between the two baronets as to which

should offer the other precedence.

‘I præ, Sir Bulkeley,’ said Sir Norfolk; ‘I will scale the staircase

after you.’

Thus exhorted, Sir Bulkeley, who thought it good breeding not to dispute

a point of needless ceremony, went on. Sir Norfolk marched after him

with majestic steps, and the rest of the party followed. The landlord

ushered them into a large room, lighted by a chandelier suspended from

the ceiling, in the centre of which was a circular table covered with

bottles and glasses. Having hung up their hats against the wall, the

company sat down, and a few bumpers went briskly round. While they were

thus carousing, a tap was heard at the door, and the landlord, opening

a reconnoitring hole within it, spoke to some one without. He next

proceeded to convey the information he had received in a low tone, to

Cardwell Firebras, who immediately said aloud, ‘Oh, yes, admit him by

all means. Gentlemen, a new brother!’ The door was then opened, and

Randulph recognised in the gaily attired, self-possessed coxcomb who was

admitted, Mr. Crackenthorpe Cripps.

‘Take a glass of wine, Mr. Cripps,’ said Firebras, filling a bumper,

and handing it to the new-comer. ‘It is Beau Villiers’s chief valet,’

he added, in an undertone, to Sir Norfolk, who had made a polite though

formal bow to the stranger.

‘What!’ exclaimed Sir Norfolk, almost shuddering at the inadvertence he

had committed; ‘a waiting-man in such costly and nitid attire. Why,

his master, the Pretonius Arbiter of the day, can scarcely be more

studiously refined in the taste and style of the vestments wherewith he

adorneth his person.’

‘Not a whit so,’ laughed Firebras; ‘the only difference between them is,

that Beau Cripps wears in May the coat which Beau Villiers has worn in

April.’

‘Mehercle!’ exclaimed Sir Norfolk. ‘Such prodigality almost exceedeth

belief.’

‘Landlord, it is time!’ cried Father Verselyn, who performed the part of

chairman, and occupied the principal seat.

‘I am ready, your reverence,’ replied the landlord. And he forthwith

proceeded to a cupboard, from which he produced a large china bowl,

apparently filled with punch, and placed it with great care and

solemnity in the centre of the table.

‘Why, it is water,’ exclaimed Randulph, gazing at the clear lymph, with

which, on nearer inspection, he perceived the bowl was filled.

‘To be sure!’ cried Firebras; ‘and we are about to drink the king’s

health--_over the water_. And now, gentlemen,’ he continued, filling

Randulph’s glass and his own, ‘fill, I pray you, to the brim.’

‘I have filled, even to the summit of the vase,’ said Sir Norfolk,

rising and holding up his glass.

‘And I,’ cried Sir Bulkeley, likewise rising.

‘And I,’ added the landlord, who stood next to the last-named baronet,

and was allowed to join in the ceremony.

‘And I--and I,’ chimed Mr. Travers and the valet.

‘Then give the word, my son,’ said Verselyn, addressing Firebras.

‘With the greatest pleasure, father,’ replied Cardwell. And he held his

glass over the bowl, while his example was imitated by all the others

except Randulph. ‘Here is the king’s health “over the water.” Why don’t

you do as we do?’ he added, turning to Randulph.

[Illustration: 0312]

‘Ay, stretch forth your arm over the scyphus, young gentleman,’ cried

Sir Norfolk, pointing to the bowl.

‘You _must_ drink the toast--it’s the rule of the club,’ added Sir

Bulkeley.

‘It is a rule I cannot subscribe to,’ replied Randulph.

‘How!--am I mistaken in you, young man?’ said Firebras, regarding him

menacingly.

‘Do as they bid you, or you’ll have your throat cut, ‘pon rep!’

whispered Mr. Cripps, popping his head over Firebras’s shoulder.

‘Will you drink the toast, or not?’ demanded Firebras fiercely.

‘I will not!’ replied Randulph firmly. ‘It is treasonable, and I refuse

it.’

Randulph’s bold declaration had well-nigh cost him dear. Cries of ‘spy!’

‘traitor!’ ‘Hanoverian!’ ‘down with him!’ resounded on all sides; the

landlord rushed to the door, and placed his back against it, to prevent

any attempt at egress in that way; while Sir Norfolk Salusbury, plucking

his long blade from its sheath, and making it whistle over his head,

kicked a chair that stood between him and the young man out of the

way, and bade him, in a stern tone, defend himself. The confusion was

increased by the vociferations of Mr. Cripps, and by an accident caused

by Sir Bulkeley Price, who, in hurrying round the table, contrived to

entangle himself in the cover, and dragging it off, precipitated the

bottles and glasses to the ground, drenching the lower limbs of his

brother baronet in the contents of the fractured bowl. The only two

persons apparently unmoved in the midst of this uproar were its author

and Cardwell Firebras. The latter made no hostile display, and did not

even alter his position, but kept his eye steadily fixed upon Randulph,

as if anxious to observe the effect of the incident upon him. The young

man maintained his firmness throughout. He retreated a few steps towards

the wall, and put himself in a posture of defence. The nearest of his

antagonists was Sir Norfolk Salusbury; but seeing the others press

forward, the chivalrous Welsh baronet declined commencing the attack.

‘Singulatim!--one at a time, Mr. Travers,’ he cried. ‘Ne Hercules contra

duos. It shall never be said that any man, however unworthy of fair

treatment, fought against odds in the presence of a descendant of Adam

de Salzburg. Stand aside, therefore, sir--and you, Father Verselyn--and

leave him to me, or I must relinquish the right of combat, which I have

in some measure acquired, as being the first to claim it, to you.’

‘Let the young man swear to keep silence touching all he has seen and

heard, or he shall not quit this room alive,’ rejoined Travers.

‘Trust him not--trust him not!’ cried Father Verselyn: ‘his oath will

not bind him. Fall upon him altogether and slay him! That is the only

way to ensure his silence and our safety. I will absolve you of his

blood. The imminence of the danger justifies the deed.’

‘Proh pudor!’ cried Sir Norfolk sternly. ‘That would be trucidation

dedecorous and ignave; neither can I stand by and see it done.’

‘Nor I,’ cried Sir Bulkeley, who had by this time recovered from the

embarrassment occasioned by the accident. ‘I disapprove of Father

Verselyn’s counsel entirely. Let us hear what the young man has to say.

I will question him.’

‘Haudquàquam, Sir Bulkeley,’ replied the other gravely, ‘I gave you

precedence on a recent occasion, but I cannot do so on the present.

I claim this young man as my own--to interrogate, to fight, and,

perchance, to slay him.’

‘Fight him as much as you please, Sir Norfolk, and slay him if you

think proper--or can,’ rejoined Sir Bulkeley angrily; ‘but you shall not

prevent my speaking to him.’

‘Sir Bulkeley Price,’ returned Sir Norfolk, raising his crane neck to

its utmost height, ‘I pray you not to interfere between me and Mr. Crew,

otherwise----’

‘Well, Sir Norfolk, and what then?’ cried the other, his hot Welsh blood

mounting to his cheeks, and empurpling them more deeply than usual.

‘What then, Sir Norfolk?’

‘I shall be compelled to make you render me reason for it,’ replied the

other sternly.

Cardwell Firebras now thought it time to interfere. ‘Gentlemen,’ he

said, advancing towards them, ‘we have plenty of other quarrels to

settle without disputing among ourselves. I brought Mr. Randulph Crew

here, and will be responsible for his silence.’

‘What saith the young man?’ demanded Sir Norfolk. ‘If he will

oppignerate his word for taciturnity, I will take it.’

‘So will I,’ added Sir Bulkeley.

‘I thank you for your good opinion of me, gentlemen,’ returned Randulph.

‘I have been, almost unwittingly, a party to your counsels, and ought

perhaps to have declared my sentiments sooner; but I hoped the meeting

would pass off without rendering any such avowal necessary, in which

case, though I certainly should never have joined your club again, the

secret of its existence would have rested in my own bosom--as it

will now, if I am suffered to depart. I could not avoid expressing my

disapproval of a toast which, in common with every loyal subject of King

George the Second, I hold to be treasonable.’

‘You cannot be the subject of a usurper, young man,’ said Firebras.

‘Your allegiance to King James the Third is unalienable.’

‘Compel him to avow allegiance to his rightful sovereign, Mr. Firebras,’

interposed Father Verselyn.

‘I will sooner lay down my life than comply,’ cried Randulph resolutely.

Firebras looked slightly disconcerted; and Sir Norfolk, who had lowered

the point of his sword, again raised it.

‘It is vain to reason with him, my son,’ whispered Verselyn. ‘Our safety

demands his destruction. If he goes hence we are denounced; and an

irreparable injury will be done to the good cause.’

‘I have promised him safe conduct, father,’ rejoined Firebras; ‘and, at

all risks, I will keep my word. Mr. Randulph Crew, you are at liberty to

depart. You give up all hopes of the miser’s daughter?’ he added, in a

deep whisper.

‘I must, if she is only to be purchased in this way,’ replied Randulph,

in the same tone.

‘Take time to consider of it,’ rejoined Firebras. ‘I will find means

of communicating with you to-morrow. Landlord, attend Mr. Crew to the

door.’

‘You are wrong in letting him go,’ cried Verselyn. ‘You will repent this

blind confidence. Sir Norfolk, I entreat you to interfere--Sir Bulkeley,

I appeal to you.’ But they both turned from him, and sheathed their

swords; while the landlord, having received a sign from Firebras, obeyed

his instructions.

As soon as Randulph was gone, Firebras addressed himself to the two

baronets: ‘I hope no unkindly feeling--none, at least, that cannot

easily be set to rights--subsists between you, gentlemen?’ he said.

‘I shall never quarrel with my good friend, Sir Norfolk, except about a

matter of punctilio,’ replied Sir Bulkeley, who was as easily appeased

as roused to anger.

‘And I ought never to quarrel with one who knows how to make so handsome

a concession as Sir Bulkeley Price,’ replied Sir Norfolk, with a

gracious bow.

‘Then the storm has blown over,’ laughed Firebras. ‘I feared this more

than the other.’

A long discussion then took place among the members of the club as to

Randulph’s introduction to it, and Firebras was severely censured

by Father Verselyn for admitting the young man without testing his

political principles.

‘I do not repent what I have done, father,’ returned Firebras,

‘because I am satisfied no harm will come of it; and it was an attempt

to gain a very useful ally to our cause. He is a brave lad, as his

firmness during this affair proved, and it would be a great point to win

him over. Nor do I yet despair of doing so.’

‘I hope we have seen the last of him,’ muttered Father Verselyn; ‘and

I beg it may be borne in mind that it was against my advice that he was

suffered to depart.’

Cardwell Firebras darted an angry look at the priest, but he made

no reply; and the cloth having been replaced by the landlord and Mr.

Cripps, the former proceeded to fetch a fresh supply of flasks and

glasses; after which the company once more gathered round the table, and

began to discuss anew their projects.

[[[THE JACOBITE CLUB PURSUED BY THE GUARDS--THE JACOBITE CLUB SURPRISED

BY THE GUARD--THE FLIGHT--AND PURSUIT--MR. CRIPPS’s TREACHERY]]]

|Midnight arrived, and found the party still in deep debate. Suddenly,

a quick and continuous knocking was heard at the door. All instantly

started to their feet, gazing at each other in alarm.

‘We are betrayed,’ said Firebras, in a deep whisper.

‘We are,’ replied Father Verselyn; ‘and by the spy you introduced among

us.’

‘It is false!’ cried Firebras angrily. ‘But this is no time for dispute.

We must provide for our safety. Who is it, landlord?’ he cried to the

host, who, on the first alarm, had rushed to the door, and opened the

reconnoitring hole within it.

‘O lud! we’re all lost!’ rejoined the landlord, closing the trap-door,

and returning to them with scared looks and on tiptoe, as if afraid’ of

the sound of his own footsteps.

‘Who is it?--what is it?’ demanded Firebras.

‘A dozen grenadier guards, headed by their captain and lieutenant, come

to search the house,’ replied the landlord. ‘They’re mounting the stairs

now.’

‘Zounds!’ exclaimed Sir Bulkeley, ‘this is awkward!’

‘There is nothing to fear,’ said Firebras calmly. ‘We have plenty of

time for flight.’

‘Yes, you can fly, gentlemen, but I am ruined,’ exclaimed the landlord.

‘I can never return to my own dwelling!’

‘Pshaw! you shall never be the worse for it,’ replied Firebras.

‘But what will become of me, if I am taken?’ cried Mr. Cripps, feigning

a look of despair. ‘I am sure to be the worse for it.’

‘Silence!’ cried Firebras authoritatively. ‘Don’t you hear them?--they

are at the door. Be quick, gentlemen. Not a moment is to be lost.’

While this was passing, Father Verselyn hurried to the lower end of the

room, and, mounting a ladder placed against the wall, passed through

a trap-door in the ceiling above it. The landlord, Mr. Cripps, and Mr.

Travers next ascended; then Sir Bulkeley followed; then Sir Norfolk,

whose equanimity not even the present danger could disturb; while

Firebras brought up the rear.

‘’Sdeath, Sir Norfolk!’ cried the latter, as the baronet slowly scaled

the steps before him--‘move on a little more quickly, or we shall

certainly be captured. They’re breaking open the door. Don’t you hear

them?’

‘Perfecté,’ replied Sir Norfolk coolly. But he did not on that account

accelerate his movements.

Knowing it was in vain to remonstrate, Cardwell Firebras waited till Sir

Norfolk had worked his long frame through the trap-door, which he did

with the utmost deliberation, and then ran up the steps himself, with

much more activity than might have been expected from a person so

weighty. Just as he was quitting the ladder, the door was burst open

with a tremendous crash, and two officers of the guard rushed into the

room, sword in hand, followed by a dozen grenadiers armed with muskets,

on which bayonets were fixed. Firebras’s first object, on securing a

footing on the floor of the garret above, was to try to draw up the

ladder, and he was assisted in the endeavour by Sir Norfolk; but their

design was frustrated by the foremost officer and a tall grenadier

bearing a halberd, both of whom sprang upon the ladder, and kept it down

by their joint weight, and all that those above could do was to shut

down the trap-door, before it could be reached by their foes. A dormer

window opened from the garret upon the roof of the house; but an

unexpected difficulty had been experienced by the first detachment of

fugitives in unfastening it. All ought to have been in readiness for an

emergency like the present, and Sir Bulkeley and Mr. Travers bitterly

reproached the landlord for his negligence. The poor fellow declared

that the mischance was not his fault--that he had taken every possible

precaution--and, in fact, had examined the window that very morning, and

found it all right.

[Illustration: 0320]

At length it was forced back, and all but Sir Norfolk and Firebras got

through it. They were detained by the necessity that existed of guarding

the trap-door. Unfortunately, there was no bolt on the upper side of it,

so that they had to stand upon it to keep it down, and this plan being

discovered by the officer below, he ordered two of his men to thrust

their bayonets through the boards, while the tall grenadier tried to

prize open the door with his halberd. The manoeuvre compelled Firebras

and Salus-bury slightly to alter their position, to avoid being wounded

by the bayonets, and in doing so, they necessarily gave admittance

to the point of the halberd. The efforts of the assailing party were

redoubled, and the trap slightly yielded.

‘Lose not a moment! fly, Sir Norfolk!’ cried Firebras, apprehensive

lest the baronet’s deliberation, which he well knew nothing could shake,

should prevent his escape.

But true to his principles, Sir Norfolk would not move an inch.

‘I cannot leave you in angusto,’ he said.

‘But I am the stronger of the two, as well as the more active,’ rejoined

Firebras. ‘My weight will suffice to keep down the trap-door till you

have got through the window, and then I can make good my retreat. Fly!

fly!’

But Sir Norfolk continued immovable. ‘I shall be the last to quit this

place,’ he said, in a tone of unalterable determination. ‘But do not, I

pray you, tarry with me. The trifurciferous myrmidons of the Hanoverian

usurper shall never take me with life.’

‘I must leave the punctilious old fool to his fate,’ muttered Firebras,

observing that the greater part of the head of the halberd was forced

through the side of the trap. ‘God protect you, Sir Norfolk,’ he cried,

rushing to the window.

The brave old Welsh baronet essayed to hew off the head of the halberd

from the staff--but in vain; and finding that the enemy must gain

admittance in another moment, and that Firebras had cleared the window,

he turned away and strode majestically towards it. His retreat was so

suddenly made, that the grenadier who held the pike, and was prizing

with all his force, lost his balance, and tumbled off the ladder,

causing such confusion among his comrades, that Sir Norfolk had time to

get through the window unmolested.

It was a beautfully bright night--the moon being at the full, and the

sky filled with fleecy clouds. On the left lay ridges of pointed-roofed

houses, covered with the warm-looking and mellow-tinted tile, so

preferable to the cold blue slate--broken with stacks of chimneys of

every size and form--dormer windows, gables, overhanging storeys

and other picturesque and fantastic projections; and the view being

terminated, at some quarter of a mile’s distance, by the tall towers and

part of the roof of Westminster Abbey.

Viewed thus, the whole picture looked exquisitely tranquil and

beautiful. The fires in the houses were almost all extinguished,

and little or no smoke issued from the chimneys to pollute the clear

atmosphere. Above the venerable and majestic fane hung the queen

of night, flooding its towers--seen at such an hour to the greatest

advantage--with silvery light, and throwing some of the nearer buildings

and projections into deep shadow, and so adding to the beauty of the

scene. On the right, the view extended over other house-tops to the

gardens and fields of Pimlico. Behind was Saint James’s Park, with its

stately avenues of trees, its long canal, and Rosamond’s Pond glimmering

in the moonlight; while in front lay the New Artillery Ground, and the

open and marshy grounds constituting Totnill Fields. But it will be

readily imagined that neither Firebras nor his companions looked to the

right or to the left. They were only conscious of the danger by which

they were menaced, and were further discouraged by Father Verselyn,

who at that moment scrambled over the roof they were about to cross, to

inform them that the door by which they hoped to escape could not be got

open.

‘Everything seems to have gone wrong! cried Verselyn in an ecstasy of

terror. ‘What will become of us?’

‘Jacta est alea,’ replied Sir Norfolk composedly. ‘We must fight for it,

father.’

‘Heaven and all its saints protect us,’ cried the priest, crossing

himself.

‘Be composed, father,’ rejoined Firebras sternly. ‘You ought to be equal

to any circumstances in which you may be placed.