Читать книгу The Miser's Daughter - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 11

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It will now be necessary for a short space to retrace the current of our story. Peter Pokerich, as related in a previous chapter, crossed over to his own house with the letter he had abstracted from Randulph's saddle-bags, and immediately proceeding to examine it, found it was addressed to Mr. Cordwell Firebras, at the Rose and Crown, Gardiner's-street, Petty France. This not tending greatly to enlighten him he tried to obtain a peep at its contents by pressing down the sides between his finger and thumb; but not being able to make out anything in this way his curiosity got the master of him, and he broke the seal; but so dexterously and carefully that he felt confident that he could restore it to its original appearance if needful. He then read as follows:—

Friend Cordwell,—The bearer of this is just the young man you want. He's a bold rider; always in at the death; and as rash and daring as our young squire himself. The game I sent you was seized by the keepers, as perhaps you have heard; but I'll forward another basket shortly by a safer conveyance. Don't be in a hurry about coming over to us; and tell the young squire we can't promise him much sport this season. The game is pretty plenty, but our kennel is but thinly stocked—The old pack is nearly broken up; Talbot and Ringwood have been 'ticed away by old George's keeper; and we shall do no good unless the great squire on t'other side of the river will send us a strong pack of harriers, of the French breed. We want some Scotch terriers sadly, for the rats are greatly on the increase. If the young squire can manage this, the sooner he comes the better, but not otherwise. Meanwhile, I again advise you to engage the bearer of this letter.—Your assured friend,

Ned Poynton.

This letter was a complete enigma to the barber. He read it over and over again, but could make neither head nor tail of it. He could not help thinking that more was meant than met the eye, but still he could not penetrate the mystery. He determined, however, to call the next morning at the Rose and Crown to make some inquiries after Mr. Cordwell Firebras, whose name had something extraordinary about it that piqued his curiosity; and with this intention he retired to rest.

"After all," said Peter, as he laid his head on his pillow, "I shouldn't wonder if that young man turned out to be a poacher. Now I think of it, he certainly looks like one. Nobody but a poacher would prefer his own hair to a wig."

Sallying forth betimes the next morning, he repaired to the Rose and Crown, which was but a short distance from his own dwelling, and enquired from a potboy at the door whether a gentleman of the name of Cordwell Firebras lodged there. The potboy could give him no answer, but, applying to the chamberlain, he was told that Mr. Firebras frequented the house, but did not lodge there.

"He generally comes in the evening," said the man; "and if you have any message to leave for him, I will deliver it."

Before the chamberlain could reply, the landlord made his appearance, and on being informed of the barber's inquiry, asked him what he wanted with Mr. Cordwell Firebras.

"A gentleman who has a letter for him called at my shop last night," said Peter, "and wished me to enquire whether he was still here; that's all."

"Pray step this way, sir," rejoined the landlord, ushering Peter into an inner room.

Here the landlord took up a chair, and, knocking it three times on the floor, without offering it to his guest, sat down. Not exactly knowing what to make of this singular reception, Peter took up a chair, knocked it in like manner, and sat down opposite the landlord. The landlord then tapped his nose, and Peter, not to be behindhand, imitated the gesture.

"All's right," said the landlord.—"All's right," echoed Peter.

"Where did you leave them?" asked the landlord.

"Leave whom?" asked Peter, in surprise. The landlord's countenance altered, and he looked hard at him.

"What wigs do you wear, friend?" he asked.

"On week days a minor bob, and on Sundays or holidays a bag," replied Peter, in increased astonishment.

"Hark ye, friend," said the landlord, eyeing his guest with some suspicion, "can you tell me where the king is?"

"At Saint James's Palace, I suppose," replied Peter, innocently.

"To be sure!" replied the landlord, laughing, and getting up—"To be sure! Good morning, sir!"

"Stop, stop!" cried Peter, "I didn't come here to answer idle questions. I want to know something about Mr. Cordwell Firebras."

"I know nothing about him, sir," replied the landlord, evasively—"you must apply elsewhere."

Thus baffled, Peter was obliged to return to his own dwelling; and his mind was so fully occupied with Randulph Crew and the mysterious Cordwell Firebras, that he could scarcely attend to his business. About four o'clock, as he was sitting in his shop, combing out a flaxen perriwig, Mr. Crackenthorpe Cripps came in, and flinging himself into a seat, said,—"Scatter some pulvilio over me, Pokerich; for the tar and paint of the wherry I have just quitted, has quite overcome me."

Having recovered breath, the valet then proceeded to explain the business with which he had been charged by his uncle, and he found a ready agent in the barber, who, however, explained to him the difficulty of obtaining any precise information of what passed in the miser's dwelling. While discussing this matter, it occurred to Peter that Mr. Cripps was a proper person to consult about the mysterious letter. He knew that the valet was a person of no particular scruples, and might be safely confided in. He therefore shewed him the letter. Mr. Cripps read it over twice or thrice, and at last said—"Egad, I cannot tell what to make of it, but I'll soon find out the meaning of the riddle. Make it up again, and I'll deliver it myself to Mr. Cordwell Firebras."

"When will you take it?" asked the barber, after he had carefully fastened up the seal.

"At once," replied Mr. Cripps. "I'm in the humour for an adventure. I'll return directly and report my success."

He accordingly set forth, and encountering an empty chair as he entered the area in front of the Abbey, got into it, and told the bearers to proceed to the Rose and Crown. Arrived there, with all the assurance he could muster, he strutted into the bar, and flourishing his cane, inquired for Mr. Cordwell Firebras. The landlord stared at him somewhat suspiciously, but returned no answer; and Mr. Cripps calling to mind the barber's account of his interview, took up a chair, as if accidentally, and struck it thrice on the floor. This operation acted like magic on the landlord. He made a peculiar sign in return, and said,—"He's not here now, sir; indeed he seldom visits us, except in an evening. But you'll find him at his lodgings, in Ship-yard, not a stone's throw from this." And he added, in a lower tone, as Cripps bowed in acknowledgment, —"the club meets here, sir."

"Oh, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Cripps. "Does it meet every night?"

"Every Friday night at eleven," replied the landlord. "But may I ask you, sir, where the king is?"

"Over the water," rejoined Cripps. And he thought to himself, "I have stumbled upon a nice Jacobite's nest now, i'faith."

"I see it's all right," said the landlord, smiling. And he accompanied the valet to the door, ushered him to his chair, and told the bearers where to take him. Mr. Cripps speedily arrived at his destination, and was deposited at the door of a very small and unpretending-looking house. A middle aged woman of respectable appearance answered his knock, and informed him that Mr. Cordwell Firebras lodged there, but she was not certain whether he was within. Judging from her manner that she only wished to ascertain whether her lodger would receive him, Mr. Cripps thought it better to secure the interview by delivering his credentials. He did so accordingly, and the result was as he anticipated. She returned in a few minutes, saying that Mr. Firebras was at home, and would be happy to see him.

Mustering all his resolution, Mr. Cripps strutted after her, and was ushered into a small room, in which was a middle-aged gentleman, who immediately advanced towards him. Mr. Cripps had sufficient knowledge of the world to see at once that he had a very dangerous person to deal with, and that it behoved him to be careful how he proceeded. Never had he seen such broad shoulders, such muscular legs, and such a burly frame, as was possessed by the individual before him. Mr. Cordwell Firebras was a little below the middle height, and his squareness of figure, aided by a loose coat of dark brown cloth, edged with silver, which reached halfway down his legs, made him look almost as broad as long. His features were somewhat coarse, his cheek bones high, his complexion light, and his beard, brows, and eyelashes of a sandy hue. Altogether, he had the look of a Scotsman. His chin was large and broad, evincing the utmost determination, mixed with considerable craftiness; his mouth wide; his nose broad and flat; and his eyes of a light gray. He wore a flaxen bob wig, which harmonized well with his light complexion, and carried a broad-bladed sword, evidently intended more for use than ornament. To this, not very prepossessing, exterior, Mr. Cordwell Firebras added easy, affable, and almost graceful manners. It was quite clear to Mr. Cripps that he was acting upon the instructions of his correspondent, for he received him with the greatest cordiality, shook him by the hand, and motioned him to be seated. It did not escape Mr. Cripps, in the hasty survey he took of the room, that there was a basket-hilted sword in the corner, together with a brace of long-barrelled silver-mounted pistols, and a Highland dirk. Nor did he fail to notice that the window opened upon a small garden, skirting Saint James's Park, thus offering a ready means of escape, if required. These things considered, Mr. Cripps did not feel entirely at his ease, and it required all his effrontery to enable him to go through with this part. Whether it was that Cordwell Firebras perceived his uneasiness, or that his quick perception of character detected the imposition attempted to be practised upon him is immaterial, but his countenance suddenly changed, and the affable, almost courtier-like manner with which he had commenced, gave way to a stern scrutinizing glance and chilling demeanour that made the valet tremble.

They were alone, for having ushered Cripps into the room, the elderly female retired, closing the door after her.

"You are lately from the country, sir, I believe?" asked Firebras.

"Just arrived, sir," replied Mr. Cripps, taking out his snuff-box to hide his confusion, "allow me to offer you a pinch."

Firebras bowed, and accepted the offer. A peculiar smile, which the valet did not like, crossed his features.

"I must compliment you upon your air and manner, sir," said Firebras, in a tone of slight irony; "they are anything but rustic. But may I now ask whom I have the honour of addressing?"

"Mr. Randulph Crew!" replied the valet; confidently.

"Randulph Crew!" exclaimed Firebras, almost starting. "What! the son of my old friend, Randulph Crew? Impossible!"

"I am not aware whether my father enjoyed the honour of your friendship, sir," replied the valet, who began to fear he had got on ticklish ground, "but my name is Randulph Crew, and so was my father's before me."

Though the day was by no means chilly, there was a small fire burning in the grate. Mr. Cordwell Firebras placed the letter which he held in his hand before it, and certain lines of writing, traced in invisible ink, instantly appeared. These he eagerly scanned.

"It is useless to trifle long, sir," he cried, turning suddenly upon the valet. "You are an impostor. For what purpose are you come hither? Answer me, or your life shall pay the forfeit of your rashness."

As he spoke, he drew his sword. Mr. Cripps, though greatly alarmed, drew likewise, but his blade was instantly struck from his grasp by Firebras.

"Raise a cry, and you are a dead man," pursued Firebras, locking the door, and putting the key in his pocket. "Who are you, sirrah?"

"My name is Crackenthorpe Cripps, and I am chief valet to Beau Villiers," returned the other, bowing.

"You are a spy, rascal," cried Firebras. "You have come on an errand, of the danger of which you were ignorant. But you will get nothing for your pains."

"Pardon me, Mr. Firebras," said the valet, who was by no means destitute of courage, or, at all events, of the quality next in value to it—self-possession.—"I have gained my object. I have discovered the existence of a Jacobite club, of which you are a member. I have discovered that there is a plot hatching in Cheshire, and can easily find out who is implicated in it; and have only to give information to a magistrate, and your arrest must follow."

"Well, sir," replied Firebras, calmly,—"Well, sir?"

"But I have no such intention," pursued the valet; "your secret is safe with me, provided—"

"You are paid for your silence—ha?"

"Precisely, Mr. Firebras. I am not a Jacobite, neither am I an Hanoverian; and I care as little for the Elector, as I do for young Perkin. The fact is, your are in my power, Mr. Firebras, and I shall make the most of my position. Buy me, and I shall deal with you fairly!"

"Hum!" said Firebras, looking fixedly at him; "well, I will employ you, and will also make it worth your while to be true to me. Randulph Crew has of course lost this letter. I will not inquire how it came into your hands. But he cannot be aware that it has reached me. My correspondent says he is about to visit his uncle, Mr. Abel Beechcroft, and cautions me against that gentleman."

"And with reason, sir," remarked Cripps; "I, also, advise you to beware of him. My uncle is Mr. Beechcroft's butler."

"Then, from your connexion, you may materially aid me in my designs upon this young man," said Firebras. "You must take a letter from me to him."

"With pleasure," replied Cripps; "and it fortunately happens that he is to breakfast with my master to-morrow morning, when I can easily deliver it."

"Good," replied Firebras, "I will prepare it at once."

With this, he sat down to a side table, on which writing tables were placed, and with much deliberation, penned a despatch, and sealed it. He then opened a secret drawer, and took out five guineas, which he gave to the valet.

"It is perhaps a needless piece of trouble to seal the letter;" he observed significantly; "but you will learn nothing by opening it, beyond the fact that I desire an interview with Mr. Crew. I know I can trust you."

"Oh; you may trust to my honor, Mr. Firebras, 'pon rep," said Cripps, placing his hand upon his breast.

"I trust to the value you place on your own safety, Mr. Cripps;" replied Firebras, significantly. "Attempt to play me false, and nothing shall save you from my vengeance. I have agents that you know not of, who will find sure means of reaching you."

These words were pronounced in a tone, and with a look that impressed Mr. Cripps with a full sense of the speaker's power of executing his threat.

"You need be under no apprehension about me, Mr. Firebras," he said.

"I am under none, fellow," replied the other, laughing bitterly; "or you should never quit this room alive. Come to me tomorrow night at ten. I may have more work for you."

"Willingly," replied Mr. Cripps.

Firebras then unlocked the door, and let out the valet, who was ushered to his chair by the elderly female. As he took his place within it, having first ordered the bearers to convey him to the spot where they took him up, he muttered to himself "So the adventure has terminated very satisfactorily. This Randulph Crew seems destined to make my fortune. Everybody pays me to play the spy upon him. That Cordwell Firebras is an awkward customer. He has got an eye that looks through one, and seems to penetrate one's very soul. It won't do to play cross with him. But I must trump up some story to delude the barber. I'll tell him that nothing is to be made of it—put him off in some way."

Thus musing, he was conveyed to the entrance of the Little Sanctuary, where he alighted, discharged the chair, and bent his steps towards Peter Pokerich's shop, with the full determination of putting his design into execution.