Читать книгу The Miser's Daughter - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 4

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In a large, crazy, old-fashioned house at the corner of the Little Sanctuary in Westminster, and facing the abbey, dwelt, in the year 1774, 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 doorway, and was ornamented with the arms of a former occupant of the habitation, wrought in bold relief in oak, and supported by two beautifully-carved female figures. 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 day-time; and the whole building had a dingy, dismal, and dungeon-like aspect.

Mr. Scarve's opposite neighbour, who was as curious as opposite neighbours generally are, and who was a mercer named Deacle, used to spend hours with his wife and daughter, who was as curious as himself, in reconnoitring the miser's dwelling. But their curiosity was rarely, if ever, gratified, except by occasionally seeing some member of the family go forth, or return. Another constant spy upon the mysterious abode was Peter Pokerich, a young barber and wig-maker, occupying the next house to the mercer, but whose motives were not like the other's, entirely those of curiosity. Having completed his apprenticeship about a twelvemonth before, Peter Pokerich had at that time settled in the Little Sanctuary, and had already obtained a fair share of business, being much employed in dressing the wigs of the lawyers frequenting Westminster Hall. He was a smart dapper little fellow, with no contemptible opinion of himself, either as to mental or personal qualifications, and being determined to push his fortune with the sex, had, in the first instance, paid very marked attentions to the mercer's daughter, Thomasine, or, as she was more familiarly called, Tommy; and these attentions it was pretty evident were not altogether unacceptable. Just, however, as he was on the eve of declaring himself and soliciting the hand of the fair Thomasine, with little apprehension of a refusal, he accidentally beheld the miser's daughter, Hilda Scarve, and his inflammable heart taking fire at her beauty, which was sufficiently ravishing to captivate a colder breast than the barber's, he thenceforth became her slave, and could no longer endure the auburn locks, the hazel orbs, the round cheeks, and plump little person, of the fair Thomasine, which had once appeared so attractive in his eyes. Another consideration was not without its weight in turning the scale of his affections. Hilda's father was reputed to be of immense wealth; she was his only child, at least it was generally understood to be so, and would, of course, inherit the whole of his vast hoards; and as, furthermore, he was an old man, it could not, in the course of nature, be very long before the property must come to her. This consideration decided Peter in favour of the miser's daughter, and it was the hope of obtaining a glimpse of her that made him play the spy upon her father's dwelling.

The repairs previously alluded to were made by the miser's servant, Jacob Post, who, on this occasion, stepped over the way to borrow a ladder from Mr. Deacle. For reasons of his own, the mercer readily complied with the request, and when Jacob's work was done, and he brought back the ladder, he was invited by its owner to his back parlour, where Mrs. Deacle and the fair Thomasine were seated, and where a substantial repast was laid out. Jacob was next requested to sit down, and with some hesitation complied. A plate, loaded with cold beef, was next offered him, and he cleared it in an inconceivably short space of time. The plate was again filled, and again emptied, and as his appetite seemed in no ways stayed, and the edge-bone was nearly bared, a large remnant of a potato pie in a brown earthenware dish was substituted.

To the astonishment of the party, he soon disposed of it. These viands requiring to be washed down, Mr. Deacle took a jug of ale, which stood at one corner of the table, and pouring out a large foaming glass, offered it to his guest, winking as he did so at his wife, as much as to say, "We have him now." Whether or not Jacob saw the wink is of little import. He took the glass, drained it to the last drop, and sprang to his feet.

"Why, you're not going!" cried Mr. Deacle.

"Yes, I am," replied Jacob, in a deep, gruff voice.

"Well; but stop a bit, I've something to say to you," rejoined Mr. Deacle.

"Master'll wonder what I'm doing here so long," returned Jacob. "He watched me cross over with the ladder."

"You should have thought of that before you sat down," remarked Mrs. Deacle, somewhat spitefully. "If you would draw another jug of ale, my dear, I dare say Jacob would risk incurring his master's displeasure, and stay a few minutes longer."

"No, I wouldn't," replied Jacob, looking at the same time wistfully at the jug. "No, I wouldn't," he added, slightly softening his tone.

"Try him," whispered Mrs. Deacle to her spouse.

Mr. Deacle took the hint, and likewise took up the jug, and winking at his wife, proceeded to a side door, opening upon a flight of stone steps, evidently leading to the lower part of the premises, and disappeared. With true feminine tact, Mrs. Deacle had perceived Jacob's weak point.

He seemed spell-bound. The temptation of the 'other jug' was irresistible. He scratched his forehead with the point of his great thumb-nail, pushed the little brown scratch wig covering the top of his head still higher up, glanced at the door, but did not attempt to withdraw. The figure that he now cut was so ridiculous that both ladies burst into screams of laughter. Not in the slightest degree disconcerted, Jacob maintained his position, and eyed them with a look so stern that their merriment speedily died off in a quaver. The Formidable certainly predominated over the Ridiculous in Jacob's appearance. He was six feet two in height, with a large-boned frame, not encumbered with too much flesh, and immense hands and feet. Though slightly in-kneed, he held himself as erect as an old soldier. He had a grim black muzzle, a wide mouth garnished with keen white teeth, the masticatory powers of which he had so satisfactorily exhibited, thick and jetty eyebrows, and an enormous nose slightly tinged towards its extremity with a mulberry hue. He wore an old gray cloth coat, of the formal cut, in vogue about twenty years before, with a row of plate buttons extending from the collar to the skirts, as well as others on the pockets, and which coat, though it only reached to his knees, must have dangled down to its original owner's ankles. His waistcoat was of the same material as the upper garment, and evidently dated back to the same remote period. A dirty neckcloth, which looked positively white from its contrast with his swarthy chin, was twisted round his throat. He possessed great personal strength, and, indeed, was reported to have driven off, single-handed, three housebreakers, who had contrived one night to effect an entrance into his master's habitation. It was thought that the miser retained him as much for self-defence as for his other services; and it was even said that in some money-lending transactions in which Mr. Scarve had been engaged with suspicious characters, Jacob stood by on guard.

By this time, the mercer had returned with a jug, whose frothing head made Jacob smack his lips. Seeing the effect produced on him, Mr. Deacle indulged in a sly chuckle.

"Ah! Jacob," he said, in a feigned commiserating tone, "I fear you don't get such liquor as this with your master. He don't brew over strong—not too much malt and hops, eh?"

"That's true enough, Sir," replied Jacob, gruffly.

"Do you get any ale at all, Jacob?" inquired Mrs. Deacle.

"No," replied Jacob, in a tone so abrupt that it made the good dame start, and elicited a slight scream from the fair Thomasine.

"Odd's precious!" exclaimed Mrs. Deacle; "how the fellow does frighten one. And so you have no ale?"—(Jacob shook his head)—"nor small-beer?"—(another negative)—"then what do you drink, for wine or spirits must be out of the question?"

"Treacle-beer," rejoined Jacob, "and little enough of that."

"So I should think," remarked Mr. Deacle, cunningly. "Come, come, friend Jacob,—this may be very well for your master, but it wont do with me. Your nose would never keep its goodly colour on such thin potations."

A grim smile crossed Jacob's face, and he tapped the feature in question.

"I understand," replied the mercer, winking; "private cellar, ah! Perfectly right, Jacob. Private larder, too, I'll be sworn. You couldn't live on Miser Starve's—I mean Mr. Scarve's—allowance. Impossible, Jacob; impossible. Take a glass, Jacob. Your master must be very rich, eh?"

"I don't know," replied Jacob, after tossing off the glass; "he doesn't live like a rich man."

"There I differ from you," returned the mercer, "he lives like a miser, and misers are always rich."

"Maybe," replied Jacob, turning away.

"Stop, stop," cried the ironmonger, "you must finish this jug before you go. Are you the only servant in the house?"

"The only man-servant," replied Jacob, looking as if he did not relish the question; "but there's sometimes a cheerwoman, and the two ladies do for themselves."

"Do for themselves!" ejaculated Mrs.

Deacle. "How dreadful!"

"Dreadful! indeed," echoed Thomasine, with an expression of ineffable disgust, theatrically fine in its effect.

"Well, I should like to see the inside of your master's house, Jacob, I confess," pursued Mrs. Deacle.

"You wouldn't wish to repeat the visit, ma'am, if you had once been there," he answered drily.

"I hope the miser doesn't ill-treat his daughter," said Thomasine. "Poor thing! how I pity her. Such a sweet creature, and such a tyrant of a father!"

"She's not ill-treated, miss," rejoined Jacob, gruffly; "and she's not so much to be pitied as you suppose; nor is master a tyrant by no means, miss."

"Don't be offended, Jacob," interposed the mercer, pouring out a glass and handing it to him. "Women always fancy themselves ill-treated either by their fathers, husbands, or brothers—all except their lovers, eh, Jacob?"

"I'm sure, my love, nobody can say I complain," said Mrs. Deacle.

"Nor I, father," added Thomasine; "as to lovers, I know nothing about them, and don't desire to know."

"Bless me! how you take one up," rejoined Mr. Deacle, sharply. "Nobody does say that either of you complains. Surely, Jacob, the old lady whom I always see with your master's daughter can't be her mother?"

"No, she's her aunt," replied Jacob.

"On the father's side?"

"Mother's."

"I thought as much; and her name is—?" Jacob looked as though he would have said, "What's that to you?" but he answered, "Mrs. Clinton."

"You'll think me rather curious, Jacob," pursued the mercer, "but I should like to know the name of your master's daughter. What is it, eh?"

"Hilda," replied Jacob.

"Hilda! dear me, a very singular name," cried Mrs. Deacle.

"Singular, indeed! but sweetly pretty," sighed Thomasine.

"Probably a family name," remarked the mercer. "Well, Miss Hilda's a charming creature, Jacob,—charming."

"She is charming," repeated Jacob, emphatically.

"Not very well dressed though," muttered the mercer, as if speaking to himself; and then he added aloud—"She'll be a great catch, Jacob—a great catch; any engagement—anyone in view—any lover, eh?"

"No one," replied Jacob. "Unless," he added, bursting into a hoarse laugh, "it's your next door neighbour, Peter Pokerich, the barber."

"Peter Pokerich!" screamed Thomasine, starting to her feet, and assuming an attitude of distraction.

"Mercy on us! what's the matter, Tommy?" cried the mercer, in surprise.

"Don't ask me, father," rejoined the young lady, gasping like a tragic actress, and passing her hand across her brow as if to clear off some imaginary hair; her own auburn tresses being trimly secured beneath a pretty little fly-cap. "Tell me, Jacob," she added, catching his arm, "Is my—is Peter—is he Hilda Scarve's lover?—has he declared his passion?—is he accepted?—tell me all, Jacob, and whatever effort it may cost me, I will bear it."

"I've nothing more to tell than this," replied Jacob, who listened with imperturbable calmness to this passionate and touching address.—"He has lately taken to following Miss Hilda when she goes out to walk with her aunt."

"But he has not dared to address her, Jacob?" cried Thomasine, breathlessly.

"Not till the other day," replied Jacob, "and then he stopped her just as she was entering the house. Luckily, I was there, and I gave him a taste of my crabstick, which I'll engage he'll remember."

"Cudgelled!—Peter false, and cudgelled!—cruel, yet kind, Jacob!" cried Thomasine, relaxing her hold, and staggering back, "This is too much—support me, mother."

"What's the matter with you, Tommy, I say?—are you going distracted?" cried the mercer.

"Fetch the ratafia, my dear, and don't ask questions," replied his wife. "Don't you see there's been a secret attachment?" she added, in an under tone; "that deceitful little barber has played her false. But I'll bring him to his senses, I'll warrant him. Poor thing! this is just the state I was thrown into when I heard of your going to Storbridge fair with cousin Sally. The ratafia! the ratafia!—quick! quick!"

The mercer open a cupboard, took out the cordial, gave it to his wife, and then motioning to Jacob to follow him, rushed so precipitately out of the room that he overset a person who was listening at the door, and who proved to be no other than Peter Pokerich.

"What! you here, sir!" cried Mr. Deacle, in astonishment. "Then you have heard what has passed. Go in to my daughter, and make her mind easy directly."

"If he doesn't I'll give him another taste of the crabstick," said Jacob.

"But it would be highly indecorous, improper, in me to go in just now, Mr. Deacle," remonstrated Peter.

"Not more indecorous than listening at the door," rejoined the mercer. "Go in directly, sir."

"Ay, go!" added Jacob.

And Peter, seeing that opposition was in vain, opened the door and sneaked in. A stifled scream and an hysterical laugh succeeded his entrance.

The mercer accompanied Jacob to the street door; and, as he passed through the shop, pointed out the different rich stuffs to him.

"I wish you could induce your young mistress to come and look at my assortment of stuffs," he said; "it is the choicest in town, though I say it, who should not say it. I have garden silks, Italian silks, brocades, tissues, cloth of silver, ditto gold, fine Mantua silks, right Genoa velvets, English ditto, embossed ditto. Or if she wants commoner stuffs, I have fine thread satins, both striped and plain, fine Mohair silks, satinets, burdets, Persinnets, Norwich crapes, anterines, silks for hoods and scarves, hair camlets, sagathees, shalloons, and right Scotch plaids. Can you recollect all these articles?"

"I should need a better memory than I have to recollect half of 'em," replied Jacob.

"I would send her some stuffs to look at, if you think her father wouldn't object," said the mercer: "this black velvet would suit her exactly; or this rich Italian silk."

"It would cost me my place to take them," replied Jacob, "and yet, as you say, they would become her purely. But it's of no use thinking of them," he added, walking away.

"One word more, Jacob," said Mr. Deacle, detaining him, and whispering in his ear—"I did not like to ask the questions before the women—but they do say your master's a Papist and a Jacobite."

"Who say so?" cried Jacob, loudly and gruffly. "Speak up, and tell me!"

"Why, the neighbours," replied the mercer, somewhat abashed.

"Then tell 'em from me that it's a lie," rejoined Jacob. And, heedless of any further attempts to detain him, he strode away.

One night, about a month after the incident above related, which took place at the latter end of April, 1774, just as Peter Pokerich was in the act of shutting up his shop, he observed a horseman turn out of King-street, and ride towards him. It was sufficiently light to enable him to discover, on a nearer approach, that the stranger was a young man, about one or two and twenty, with a tall, well-proportioned figure, at once vigorous and symmetrical, extremely regular and finely formed features, glowing with health and manly beauty, and slightly, though not unbecomingly, embrowned by exposure to the sun. Apparently disdaining to follow the fashion of the period, or proud of his own waving, brown locks, the young man suffered them to fall in their native luxuriance over his shoulders. The fashion of his dark green riding-dress—which, illmade as it appeared in the eyes of the knowing barber, revealed his fine figure to great advantage, as well as, his general appearance—proclaimed him from the country. Looking hard at Peter as he advanced, the stranger drew up beside him.

"Can you tell me where Mr. Scarve lives," he asked.

Peter started, and stared at his interrogator in speechless astonishment. The young man looked surprised in his turn, and repeated the inquiry.

"Miser Scarve—beg pardon—Mr. Scarve; but he is generally known by the former name hereabouts," cried Peter. "Oh yes, sir; I do know where Mr. Starve lives."

"Then probably you will have the goodness to direct me to the house," returned the young man. "This is the Little Sanctuary, is it not?"

"Yes, sir, yes," replied Peter. "But what may be your business with Miser Starve—beg pardon again!—Mr. Scarve?"

"My business is not of much consequence," rejoined the young man, somewhat coldly and haughtily, "but it refers to Mr. Scarve himself."

"Beg pardon, sir; no offence, I hope," returned Peter, in a deprecatory tone; "but Mr. Starve—bless me, how my tongue runs—Mr. Scarve is such a very odd man. He wont see you unless your business is very particular. Will you favour me with your name, sir?"

"My name is Randulph Crew," returned the stranger.

"Crew—Crew!" repeated Peter; "that should be a Cheshire name. Excuse the liberty, but are you from that county, sir?"

"I am—I am," replied the other, impatiently.

"Ah! knew it at once, sir. Can't deceive me," rejoined Peter. "Fine head of hair, sir, very fine; but must lose it. Very well for Cheshire—but wont do in London. The ladies will laugh at you. Nothing so ungenteel as one's own hair. I've a fine head of hair myself, but can't wear it. Must have a wig. Wigs are as essential to a gentleman's head now-a-days as lace to his clothes. I have wigs of all sorts, all fashions, all prices; the minor bob; the Sunday buckle; the bob-major; the apothecary's bush; the physical and chirurgical tie; the scratch, or blood's skull covering; the Jehu's Jemmy, or white-and-all-white; the campaign; and the Ramellies. If you'll step in, I'll shew you the last new periwig—the Villiers—brought in on the great beau of that name,—have heard of him, I dare say, sir,—and which all our brights, smarts, putts, and jemmies, are wearing. I have the counterpart of Beau Villiers's own perriwig, which, between ourselves—for it must go no farther—I obtained from his gentleman, Mr. Crackenthrope Cripps. It is quite a wonder. Do step in, sir, and look at it. It will quite ravish you."

"Thank you, friend; I am content with the covering nature has given to my head," replied Randulph.

"And with very good reason, sir," replied Peter; "but fashion, sir,—fashion is arbitrary, and has decreed that no man shall wear his own hair. Therefore, you must, perforce, adopt the perriwig."

"Will you shew me Mr. Scarve's residence, or must I apply for information elsewhere?" cried the young man, wearied with the barber's loquacity.

"Not so fast sir, not so fast," replied Peter. "I must tell you something about the old gentleman first. Do you know him, sir?"

Randulph Crew uttered a hasty negative. "Then I do," continued Peter. "Terrible miser, sir, terrible; denies himself all the comforts of existence; makes his family and servants live upon a bare bone for a week; thinks of nothing but his gold; and as to his daughter—"

"Oh, he has a daughter, has he?" interrupted Randulph. "I was not aware of it. Is she at all like him?"

"Like him, no!" echoed Peter. "She's beautiful beyond description." But thinking such commendation rather injudicious in the present case, he added, "at least some people say so, but, for my own part, I can see nothing to admire in her."

"Well, perhaps I may see her, and judge for myself," replied Randulph.

"Perhaps you may," quavered Peter. "He is just the man to captivate her," he thought. "I wish I could misdirect him. But most probably Jacob wont admit him."

"And now, friend, will you shew me the house?" cried Randulph.

"With pleasure, sir, with pleasure," replied Peter, pointing to the opposite habitation; "there it is,—at the corner."

Vexed at having been detained so long and so unnecessarily, Randulph Crew turned his horse's head, and, dismounting before the miser's door, knocked loudly against it with the butt-end of his heavy riding-whip. Peter anxiously watched his proceedings, but as no answer was returned to the summons, he began to hope the young man would go away. But in this he was disappointed, for the latter renewed his application, and did not desist till checked by the gruff voice of Jacob Post, who shouted from a little grated window, through which he reconnoitred the intruder, "Halloo! what's the matter? who's there?"

"Is Mr. Scarve at home?" asked Randulph. "I want to see him."

"Then you can't," rejoined Jacob, in his harshest accents, but which sounded like music in the ears of the attentive Peter.

"But I must, and will see him," rejoined Randulph in a peremptory tone. "I have a packet to deliver to him—to his own hands—an important packet. Tell him that."

"A Jacobite, I'll be sworn," cried Peter to himself; "I must watch him narrowly. I should feel gratified in being the means of hanging that young man."

"Well, I'll take your message to my master," growled Jacob, after a short pause. "But I must scrutinize you a little before I admit you. You seem to me, so far as I can make out, to have a good deal of the cut of a highwayman about you."

"He, he, he! good, Jacob, good!" tittered Peter.

Some minutes elapsed before Jacob, who had disappeared, returned. A heavy tread was heard along the passage leading to the door, succeeded by the rattling of a chain, the clanking of bars, and the shooting back of a couple of ponderous bolts. The door was then thrown open, and exhibited the great gaunt figure of Jacob, holding a lantern in one hand, the light of which he threw full upon the face of the young man, while he kept the other hand, which grasped the redoubted crabstick, out of view. Satisfied, at length, with the investigation, he growled forth, "It'll do. Master'll see you. You may come in."

"That for your trouble, friend," said Randulph, slipping a crown into Jacob's hand, as he tied his horse's bridle to a ring in the door-post.

"I wonder what this is given for?" muttered Jacob, as he pocketed the coin. "It's the only suspicious thing I've noticed about him. I must keep an eye upon him. But I dare say he only wants to see my young mistress, and she's worth more than twenty crowns to look at."

Thus ruminating, he admitted Randulph into the passage, locked and bolted the door, took the light out of the lantern and placed it in a copper candle-stick, and led the way towards a back room.

While the door was being fastened, Peter Pokerich darted across the way, shouting to Randulph, "I'll take care of your horse, sir." No attention, however, being paid to the offer, he hurried back for a light, and began carefully to examine the saddle, peering into the holsters, and trying to open the saddle-bags, to see whether he could obtain any clue to the supposed Jacobite principles of the owner.