Читать книгу The Miser's Daughter - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 5

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Meanwhile, as Randulph Crew followed his conductor along the passage, the boards of which, being totally destitute of carpet or cloth, sounded hollowly beneath their feet; as he glanced at the bare walls, the dusty and cobweb-festooned ceiling, and the staircase, as devoid of covering as the passage, he could not but admit that the account given him by the barber of Mr. Scurve's miserly habits was not exaggerated. Little time, however, was allowed, him for reflection. Jacob marched quickly in, 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 gray, keen, and piercing. He was dressed in a threadbare 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. He was seated near 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 sum total of the repast. Everything in the room bespoke the 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 old 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 there were placed a couple of large blue and white china bottles with dried everlasting flowers stuck in their 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 shew the emptiness of the grate, and diffused a slight gleam, like a hollow laugh, but no sort of heat. Beside it sat Mrs. Clinton, an elderly maiden lady, almost as wintry-looking, and as pinched as her brother-in-law. This antiquated lady had a long thin neck, a large nose, very, very retroussee, and a skin 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 was surmounted by the small muslin cap then in vogue.

The object, however, that chiefly rivetted Randulph's attention on his entrance was neither the miser himself, nor his sister-in-law, but 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. She had risen as he entered the room, and 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 shut lips. Both 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?"

"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 he is dead?—my friend—my old friend!" And he pressed his hand to his face, as if to hide his agony.

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, perceiving 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 the young man; "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 estate to the very men who ruined your father! Have you been rash and unadvised enough to break down the barriers that 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 I should say."

"Folly or not, sir," returned the young man haughtily, "I do not repent the step I have taken. My 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 fair 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.

"Well, then, you are reduced to the condition of a poor man, if you prefer the term, and therefore must be a dependent one," said the miser, who seemed utterly reckless of the pain he was inflicting. "But for your own folly, you might now be worth three thousand a-year,—ay, three thousand a-year, for I knew your father's rental. Why you are more thoughtless, more improvident than him—who went before you. You have sold your birth-right for less than a mess of potage. You have sold it for a phantom, a shade, a word,—and those who have bought it laugh at you, deride you. Out upon such folly! Three thousand a-year gone to feed those birds of prey—those vultures—that ravened upon your father's vitals while living, and now not upon his offspring—it's monstrous, intolerable! Oh! if I had left my affairs in such a condition, and my daughter were to act thus, I should not rest in my grave!"

"And yet, in such a case, I should act precisely as this gentleman has acted, father," rejoined Hilda.

"If you approve my conduct, Miss Scarve, I am quite content to bear your father's reproaches," replied Randulph.

"You speak like one ignorant of the world, and of the value of money, Hilda," cried the miser, turning to her. "Heaven be praised! you will never be in such a situation. I shan't leave you much—not much—but what I do leave will be unembarrassed. It will be your own, too; no husband shall have the power to touch a farthing of it."

"Have a care, father," rejoined Hilda, "and do not clog your bequest with too strict conditions. If I marry, what I have shall be my husband's."

"Hilda," cried the miser, shaking with passion, "if I thought you in earnest I would disinherit you!"

"No more of this, dear father," she rejoined, calmly, "I have no thought of marrying, and it is needless to discuss the point till it arises. Recollect, also, there is a stranger present."

"True," replied the miser, recovering himself. "This is not the time to talk over the subject, but I wont have my intentions misunderstood. And now," he added, sinking into the chair, and looking at Randulph, "Let me inquire after your mother? I remember her well as Sophia Beechcroft, and a charming creature she was. You resemble her more than your father. Nay, restrain your blushes, I don't mean to flatter you. That which is a beauty in a woman, is a defect in a man; and your fair skin and long hair would become your sister, if you have one, better than yourself."

"Really sir," rejoined Randulph, again reddening, "you make strangely free with me."

"I made free with your father before you, young man," rejoined the miser; "and it was for telling him a piece of my mind that I lost his friendship. More's the pity!—more's the pity! I would have served him if he would have let me. But to return to your mother. You acted unjustly to her, as well as to yourself, in not retaining the family estates."

"My mother has her own private property to live on," replied the young man, who winced under the stinging observations of the miser.

"And what's that?" rejoined Mr. Scarve, "a beggarly—I crave your pardon—a pitiful hundred a-year or so. Not that a hundred a-year is pitiful, but it must be so to her with her notions and habits."

"There you are mistaken, sir," replied Randulph; "my mother is entirely reconciled to her situation, and lives accordingly."

"I am glad to hear it," replied the miser, in a sceptical tone; "I own I did not give her credit for being able to do so, but I hope it is so."

"Hope, sir," cried Randulph, angrily; "is my word doubted?"

"Not in the least," rejoined the miser, drily; "but young people are apt to take things on trust. And now, as you have fooled away your fortune, may I ask what you are about to do to retrieve it? What profession, or rather what trade do you propose to follow?"

"I shall follow neither trade nor profession, Mr. Scarve," replied Randulph. "My means, though small, enable me to live as a gentleman."

"Hum!" cried the miser. "I suppose, however, you would not object to some employment. An idle man is always an expensive man. But what brought you to London?"

"My chief motive was to deliver that packet to you," replied Randulph. "But I must own I was not altogether uninfluenced by a desire to see this great city, which I have never beheld since I was a mere boy, and too young to remember it."

"You are a mere boy still," rejoined the miser; "and if you will take my advice you will go back more quickly than you came. But I know you wont, so it's idle to urge you to do so. Youth will rush headlong to destruction. Young man, you don't know what is before you, but I'll tell you—it's ruin—ruin—ruin—d'ye hear me?—ruin."

"I hear you, sir." replied Randulph, frowning.

"Hum!" said the miser, shrugging his shoulders; "so you wont be advised. But it's the way with all young people, and I ought not to expect to find you an exception. I suppose you mean to stay with your two uncles. Abel and Trussell Beechcroft."

"Such is my intention," replied Randulph.

"I have not seen them for years," pursued Scarve; "but if you are not acquainted with them, I'll give you their characters in brief. Abel is sour, but true—Trussell, pleasant, plausible, but hollow. And you will judge of my candour when I tell you that the first hates me, while the latter is very friendly disposed towards me. You will take to the one and dislike the other, but you will find out your error in time. Mind what I say. And now let us look at the packet, for I have kept you here too long, and have nothing to offer you."

"There is nearly a glass of wine left in the bottle in the cupboard," interposed Jacob, who had stood stock still during the whole of this interview, with the candle in his hand. "Perhaps the gentleman would like it after his journey."

"Hold your tongue, sirrah," cried the miser, sharply, "and snuff the candle—not with your fingers, knave," he added, as Jacob applied his immense digits to the tufted wick, and stamped upon the snuff as he cast it on the floor. "What can this packet contain? Let me see," he continued, breaking the seal, and disclosing a letter, which he opened, and found it contained a small memorandum. As he glanced at it, a shade came over his countenance. He did not attempt to read the letter, but folding it over the smaller piece of paper, unlocked a small strong box that stood at his feet beneath the table, and placed them both within it.

"It is time you went to your uncle's, young man," he said to Randulph, in an altered tone, and more coldly than before; "I shall be glad to see you some other time. Good night."

"I shall be truly happy to call here again, sir," replied Randulph, looking earnestly at Hilda.

"Jacob, shew Mr. Crew to the door," cried the miser, hastily.

"Good night, Miss Scarve," said Randulph still lingering. "Do you often walk in the parks?"

"My daughter never stirs abroad," replied the miser, motioning him away. "There, get you gone. Good night, good night.—A troublesome visitor," he added to Hilda, as Jacob departed with the young man.

Jacob having again placed the candle in the lantern, unbolted and unlocked the door, and issuing forth, they found Peter Pokerich standing beside the horse.

"You may thank me that your horse is not gone, sir," said the latter. "People in London are not quite so honest as the villagers in Cheshire. Well, you have seen Mr. Scarve, I suppose, sir. What do you think of him and of his daughter?"

"That I pity your taste for not admiring her," replied Randulph.

"Not admiring her!" cried Jacob, with a hoarse laugh. "Did he tell you he did not admire her? Why he's dying with love of her, and, I make no doubt, was jealous of your good looks—ho! ho!"

"You are insolent, Mr. Jacob," rejoined Peter, angrily.

"What, you want another taste of my crabstick, do you?" said Jacob. "It's close at hand."

"Don't quarrel, friends," laughed Randulph, springing into the saddle. "Good night, Jacob. I shall hope ere long to see your old master and young mistress again." With this he struck spurs into his steed, and rode off in the direction of Westminster bridge.

"Well," said Peter, as he crossed over the way to his own dwelling, "I've managed to get a little out of his saddlebag, at all events. Perhaps it will tell me who and what he is, and whether he's a Jacobite and Papist. If so, let him look to himself; for, as sure as my name's Peter Pokerich, I'll hang him. And now for the letter."