Читать книгу The Miser's Daughter - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 9

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Nothing very particular occurred at the miser's dwelling after Randulph's departure. Mr. Scarve took a large account-book from the box beneath his table, together with several papers, from which he proceeded to make extracts; and he thus employed himself for more than an hour and a half, when, his farthing candle having burnt down into the socket, he intimated to his daughter and Mrs. Clinton that it was time to retire to rest.

"You have sat up longer than usual," he said, "and I have been so busy that I quite forgot to bid you to go to bed. Hilda, your cousin, Philip Frewin, will dine here to-morrow."

"You have told me that before, sir," she replied, coldly.

"And I have told you also, that it is my wish you should receive him graciously," rejoined the miser. "Don't say a word more on the subject. Good night, daughter—good night, sister Clinton. Here, Jacob, light the ladies up stairs! I have settled my accounts, and don't want the candle."

Jacob obeyed, and the ladies were conducted to their room, to retire to rest, as usual, in the dark.

A moment afterwards, Jacob returned, and set the expiring candle on the table.

"Well, Jacob?" said the miser to him, "what did you think of our visitor to-day?"

"What did you think of him, sir?" returned Jacob, evasively.

"Pretty well," replied Mr. Scarve. "Not wanting in good looks—but improvident—thoughtless in the extreme."

"Don't think so," rejoined Jacob, gruffly.

"You're no judge of character," rejoined the miser, sharply. "I read the spendthrift in his whole appearance and demeanour. In short, Jacob, I would rather see no more of him. If he should call again, which is not unlikely, though I gave him a broad enough hint that his visits would be anything but agreeable, you will deny me and my daughter to him."

"What!" exclaimed Jacob, "do you mean to shut your doors against the son of your old friend? Is that acting like a gentleman, let alone a Christian?"

"The lad is a scapegrace, Jacob—a senseless, romantic, scapegrace," rejoined the miser.

"Don't think so," replied Jacob.

"He has given away his fortune," said the miser.

"He'll get it back in time," was the rejoinder.

"Jacob, you're a fool!" said the miser.

"Fool or not," replied Jacob, "if I were you, I would marry my daughter to that young man."

"When I ask your advice on the subject, it will be time enough to offer it," rejoined the miser. "You may now retire, Jacob. But first go over the house and see that all's safe. I thought I heard a noise in the cellar last night."

"It was the rats, sir," replied Jacob.

"Indeed!" replied the miser; "then the rats make a pretty chattering with their jaws. Jacob, I suspect it was you."

"Well, then, it was me," replied Jacob, doggedly.

"Oh! you confess it?" replied the miser, uneasily. "Where do you get your victuals from? Who supplies you with them, eh?"

"Never you mind, sir," replied Jacob; "so as it doesn't cost you anythin', you needn't care."

"True, true!" said the miser; "and yet I should like to know how you get your food."

"I don't steal it," replied Jacob. "But see, the candle's goin' out—you had better go to bed."

"You're right, Jacob," said the old man. "Good night! Be sure you look to the house."

With this he crept off to his own chamber, and, just as he reached it, the candle expired.

Mr. Scarve always arose at daybreak, and generally spent two or three hours before breakfast at his accounts. On the morning following the events previously related, he remained longer than usual in his own room, and when summoned to breakfast by Mrs. Clinton at nine o'clock, he descended with a large deed under his arm. The family breakfast consisted of milk and water, the proportions being one-third of the former liquid to two of the latter—a small loaf of bread, but neither butter nor meat. Of this meagre fare all parties partook sparingly, and the meal was soon ended. Hilda had generally little appetite, but on this occasion she ate less than usual, and her father remarked it.

"I fear you are not well to-day," he said; "I am sorry for it, for I wished you to be in good looks to receive your cousin."

"I have no wish to see him," she replied, with a look of inexpressible disgust.

"Then you have no wish to please me," he rejoined.

The miser made no further remark at the time, but when the scanty remains of breakfast were removed, and he was left alone with his daughter, he said—"Hilda, I want a word with you. I have long desired to converse with you on a subject nearest my heart. It relates to your cousin, Philip Frewin. You can scarcely be ignorant that he seeks your hand. But if you are ignorant of his intentions, I must now acquaint you with them. I have a very high opinion of him, not merely because he is my nephew, but because he is a very prudent, careful person, and will take care of what he has got. He is directly the reverse of the weak, young man who was here last night."

"So he appears, sir," replied Hilda, significantly.

"Philip is very rich, Hilda," pursued the miser; "he is worth fifty thousand pounds, if he is worth a penny. And, in short, it is my pleasure, if he should propose to you, as I expect he will, that you accept him."

"Then it is fit, dear father, that you should know what my answer will be to his proposal," she replied.

"What will it be?" asked the miser.

"A positive and decided refusal," she returned.

"Hilda!" exclaimed the miser, furiously—"Hilda!"

"Do not urge me further, father," she rejoined, calmly; "upon this point I am firm."

"You are captivated by the fair face and showy figure of the prodigal who was here last night," cried Mr. Scarve, carried away by his passion; "but mark me, I will never consent to such a match. If you wed him, neither he nor you, nor any child or children of yours, shall ever have a penny of mine!—I'll disinherit you all! He is a beggar, and a beggar's wife you shall be. If the fool had but kept fast hold of the estates, all might have been well—I might have consented; but as it is, I will never listen to his suit. No, Hilda," he continued, moderating himself, "the husband for you is Philip Frewin, my sister's son—one who knows the value of money, and will take care of it,—one who hates extravagance in all ways. I can commend him as a thoroughly well-principled, well-conducted young man."

"He may be all you describe,—though I doubt it," she replied; "but I do not desire to marry."

"Tush!" rejoined the miser, impatiently—"every woman desires to marry. It is her first object—what she is brought up for—the end and aim of her existence."

"But surely, father," replied Hilda, with a half smile, "every woman desires to marry the man she loves. Her heart must have something to do with her choice."

"Pshaw!" cried the miser, "mere idle talk,—mere girl's fancy. Before you have been married a week, you will love your husband better than any man in the world. A husband should not be chosen for his good looks, but for his good qualities; for his pecuniary, rather than his personal advantages; and for his ability to take care of you, your property, and your children. Such a one is Philip Frewin—such a one is not Randulph Crew."

"I wish you would not mention Randulph Crew so often, father," replied Hilda, in some little confusion; "I do not understand why his name should be brought forward."

"Nor I," rejoined the miser; "and I'll take care not to mention it again. But enough has been said on the subject. You know my wishes; don't dispute them. Go to your chamber, child; go to your chamber!" And he turned away from her to pore over the deed before him. Hilda gazed at him for a moment, irresolutely, and then sighing deeply, withdrew.

A guest being expected at dinner, some little preparation was made. The repast was to consist of a few ribs of beef baked upon half-a-dozen potatoes, followed by a small batter pudding, likewise baked.

Punctually at two o'clock, at which hour the miser dined, a knock was heard at the door, and Jacob, answering the summons, admitted a tall, thin young man, with very sharp features, dressed in an old worn-out grey cloth coat, with plated metal buttons, that might have belonged to his grandfather; a tattered plush waistcoat; darned worsted hose; a scratch wig, looking as if it had been picked up in the kennel; and old shoes, with high quarters fastened by small iron buckles. This extraordinary personage was welcomed with great cordiality by his uncle, who seemed to contemplate his miserable appearance with the utmost satisfaction.

Hilda, however, would scarcely behave civilly to him, though the young man paid her great attention, and whenever her father's back was turned, put on a manner that filled her with disgust. At the close of dinner, the miser called for wine, and a bottle was brought him, containing barely a glass, as was proved when Jacob poured it out. Mr. Scarve pressed his nephew to take it, but the young man declined. The miser then raised the glass to his lips, but put it down untasted, observing—"No, I don't require it—indeed, I am better without it. Put it back again, Jacob. I drink your health, nephew, in a glass of water."

"And I return the pledge in the same wholesome beverage," returned Philip Frewin. "I never take any other, sir," he added, ogling Hilda in an intolerable manner. "I drink to you, fair cousin," and as he spoke he gulped down a large draught, but with a very bad grace.

"I don't think for all he says that he's accustomed to such draughts," thought Jacob. "He doesn't look like a waterdrinker."

Dinner was no sooner over than Hilda withdrew with her aunt to her own room; nor would she, though her father sent Jacob to summon her, return.

"Girls have strange fancies, Philip," he said, to his nephew. "Her mother was just as whimsical. I don't think, though she married me, that she cared for me."

"Since I have your consent to the match, sir, that is all I care for," replied Philip. "Love will come in good time. My cousin Hilda is a charming girl, and would be a prize without a penny, but with what you propose to give her—"

"To leave her, Philip—to leave her—not to give her!" interrupted the miser, hastily. "I shall give her nothing during my lifetime."

"Not make any settlement?" asked Philip, uneasily.

"None whatever," replied the miser; "but I shall require a settlement on your part. You are rich, Philip, and can make a good settlement."

"No settlement on your part, uncle!" muttered Frewin, "and a large one demanded on mine! This requires consideration."

"No it doesn't," said the miser, sharply; "for if you hesitate, you sha'n't have her. My daughter shall not be refused by any man, even by my sister's son. You shall take her on my terms, or not at all."

"I will gladly take her so, uncle," replied Philip.

"You will do wisely," rejoined the miser, more calmly. "And now I've good news for you, Phil—rare news! You know—for our attorney, Diggs, will have told you—that I have advanced fourteen thousand pounds to Sir Bulkeley Price on the mortgage of one of his estates in Flintshire. Now, the estate is worth upwards of twenty thousand pounds—perhaps more, because there are several copper mines upon it. Well, I have given Sir Bulkeley notice to pay over the money. He has paid no attention to the application; and if I do not receive the money at six o'clock, at which hour it must be paid or tendered, I shall foreclose—yes, foreclose, nephew—and the estates will become mine—your wife's hereafter, and your children's."

"And mine," thought Philip. "I sincerely congratulate you, uncle," he added, aloud, "and hope nothing may happen to deprive you of your rights."

"Nothing is likely to happen now, Philip," replied Mr. Scarve. "The estate is as good as my own—I have just been reading over the description of it in the deed of mortgage—and a noble estate it is. But since Hilda won't come down, it is scarcely worth while for you to stay longer. Come and dine with me this day week, and I will try and fix the day. Meanwhile, I will speak with my daughter, and bring her to her senses."

"I am glad to hear you say so, uncle," rejoined Philip, "for I almost began to fear there might be a rival in the case."

"A rival!—pshaw!" cried the miser, with a slightly embarrassed look. "It is true that Mr. Randulph Crew called here last night;—he is a very handsome young man, and fit to win a girl's heart. But I don't think Hilda heeded him."

"Indeed, sir!" replied Philip, uneasily. "Well, never mind what impression he made—she is mine, if you give her to me."

"And that I do nephew—on the terms I have mentioned, but no other," rejoined the miser. "Tuesday next, at two. Jacob, show Mr. Frewin to the door. Good bye, nephew—good bye!"

Philip was then ushered forth by Jacob, who eyed him surlily askance, as he conducted him to the door, and shook his hand behind his back as he departed.

"That skinflint shall never marry my young missis," he muttered, "if I can prevent it."

On reaching King-street, Philip Frewin snapped his fingers derisively in the air, and quickening his pace, did not stop till he reached the door of a tavern in the Rhenish "Wine-yard," in that street, and entering it, proceeded at once to a private room. Then, bursting into a loud laugh, he dashed his old wig to the ground, and trampled upon it; threw off his tattered coat and waistcoat, and proceeded to rid himself of the rest of his attire. He next equipped himself in a smart suit of green velvet, put on a campaign wig, and added lace ruffles to his shirt.

"I am glad to get rid of those horrid masquerade habiliments," he muttered; "the part is a devilish disagreeable one to act. But no matter—it is worth playing! My fair cousin will like me all the better when she knows my real character. And now I must hasten to Diggs, to tell him how I've prospered, and instruct him how to proceed."

On being informed by Jacob of her obnoxious cousin's departure, Hilda came down stairs with her aunt, and bore her father's reproaches with a meekness that, instead of allaying his fury, served to increase it. At length she ventured to say, "Why do you wish me married, sir? I am quite content as I am, and could not be happier. I think—nay, I am sure—if I quitted you, you would feel very desolate."

"Weigh that over before it's too late," interposed Jacob. "I'm sure I should feel very desolate. I don't think I'd stop with you."

"Hold your tongue, sirrah!" cried the miser, sharply. "I can live very well alone, Hilda," he added, turning to her, "and I should like to see you comfortably settled before I die. I don't want you to become the prey of an adventurer."

"If that is all you are afraid of, father, you may rest quite easy," she replied. "And do not suppose I speak from any feeling of prejudice, but I think you are deceived in my cousin."

"Deceived, Hilda! In what way?" asked the miser.

"By his apparent carefulness—by the manner in which he seems to adapt himself to your notions and peculiarities," she replied. "Recollect, too, that, owing to circumstances, you have seen and known so little of him, that, but for the fact of his being your nephew, he might be an entire stranger. Forgive me, sir, if I say you are not acting in this case with your usual caution. You trust too much to Philip's own representations."

"You think so," said the miser—"but you are wrong. I have made inquiries through one who would not deceive me—my attorney, Mr. Diggs—and I am assured that Philip is the most careful person breathing."

"I hope you don't except yourself," muttered Jacob.

"In fact, I hear nothing but good of him from Diggs," pursued the miser, not choosing to notice the remark; "and what is better, I know—for I have seen the will—that his father left him fifty thousand pounds—fifty thousand pounds, Hilda!—twenty of which he shall settle on you."

"Do not suffer this notion to get possession of you, I entreat, dear father," she replied. "If he had a million of money, I would never marry Philip Frewin."

Here Mrs. Clinton, who had in vain endeavoured to throw in a word, interposed, and engaged Hilda in conversation. The miser referred to his mortgage-deed; and the description of the estate, which he looked upon as his own, restored him to good temper.