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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
William Harrison Ainsworth's "The Miser's Daughter" intricately weaves together themes of greed, love, and social commentary set against the backdrop of 19th-century England. Ainsworth's narrative style employs rich, descriptive prose, echoing the traditions of Gothic and historical fiction that were prevalent in his time. The novel revolves around the complex relationship between the miserly patriarch, Sir Reginald, and his spirited daughter, as they navigate treacherous social landscapes and the consequences of avarice, ultimately highlighting the moral conflicts that arise in a rapidly changing society. Ainsworth, a contemporary of notable literary figures such as Dickens and Thackeray, was deeply influenced by the societal issues of his era. His firsthand experiences with poverty, urbanization, and class disparities fueled his desire to explore the human condition through his characters' struggles. Drawing on his background in law and history, Ainsworth artfully critiques the moral failings of society while immersing readers in vivid historical settings, making his characters' dilemmas all the more relatable and stimulating. This compelling narrative is highly recommended for readers interested in Victorian literature that not only entertains but also exposes the darker facets of human nature. "The Miser's Daughter" serves as a profound reflection on the costs of greed and the redemptive power of love, making it a must-read for anyone seeking to understand the interplay between wealth and morality. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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The Miser's Daughter
Table of Contents
Introduction
A drama of love and money unfolds where a father’s iron grip on his treasure confronts a daughter’s bid for freedom, and the glitter of wealth casts long, chill shadows across conscience, companionship, and the teeming streets of eighteenth-century London, as avarice masks itself as prudence, affection is weighed like coin on a ledger, and public reputation collides with private yearning in coffee-houses, counting rooms, and parlors, asking how far security can be built on gold, and what risks a heart must take to loosen a lock forged by fear.
The Miser’s Daughter by William Harrison Ainsworth is a historical novel set chiefly in mid-eighteenth-century England, with London’s urban life providing a vivid backdrop. Ainsworth, a prominent Victorian writer of historical romances, published the work in the 1840s, a period when fiction often reached readers in installments before appearing in volume form. The book aligns with his characteristic approach: a carefully staged past rendered with energetic storytelling, moral contrasts, and bustling city scenes. Readers encounter a narrative that blends romance, social observation, and period spectacle, shaped by the anxieties and ambitions of an age fascinated by status, inheritance, and public display.
At its core, the novel presents the predicament suggested by its title: a wealthy, obsessively frugal father whose daughter must navigate the demands of obedience, the pressures of reputation, and the attractions of a life beyond the counting house. This premise fuels encounters across domestic interiors and public spaces, where alliances form, promises are tested, and choices about love and livelihood carry heavy consequence. While the plot develops through reversals characteristic of nineteenth-century serial fiction, its immediate appeal lies in the tension between parental authority and youthful aspiration, framed by bustling streets, fashionable assemblies, and the unrelenting arithmetic of money.
Ainsworth’s voice balances brisk incident with elaborate scene-painting, offering readers both momentum and atmosphere. The mood shifts between suspense, satire, and sentiment, as moments of peril or exposure alternate with intimacy and quiet reflection. Period detail—dress, manners, entertainments, and the rhythms of trade—supplies texture without overwhelming the drama. Dialogue and description cooperate to sketch a social world where wealth confers power but never guarantees safety. The pacing, shaped by its nineteenth-century context, favors set pieces and turns of fortune that keep stakes in view, while descriptive pauses invite contemplation of the values—prudence, pride, and compassion—contending for influence.
The themes are as clear as they are persistent: the moral costs of hoarding, the conversion of affection into calculation, and the struggle to assert personal choice under the weight of family and custom. The narrative probes how money can command not only markets but also emotions and expectations, transforming courtship into transaction and shelter into confinement. Alongside this, it considers appearances—the roles individuals adopt to negotiate a society attentive to rank and respectability. In tracing love’s negotiations with law, property, and parental will, the novel examines the fragile boundary between security and control, and between prudence and fear.
For contemporary readers, the book’s concerns remain recognizable: how wealth structures opportunity, how guardianship can shade into domination, and how a young person crafts identity amid competing obligations. It prompts reflection on the promises and perils of economic caution, on the ethical use of advantage, and on the resilience needed to claim a voice in decisions that shape one’s future. The story’s examination of gendered expectation and social mobility speaks to ongoing debates about autonomy and fairness. Its historical vantage point adds perspective, revealing how long-standing the entanglements of money, reputation, and desire have been in everyday life.
Approached today, The Miser’s Daughter offers a richly staged, accessible entry into the Victorian fascination with earlier Georgian society. Readers can expect a narrative of steady tension rather than relentless violence, with emotional stakes sharpened by the constant accounting of gain and loss. The pleasure lies in watching settings and situations mirror internal conflicts: cramped strongrooms and crowded salons, guarded purses and guarded hearts. Without foreclosing surprises, it is safe to say that the book’s satisfactions come from the interplay of character, custom, and circumstance—an invitation to consider what, in a world governed by coin, remains priceless and therefore worth defending.
Synopsis
Set in early Georgian London, The Miser’s Daughter follows the fortunes of a close-guarded household ruled by avarice. Mr. Scarve, a secretive and parsimonious moneylender, hoards wealth with relentless vigilance, submitting his daughter, Hilda, to a regime of restraint and silence. The family’s narrow dwelling in the City stands at the junction of private fear and public rumor, attracting borrowers, flatterers, and enemies who sense hidden treasure within. Against a backdrop of crowded streets, coffee-houses, and the counting-house world of bills and bonds, the narrative introduces its central conflict: the tension between a father’s iron control over money and a daughter’s quiet claim to independence.
Randulph Crew, a young gentleman newly arrived from the provinces to settle family affairs, becomes the lens through which London’s contrasts are observed. He is welcomed into a sphere of clubs, theatres, and promenades by a worldly kinsman, Sir Norfolk Salusbury, whose taste for show and pleasure exposes Randulph to fashions and temptations. Curiosity about Mr. Scarve’s reputed riches and the whispered beauty of Hilda draws Randulph into that household’s orbit. His first encounters reveal a severe parent guarding not only his coffers but also his daughter’s prospects, measuring suitors by ledgers, and dismissing sentiment as a costly illusion.
A rival emerges in Philip Frewin, a calculating clerk with ties to Scarve’s business, whose suit is advanced by the miser’s preference for keeping wealth within reach. Frewin’s method is legalistic and quietly coercive, using debts, assignments, and technicalities to shape outcomes. Randulph’s more open manner contrasts with this strategy, but leaves him vulnerable to missteps in a city skilled at exploiting innocence. Around them, artists and observers—among them William Hogarth—register the manners of the age, sketching the interplay of greed, vanity, and amusement. Hilda, confined by duty, navigates these pressures with reserve, revealing moral strength beneath outward acquiescence.
London’s financial heartbeat—Exchange Alley, coffee-houses, and brokers’ back rooms—beats through the plot. Speculation rises and falls in gusts of rumor. Scarve, as lender and cautious speculator, magnifies others’ anxieties while protecting his own hoard. Randulph is drawn into gaming tables and investments by companions whose bravado outpaces their solvency. A masquerade and public entertainments, glittering with wit and scandal, provide rare moments when barriers lower and confidences pass between Randulph and Hilda. Meanwhile Frewin consolidates paperwork, securing options that might force a match on the miser’s terms. The narrative tracks how signatures and sealed packets can enmesh lives as surely as passion.
Family entanglements tighten. Sir Norfolk’s cheerful extravagance exposes the precariousness behind fashionable brilliance, and his debts threaten to compromise Randulph’s standing. Scarve’s suspicion, sharpened by long habit, misreads gestures as traps and kindness as calculation. Hilda is urged toward obedience framed as prudence, while her private sympathies risk becoming leverage against her. Visits to attorneys, clerks, and money-changers punctuate the action, revealing the city’s bureaucracy as a theater of advantage. Hogarth’s presence offers a civilizing counterpoint, observing foibles with satiric clarity yet advising moderation. Hints of political unease and old loyalties color the background, complicating alliances already strained by money.
A sequence of decisive confrontations follows. An attempted arrangement of Hilda’s future, orchestrated through legal pressure rather than open conversation, provokes resistance. A nighttime episode—part flight, part pursuit—threads through lanes and across the river, underscoring how public spaces can conceal private dramas. Bonds, notes, and a sealed casket become focal objects, each representing different claims over Hilda’s fate. Randulph must choose between bravado and responsibility, while Frewin tests the permissible limits of compulsion. The miser’s vigilance, long a source of strength, begins to harden into vulnerability, as fear of loss invites challenges he can neither ignore nor fully control.
As markets contract and rumors proliferate, the financial climate turns exacting. Debtors press, creditors harden, and Scarve’s house is beset by petitioners who sense weakness behind barred doors. Frewin’s methods, once discreet, appear more clearly self-serving, and public opinion—so quick to admire thrift—becomes harsher when thrift shades into cruelty. Hilda faces a defining moment in which consent, loyalty, and self-respect must be aligned. In chancery chambers and private interviews, old agreements are tested, new terms proposed, and the weight of a lifetime’s accumulation measured against human claims that cannot be entered in a ledger.
The climax gathers disparate threads—inheritance, guardianship, debt, and affection—into a reckoning shaped by both law and conscience. Without disclosing outcomes, the narrative brings the principal figures to decisions that expose the limits of miserliness and the hazards of prodigality. Wrongdoings are confronted, and appearances give way to clearer truths about motive and character. Scenes of social spectacle recede, leaving a narrower stage where signatures, testimonies, and freely given words determine the future. The resolution preserves suspense while affirming that wealth, to confer security, must be humanized by trust, and that authority, to endure, must recognize the distinction between protection and possession.
Overall, The Miser’s Daughter presents a panoramic yet intimate portrait of London as a marketplace of fortunes and hearts. It charts how avarice narrows judgment, how dissipation erodes promise, and how integrity—quiet, persistent, and considerate—creates room for mutual respect. Through carefully staged legal and social encounters, the book underscores that bonds of affection, once acknowledged, reorder the hierarchy of claims. The central message counters both hoarding and heedless spending with a model of prudent generosity. By blending romance, city manners, and financial intrigue, Ainsworth illuminates the costs of mistrust and the durable rewards of candor and choice.
Historical Context
Set chiefly in London in the mid Georgian era, the narrative inhabits the year 1744 under George II, when the City of London, Westminster, and the pleasure grounds of the West End formed interlocking stages of commerce, politics, and spectacle. Coffeehouses around Exchange Alley and Covent Garden spread news and rumor, while Lombard Street bankers, Temple lawyers, and stockjobbers defined the urban economy. At the other pole lay the rookeries of St Giles and the grim world of debtors prisons along the Fleet. Wartime anxieties, a stratified society of merchants, aristocrats, and tradesmen, and a culture of credit and cash hoarding shape the novel’s physical and social setting.
The invasion scare of 1744, the most immediate historical matrix of the tale, arose from the War of the Austrian Succession and French efforts to restore the Stuarts. Marshal Maurice de Saxe assembled roughly ten to fifteen thousand troops at Dunkirk to cross the Channel, while Admiral Roquefeuil’s Brest fleet sought temporary command of the Channel in February 1744. Sir John Norris took the British Channel fleet to sea, but nature decided the matter: severe gales on 24 to 25 February scattered French transports and damaged escorts, and the expedition was abandoned. France declared war on Britain soon after, in March 1744. In London, the Secretary of State’s office kept informers among Jacobite circles, and taverns and coffeehouses hummed with coded toasts and clandestine pledges. Political control shifted as Lord Carteret fell in November 1744 and Henry Pelham consolidated a broad coalition ministry, seeking stability in Parliament and at court. The novel reflects this charged atmosphere through its constant attention to surveillance, doublespeak, and a public sphere where a careless word at a club could bring interrogation by a magistrate. The miser’s instinct to hoard specie rather than trust paper credit suits a city bracing for invasion, when news of fleets and winds can unsettle markets overnight. The streets it depicts are those of watchmen, informers, and nervous merchants balancing wartime contracts against the risk of sudden disruption.
The Jacobite rising of 1745, though unfolding a year after the book’s chosen date, forms the horizon of expectation for Londoners in 1744. Charles Edward Stuart landed at Eriskay on 23 July 1745, won at Prestonpans on 21 September, reached Derby on 4 December, and was crushed at Culloden on 16 April 1746 by the Duke of Cumberland. The ensuing Heritable Jurisdictions Act and Dress Act of 1746 repressed Highland power and culture. In the novel, anticipatory whispers of 1745 haunt 1744: talk of loyalty oaths, suspected messengers, and the capital’s febrile nerves foreshadow the panic that later produced a Bank of England run.
The War of the Austrian Succession framed British policy and urban life between 1740 and 1748. George II personally fought at Dettingen on 27 June 1743, the last British monarch to command in battle, and allied forces were bloodily checked at Fontenoy on 11 May 1745. Maritime war brought privateering, convoy systems, and insurance premiums that rose and fell with convoy news. Land tax demands remained heavy, and government borrowing expanded through funded debt. The book ties its characters to this wartime economy by showing merchants hedging contracts, insurers weighing risk at the Royal Exchange, and a miser whose preference for coin resonates with an era of fluctuating paper confidence.
The legacy of the South Sea Bubble of 1720 continued to shape financial behavior in the 1740s. After speculative mania and collapse, Parliament passed the Bubble Act of 1720 and Robert Walpole stabilized credit, while the South Sea Company lingered as a debt manager. Names like John Blunt and even Isaac Newton, who famously rued his losses, became cautionary tales. Usury laws capped interest at 5 percent under the 1714 act, yet informal moneylending and bill discounting thrived in City alleys. The novel channels this memory of collapse: its miser distrusts stockjobbers, hoards guineas, and negotiates harsh terms, mirroring a post Bubble culture wary of paper schemes.
Urban social disorder in the 1740s was sharpened by the Gin Craze. The 1736 Gin Act’s heavy license and duty proved unenforceable, and per capita spirit consumption surged to alarming levels by the early 1740s. Magistrates and writers, notably Henry Fielding, decried crime and ruin, and the more effective Gin Act of 1751 followed. Hogarth’s famous prints date from that campaign, but the social conditions they depict were already visible in 1744 in St Giles and Holborn. The book’s scenes of squalid alleys, pawnbrokers, and desperate drinkers situate family drama amid a public health and order crisis that preoccupied London authorities.
Debt enforcement and carceral practice were central facts of Georgian life. Sheriffs officers could arrest on civil process, confining the debtor first in a sponging house and then in the Fleet, Marshalsea, or King’s Bench Prison. Periodic Insolvent Debtors Acts, including one in 1729, offered conditional relief, but fee systems and corruption made imprisonment a moral and financial trap. The Bloody Code’s severity in property crimes compounded fear of the law, while effective policing awaited the Bow Street Runners in 1749. The novel repeatedly invokes this machinery of compulsion: a creditor’s writ, a night arrest, and the threat of prison leverage marriages, inheritances, and obedience.
As social and political critique, the book exposes how war, credit, and law reinforce class power in mid eighteenth century London. It indicts a creditor system that reduces human relations to bonds and securities, showing how patriarchal authority and coverture transform a daughter into a movable asset in marriage settlements. By juxtaposing coffeehouse politicking and clubland excess with gin soaked poverty and the terror of arrest, it challenges the complacency of the mercantile elite. The culture of surveillance bred by Jacobite scares reveals how security rhetoric licenses intrusion and coercion. In dramatizing these pressures, the novel warns against a polity that prizes property over justice.
The Miser's Daughter
BOOK I. — RANDULPH CREW
CHAPTER I. The Miser's Dwelling in the Little Sanctuary—Opposite Neighbours— Peter Pokerich and the Fair Thomasine—Jacob Post—Randulph Crew.
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[1], 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[2], 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.[1q]" 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.
CHAPTER II. The Miser and His Daughter—Randulph delivers the Package to the former—Its reception.
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[3], and wore a velvet nightcap, lined with cotton, on his head. The rest of his habiliments were darned[4] 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.[2q] 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.
