The Miser’s Daughter E-Book

William Harrison Ainsworth

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Randulph Crewe is an unusual name for a young hero. Hilda Scarve is the daughter of a titled miser. The denouement of the plot hinges on the making of wills and inheritance of property, and there is a secret love affair (between Randulph’s uncle and Hilda’s mother) that comes from the past.

Leseprobe

Contents

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

CHAPTER II. The Miser and His Daughter—Randulph delivers the Package to the former—Its reception

CHAPTER III. The Brothers Beechcroft—Mr. Jukes— The Arrival— The Walk in Saint James’s Park— Randulph’s Introduction to Beau Villiers and Lady Brabazon

CHAPTER IV. Abel Beechcroft’s Sensibility— His Instructions to Mr. Jukes— A Second Nephew—The Loan— Mr. Cripp’s Sense of Honour—The Bribe

CHAPTER V. Abel Again Cautions His Nephew Against the Miser’s Daughter

CHAPTER VI. The Miser and Jacob—A Third Nephew—A Dinner at the Miser’s—Hilda’s Opinion of Her Cousin

CHAPTER VII. The Payment Of The Mortgage Money

CHAPTER VIII. The Mysterious Letter—The Landlord of The Rose and Crown—Cordwell Firebras

CHAPTER IX. The Stranger at the Barbers

CHAPTER X. The Beau’s Levie—The Breakfast— The Embarkation for the Folly

CHAPTER XI. The Miser’s Consultation with His Attorney— Jacob Alarmed by His Master’s Appearance at Night— The Visit of Cordwell Firebras

CHAPTER XII. Hilda’s Interview with Abel Beechcroft

CHAPTER XIII. The Folly on the Thames—Kitty Conway— Randulph Placed in an Awkward Situation by Philip Frewin

CHAPTER XIV. Randulph’s Interview with Cordwell Firebras in the Cloisters of Westminster Abbey

CHAPTER XV. Mrs. Clinton’s Alarm—The Miser’s Unexpected Return— The Disappearance of the Mortgage Money— The Effrontery of Philip Frewin and Diggs

CHAPTER XVI. Lady Brabazon Deposits Her Diamonds with the Miser— Gallantry of the Latter—He Discovers the Contriver of the Robbery of the Mortgage Money

CHAPTER XVII. Mr. Cripps’s Alarming Intelligence—Randulph’s Introduction to the Jacobite Club—Sir Norfolk Salusbury and Father Verselyn—The Treasonable Toast— Dangerous Position of Randulph—His Firmness— Punctiliousness of Sir Norfolk Salusbury

CHAPTER XVIII. The Jacobite Club Surprised by the Guard—The Flight and Pursuit—Mr. Cripps’s Treachery—His Reflections

CHAPTER XIX. Mr. Jukes’s Notions of Domestic Happiness— Trussell a Little the Worse For Wine—Randulph Receives a Note from Firebras—Jacob Post Brings Information to Abel

CHAPTER XX. Abel’s Interview with the Miser— Unexpected Appearance of Randulph and Cordwell Firebras—Result of the Meeting

BOOK II. TRUSSELL BEECHCROFT

CHAPTER I. Trussell’s Appearance after His Debauch— He Proceeds with Randulph to Lady Brabazon’s— The Party Go to Marylebone Gardens

CHAPTER II. Mrs. Nettleship—Mr. Cripps Personates His Master— Marylebone Gardens—Mr. Cripps Detected

CHAPTER III. A Man-of-the-World’s Advice on a Matter of the Heart— The Visit To The Haymarket Theatre, and the Supper Afterwards with Kitty Conway— Randulph again Awkwardly Circumstanced with Hilda

CHAPTER IV. Randulph’s Career of Gaiety— Abel’s Remarks Upon It to Mr. Jukes

CHAPTER V. Randulph Receives a Letter from His Mother—Its Effect upon Him—His Good Resolutions Defeated by Trussell

CHAPTER VI. The Fair Thomasine’s Visit to Hilda— Her Mysterious Communication—In What Way, and by Whom the Attempt to Carry off Hilda Was Prevented— The Miser Buries His Treasure in the Cellar

CHAPTER VII. The Progress of Mr. Cripps’s Love Affair— Mr. Rathbone Appears on the Scene—Stratagem of the Valet—Mr. Jukes Visits the Widow

CHAPTER VIII. The Masquerade at Ranelagh, with the Various Incidents that Occurred at It

CHAPTER IX. Jacob Brings a Piece of Intelligence to Randulph— Trussell and Randulph Go to Drury Lane

CHAPTER X. The Supper at Vauxhall—Beau Villiers’ Attempt to Carry off Hilda Defeated by Randulph

CHAPTER XI. Randulph Worsts Beau Villiers in a Duel in Tothill Fields; and is Worsted Himself in a Second Duel by Sir Norfolk Salusbury

BOOK III. ABEL BEECHCROFT

CHAPTER I. What Became of Randulph after the Duel— How Hilda Received the Intelligence that Randulph Had Been Wounded in the Duel; and What Passed between Cordwell Firebras and the Miser

CHAPTER II. Mrs. Crew—Her Solicitude about Her Son; and Her Conversation with Abel

CHAPTER III. Detailing the Interview between Cordwell Firebras and Mrs. Crew

CHAPTER IV. Treats Of The Miser’s Illness; and the Discovery of the Mysterious Packet by Hilda

CHAPTER V. Abel’s Conduct on Learning of the Miser’s Illness— Sir Singleton Spinke Proposes to the Fair Thomasine— Randulph again Dines with Lady Brabazon—He Receivesy a Note From Kitty Conway; and is Assaulted by Philip Frewin and His Myrmidons on His Way to Sup with Her

CHAPTER VI. By What Device Philip Frewin Got Off; and How Randulph and Trussell Were Locked Up in the Watch-House

CHAPTER VII. Kitty Conway and the Little Barber Play a Trick upon the Fair Thomasine—Sir Singleton Spinke Is Deluded into Marriage with the Pretty Actress at the Fleet

CHAPTER VIII. Of the Visit of Philip Frewin and Diggs to the Miser, and What They Obtained from Him

CHAPTER IX. Mr. Rathbone Divulges His Plan to Mrs. Nettleship and Persuades Her to Act in Concert with Him in His Design Upon the Valet

CHAPTER X. How Mr. Cripps’s Marriage with the Widow Was Interrupted

CHAPTER XI. “Stulte! Hac Nocte Repetunt Animam Tuam; Et Quae Parasti, Cuius Erunt”—Lucas XII

CHAPTER XII. Abel Beechcroft Finds the Body of the Miser in the Cellar—His Reflections Upon It— Jacob’s Grief for His Master

CHAPTER XIII. Diggs and Philip Unexpectedly Arrive— The Miser’s Will Is Read, and Philip Declares His Intention of Acting upon it— Abel Unbosoms Himself To Hilda

CHAPTER XIV. Philip Frewin Is Dangerously Wounded by Randulph— His Last Vindictive Effort

CHAPTER XV. Mr. Cripps’s Altered Appearance— He Mystifies the Fair Thomasine about Lady Spinke— The Seizure of the Jacobite Club Contrived

CHAPTER XVI. The Summer-House at the Chequers— The Old Mill—Randulph Overhears the Plot— Dispersion of the Jacobite Club, and the Fate of Cordwell Firebras

CHAPTER XVII. In Which the Wedding-Day Is Fixed

CHAPTER XVIII. Detailing an Event Which May Possibly Have Been Anticipated from the Preceding Chapter

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, 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.

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, 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.”

CHAPTER III. The Brothers Beechcroft–Mr. Jukes– The Arrival–The Walk in Saint James’s Park– Randulph’s Introduction to Beau Villiers and Lady Brabazon

The two brothers Beechcroft, Randulph’s uncles, lived in a retired house in Lambeth, close to the river, and a little to the west of the palace. Both were middle-aged men,–that is to say,–for it is difficult to determine what is the middle age, now-a-days, though it was not quite so difficult to fix the period in the last century,–one was fifty-six, and the other ten years younger, and both bachelors. That they lived together, and in this retired way, was not so much matter of choice as of necessity on the part of the younger brother, Trussell, for he would have preferred, if it had been in his power, a gayer kind of life. But fortune decreed it otherwise. The father of the brothers was a wealthy merchant, who was determined to make an elder son, and he accordingly left the bulk of his property, except some trifling bequests to his daughter Sophia (Randulph’s mother) and Trussell, to his first-born Abel. Abel, however, behaved very handsomely upon the occasion. He instantly made over to his brother what he considered his rightful share of the property, and to his sister another division. In neither case did the gift prosper. Trussell soon squandered away all his modicum in gaming and every other sort of extravagance, while Sophia’s portion was dissipated, though in a different way, by her thoughtless and improvident husband. There are, indeed, so many ways of getting rid of money, that it is difficult to say which is the most expeditious; nor would it be easy to tell whether Trussell or his sister soonest got rid of their brother’s bounty. A small sum had been settled upon Mrs. Crew by her father, at the time of her marriage, and on this she now lived.

Completely reduced in circumstances, Trussell was thrown upon his brother, who very kindly received him, but compelled him to live in his own quiet manner. This did not suit the more mercurial brother, and he more than once tried to live on his own resources; but failing, in the attempt, he was compelled to come back to the old quarters. Now that age had somewhat calmed him, he was more reconciled to his situation. Having little money to spend, for his brother of course regulated his allowance, he could not indulge in any of the dearer amusements,–he could neither play nor frequent the more expensive coffee-houses, clubs, theatres, opera, or other places of public entertainment, except on rare occasions. But he was daily to be seen sauntering on the Mall, or in Piccadilly, and as he had a tolerably extensive acquaintance with the beau monde, he was at no loss for society. The Cocoa-Tree and White’s were too extravagant for him,–the Smyrna and the Saint James’ too exclusively political,–Young Man’s too Military,–Old Man’s too much frequented by stock-jobbers,–and Little Man’s by sharpers,–so he struck a middle course, and adopted the British. This was during the day-time, but after the play; if by chance he went thither, he would drop into Tom’s or Will’s coffee-houses, to talk over the performance–to play a game at picquet–or to lose a half-crown at faro. But nothing would tempt him to risk, even the smallest sum, at hazard. The ordinaries he rarely attended; never, indeed, unless invited by a friend to dine with him at one of them.

Such was Trussell Beechcroft’s daily routine. Perfectly well-bred, of easy and polished manners, good taste, and imperturbable temper, he was an acceptable companion everywhere, and it was a matter of surprise to all that he had not got on better in the world. Trussell was about the middle height, somewhat corpulent and short-necked, and had a round full face. He was by no means handsome, nor had he ever been so, but his features were decidedly prepossessing. He was scrupulously neat in his attire, and a little, perhaps, too attentive to personal decoration for an elderly gentleman: at least his brother thought so.

Abel Beechcroft was a very different character. Some early disappointment in life, in a matter of the heart, it was reported, had soured his temper, and given a misanthropic turn to his mind. He mingled little with the world, and when he did so it was only to furnish himself with fresh material for railing at its follies. He was a confirmed woman-hater, shunned the society of the sex, and never would see his sister after her marriage, because she had in some way or other, though in what was never disclosed, been connected with the bitterest event in his life. In person, Abel was short, thin, and slightly deformed, having very high shoulders, almost amounting to a hump; and his neck being short, like his brother’s, his large chin almost reposed upon his chest. His features were somewhat coarse, with a long prominent nose, and pointed chin, but his broad, massive forehead, and keen gray eyes, gave a great degree of intelligence to them, while his shrewd, satirical expression redeemed them from anything like a common-place character.

It has been said that he lived quietly, but he also lived very comfortably. Nothing could be more snug than his retreat at Lambeth, with its fine garden, its green-house, its walls covered with fruit trees, and its summer-house with windows commanding the river, and frescoed ceiling painted in the time of Charles the Second, at which epoch the house was built, and the garden laid out. Then he had some choice pictures of the Flemish school, two or three of Charles’s beauties, undoubted originals, by Lely and Kneller, but placed in his brother’s room, to be out of his own sight–an arrangement to which Trussell raised no objection; plenty of old china, and old japanned cabinets; a good library, in which the old poets, the old dramatists, and the old chroniclers found a place; and above all a good store of old wine. He was in fact by no means indifferent to good cheer, and enjoyed life in his own way with a keen zest. He had an old butler who managed all for him, for he would never suffer a female servant to come in his sight, and this person, Josiah Jukes, or as he was generally called, Mr. Jukes, was the only individual that ever presumed to contradict him.

Randulph’s uncles had been apprised of his visit to town, and they were therefore expecting his arrival. The journey from Knutsford in Cheshire, whence he had started, occupied five days. He was attended by a raw country lad, who served him as groom, and whom he had sent forward to announce his arrival to his uncles, while he left the packet with Mr. Scarve; but poor Tom Birch, for so the lad was called, missed his way, and instead of turning to the right after crossing Westminster bridge, went to the left, and strayed to Saint George’s Fields; nor was it till an hour after his master’s arrival that he found his way to the house in Lambeth.

Abel Beechcroft, who had expected his nephew early in the day, and had in fact waited dinner for him–a compliment he very rarely paid to any one,–became, as he did not appear, waspish and peevish to a degree that his brother’s patience could hardly tolerate. He grumbled during the whole of dinner, which he declared was uneatable, and when the cloth was removed, began to find fault with the wine.

“This bottle’s corked,” he said, as he tasted the first glass; “all the fault of that young fellow. I wish I had never promised to receive him. I dare say some accident has happened to him. I hope it may turn out so.”

“You don’t hope any such thing, sir,” remarked Mr. Jukes, a little round rosy man in a plain livery, “you don’t hope any such thing, so don’t belie yourself, and do your good heart an injustice. The wine’s not corked,” he added, taking the bottle to the sideboard, and tasting it. “Try another glass. Your palate’s out of order.”

“And well it may be, Mr. Jukes,” replied Abel, “for my digestion has been sadly disturbed by this waiting. Ah! I find I was mistaken,” he added, tasting the glass poured out for him, “there is nothing the matter with the wine.”

“On the contrary, sir, I think it an excellent bottle,” remarked Trussell, “and I propose that we drink our worthy sister’s good health,–Heaven bless her! Much I should like to see her!–and her son’s safe and speedy arrival.”

“Come, sir, you cannot refuse that pledge,” said Mr. Jukes, filling his master’s glass. “I must drink it myself,” he added, again carrying the bottle to the sideboard.

“Well, I wonder what we shall find Randulph like,” mused Trussell, “for we have not seen him since he was a little fellow not higher than this table, when his poor father brought him to town.”

“By the same token that his poor father borrowed two thousand pounds of me at the time, every farthing of which I lost,” growled Abel.

“Well, well, no matter sir. You never felt the loss, so what does it signify,” remarked Mr. Jukes.

“I have no doubt Randulph will be a very fine young man,” pursued Trussell; “Sophia writes word that he is her exact image, and she was certainly the finest woman of her day.”

“Ay, ay!” cried Abel, shrugging his shoulders uneasily. “Change the subject, brother. Change the subject.”

For some minutes there was a profound silence, which was at length broken by Abel.

“I suppose you mean to take this young lad, if he comes, to see all the sights, brother?” he remarked.

“Oh, of course, sir, of course,” replied Trussell, “I must introduce him to the world; shew him all the public places, and public characters, and give him a slight taste of town life.”

“Let it be a very slight taste, brother,” rejoined Abel, sharply, “and not enough to give him an appetite for pernicious food. Our nephew must be perfectly unsophisticated, and I doubt not, from what I hear of him, and indeed know of him, a youth of excellent principles. I think his conduct, in surrendering his estates to his father’s creditors, noble. I have great hopes of him, and if he turns out well, will take care he does not lose in the end by his disinterestedness. But that depends upon himself, and in some degree on you.”

“On me, sir! How so?” asked Trussell.

“Thus,” replied the elder brother; “thus. He is coming to town; you will give him certain introductions; these may turn out to his advantage–may raise him in society, in the world. If so, well and good. But if you only teach him to ape the follies and vices of those of a higher rank than himself–if you make him a weak and frivolous, and perhaps vicious, character; if, in short, you expose him to a test which he cannot bear, I cast him off, and will have nothing to do with him.”

“And provided he answers your expectations, do you propose to leave him a fortune, sir? or to give him one?” inquired Trussell, curiously.

“Why do you ask, brother–why do you ask?” demanded Abel, eyeing him narrowly from beneath his great bent brows.

“Nay; I only ask out of mere curiosity, sir,” replied Trussell, seizing the bottle in some confusion. “I could have no other motive.”

“Hem!” cried Abel, coughing drily.