Cruikshank’s Water Colours

The Miser’s Daughter

A Tale

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‘The delineation of such characters as these I consider as very moral instruction to mankind, and a lesson more demonstrative of the perfect vanity of unused wealth, than has lately been presented to the public.’—Topham’s Life of Elwes.

Other and lighter portions of the Tale refer to the adventures of a young man on his first introduction to town life about the middle of the eighteenth century, when Ranelagh was in its zenith, and Vauxhall and Marylebone Gardens in vogue; when the Thames boasted its Folly; and when coffee-houses filled the place of clubs. The descriptions I believe to be tolerably accurate; and they are at all events carefully done, with the view of giving a correct idea of the manners, habits, and pursuits of our great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. Temptations to pleasurable excess were no doubt sufficiently abundant then.

RANDULPH CREW—THE MISER’S DWELLING IN THE LITTLE SANCTUARY

In a large, crazy, old-fashioned house at the corner of the Little Sanctuary in Westminster, and facing the abbey, dwelt, in the year 1744, 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 door-way, and was ornamented with the arms of a former occupant of the habitation, carved in bold relief in oak, and supported by two mermaids sculptured in the same wood. 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 daytime; and the whole building had a dingy, dismal, and dungeon-like aspect.

RANDULPH CREW DELIVERING THE PACKET TO MR. SCARVE—THE MISER AND HIS DAUGHTER—-RANDULPH DELIVERS THE PACKET TO THE FORMER

Following his conductor along the passage, the boards of which, being totally destitute of carpet or cloth, sounded hollowly beneath their feet, Randulph Crew glanced at the bare walls, the dusty and cobweb-festooned ceiling, and the staircase, as devoid of covering as the passage, and could not but admit that the account given him by the barber of Mr. Scarve’s miserly habits was not exaggerated. Little time, however, was allowed him for reflection. Jacob marched quickly on, 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, grey, keen, and piercing. He was dressed in a thread-bare 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. Beside him was 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 repast.

Everything in the room bespoke the avaricious 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 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 were placed a couple of large blue and white china bottles, with dried everlasting flowers stuck in the 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 show the emptiness of the grate, and diffused a slight gleam, like a mocking laugh, but no sort of heat. Beside it sat Mrs. Clinton, an elderly maiden lady, almost as wintry-looking and pinched as her brother-in-law. This antiquated lady had a long thin neck and a skin as 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 surmounted by the small muslin cap then in vogue.

The object, however, that chiefly riveted Randulph’s attention on his entrance was neither the miser himself nor his sister-in-law—it was 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. Rising as he entered the room, she 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 compressed lips. 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 is he dead?—my friend—my old friend!’ and he pressed his hand to his face, as if to hide his emotion.

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, seeing 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 Randulph; ‘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 estates to the very men who ruined your father! Have you been rash and unadvised enough to break down the barriers 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!’

‘Folly or not, sir,’ returned the young man haughtily, ‘I do not repent the step I have taken. Mv 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 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.

RANDULPH CREW INTRODUCED TO BEAU VILLIERS ON THE MALL—ST. JAMES’S PARK

Randulph and his two uncles sallied forth, and, crossing Westminster Bridge, shaped their course towards Saint James’s Park. As they passed the Little Sanctuary, Randulph could not help gazing towards the dungeon-like dwelling which enshrined her who had made so deep an impression upon him. Uncle Abel noticed his look, and partly divining the cause of it, said,

‘Remember what I told you. Disobey me, and you will rue it.’

Randulph would have made some reply, but he was checked by a significant glance from uncle Trussell.

Passing through the Gate House, they entered the park by a small doorway at the end of Prince’s Court. It was now noon, and a warm and genial day. The avenues of trees then extending between this point and Rosamond’s Pond were crowded with persons of both sexes, and of all ranks, summoned forth by the fineness of the weather.

Amused by the scene, Randulph gazed with much curiosity at all presented to his view. Passing by the Decoy, the party skirted the great canal, and leaving Rosamond’s Pond on the left, proceeded towards Buckingham House.

Just at this juncture, uncle Trussell caught sight of a gay party approaching, and exclaimed, in a joyful tone, to his nephew, ‘As I live, we are most fortunate! There is the leader of fashion, Beau Villiers, coming towards us. You shall know him, nephew—you shall know him. The ladies he is walking with are Lady Brabazon and the Honourable Clementina Brabazon—a fine girl, Clementina—a remarkably fine girl; perfect in style and manners—quite a toast among the sparks. The old fellow at her side, Sir Singleton Spinke, was a great beau in his time, though never equal to Villiers, who far surpasses even his prototype, Beau Fielding, in style and taste. You shall know them all.’

‘And nice acquaintances you will make!’ remarked uncle Abel sneeringly.

‘Never mind him, Randulph,’ whispered uncle Trussell. ‘If you know this set, and they like you, you may know whom you please. Beau Villiers commands all society, from the highest down to—to———’

RANDULPH CREW INTRODUCED TO BEAU VILLIERS ON THE MALL—ST. JAMES’S PARK

‘Mr. Trussell Beechcroft,’ replied uncle Abel.

‘Well, down to me, if you please,’ rejoined uncle Trussell, ‘and that shows it does not extend too low. But, Randulph, I beg you to look at the beau. Did you ever see a finer man?’

‘He is very handsome, certainly,’ replied Randulph, ‘and remarkably well dressed.’

‘He is a great coxcomb, a great rake, and a great gamester, Randulph,’ said uncle Abel; ‘beware of him.’

‘Tush, never mind what he says,’ rejoined uncle Trussell, who really wished to have the éclat of introducing his handsome nephew to the beau. ‘Come along!’

So saying, he took his nephew’s arm and hurried him forward. Pushing their way through the throng, they soon approached the sentry-box opposite Buckingham House, near which they encountered the party in question.

Beau Villiers, who was, indeed, a remarkably handsome man, and dressed in the extremity of the mode, wore an embossed velvet coat, embroidered with silver, with broad cuffs similarly ornamented; a white waistcoat of the richest silk, likewise heed with silver; and tawny velvet breeches, partly covered with pearl-coloured silk hose, drawn above the knee, and secured with silver garters. His dress was completed by shoes of black Spanish leather, fastened by large diamond buckles, and a superb Ramillies periwig of the lightest flaxen hair, which set off his brilliant complexion and fine eyes to admiration. He carried a three-cornered hat, fringed with feathers, and a clouded cane, mounted with a valuable pebble.

Near the beau walked Lady Brabazon, a gorgeous dame of about five-and-forty, and still possessed of great personal attractions, which she omitted no means of displaying. She wore a hoop, and a blue and silver satin sack. Struck by Randulph’s figure at a distance, she had pointed him out to the beau, who thereupon vouchsafed to look towards him.

Behind Lady Brabazon came her daughter, Clementina, a very pretty and very affected blonde of two-and-twenty, with an excessively delicate complexion, fair hair, summer blue eyes, and a very mincing gait. She was exquisitely dressed in the last new mode, with a small escalloped lace cap, her hair crisply curled at the sides, a triple row of pearls round her neck, and a diamond cross attached to the chain; and though she pretended to be interested in the discourse of the old knight, it was evident her regards were attracted by the handsome young stranger.

As to the old beau, he was, indeed, supremely ridiculous. He was attired in a richly embroidered cinnamon-coloured velvet coat, with fur cuffs of a preposterous size, each as large as a modern muff. His pantaloon legs were covered with pink silk hose; his wrinkled features were rouged and bepatched; and his wig was tied with a large bow, and had such an immense queue to it, that it looked as if a Patagonian dragon-fly had perched on the back of his neck. Lady Brabazon was attended by a little black page, in a turban and eastern dress, who had charge of her favourite lap-nile. Uncle Abel drew on one side to allow the introduction to take place, and to witness it, uncle Trussell stepped forward, and bowing obsequiously to Beau Villiers, pointed to Randulph, ‘Permit me,’ he said, ‘to introduce my nephew, Mr. Randulph Crew, to you, Mr. Villiers. He is fresh from the country. But even there, your reputation has reached him.’

‘I am happy to make his acquaintance,’ replied the beau, courteously returning Randulph’s bow, and eyeing him curiously at the same time. ‘On my faith, your ladyship,’ he added aloud to Lady Brabazon, ‘the young man is not amiss, but destroyed by his wretched equipments and rustic air.’

‘I really think something may be made of him,’ returned Lady Brabazon, in the same loud and confidential tone. ‘Mr. Trussell Beechcroft, introduce your nephew.’

‘With the greatest pleasure, your ladyship,’ replied Trussell, obeying her behest.

‘Come with us,’ said Lady Brabazon to Randulph, after the ceremony had been gone through. ‘My daughter—Mr. Crew,’ she added, as they passed along. ‘By the bye, who was that strange old man I saw walking with you just now?’

‘Who?’ rejoined Randulph evasively, for he felt ashamed, he knew not why, of acknowledging his uncle.

‘There he is,’ said Lady Brabazon, pointing her fan backwards; ‘he is staring hard at us, and looks exactly like a—

‘It is my uncle Abel,’ replied Randulph, in some confusion. ‘Your uncle Abel!’ cried Lady Brabazon, with a scream of who stood on his right. ‘Then the sooner you get rid of uncle Abel the better.’

Abel could not hear the words, but he heard the laugh, saw the gesture, as well as his nephew’s confusion, and knew that he was the object of it. He turned away in the opposite direction, muttering to himself as he went, ‘So, he has taken the first step.’

SIR BULKELEY PRICE BRINGING THE MORTGAGE MONEY TO MR. SCARVE—THE PAYMENT OF THE MORTGAGE MONEY

Nearly an hour having elapsed, Mr. Scarve arose, and called to Jacob, who had retired to the cellar. The summons not being answered as expeditiously as he desired, he called again, and Jacob made his appearance brushing the moisture from his lips, and trying to swallow down a huge morsel that stuck in his throat.

‘You have been eating, rascal!’ cried the miser, ‘and drinking too! Faugh! how the knave smells of beer!’

‘If I have been eatin’ and drinkin’,’ said Jacob, clearing his throat by a violent effort, ‘it hasn’t been at your expense.’

‘Well, go and see what’s o’clock,’ said the miser, who did not appear particularly angry.

‘What’s o’clock!’ exclaimed Jacob, with surprise. ‘Why, I’ve lived with you these twenty years, and never was sent on such a message before. What do you want to know what’s o’clock for?’

‘What’s that to you, sirrah?’ rejoined the miser, with more anger in his words than in his tones or looks. ‘But I’ll tell you thus much, I never in my life wished a day to be passed so much as I do this.’

‘You excite my curiosity, father,’ said Hilda. ‘Why do you wish it passed?’

‘Because, if a certain sum of money is not paid to me before six o’clock, I shall be the possessor of one of the finest estates in Wales,’ replied the miser. ‘It must now be five; in another hour I shall be safe—safe, Hilda!—the mortgage will be foreclosed—the estate, mine! Mr. Diggs will be here at six. If I obtain this prize, Jacob, you shall drink my health in the glass of wine I put back in the bottle.’

‘Then it’ll be the first time I ever so drunk it,’ replied Jacob.

‘Take care it isn’t the last, you thankless varlet,’ rejoined the miser. ‘Don’t stand chattering there! Go and see what’s o’clock.’ As Jacob departed to obey his injunction, Mr. Scarve paced to and fro within the room, rubbing his hands and chuckling to himself. Five minutes nearly elapsed before Jacob returned; and when he did so, it was with a countenance of very peculiar significance. ‘Well, is it five?’ cried the miser.

‘No, it’s fourteen,’ replied Jacob.

‘Fourteen!’ exclaimed the miser. ‘What do you mean? You’re drunk, sirrah—drunk on the promise of a glass of wine.’

‘No, I’m not,’ replied Jacob. ‘I mean that there is a troop of fourteen horsemen at the door. There!—don’t you hear’em? They make noise enough, I should think.’

And as he spoke, a loud knocking, mixed with shouts and laughter, came sounding down the passage.

‘It is the mortgage money, father,’ said Hilda.

‘It is—damnation!’ cried the miser, stamping on the ground.

‘At first I took the troop for a gang of highwaymen,’ said Jacob, ‘when their leader, a fat, bloated old fellow, calls out to me, in an imperious tone, “Tell your master, the miser,” says he, “that Sir Bulkeley Price has brought him his money. He is not yet owner of an estate in Flintshire.” And then all his followers burst out a laughin’; and I don’t think they’ve done yet.’

‘Curses on them!’ cried the miser furiously, ‘and on him too! They shan’t enter my dwelling. I won’t receive the money. Send them away! Tell them I’m not at home, Jacob.’ ‘It won’t do, sir,’ replied Jacob; ‘they know you’re at home, for I told’em so. And as to refusing the money, why should you do that? They have brought it in great bags—bags of gold, of five hundred pounds each.’

‘Five hundred devils!’ cried the miser, foaming with rage. ‘What! bring such a sum as that in broad day! I shall be exposed to all my prying neighbours.’

‘That you will,’ rejoined Jacob; ‘they’re all at the windows looking on. There’s Mr. Deacle, the mercer, over the way, and his wife and daughter; and the inquisitive little barber next door; and the ironmonger’s wife and family at the Blackamoor’s Head; and the vintner’s at the Man-in-the-Moon, and——’

‘Hold your peace,’ cried the miser furiously, ‘or I’ll strangle you! I’ll not be insulted thus by any man! Fetch me my sword!’

‘Father!’ exclaimed Hilda, ‘why do you excite yourself thus? Sir Bulkeley Price has but done what was right; he has brought you back your money.’

SIR BULKELEY PRICE BRINGING THE MORTGAGE MONEY TO MR. SCARVE

‘What is it o’clock, Jacob?—did you ascertain that?’ cried the miser.

‘Not five, sir,—not five,’ replied Jacob.

‘Oh! perdition seize him! he is in time,’ cried the miser. ‘But I’ll be revenged. I’ll have his blood if I can’t have the estate. My sword, Jacob! What! you won’t move? Nay, then, I’ll fetch it myself.’ And opening a side door, he rushed up a small flight of steps leading to his bedroom.

‘Some mischief will happen, Jacob,’ cried Hilda, with a terrified look. ‘I never saw my father so agitated before. I’ll go forth myself, and entreat Sir Bulkeley to depart.’

‘Don’t expose yourself to the insults of his servants, miss,’ rejoined Jacob. ‘I did not tell master a quarter what they said of him.’ But despite his entreaties, and those of her aunt, who also endeavoured to detain her, she rushed forth, followed by Jacob.

On gaining the street, Hilda found Jacob’s statement perfectly correct. A troop of fourteen horsemen, with Sir Bulkeley Price at their head, were drawn up in front of the house. Most of them were well mounted, though a few of the number rode stout Welsh ponies. All had swords at their sides, and pistols in their holsters, as was needful from the amount of money they carried; every man having been provided with two bags, each containing five hundred pounds in gold, slung over his saddle-bow. A pile of these precious sacks lay at the door, and some of the men were now adding to the heap, while others were unslinging bags from their comrades’ saddles. The whole company were in high glee, and laughing loudly. The leader of the troop, Sir Bulkeley Price, was a stout portly gentleman, whose swollen, inflamed cheeks and mulberry nose showed he was by no means indifferent to the pleasures of the table. A claret-coloured velvet riding-coat, buttoned to the throat, displayed his full chest and rather commanding figure to advantage; while a well-powdered, full-bottomed periwig contrasted strongly with his rubicund and fiery visage. Hilda’s appearance created a great sensation among the lookers-on, and especially attracted the attention of the barber, who was chattering with Mr. Deacle about the occurrence, and of the fair Thomasine, who was leaning out of an upper window, just above her father’s sign of the Three Pigeons.

‘There’s Miss Scarve!’ cried Peter, calling to Thomasine.

‘I see her,’ replied the mercer’s daughter. ‘Poor thing, how I pity her—to be exposed to such insults! I long to fly to her assistance.’

‘Do, do!’ cried Peter. ‘I’ll fly with you.’

‘No, don’t,’ said Mr. Deacle; ‘you had better not interfere. Lord bless me! I wonder what it all means?’

Heedless of what was passing around her, for she heard her father’s furious voice in the passage, Hilda rushed toward Sir Bulkeley Price, and, in a tone of the most earnest entreaty, cried, ‘Oh, sir, I implore you to go away! My father is fearfully incensed—some mischief will happen!’

‘You are Mr. Scarve’s daughter, I presume?’ returned Sir Bulkeley, politely taking off his hat. ‘I should never have suspected him of owning aught so beautiful. But why should I go away, Miss Scarve? I am merely come to pay your father a sum of money which I borrowed from him.’

‘But it is the manner of paying it, sir,—the public manner—the exposure that incenses him,’ cried Hilda. ‘I would not for twice the amount, that this had happened.’

‘I daresay not,’ replied Sir Bulkeley; ‘but your father has forced me into the measure. My estate would have been forfeited if I had not repaid the money by six o’clock. It is as unpleasant to me as it can be to him; but I had no alternative.’

At this moment a loud angry cry was heard at the door, and the miser appeared, brandishing his drawn sword at it. His mad career was opposed by Jacob, whose wig was knocked off in his endeavours to push him backwards.

‘Villain!’ cried the miser, shaking his hand at Sir Bulkeley, ‘villain, you shall repent your insolence! Release me, Jacob! Let me get at him!’

‘No, you shan’t!’ replied Jacob, who had to exert all his strength, such was the miser’s fury, to keep him back.

Mr. Scarve’s vociferations of rage were now drowned by the hootings and jeers of the Welsh baronet’s attendants, who did all in their power to incense him further. Terrified by the cries, Hilda clasped her hands in agony, and again addressed herself to Sir Bulkeley.

‘As you are a gentleman, sir, I beseech you to withdraw,’ she said.

‘Such an appeal, and from such lips, is irresistible,’ replied Sir Bulkeley, again raising his hat.

‘He is no gentleman, Hilda!’ shrieked her father, who overheard what was said. ‘Come away, girl, I command you—leave him to me!’

‘Well crowed, old cock!’ cried one of the attendants, in mockery. And all laughed jeeringly, as before.

‘Hold your tongues, you saucy knaves!’ cried Jacob, fiercely regarding them; ‘or as soon as I’m at liberty, I’ll break some of your addle pates.’

‘For pity’s sake—go, go!’ cried Hilda to the baronet, ‘and take the money with you. Another time will do for payment.’

‘Pardon me, Miss Scarve,’ replied Sir Bulkeley; ‘another time will not do. I mustn’t jeopardise my estate. Mr. Scarve,’ he shouted to the miser, ‘here is your money—fourteen thousand pounds, in gold. Friends,’ he added, looking round at the crowd of spectators in the street, and at the windows, ‘I call you all to witness that this money is paid before six o’clock. I will take your word, Miss Scarve, for a receipt, and for the delivering up of the mortgage deeds.’

‘Take hence your money, villain!’ vociferated the miser, ‘I want none of it.’

This exclamation was followed by a roar of derisive laughter from the baronet’s attendants.

‘Silence them—oh! silence them, sir!’ cried Hilda imploringly.

Sir Bulkeley looked majestically round, and his attendants became instantly mute. At the same time, Jacob forced Mr. Scarve into the house; and Hilda, hastily expressing her thanks to the baronet, withdrew. In a few seconds, the whole of the bags of money were collected, and placed on the threshold. Sir Bulkeley would not, however, depart till Jacob returned, when he committed the heap to his custody.

‘What have you done with your master?’ he asked.

‘He has fainted, and his daughter is tending him,’ replied Jacob.

‘Well, take him that restorative,’ rejoined Sir Bulkeley, pointing to the money-bags; ‘it will speedily revive him.’

So saying, he rode off with his followers, amid the acclamation of the spectators. The same persons next began to hoot Jacob, and even seemed disposed to assail him; but being now provided with his crab-stick, he presented such a menacing and formidable appearance, that those nearest him slunk off.

HILDA’S VISIT TO ABEL BEECHCROFT

Hilda yielded at length to her aunt’s entreaties, and having put on her walking attire, quitted the house with Jacob. Instead of going over Westminster Bridge, they proceeded to Parliament Stairs, where Jacob said he had a friend a waterman, who would lend him a boat, in which they could cross the river. Nor did he assert more than the truth. On reaching the stairs, the first person he encountered was the friendly waterman in question, who, on learning his wishes, immediately ran down and got his skiff ready. Having placed Hilda within it, Jacob took off his coat, and plying the oars with as much skill as the best rower on the Thames could have done, speedily landed her at Lambeth, and secured the boat, where he inquired the way to Mr. Beechcroft’s house. A walk of a few seconds brought them to it. Hilda’s heart trembled as she knocked at the door; but she was reassured by the kindly aspect of Mr. Jukes, who answered the summons. She stated her errand to the butler, who appeared not a little surprised, and, indeed, confounded, at the announcement of her name. After a short debate with himself, Mr. Jukes said his master was at home, and she should see him; and, without more ado, he led the way to the library, and entered it, followed by the others.

Abel was seated beside an old-fashioned bookcase, the door of which was open, disclosing a collection of goodly tomes, and had placed the book-stand, supporting the volume he was reading, in such a position as to receive the full light of the window. So much was he engaged in his studies that he did not hear their approach. In the hasty glance cast by Hilda at the pictures on the wall, the most noticeable of which was a copy of Rembrandt’s ‘Good Samaritan,’ and a fine painting on the subject of ‘Timon of Athens,’ she thought she could read somewhat of the character of the owner of the house. Little time, however, was allowed her for reflection, for Mr. Jukes, advancing towards his master’s chair, leaned over it, and whispered a few words in his ear.

‘What!—who!—who did you say?’ exclaimed Abel, half-closing the book he was reading, and looking sharply and anxiously round. ‘Who did you say, Jukes?’

‘Miss Scarve, sir,’ replied the butler; ‘she has brought you a letter.’

‘Tell her I won’t receive it—won’t open it!’ cried Abel. ‘Why did you not send her away? What brings her here?’

‘You had better put that question to her yourself, sir,’ replied Mr. Jukes, ‘for she is in this room.’

‘Here!’ exclaimed Abel, starting to his feet. ‘Ah! I see—I see. O God! she is very like her mother.’

‘Calm yourself, I entreat, sir,’ said Mr. Jukes; ‘I would not have admitted her,’ he added, in a low tone, ‘but that she told me the letter was written by her mother, and left to be delivered to you under peculiar circumstances, which have now arisen. I couldn’t resist a plea like that—nor could you, sir, I’m sure.’

‘A letter written to me by her mother! cried Abel, shivering, as if smitten by an ague. ‘Leave us, Jukes, and take that man with you.’

‘Come, friend,’ said Mr. Jukes to Jacob, who, with his crab-stick under his arm, stood gazing curiously on, ‘you had better adjourn with me to the butler’s pantry.’

‘Thank’ee kindly, sir,’ replied Jacob, in tones a little less gruff than usual, for he was somewhat awestricken; ‘I would rather stay with my young missis.’

‘But don’t you see you’re in the way, my good man?’ rejoined Mr. Jukes impatiently; ‘they can’t talk before us. Come along.’ And despite his resistance, he pushed Jacob out of the room, and closed the door after him.

‘You have a letter for me, young lady, I believe,’ faltered Abel in a voice hollow and broken by emotion.

‘I have, sir,’ she replied, giving it to him.

Abel looked at the address, and another sharp convulsion passed over his frame. He, however, controlled himself by a powerful effort, and broke the seal. The perusal of the letter seemed to affect him deeply, for, staggering to his chair, he sank into it, and covering his face with his hands, wept aloud. It was some minutes before he arose. Hilda, who had watched him with much concern, was surprised to see how calm he looked. He had, indeed, regained the mastery he usually held over his feelings. ‘Pray be seated, young lady,’ he said, handing her a chair. ‘I would have shunned this interview if it had been in my power, but as it has been brought about, I will not shrink from it. How can I serve you?’

Hilda then proceeded to explain the object of her visit. Abel listened to her recital with a quivering lip and flashing eye, and at its close got up, and took a quick turn round the room.

‘This is only what might be expected from him—scoundrel!’ he ejaculated. ‘Sell his daughter!—but that is nothing—he would sell his soul for gold! I beg your pardon, young lady,’ he added, checking himself, as he saw the pain his exclamations occasioned her, ‘but if you knew the deep and irremediable injury inflicted on me by your father, you would pardon this outbreak of passion. He has sacrificed others without scruple, but he shall not sacrifice you. You may count on my assistance, my protection, if you choose to confide in me.’

‘I have my mother’s injunction to confide in you, sir,’ she replied.

‘Your mother!’ exclaimed Abel, in a voice of agony. ‘Oh, Hilda! what a fearful spell is there in that word!—what a host of feelings does it not summon up! I see your mother again as I remember her in her youth—beautiful as you are, more beautiful, if possible—certainly more blooming. I hear the music of her voice as I listen to yours; I feel again the charm inspired by her presence. You shall learn my history one of these days, and you will then know why your mother addressed this letter to me—why it affects me thus.’

‘I can partly guess the cause,’ returned Hilda mournfully; ‘but be it what it may, it is plain she felt she had a strong hold on your affections, and that she thought she could rely on you, when she could rely on no one else.’

‘If she thought so, she judged rightly,’ replied Abel. ‘I consider her request as a sacred injunction, and will strive to comply with it. And now,’ he added, changing his tone, ‘I must tell you that your name has been brought before me of late. My nephew, Randulph Crew, who visited your father the other night, has spoken of you.’ Hilda slightly coloured. ‘He will much regret not being at home this morning,’ pursued Abel, ‘as he might have had an opportunity of further cultivating his acquaintance with you. But he is gone out with my brother.’

‘I hope it will not offend you to say I am glad of it,’ replied Hilda; ‘I would not willingly have met him.’

‘Why so?’ asked Abel, who, however, looked somewhat relieved.

‘Because, sir, I will be frank with you,’ she replied, ‘and own that my father attributes my increased dislike of my cousin to a predilection for your nephew.’

‘And may I expect equal frankness in the reply, if I ask whether there is any truth in your father’s suppositions?’ rejoined Abel.

‘You may,’ she answered. ‘Your nephew appears a very amiable and pleasing young man, but having seen him only for a few minutes, I cannot possibly feel an interest in him beyond such as might be inspired by any stranger of equally prepossessing appearance and manners. My aversion to my cousin arises from various causes. I half suspect him of acting a very base part towards my father, who resolutely shuts his eyes to the deception.’

‘I will not affect to deny that I am pleased with what you say of your indifference to my nephew, Hilda,’ returned Abel, ‘because I have other views in reference to him. As to your cousin, Philip Frewin, I will make strict inquiries about him, and if your suspicions prove correct, I will myself unmask him to your father, which may perhaps put an end to the matter. He lives in Fen-church Street, you say. It so happens that an old friend of mine, a widow lady, Mrs. Verrai—a friend of your mother’s, by the bye—resides in that street. She is an excellent woman, but a little of a busy-body and a gossip, and makes it her business to know her neighbours’ concerns better than her own. I’ll venture to say she is acquainted with your cousin’s affairs. I haven’t seen the old lady of late, because, as you may perhaps have heard, I have little intercourse with your sex—my habits, and indeed feelings, unfitting me for their society—but I happen to know from my brother Trussell that she is well. You had better go to her yourself. I will give you a note of introduction—though, indeed, it is not needed, for, as I have told you, she is an old friend of your mother’s. In addition to gaining all the information you may require respecting your cousin, you will make a friend with whom you may take refuge, if matters—which we will not anticipate—should unhappily render such a step necessary.’

‘I will do as you suggest, sir,’ replied Hilda; ‘but suppose I should encounter my cousin?’

‘Tell him where you are going,’ replied Abel; ‘and depend upon it, if he is not what he represents himself, he will be the first to take the alarm. I will myself institute inquiries about him in another quarter.’ With this, he proceeded to a table on which writing materials were placed, and hastily penned a note, and gave it to Hilda. ‘And now, God bless you, my dear child!’ he said affectionately. ‘If called upon by circumstances, you shall never want a father or protector in me!’ He then rang the bell, and Mr. Jukes presently appeared, who informed him that Jacob had just sat down to dinner with the other servants.

‘I think, sir,’ he added, in a low tone, ‘it is the first good meal he has had for many a day, and it would be a pity to disturb him, if Miss Scarve is not in a very great hurry.’

Abel appealed to Hilda, and as she raised no objection, he proposed to her to take a turn in the garden till Jacob had finished his meal; and accordingly opened the window and led her forth. By this time Hilda had become more composed, and being quite easy with the old man, for whom indeed she felt a growing regard, she entered readily into conversation with him; and thus more than half an hour flew by, almost without their being aware of its flight. At the end of that time, Mr. Jukes made his appearance, and informed them that Jacob was ready. Abel attended his fair visitor to the door.

‘If you do not find Mrs. Verrai at home,’ he said, ‘or if anything should occur to make you wish to see me again, do not hesitate to come back. But, in any event, you shall hear from me—perhaps see me, to-morrow. God bless you, my child!’ And taking her hand, he pressed it to his lips; and when Hilda withdrew it, she found it wet with tears.

While this was passing, Jacob shook the hospitable butler warmly by the hand, and then strode on before his young mistress, towards the stairs where he had left the boat. Having placed her within it, and divested himself of his coat and hat, as before, he inquired where she meant to go, and being told to London Bridge, pulled off vigorously in that direction.

‘THE FOLLY’—A FLOATING TAVERN ON THE THAMES—KITTY CONWAY—RANDULPH PLACED IN AN AWKWARD SITUATION BY PHILIP FREWIN

The Folly on the Thames, whither Beau Villiers and his party were steering their course, was a large floating house of entertainment, moored in the centre of the stream, immediately opposite old Somerset House. It was constructed in the latter part of the reign of Charles the Second; and thither the merry monarch, who was excessively fond of aquatic amusements of all kinds, would frequently repair with his courtiers and frolic dames. Thither also Queen Mary, the consort of William the Third, went on the occasion of a grand musical entertainment; and the place continued in vogue for many years, until at length, degenerating in its character, it became the haunt of a very disreputable part of the community. The Folly resembled a large one-storied house, very long in proportion to its width, built upon an immense barge. There was a platform at the top, defended by a strong wooden balustrade, and flanked at each corner by a little turret with a pointed top, surmounted by a small streamer. These turrets constituted small drinking and smoking rooms, and were fitted up with seats and tables. In the centre of the structure was a sort of open belvidere, covering the main staircase leading to the roof. On this a large flag was planted. The Folly was approached from the water by steps on three sides. It was lighted by a range of large and handsome windows, and entered by two doors, one at the end, and the other at the side. Within, it contained a long music-hall with a frescoed ceiling, gilded and painted walls, an orchestra, and the necessary complement of benches, chairs, and small tables. There was, moreover, a bar, where all sorts of liquors, materials for smoking, and other tavern luxuries were dispensed. The rest of the structure was divided into a number of small apartments for private parties, and, in short, boasted every sort of accommodation afforded by a similar place of entertainment on shore. In summer it was delightful—the view of the Thames from its summit being enchanting. The coolness and freshness, combined with the enlivening influences of beauty, wine, and music, made it, on its first establishment, a charming place of recreation; and it cannot be wondered that the merry monarch, and his merrier court, found it so much to their taste.

As the party approached the aquatic hotel, they perceived a number of persons, of both sexes, seated on the roof, and in the little turret parlours, smoking, drinking, or otherwise amusing themselves; while lively strains of music proceeded from within. Several small craft were landing their passengers, and from one, a tilt boat, there issued a very pretty young woman, though of rather bold appearance, who, as she took the hand of a young man in her ascent of the steps, displayed a remarkably neat foot and ankle. On reaching the deck, she turned for a moment to survey the scene, and her eye alighting on Randulph, his good looks appeared to rivet her regards.

This fascinating creature seemed to be about twenty; had very regular features, auburn hair, a brilliant complexion—whether wholly unindebted to art might be questioned—but there could be no question as to the natural brilliancy of her hazel eyes; and wore a pink silk hooped gown, made very low in front, so as to display her beautifully formed and radiantly white neck and shoulders. Her sleeves were very short, probably so contrived with the view of exhibiting her rounded arms, and edged with lace. A white silk apron embroidered with silver, a pretty fly-cap, and a necklace of precious stones, from which depended a diamond cross, completed her attire. The young man, by whom she was attended, had a slight thin figure, and sharp, disagreeable features, with rather an apish expression. He was dressed with much smartness, but had by no means the air of a gentleman, and seemed to be regarded with indifference, almost amounting to contempt, by his female companion.

‘Who is that young lady?’ asked Randulph of Sir Singleton, who happened to sit next him.

‘Let me see!’ exclaimed the old beau, placing his glass to his eye. ‘Ah! gadzooks! ’tis the delicious creature I mentioned to you—the little Haymarket actress, Kitty Conway!’

‘Kitty Conway! where is she?’ cried Trussell, who heard the remark, but whose back was towards the object of their admiration.

Sir Singleton pointed her out, and upon the instant every eye was directed towards her. Whether unable to stand so fierce a fire, or whether, as is more probable, dragged away by her companion, who did not appear to relish the notice she attracted, it is needless to inquire, but pretty Kitty suddenly vanished from their sight.

‘Well, isn’t she delicious?’ cried Trussell to Randulph. ‘Egad! you have made a conquest of pretty Kitty, my boy. I saw the parting glance she gave you over her shoulder as she whisked through the door. Don’t lose sight of her. You can soon put the City beau, by whom she is attended, hors de combat.’

Further remarks were interrupted by the arrival of the boat at the steps. A strange black-muzzled fellow, in a Guernsey shirt, with bare arms and bare legs, and who was a regular attendant at the Folly, helped them to disembark; and his request to ‘be remembered’ by the beau being met with a very munificent rejoinder, he well-nigh lost his balance in his glee, and got a tumble into the water.

The party then entered the music-hall, and just as they passed through the door, Randulph, chancing to look behind him, perceived that the stranger had likewise landed, and was mounting the steps. The novel scene, however, before him, so completely engrossed his attention, that he could think of little else. Upwards of a hundred persons of both sexes thronged the room; many of the ladies were masked, and a good deal of freedom marked their conduct. They talked and laughed loudly and recklessly. At one end of the hall, the benches were taken aside to allow Kitty Conway and her companion, with some other couples, to perform the cushion dance. At the upper end of the room stood the musicians. The party made their way towards the dancers, and the beau and Sir Singleton praised Kitty’s beauty in tones so loud, and in terms of admiration so strong, as would have occasioned confusion to any young lady troubled with a more oppressive sense of bashfulness than she was. Her partner did not know whether to look pleased or annoyed. He was evidently overpowered by the presence of Beau Villiers, whom he regarded with a species of awe; and as these applauses of Kitty gave a fancied consequence to himself, he was weak enough to be gratified by them. Towards the close of the figure, a particular step, executed by the pretty actress, elicited more than usual rapture from Sir Singleton, and he called to Randulph—‘Look at her, Mr. Randulph Crew. Is it not delicious?’

At the sound of this name, Kitty’s partner started, and stared so hard at Randulph, that he could scarcely finish the dance.

‘Upon my word, Philip Frewin, you are a very stupid partner,’ said the actress to him. ‘If you do not exert yourself more, I shall ask that handsome young fellow, who is ogling me there, to take my hand in the next set.’

‘I am quite fatigued, Kitty,’ replied Philip confusedly; ‘let us have some refreshment—a little rack punch, or a glass of champagne.’

Kitty Conway assented, and they moved off to one of the side tables, where a waiter speedily placed glasses before them, and opened a bottle of champagne. It must be confessed—unwilling as we are to admit it—that Randulph was not altogether proof against the undisguised admiration of the pretty actress, and that he could not help returning the tender glances she shot towards him.

Meanwhile the performances went forward; an Irish jig followed, in which Randulph and Sir Singleton joined; this was succeeded by some comic songs; and Mr. Villiers, who did not altogether relish the entertainment, walked forth, and was soon after followed by the others. As they all stood leaning over the sides of the bark, laughing at what had occurred, and admiring the gaiety of the scene, a skiff, impelled by a vigorous rower, as was evident by the progress it made, and containing a young female, wrapped in a black silk scarf, and with raven tresses, scarcely covered by a small bonnet, floating in the breeze, rapidly neared them. Various speculations were put forth as to whether this young female would prove as pretty on a nearer inspection as she looked at a distance; but in these Randulph took little part. To speak truth, his thoughts were running upon the fair syren within, and happening to cast his eyes towards the platform above, he perceived, leaning over the balustrade, and gazing at him, the stranger!

At this juncture, Philip Frewin came forth, to see whether his boat was in readiness, and admonished the watermen, one of whom was philandering with a buxom damsel, who was leaning over the side of the deck, that he should start immediately. He had scarcely, however, issued the order, than his eye fell upon the skiff containing the young female before mentioned, and which was now close at hand. He started as if an apparition had met his gaze, ducked down, and would have made his escape into the music-hall, if Kitty Conway had not placed herself in his way. Retreat was now impossible, and Philip’s distress was heightened by the fair actress, who exclaimed, somewhat pettishly, ‘Why do you leave me here, sir? Why don’t you hand me to the boat?’

Philip was almost at his wits’ end. The skiff containing Hilda and Jacob—both of whom he had too clearly recognised, though he could not account for their appearance, unless it were a trick of the fiend to convict him—was so near, that if he complied with Kitty’s request, discovery would be inevitable. A plan suddenly occurred to him, by which he hoped to free himself from risk, and place Randulph, whom he had reason to regard as a rival, in an awkward dilemma. Without apprising Kitty of his intention, he drew her forward, and bending down as low as he could to elude observation, said to Randulph—‘Will you have the kindness, sir, to hand this lady into her boat? You will do me an infinite favour; I have dropped a pocket-book in the music-hall, and must go back to search for it.’

Randulph was a good deal surprised by the proposal, but he unhesitatingly consented; and, taking Kitty’s hand, which she very graciously accorded, rewarding his attention by a slight squeeze, led her down the steps. All this occurred to the infinite amusement of Trussell, who stood a little back near the door, ogling a rather pretty damsel, and to the no slight chagrin of Sir Singleton, who, guessing the intention of Philip Frewin, had pushed forward to offer his services, but found himself supplanted. But these were not the only witnesses of the scene. By this time, the skiff-, containing Hilda, had come up, and with a pang of jealous feeling, neither to be accounted for nor controlled, she beheld Randulph handing the pretty actress, whose character she could scarcely mistake, down the steps. Jacob saw what was passing as well as herself, but, having no jealousy to divert his attention from other matters, he detected Philip Frewin even in his disguise, and, resting on his oars, exclaimed, ‘Look! miss, look!—there is your cousin Philip. Is that the dress he wore yesterday? I told master he wasn’t what he seemed. Look at him, I say!’

But Hilda was too much agitated to heed these exclamations. She could see nothing but Randulph and the pretty actress. Nor was she without embarrassment on her own account; for Mr. Cripps, having recognised her, pointed her out to his master, and the beau, being much struck with her beauty, favoured her with a very insolent stare. But if Randulph had been guilty of disloyalty towards the object of his affections, his punishment was not long delayed; for, as he handed Kitty into the boat, which was steadied by the black-muzzled Jack before mentioned, his gaze encountered that of Hilda, and he was instantly filled with confusion. He tried to disengage himself from the actress, who, however, sportively detained him, and, unable to retreat, he cut a most ridiculous figure. Indeed, he was a little relieved, though he felt how much he should sink in her esteem, when he saw Hilda bend forward, and order Jacob, who continued resting on his oars, to pass on. He continued gazing after the skiff till it was out of sight; but Hilda did not look back.

Meanwhile, as Philip Frewin did not make his appearance, Kitty Conway became very impatient, and turning a deaf ear to all the high-flown compliments showered upon her by Sir Singleton Spinke, entreated Randulph to go and see what her friend was doing. The young man could not very well refuse compliance with the request, and he accordingly entered the music-hall, and returned in a few minutes with Philip, who, finding the coast clear, recovered his composure, and tendering his thanks, in a very abject manner, to Randulph, got into the boat with Kitty, and ordered the men to row to Savoy Stairs. Randulph was too angry with himself, and now too indifferent to the fascinations of the pretty actress, to return the tender glance with which she favoured him on her departure.

The incident, however, afforded abundant merriment to his companions, who were greatly diverted by his looks, which they attributed to jealousy, and they endeavoured to remove the feeling by assuring him that Kitty had exhibited a decided preference for him. His uneasiness was not relieved by the admiration expressed of the miser’s daughter by Beau Villiers, nor was Trussell altogether pleased to find the beau so much captivated. That Hilda should have passed at the precise juncture seemed to surprise everybody.

RANDULPH’S INTERVIEW WITH CARDWELL FIREBRAS IN THE CLOISTERS OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY

Shortly after this, the party entered their boat and returned to Whitehall Stairs. Randulph had been so much engrossed by his own feelings, that he forgot the stranger, and only called him to mind a few minutes after he had landed, and when it was too late to look for him. He did not, however, forget his appointment with the writer of the mysterious letter, and, regardless of the construction that might be put upon it, told his uncle he had a particular engagement, which he must keep, at six o’clock. Trussell smiled significantly at the announcement, but made no remark, and proposed that they should all dine at one of the French ordinaries in Suffolk Street. Beau Villiers pleaded an engagement, but Sir Singleton acquiesced, and the trio repaired to the ordinary, where an excellent dinner was set before them.

Mindful of his appointment, Randulph, in spite of the jokes of his companions, who strove to detain him, got up from table at five o’clock, and took his way past Charing Cross and Whitehall towards the Abbey. He could not resist the impulse that prompted him to pass through the Little Sanctuary, and felt half-disposed to call at the miser’s and offer some explanation of his conduct to Hilda. Though the absurdity of the notion caused him to abandon it almost as soon as formed, he lingered before the house for a few minutes, in the hope of discerning some of its inmates, but was disappointed. He then entered Peter Pokerich’s shop, to inquire the way to the Abbey cloisters.

It chanced that the little barber was about to take an evening stroll with the fair Thomasine, who was waiting for him, and he offered to show Randulph the way; but this the young man, who had his own reasons for not desiring the attendance of the inquisitive barber, declined, though in such a way as to excite Peter’s curiosity, who secretly determined to follow him. As soon as Randulph was gone, he mentioned his design to the fair Thomasine, who was nothing loth to accompany him, and they set out together, taking special care to keep out of Randulph’s view. The young man shaped his course towards the Abbey, and, skirting its western extremity, passed under the archway leading to the playground of Westminster School. Here he paused, and, addressing a porter, was directed towards another archway, through which he passed, and entered the cloisters. On seeing this, Peter, still accompanied by his fair companion, ran forward, and finding that Randulph was walking in the south ambulatory, they struck into the west, being still able to watch him through the open columns.

Randulph, meanwhile, unconscious that he was the object of such scrutiny, slowly traversed the ambulatory, and, charmed with the exquisite groined arches of its roof, hoary with age, and the view afforded through the shafted windows looking into the quadrangle, of the reverend buttresses and of the Abbey, almost forgot the object that brought him thither. He was arrested at the eastern extremity by the ancient inscriptions and brasses, pointing out the resting-places of the old abbots, Laurentius Gislesbertus, and Vitalis, when a heavy footstep sounded on his ear, and looking up he beheld the stranger. Before he could recover his surprise at this unexpected apparition, the new-comer advanced towards him, and with a slight inclination of the head, and a singularly significant smile, said, ‘So you have kept your appointment with me, Mr. Randulph Crew.’

‘Are you, then, Mr. Cardwell Firebras?’ exclaimed Randulph in surprise.

‘I am so called,’ replied the other.

‘I was little aware, sir, when I saw you this morning at the barber’s, how soon and how strangely we should be brought together again,’ rejoined Randulph; ‘but this in some measure accounts for the manner in which you have haunted me throughout the day. Perhaps you will now explain your motive for doing so, as well as for summoning me hither.’

‘All in good time, young gentleman,’ replied Cardwell Fire-bras gravely. ‘Before I advert to my own concerns, let me say a word on yours. Answer me truly—have you not conceived an affection for Hilda Scarve? Nay, you need not answer. Your hesitation convinces me you have. Circumstances led you into acting very injudiciously this morning at the Folly, and I fear your conduct may have produced an unfavourable impression on Hilda’s mind,—for I watched her closely. But heed not this. I will set all to rights. I have much influence with her father. He designs her for another—the apish gallant of the pretty actress who fascinated you this morning. But you shall have her nevertheless,—on one condition.’

‘Despite the singularity of your address, there is an earnestness in your manner that inspires me with confidence in you, sir,’ rejoined Randulph; ‘the rather, that you told me this morning you were an old friend of my father’s. I will freely confess to you that I am captivated by the miser’s daughter, and that I would hazard much to obtain her. Now, on what condition do you propose to make her mine?’

‘You shall learn presently,’ replied Firebras evasively. ‘Let us take a turn along the cloisters,’ he added, moving slowly forward. They marched on together in silence until they reached the eastern angle of the ambulatory, when Firebras, suddenly halting, laid his heavy hand upon Randulph’s arm, and fixed a searching look upon him. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘I will tell you what you must do to gain the miser’s daughter.’

‘What, what?’ demanded Randulph.

‘You must join the Jacobite party,’ replied Firebras; ‘to which her father belongs—to which your father belonged—and to which your mother also belongs.’

Surprise kept Randulph silent. But neither he nor his companion were aware that this treasonable proposition had been overheard by Peter Pokerich and the fair Thomasine, who, having stolen upon them unperceived, were ensconced behind the shafts of the adjoining arches.

THE MISER DISCOVERING THE LOSS OF THE MORTGAGE MONEY

The miser, meanwhile, having obtained access to his chamber, threw his hat upon the bed, passed on, and unlocked the door of the closet. Marching up to the large chest in which he had deposited the bags of gold on the previous night, he sat down upon it, and was for some time lost in deep and painful reflection. He then rose, and taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, applied one of them to the lock of the chest. It would not turn; and imagining that he must have made some mistake, he drew it out and tried another. This, however, did not fit at all; and returning the first, he perceived, on examination, that it was the right one. Again applying it, and proceeding more carefully, he found, to his surprise and dismay, that the chest was not locked. Well knowing he had not left it in this state, he felt convinced that something must be wrong, and it was long before he could prevail upon himself to raise the lid.

When he did so, he started back with a cry of anguish and despair. The chest was empty! For some minutes he remained as if transfixed, with his hands stretched out, his mouth wide open, his eyes almost starting from their sockets, and fixed upon the void where his treasure should have been. At length he shrieked in accents of despair, ‘I have been robbed—robbed of my gold!—robbed—robbed! It is a wicked thing—a cruel thing to rob me! Others do not love gold as I love it. I love it better than wife, child, mistress,—better than life itself! Would that they had killed me, rather than take my gold! Oh! those fair shining pieces—so broad, so bright, so beautiful!—what has become of them?’

After a pause, during which he experienced the acutest mental anguish, he looked around to see how the robbery could have been effected. A moment’s examination showed him that the iron bars in front of the little window opposite the chest had been removed.

‘The villains must have found entrance here!’ he cried, rushing towards the window. And clambering up an old oaken bureau that stood near it, he pushed it wide open, and stretching his long, scraggy neck through it, gazed into the little garden beneath.

Unable to discover anything, he drew back, and casting his eyes over the bureau, perceived that the dust with which it was covered had been slightly brushed away; but whether by himself or the depredators, it was now, of course, impossible to determine.

A bottle standing on one corner of the bureau had not been removed. It was clear that the plunderers had gone direct to the chest, of which they must have possessed a key, for the lock, though strained, had not been forced. Maddened by these reflections, and unable to account for the occurrence, he again vented his fury in words. ‘I have it!’ he shrieked, ‘it is that accursed Welsh baronet who has robbed me. He paid me the money in this public way only to delude me. I’ll charge him with the robbery—I’ll prove it against him—I’ll hang him! Oh! it would delight me to hang him! I would give a thousand pounds to see it done! A thousand pounds! What is that to the fourteen thousand I have lost? I shall go mad, and it were happy for me to do so. Philip Frewin will refuse to marry my daughter. Her portion is gone—gone! Why was I tempted forth with Firebras? I ought to have taken my seat on that chest—to have eaten my meals upon it—to have slept upon it! Night nor day should I have quitted it! Fool that I have been!

I have been rightly served—rightly served! And yet it is hard upon me, an old man, to lose all I held dear—very hard!’ And falling upon his knees, with his hands clasped together, beside the vacant chest, he wept aloud.

This paroxysm of rage and grief having subsided, he again rose and descended to the parlour, where he found Mrs. Clinton anxiously waiting his reappearance. She instantly divined what had happened, and retreated before him as he advanced, almost fearing from his looks that he would do her a violence. Shaking his clenched hand, and foaming at the mouth, he attempted to discharge a volley of imprecations against her; but rage took away the power of speech, and he stood gesticulating and shaking before her—a frightful and pitiable spectacle.

‘For Heaven’s sake, sir, compose yourself,’ she cried, ‘or you will have a fit of some dangerous illness. You terrify me to death.’

‘I am glad of it,’ he shrieked. ‘I have been robbed—the mortgage money is gone—the fourteen thousand pounds. D’ye hear, woman? I’ve been robbed, I say—robbed!’

‘I feared as much,’ replied Mrs. Clinton; ‘but the robbery cannot have been long effected, for just before you knocked at the door, I heard a window creak, as I thought, in your room.’

‘You did!’ screamed the miser. ‘And why did you not tell me this before? I might have caught them—might have got back the spoil.’

‘If you hadn’t frightened me so much about Hilda, I should have told you,’ replied Mrs. Clinton, in a deprecatory tone; ‘but your violence put it out of my head.’

‘Hell and fiends!’ ejaculated the miser; ‘what is Hilda—what are fifty daughters, compared with my gold? If you had enabled me to recover it I would have forgiven you all the rest. Don’t stand trembling there, fool! but come with me, and let us see whether we can discover any traces of the robbers!’ So saying, he hurried towards a small back door in the passage, the bolts of which were so rusty that he had considerable difficulty in removing them; and this effected, he passed into the garden.

RANDULPH REFUSING TO DRINK ‘THE KING’S HEALTH OVER THE WATER’—A MEETING OF THE JACOBITE CLUB

In about a quarter of an hour the landlord entered the room, and, bowing to the company, said, ‘I believe, gentlemen, you are all assembled; the room upstairs is ready, if you are disposed to adjourn to it.’ The proposition being assented to, the landlord threw open the door, and a slight contest occurred between the two baronets as to which should offer the other precedence.

‘I præ, Sir Bulkeley,’ said Sir Norfolk; ‘I will scale the staircase after you.’

Thus exhorted, Sir Bulkeley, who thought it good breeding not to dispute a point of needless ceremony, went on. Sir Norfolk marched after him with majestic steps, and the rest of the party followed. The landlord ushered them into a large room, lighted by a chandelier suspended from the ceiling, in the centre of which was a circular table covered with bottles and glasses. Having hung up their hats against the wall, the company sat down, and a few bumpers went briskly round. While they were thus carousing, a tap was heard at the door, and the landlord, opening a reconnoitring hole within it, spoke to some one without. He next proceeded to convey the information he had received in a low tone, to Cardwell Firebras, who immediately said aloud, ‘Oh, yes, admit him by all means. Gentlemen, a new brother!’ The door was then opened, and Randulph recognised in the gaily attired, self-possessed coxcomb who was admitted, Mr. Crackenthorpe Cripps.

‘Take a glass of wine, Mr. Cripps,’ said Firebras, filling a bumper, and handing it to the new-comer. ‘It is Beau Villiers’s chief valet,’ he added, in an undertone, to Sir Norfolk, who had made a polite though formal bow to the stranger.

‘What!’ exclaimed Sir Norfolk, almost shuddering at the inadvertence he had committed; ‘a waiting-man in such costly and nitid attire. Why, his master, the Pretonius Arbiter of the day, can scarcely be more studiously refined in the taste and style of the vestments wherewith he adorneth his person.’

‘Not a whit so,’ laughed Firebras; ‘the only difference between them is, that Beau Cripps wears in May the coat which Beau Villiers has worn in April.’

‘Mehercle!’ exclaimed Sir Norfolk. ‘Such prodigality almost exceedeth belief.’

‘Landlord, it is time!’ cried Father Verselyn, who performed the part of chairman, and occupied the principal seat.

‘I am ready, your reverence,’ replied the landlord. And he forthwith proceeded to a cupboard, from which he produced a large china bowl, apparently filled with punch, and placed it with great care and solemnity in the centre of the table.

‘Why, it is water,’ exclaimed Randulph, gazing at the clear lymph, with which, on nearer inspection, he perceived the bowl was filled.

‘To be sure!’ cried Firebras; ‘and we are about to drink the king’s health—over the water. And now, gentlemen,’ he continued, filling Randulph’s glass and his own, ‘fill, I pray you, to the brim.’

‘I have filled, even to the summit of the vase,’ said Sir Norfolk, rising and holding up his glass.

‘And I,’ cried Sir Bulkeley, likewise rising.

‘And I,’ added the landlord, who stood next to the last-named baronet, and was allowed to join in the ceremony.

‘And I—and I,’ chimed Mr. Travers and the valet.

‘Then give the word, my son,’ said Verselyn, addressing Firebras.

‘With the greatest pleasure, father,’ replied Cardwell. And he held his glass over the bowl, while his example was imitated by all the others except Randulph. ‘Here is the king’s health “over the water.” Why don’t you do as we do?’ he added, turning to Randulph.

‘Ay, stretch forth your arm over the scyphus, young gentleman,’ cried Sir Norfolk, pointing to the bowl.

‘You must drink the toast—it’s the rule of the club,’ added Sir Bulkeley.

‘It is a rule I cannot subscribe to,’ replied Randulph.

‘How!—am I mistaken in you, young man?’ said Firebras, regarding him menacingly.

‘Do as they bid you, or you’ll have your throat cut, ‘pon rep!’ whispered Mr. Cripps, popping his head over Firebras’s shoulder.

‘Will you drink the toast, or not?’ demanded Firebras fiercely.

‘I will not!’ replied Randulph firmly. ‘It is treasonable, and I refuse it.’

Randulph’s bold declaration had well-nigh cost him dear. Cries of ‘spy!’ ‘traitor!’ ‘Hanoverian!’ ‘down with him!’ resounded on all sides; the landlord rushed to the door, and placed his back against it, to prevent any attempt at egress in that way; while Sir Norfolk Salusbury, plucking his long blade from its sheath, and making it whistle over his head, kicked a chair that stood between him and the young man out of the way, and bade him, in a stern tone, defend himself. The confusion was increased by the vociferations of Mr. Cripps, and by an accident caused by Sir Bulkeley Price, who, in hurrying round the table, contrived to entangle himself in the cover, and dragging it off, precipitated the bottles and glasses to the ground, drenching the lower limbs of his brother baronet in the contents of the fractured bowl. The only two persons apparently unmoved in the midst of this uproar were its author and Cardwell Firebras. The latter made no hostile display, and did not even alter his position, but kept his eye steadily fixed upon Randulph, as if anxious to observe the effect of the incident upon him. The young man maintained his firmness throughout. He retreated a few steps towards the wall, and put himself in a posture of defence. The nearest of his antagonists was Sir Norfolk Salusbury; but seeing the others press forward, the chivalrous Welsh baronet declined commencing the attack.

‘Singulatim!—one at a time, Mr. Travers,’ he cried. ‘Ne Hercules contra duos. It shall never be said that any man, however unworthy of fair treatment, fought against odds in the presence of a descendant of Adam de Salzburg. Stand aside, therefore, sir—and you, Father Verselyn—and leave him to me, or I must relinquish the right of combat, which I have in some measure acquired, as being the first to claim it, to you.’

‘Let the young man swear to keep silence touching all he has seen and heard, or he shall not quit this room alive,’ rejoined Travers.

‘Trust him not—trust him not!’ cried Father Verselyn: ‘his oath will not bind him. Fall upon him altogether and slay him! That is the only way to ensure his silence and our safety. I will absolve you of his blood. The imminence of the danger justifies the deed.’

‘Proh pudor!’ cried Sir Norfolk sternly. ‘That would be trucidation dedecorous and ignave; neither can I stand by and see it done.’

‘Nor I,’ cried Sir Bulkeley, who had by this time recovered from the embarrassment occasioned by the accident. ‘I disapprove of Father Verselyn’s counsel entirely. Let us hear what the young man has to say. I will question him.’

‘Haudquàquam, Sir Bulkeley,’ replied the other gravely, ‘I gave you precedence on a recent occasion, but I cannot do so on the present. I claim this young man as my own—to interrogate, to fight, and, perchance, to slay him.’

‘Fight him as much as you please, Sir Norfolk, and slay him if you think proper—or can,’ rejoined Sir Bulkeley angrily; ‘but you shall not prevent my speaking to him.’

‘Sir Bulkeley Price,’ returned Sir Norfolk, raising his crane neck to its utmost height, ‘I pray you not to interfere between me and Mr. Crew, otherwise——’

‘Well, Sir Norfolk, and what then?’ cried the other, his hot Welsh blood mounting to his cheeks, and empurpling them more deeply than usual. ‘What then, Sir Norfolk?’

‘I shall be compelled to make you render me reason for it,’ replied the other sternly.

Cardwell Firebras now thought it time to interfere. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, advancing towards them, ‘we have plenty of other quarrels to settle without disputing among ourselves. I brought Mr. Randulph Crew here, and will be responsible for his silence.’

‘What saith the young man?’ demanded Sir Norfolk. ‘If he will oppignerate his word for taciturnity, I will take it.’

‘So will I,’ added Sir Bulkeley.

‘I thank you for your good opinion of me, gentlemen,’ returned Randulph. ‘I have been, almost unwittingly, a party to your counsels, and ought perhaps to have declared my sentiments sooner; but I hoped the meeting would pass off without rendering any such avowal necessary, in which case, though I certainly should never have joined your club again, the secret of its existence would have rested in my own bosom—as it will now, if I am suffered to depart. I could not avoid expressing my disapproval of a toast which, in common with every loyal subject of King George the Second, I hold to be treasonable.’

‘You cannot be the subject of a usurper, young man,’ said Firebras. ‘Your allegiance to King James the Third is unalienable.’

‘Compel him to avow allegiance to his rightful sovereign, Mr. Firebras,’ interposed Father Verselyn.

‘I will sooner lay down my life than comply,’ cried Randulph resolutely.

Firebras looked slightly disconcerted; and Sir Norfolk, who had lowered the point of his sword, again raised it.

‘It is vain to reason with him, my son,’ whispered Verselyn. ‘Our safety demands his destruction. If he goes hence we are denounced; and an irreparable injury will be done to the good cause.’

‘I have promised him safe conduct, father,’ rejoined Firebras; ‘and, at all risks, I will keep my word. Mr. Randulph Crew, you are at liberty to depart. You give up all hopes of the miser’s daughter?’ he added, in a deep whisper.

‘I must, if she is only to be purchased in this way,’ replied Randulph, in the same tone.

‘Take time to consider of it,’ rejoined Firebras. ‘I will find means of communicating with you to-morrow. Landlord, attend Mr. Crew to the door.’

‘You are wrong in letting him go,’ cried Verselyn. ‘You will repent this blind confidence. Sir Norfolk, I entreat you to interfere—Sir Bulkeley, I appeal to you.’ But they both turned from him, and sheathed their swords; while the landlord, having received a sign from Firebras, obeyed his instructions.

As soon as Randulph was gone, Firebras addressed himself to the two baronets: ‘I hope no unkindly feeling—none, at least, that cannot easily be set to rights—subsists between you, gentlemen?’ he said.

‘I shall never quarrel with my good friend, Sir Norfolk, except about a matter of punctilio,’ replied Sir Bulkeley, who was as easily appeased as roused to anger.

‘And I ought never to quarrel with one who knows how to make so handsome a concession as Sir Bulkeley Price,’ replied Sir Norfolk, with a gracious bow.

‘Then the storm has blown over,’ laughed Firebras. ‘I feared this more than the other.’

A long discussion then took place among the members of the club as to Randulph’s introduction to it, and Firebras was severely censured by Father Verselyn for admitting the young man without testing his political principles.

‘I do not repent what I have done, father,’ returned Firebras, ‘because I am satisfied no harm will come of it; and it was an attempt to gain a very useful ally to our cause. He is a brave lad, as his firmness during this affair proved, and it would be a great point to win him over. Nor do I yet despair of doing so.’

‘I hope we have seen the last of him,’ muttered Father Verselyn; ‘and I beg it may be borne in mind that it was against my advice that he was suffered to depart.’

Cardwell Firebras darted an angry look at the priest, but he made no reply; and the cloth having been replaced by the landlord and Mr. Cripps, the former proceeded to fetch a fresh supply of flasks and glasses; after which the company once more gathered round the table, and began to discuss anew their projects.

THE JACOBITE CLUB PURSUED BY THE GUARDS—THE JACOBITE CLUB SURPRISED BY THE GUARD—THE FLIGHT—AND PURSUIT—MR. CRIPPS’s TREACHERY

Midnight arrived, and found the party still in deep debate. Suddenly, a quick and continuous knocking was heard at the door. All instantly started to their feet, gazing at each other in alarm.

‘We are betrayed,’ said Firebras, in a deep whisper.

‘We are,’ replied Father Verselyn; ‘and by the spy you introduced among us.’

‘It is false!’ cried Firebras angrily. ‘But this is no time for dispute. We must provide for our safety. Who is it, landlord?’ he cried to the host, who, on the first alarm, had rushed to the door, and opened the reconnoitring hole within it.

‘O lud! we’re all lost!’ rejoined the landlord, closing the trap-door, and returning to them with scared looks and on tiptoe, as if afraid’ of the sound of his own footsteps.

‘Who is it?—what is it?’ demanded Firebras.

‘A dozen grenadier guards, headed by their captain and lieutenant, come to search the house,’ replied the landlord. ‘They’re mounting the stairs now.’

‘Zounds!’ exclaimed Sir Bulkeley, ‘this is awkward!’

‘There is nothing to fear,’ said Firebras calmly. ‘We have plenty of time for flight.’

‘Yes, you can fly, gentlemen, but I am ruined,’ exclaimed the landlord. ‘I can never return to my own dwelling!’

‘Pshaw! you shall never be the worse for it,’ replied Firebras.

‘But what will become of me, if I am taken?’ cried Mr. Cripps, feigning a look of despair. ‘I am sure to be the worse for it.’

‘Silence!’ cried Firebras authoritatively. ‘Don’t you hear them?—they are at the door. Be quick, gentlemen. Not a moment is to be lost.’

While this was passing, Father Verselyn hurried to the lower end of the room, and, mounting a ladder placed against the wall, passed through a trap-door in the ceiling above it. The landlord, Mr. Cripps, and Mr. Travers next ascended; then Sir Bulkeley followed; then Sir Norfolk, whose equanimity not even the present danger could disturb; while Firebras brought up the rear.

‘’Sdeath, Sir Norfolk!’ cried the latter, as the baronet slowly scaled the steps before him—‘move on a little more quickly, or we shall certainly be captured. They’re breaking open the door. Don’t you hear them?’

‘Perfecté,’ replied Sir Norfolk coolly. But he did not on that account accelerate his movements.

Knowing it was in vain to remonstrate, Cardwell Firebras waited till Sir Norfolk had worked his long frame through the trap-door, which he did with the utmost deliberation, and then ran up the steps himself, with much more activity than might have been expected from a person so weighty. Just as he was quitting the ladder, the door was burst open with a tremendous crash, and two officers of the guard rushed into the room, sword in hand, followed by a dozen grenadiers armed with muskets, on which bayonets were fixed. Firebras’s first object, on securing a footing on the floor of the garret above, was to try to draw up the ladder, and he was assisted in the endeavour by Sir Norfolk; but their design was frustrated by the foremost officer and a tall grenadier bearing a halberd, both of whom sprang upon the ladder, and kept it down by their joint weight, and all that those above could do was to shut down the trap-door, before it could be reached by their foes. A dormer window opened from the garret upon the roof of the house; but an unexpected difficulty had been experienced by the first detachment of fugitives in unfastening it. All ought to have been in readiness for an emergency like the present, and Sir Bulkeley and Mr. Travers bitterly reproached the landlord for his negligence. The poor fellow declared that the mischance was not his fault—that he had taken every possible precaution—and, in fact, had examined the window that very morning, and found it all right.

At length it was forced back, and all but Sir Norfolk and Firebras got through it. They were detained by the necessity that existed of guarding the trap-door. Unfortunately, there was no bolt on the upper side of it, so that they had to stand upon it to keep it down, and this plan being discovered by the officer below, he ordered two of his men to thrust their bayonets through the boards, while the tall grenadier tried to prize open the door with his halberd. The manoeuvre compelled Firebras and Salus-bury slightly to alter their position, to avoid being wounded by the bayonets, and in doing so, they necessarily gave admittance to the point of the halberd. The efforts of the assailing party were redoubled, and the trap slightly yielded.

‘Lose not a moment! fly, Sir Norfolk!’ cried Firebras, apprehensive lest the baronet’s deliberation, which he well knew nothing could shake, should prevent his escape.

But true to his principles, Sir Norfolk would not move an inch.

‘I cannot leave you in angusto,’ he said.

‘But I am the stronger of the two, as well as the more active,’ rejoined Firebras. ‘My weight will suffice to keep down the trap-door till you have got through the window, and then I can make good my retreat. Fly! fly!’

But Sir Norfolk continued immovable. ‘I shall be the last to quit this place,’ he said, in a tone of unalterable determination. ‘But do not, I pray you, tarry with me. The trifurciferous myrmidons of the Hanoverian usurper shall never take me with life.’

‘I must leave the punctilious old fool to his fate,’ muttered Firebras, observing that the greater part of the head of the halberd was forced through the side of the trap. ‘God protect you, Sir Norfolk,’ he cried, rushing to the window.

The brave old Welsh baronet essayed to hew off the head of the halberd from the staff—but in vain; and finding that the enemy must gain admittance in another moment, and that Firebras had cleared the window, he turned away and strode majestically towards it. His retreat was so suddenly made, that the grenadier who held the pike, and was prizing with all his force, lost his balance, and tumbled off the ladder, causing such confusion among his comrades, that Sir Norfolk had time to get through the window unmolested.

It was a beautfully bright night—the moon being at the full, and the sky filled with fleecy clouds. On the left lay ridges of pointed-roofed houses, covered with the warm-looking and mellow-tinted tile, so preferable to the cold blue slate—broken with stacks of chimneys of every size and form—dormer windows, gables, overhanging storeys and other picturesque and fantastic projections; and the view being terminated, at some quarter of a mile’s distance, by the tall towers and part of the roof of Westminster Abbey.

Viewed thus, the whole picture looked exquisitely tranquil and beautiful. The fires in the houses were almost all extinguished, and little or no smoke issued from the chimneys to pollute the clear atmosphere. Above the venerable and majestic fane hung the queen of night, flooding its towers—seen at such an hour to the greatest advantage—with silvery light, and throwing some of the nearer buildings and projections into deep shadow, and so adding to the beauty of the scene. On the right, the view extended over other house-tops to the gardens and fields of Pimlico. Behind was Saint James’s Park, with its stately avenues of trees, its long canal, and Rosamond’s Pond glimmering in the moonlight; while in front lay the New Artillery Ground, and the open and marshy grounds constituting Totnill Fields. But it will be readily imagined that neither Firebras nor his companions looked to the right or to the left. They were only conscious of the danger by which they were menaced, and were further discouraged by Father Verselyn, who at that moment scrambled over the roof they were about to cross, to inform them that the door by which they hoped to escape could not be got open.

‘Everything seems to have gone wrong! cried Verselyn in an ecstasy of terror. ‘What will become of us?’

‘Jacta est alea,’ replied Sir Norfolk composedly. ‘We must fight for it, father.’

‘Heaven and all its saints protect us,’ cried the priest, crossing himself.

‘Be composed, father,’ rejoined Firebras sternly. ‘You ought to be equal to any circumstances in which you may be placed.

The latter exclamation was occasioned by a joyous shout, announcing that their friends had succeeded in opening the door; and the next moment the good news was confirmed by Sir Bulkeley Price, who clambered over the roof to acquaint them with it. On hearing this the party instantly beat a retreat; and their flight was accelerated by the officer and the tall grenadier, who at that moment sprung out of the window. Even Sir Norfolk was urged to a little more expedition than usual; and two or three of his mighty strides brought him to the top of the roof. Cardwell Firebras would not have been much behind him, if Father Verselyn had not caught hold of his coat-tails to help himself up the ascent, which he felt wholly unable to accomplish without assistance. By this time the officer was well-nigh upon them; and, finding his summons to surrender wholly disregarded, he made a pass at the priest, which took effect in the fleshy part of his leg, restoring him at once to more than his former agility. Uttering a loud yell, and clapping his hand to the wounded limb to stanch the blood, Father Verselyn bounded over the roof, and made to the door through which the landlord and Mr. Travers had already disappeared, and through which Mr. Cripps was now darting. Between the two roofs lay a small flat space, used by its former proprietor as a place for drying clothes, as was evident from the four tall posts at the corners.

Here Firebras and Sir Norfolk came to a stand, resolved to dispute the passage with their pursuers. Sword in hand, and calling to them to surrender, the foremost officer dashed down the roof; but his precipitation placed him at the mercy of Fire-bras; for his foot slipping, the latter struck his sword from his grasp. Sir Norfolk, in the interim, had encountered another foeman with equal success. This was the tall grenadier, who, as he descended, made a thrust at the baronet with his halberd, which the latter very adroitly parried, and, lunging in return, disabled his adversary by a wound in the arm. At the same moment, too, the tiles gave way under the weight of the grenadier, and he sank above the knees in the roof. Other foes were now at hand. The second officer, carrying a lantern in one hand, and a drawn sword in the other, appeared on the roof; while the tall caps and bayonets of the rest of the grenadiers were seen above it. Though Sir Norfolk, whose blood was up, would have willingly awaited the advance of these new opponents, he yielded to the entreaties of Firebras, and followed him through the door, which was instantly secured behind them by a couple of strong bolts.

The house in which the Jacobites had taken refuge was expressly hired by them for an occasion like the present, and kept wholly uninhabited. The mode of communication between it and the Rose and Crown will, it is hoped, be sufficiently understood from the foregoing description. That so many unforeseen accidents should have occurred at a time when, if ever, things ought to have been in readiness, almost drove the poor landlord distracted; but if he could have watched Mr. Cripps’s manoeuvres, he would have speedily found out the cause of the delays. In the first instance, a penknife, dexterously slipped by the valet into the groove of the window, prevented it from moving, and had well-nigh, as has been seen, occasioned the capture of the fugitives. This difficulty having been overcome by the strenuous efforts of Sir Bulkeley and Mr. Travers, Mr. Cripps was the first to scramble through the window.

‘Which way?’ he cried to the landlord, who was following.

‘Over the roof, and to the door opposite,’ was the reply.

Nimbly as a cat the agile valet bounded over the roof, and instantly perceiving the door, made towards it. A key was in the lock; he turned it, took it out, and dropped it into the street below. He then began to shake the door violently, and shouted to the landlord, who at that moment came in sight.

‘Unlock it—unlock it!’ cried the host.

‘I can’t,’ cried Mr. Cripps; ‘there is no key. ‘Pon rep! we shall be all taken.’

‘No key!’ exclaimed the landlord. ‘Impossible! I saw it there this morning myself. It must have dropped down. Look about for it.’

Mr. Cripps feigned compliance, and the landlord coming up, poured forth a torrent of imprecations on finding his statement correct. Father Verselyn, as has been related, crept back to Firebras, while the others used their efforts to open the door. Nor were they long in effecting their purpose. Finding all other attempts fail, the landlord stepped back on the leads, and running to give additional impetus to the blow, dashed his foot against the door, and the lock yielded with a loud crash.

MR. CRIPPS ENCOUNTERING HIS MASTER IN MARYLEBONE GARDENS

Marylebone Gardens, it is well known, lay on the eastern side of the upper end of the lane bearing the same name—the whole of the country beyond Harley Street, which was not more than a third of its present extent, being open fields. They were of considerable size, and were originally laid out and planted at the beginning of the last century, at which time the public were gratuitously admitted to them. In one part of the grounds there was an excellent bowling-green, which drew many lovers of that most agreeable recreation to it. By degrees the gardens, being very conveniently situated, rose in repute; and in 1737, their proprietor, Mr. Gough, began to demand a shilling for admittance—this sum entitling the visitor to its value in refreshments. But still further improvements were effected. Orchestras, boxes, and a theatre for musical entertainments were erected within them. Besides the main walks, semicircular rows of trees were planted, and hedges contrived so as to form pleasing labyrinths for those who preferred privacy. Bowers and alcoves were built in different places; lamps were fastened to the trees, and at night, on the occasion of a fête, every part of the garden was illuminated with myriads of lamps of various colours. The company began to improve, and the price of admission was raised to five shillings. Fêtes of every kind were held here; and the place continued in vogue until nearly the end of the century with which its rise commenced. Malcolm mentions that a few trees, once forming part of Marylebone Gardens, were standing at the north end of Harley Street in 1808. But we fear not even a stump of one of them is now left. Carriages, coaches, and chairs were setting down their occupants at the entrance to the gardens as Mr. Cripps and his companion drew near. Never had Mrs. Nettle-ship seen a gayer throng—the dresses she thought magnificent. There was Lady Ancaster, whom Mr. Cripps pointed out to her, in a brocaded lutestring sack, with ruby-coloured ground and white tobine stripes trimmed with floss—the Countess of Pomfret, in a black satin sack flowered with red and white—Lady Almeria Vane, in a scarlet unwatered tabby sack—Lady Ilchester, in a white tissue flowered sack. All these ladies wore hoops; but none of them, Mr. Cripps assured his companion, managed this equipment with half so much grace as herself.

Throughout this stage of the business, Mr. Cripps had some difficulty in playing his part, and it required all his effrontery to enable him to go through with it. Having affirmed to his companion that he was an intimate acquaintance of all the ladies of rank he encountered, and in the habit of attending their routs and parties, he was under the necessity of sustaining the character, and kept constantly bowing and kissing his hand to them. In most cases he succeeded; for the ladies he addressed, deceived by his showy attire, which seemed to mark him as somebody, returned his salutations. Mrs. Nettleship was enchanted. To be attended by so fashionable a person, who knew all the beau monde, was supreme felicity. She would have given the world to be introduced to some of the fashionable ladies, and intimated as much to her companion; but he was too shrewd to attend to the suggestion, contenting himself with saying, with a very impassioned look, ‘I hope, my angel, that one of these days I shall have the honour of introducing you to my fair friends under another name.‘Twould make me the happiest of men—‘pon rep!’

‘Odd’s bodikins! Mr. Willars, how you do confuse me!’ exclaimed the lady, spreading her large fan before her face.

By this time they had gained the principal avenue leading towards the orchestra, and at each step he took, Mr. Cripps kissed his hand to some elegantly dressed person.

‘There’s my friend Lord Effingham, and his countess,’ he said; ‘glad to see you, my lord. That’s the pretty Mrs. Rackham—a bride, sweetheart, a bride,’ with tender emphasis—‘that’s the rich Mrs. Draper—I daren’t look at her, for she’s determined to have me, whether I will or no, and I can’t make up my mind to it, though she’s promised to settle sixty thousand pounds upon me, and to die in six months.’

‘La! Mr. Willars, you wouldn’t sell yourself to such an ojus creature as that!’ cried Mrs. Nettleship—‘why, she’s a perfect fright, and so dressed!’

‘Precisely what you describe her, ‘pon rep!’ replied Mr. Cripps. ‘But do listen to the music. Isn’t it inspiring?’ And they paused for a moment to listen to the lively strains proceeding from the orchestra, which was placed at one end of a large building facing the principal walk. By this time the company had almost entirely assembled. The main walk was completely thronged, and presented the appearance of the Mall at high tide, while all the boxes and alcoves were filled with persons discussing bowls of punch, plates of ham, chickens, salads, and other good things. The band in the orchestra was excellent, and the lively airs and symphonies added to the excitement and spirit of the scene. Mr. Cripps created a great sensation. Many persons thought they had seen him before, but no one could tell who he was. Meanwhile, the object of this attention continued to dispense his bows and smiles, flourished his clouded cane, tapped his magnificent snuff-box, and after astonishing all the beholders with his coxcombry, glided off with his companion into one of the side walks. He had scarcely disappeared, when Lady Brabazon and her party entered the main walk. Her ladyship led her little spaniel by its string, and was attended on one side by the beau, and on the other by Trussell. Behind them walked Clementina, who had contrived to allure Randulph from her mother, and to attach him to her, while on the young man’s left walked Sir Singleton Spinke. Everybody whom Mr. Villiers encountered told him of the prodigious beau who had just been seen on the walk—Lord Effingham, Major Burrowes, Lord Dyneover, Sir John Fagg—all described him.

‘Who the devil is he?’ cried Villiers.

‘Haven’t the least idea,’ replied Sir John Fagg. ‘But I’ll speak to him, if I meet him again. He’s your very double, Villiers. I’ll swear he has employed Desmartins to make him a suit precisely like your own.’

‘Has he?’ cried the beau indignantly—‘Then I’ll never employ a rascally Frenchman again! and what is more, I won’t pay him his bill.’ The same thing was told him by twenty other persons, and the beau looked anxiously round for his personator, but was for some time unable to discern him.

Meanwhile, Mr. Cripps had sought this secluded walk to give him an opportunity of making a declaration to the widow, and though he was not positively accepted he was not decidedly refused,—the lady only asking time to consider over the proposal. The audacious valet was on his knees, and rapturously kissing her hand, vowing he would never rise till he received a favourable answer to his suit, when two persons were seen approaching, whom, to his infinite mortification and surprise, he recognised as Abel Beechcroft and his uncle, Mr. Jukes.

‘We are interrupted, my charmer!’ he cried, getting up, with a countenance of angry dismay. ‘Let us return to the public promenade. You won’t refuse me? I shall kill myself, ‘pon rep, if you do.’

‘I’ll think of it, Mr. Willars,’ said Mrs. Nettleship, twirling her fan. ‘But it would be a dreadful thing if I was to break my engagement to Mr. Rathbone!’

‘Oh! curse Mr. Rathbone! I’ll cut his throat!’ cried Mr. Cripps, glancing anxiously down the walk. But unfortunately there was no outlet at the lower end, and he was compelled to turn and face the intruders. He looked also to the right and left, but on neither side was there an alcove into which he could retreat. Nothing was left for it but impudence, and luckily for him, this quality seldom deserted him at a pinch. Putting on his boldest manner, he strutted gaily, and with affected nonchalance, towards Abel and his uncle, who, as he advanced, stepped a little aside to look at him.

‘Why, as I live!’ cried Abel, ‘that’s Mr. Villiers’s valet—your nephew, Jukes.’

‘Lord save us! so it is,’ cried Mr. Jukes, lifting up his hands in astonishment. ‘Why, Crackenthorpe, what are you doing here—and in your master’s clothes?’

‘Truce to your jests, old fellow,’ said Mr. Cripps, waving him off, ‘and let me pass.’

‘What! disown your uncle!’ cried Mr. Jukes angrily, ‘and in the presence of his worthy master! The rascal would deny his own father. Pay me the ten crowns you borrowed yesterday.’

‘La! Mr. Willars, what’s the meaning of all this?’ asked Mrs. Nettleship.

‘Pon my soul, my angel, I don’t know, unless the old hunks has been drinking,’ replied Mr. Cripps. ‘The ‘rack punch has evidently got into his head, and made him mistake one person for another.’

‘’Rack punch!’ cried Mr. Jukes furiously. ‘I haven’t tasted a drop! You call him Mr. Willars, ma’am,’ he added to Mrs. Nettleship. ‘He’s deceiving you, ma’am. He’s not Mr. Willars—he’s Mr. Willars’s gentleman—his valet.’

‘A truce to this folly, you superannuated old dolt!’ cried Mr. Cripps, raising his cane, ‘or I’ll chastise you.’

‘Chastise me!’ exclaimed the butler angrily. ‘Touch me, if you dare, rascal; Crackenthorpe, Crackenthorpe—you’ll certainly be hanged.’

‘Let him alone, Jukes,’ interposed Abel. ‘He’ll meet his master at the corner of the walk, and I should like to see how he’ll carry it off.’

Taking advantage of the interference, Mr. Cripps passed on with his inamorata, who was as anxious to escape from the scene as himself; while Abel and Mr. Jukes followed them at a short distance. It fell out as Abel had foreseen. As Mr. Cripps issued into the broad walk, right before him, and not many yards off, were his master and Lady Brabazon, together with the rest of the party. If the valet ever had need of assurance, it was now. But though ready to sink into the earth, he was true to himself, and exhibited no outward signs of discomposure. On the contrary, he drew forth his snuff-box, took a pinch in his airiest manner, and said to Mrs. Nettleship—‘There’s Lady Brabazon—accounted one of the finest women of the day, but upon my soul, she’s not to be compared with you.’ With this he made a profound salutation to Lady Brabazon, who looked petrified with astonishment, and kissed his hand to Trussell, who was ready to die with laughing. As to the beau, he grasped his cane in a manner that plainly betokened his intention of laying it across his valet’s shoulders. But the latter, divining his intention, and seeing that nothing but a bold manoeuvre could now save him, strutted up to him, and said in a loud voice—‘Ah! my dear fellow—how d’ye do?—glad to see you—plenty of company’—adding, in a lower tone—‘for Heaven’s sake, sir, don’t mar my fortune. I’m about to be married to that lady, sir—large fortune, sir—to-day will decide it—‘pon rep!’

Mr. Villiers regarded him in astonishment, mixed with some little admiration; and at length his good-nature got the better of his anger. ‘Well, get you gone instantly,’ he said; ‘if I find you in the gardens in ten minutes from this time, you shall have the caning you merit.’

‘Good day, sir,’ replied Mr. Cripps—‘I’ll not forget the favour.’ And with a profound bow, he moved away with the widow.

‘And so you have let him off?’ cried Lady Brabazon, in amazement.

‘Upon my soul, I couldn’t help it,’ replied the beau. ‘I’ve a fellow-feeling for the rascal—and, egad, all things considered, he has played his part so uncommonly well, that I hope he may be successful.’

DAY MASQUERADE IN RANELAGH GARDENS

And now, before entering Ranelagh, it may be proper to offer a word as to its history. Alas for the changes and caprices of fashion! This charming place of entertainment, the delight of our grandfathers and grandmothers, the boast of the metropolis, the envy of foreigners, the renowned in song and story, the paradise of hoops and wigs, is vanished,—numbered with the things that were!—and we fear there is little hope of its revival.

Ranelagh, it is well known, derived its designation from a nobleman of the same name, by whom the house was erected, and the gardens, esteemed the most beautiful in the kingdom, originally laid out. Its situation adjoined the Royal Hospital at Chelsea, and the date of its erection was 1690-1.

Ranelagh House, on the death of the earl in 1712, passed into the possession of his daughter, Lady Catherine Jones; but was let, about twenty years afterwards, to two eminent builders, who relet it to Lacy, afterwards patentee of Drury Lane Theatre, and commonly called Gentleman Lacy, by whom it was taken with the intention of giving concerts and breakfasts within it, on a scale far superior, in point of splendour and attraction, to any that had been hitherto attempted.

In 1741 the premises were sold by Lacy to Messrs. Crispe and Meyonnet for £4000, and the rotunda was erected in the same year by subscription. From this date the true history of Ranelagh may be said to commence. It at once burst into fashion, and its entertainments being attended by persons of the first quality, crowds flocked in their train, shortly after its opening, Mr. Crispe became the sole lessee; and in spite of the brilliant success of the enterprise, shared the fate of most lessees of places of public amusement, being declared bankrupt in 1744. The property was then divided into thirty shares, and so continued until Ranelagh was closed.

The earliest entertainments of Ranelagh were morning concerts, consisting chiefly of oratorios, produced under the direction of Michael Festing, the leader of the band; but evening concerts were speedily introduced, the latter, it may be mentioned, to show the difference of former fashionable hours from the present, commencing at half-past five, and concluding at nine.

Thus it began, but towards its close, the gayest visitors to Ranelagh went at midnight, just as the concerts were finishing, and remained there till three or four in the morning. In 1754 the fashionable world were drawn to Ranelagh by a series of amusements called Comus’s Court; and notwithstanding their somewhat questionable title, the revels were conducted with great propriety and decorum. A procession which was introduced was managed with great effect, and several mock Italian duets were sung with remarkable spirit. Almost to its close, Ranelagh retained its character of being the finest place of public entertainment in Europe, and to the last the rotunda was the wonder and delight of every beholder.

The coup-d’oeil of the interior of this structure was extraordinarily striking, and impressed all who beheld it for the first time with surprise. It was circular in form, and exactly one hundred and fifty feet in diameter. Round the lower part of the building ran a beautiful arcade, the intervals between each arch being filled up by alcoves. Over this was a gallery with a balustrade, having entrances from the exterior, and forming a sort of upper boxes. Above the gallery was a range of round-headed windows, between each of which was a carved figure supporting the roof, and forming the terminus of the column beneath. At first, the orchestra was placed in the centre of the amphitheatre, but being found exceedingly inconvenient, as well as destructive of the symmetry of the building in that situation, it was removed to the side.

It contained a stage capable of accommodating thirty or forty chorus singers. The original site of the orchestra was occupied by a large chimney, having four faces enclosed in a beautifully proportioned, hollow, hexagonal column, with arched openings at the sides, and a balustrade at the base. Richly moulded, and otherwise ornamented with appropriate designs, this enormous column had a charming effect, and gave a peculiar character to the whole amphitheatre. A double range of large chandeliers descended from the ceiling; others were placed within the column above mentioned, and every alcove had its lamp. When all these chandeliers and lamps were lighted, the effect was wonderfully brilliant.

The external diameter of the rotunda was one hundred and eighty-five feet. It was surrounded on the outside by an arcade similar to that within, above which ran a gallery with a roof supported by pillars, and defended by a balustrade. The main entrance was a handsome piece of architecture, with a wide, round, arched gate in the centre, and a lesser entrance at either side.

On the left of the rotunda stood the Earl of Ranelagh’s old mansion, a structure of some magnitude, but with little pretensions to beauty, being built in the formal Dutch taste of the time of William of Orange. On the right, opposite the mansion, was a magnificent conservatory, with great pots of aloes in front. In a line with the conservatory, and the side entrance of the rotunda, stretched out a long and beautiful canal, in the midst of which stood a Chinese fishing temple, approached by a bridge. On either side of the canal were broad gravel walks, and alleys shaded by lines of trees, and separated by trimly clipped hedges. The gardens were exquisitely arranged with groves, bowers, statues, temples, wildernesses, and shady retreats.

Though Lady Brabazon’s carriage was within a hundred yards of the entrance of Ranelagh when Mr. Cripps and his party passed it, owing to the crowd and confusion it was nearly a quarter of an hour in setting down. Before getting out, the whole party put on their masks; and Lady Brabazon wrapped herself in a yellow silk domino. Trussell took charge of Clementina, and her ladyship fell to Randulph’s care.

It was yet extremely early, but the crowd was prodigious,—many hundred persons being assembled in the area before the entrance to the rotunda. At least a thousand others were dispersed within the gardens, for the rotunda was not opened till the evening; and it was afterwards computed that more than four thousand persons attended the masquerade.

At the entrance, Lady Brabazon and her daughter were joined by Beau Villiers, Sir Bulkeley Price, and Firebras, Sir Singleton Spinke having disappeared. Randulph had already been more than once at Ranelagh, but it was only to attend the ordinary concerts, and never having seen a masquerade, he was extraordinarily struck with the spectacle presented to him.

Most of the characters were grotesquely dressed, as was the taste of the time, for it was not a period when the niceties of costume were understood or regarded; still, the general effect was admirable. A May-pole, surmounted by a crown, with long ribands dangling from it, was planted in front of the conservatory, and several dancers were chasing each other round it, while lively strains were played by a band of musicians beside them. Other and less melodious sounds were heard. Now a drummer would go by, beating a rub-a-dub enough to deafen every listener. Then came the vile scraping of a fiddle, or the shrill notes of a fife. The shouts, the laughter, the cries of all kinds baffled description, and equally vain would it be to attempt any delineation of the motley assemblage. It consisted of persons of all countries, all periods, and all ranks, for the most part oddly enough jumbled together. A pope in his tiara would be conversing with a Jew; a grave lawyer in his gown and wig had a milk-girl under his arm; a highland chief in his full equipments escorted a nun; a doge in his splendid habiliments was jesting with a common sailor, with a thick stick under his arm.

But frolic and fun everywhere prevailed; and to judge from the noise, everybody seemed to be merry. No one could escape from the tricks and jests of the buffoons with whom the crowd abounded. The humour of the last century was eminently practical; cuffs and kicks were liberally dealt around, and returned in kind; and whenever a sounding blow was heard, it elicited shouts of laughter like those that are heard at the feigned knocks in a pantomime. The clowns, punches, pierrots, doctors, and harlequins, of whom there were several besides our friend, Mr. Cripps, were the chief creators of this kind of merriment.

While Randulph, greatly diverted by all he saw, was gazing around, a few words pronounced by a voice whose tones thrilled to his heart caught his ear. He turned, and saw close behind him, attended by a tall personage, whose stiffness left no doubt as to its being Sir Norfolk Salusbury, a beautiful female mask, whose snowy skin and dark streaming ringlets would have told him, if his heart had not informed him of the fact, that it was Hilda, but before he could summon resolution to address her, she had passed by; and Lady Brabazon, who had likewise heard the voice and recognised the speaker, dragged him in the opposite direction towards the May-pole. He looked eagerly backwards, but the fair mask was lost amid the throng, nor could he even discern the tall figure of Sir Norfolk.

RANDULPH AND HILDA DANCING IN THE ROTUNDA AT RANELAGH GARDENS

Some hours passed on in this way, and Randulph was still held in bondage. At length the rotunda was opened. Of course, the royal party was ceremoniously ushered in, in the first place; but immediately afterwards crowds poured-in, and the whole area of the amphitheatre, together with the boxes and gallery above, were filled with company. What with the innumerable lights, and the extraordinary variety of dresses, the whole scene had a most brilliant effect. There was an excellent band in the orchestra, and a concert was commenced, but little attention was paid to it by the assemblage, who continued promenading round and round the amphitheatre—laughing and talking loudly with each other.

As soon as the concert was over, the loud blowing of a horn attracted general observation to a platform near the central column, on which the quack doctor and his attendant were stationed—the latter of whom began dispensing his medicines, and vaunting their efficacy, in a highly ludicrous manner. This and other entertainments consumed the time till ten o’clock; before which, however, a magnificent supper was served to the royal party in a private refreshment room.

A bell was then rung, to announce that a grand display of fireworks was about to take place, and the company hurried to the outer galleries and to the gardens to witness the exhibition. Much confusion ensued, and amidst it, the fair Thomasine, somehow or other, got separated from her party. The little barber was almost frantic. He rushed hither and thither among the crowd, calling for her by name, and exciting general ridicule. At last, in an agony of despair, he stationed himself near the scaffold where the fireworks were placed; and when the first signal-rocket ascended, he perceived her pretty face turned upwards at a little distance from him. She was standing near the trees with the old beau, whose transports at his enviable situation were somewhat disturbed by the descent of a heavy rocket-stick on his head. At this juncture the little barber reached his truant mistress, and forcing her from Sir Singleton, placed her rounded arm under his own, and held it fast.

‘Oh, dear, how glad I am to see you,’ said the naughty little Thomasine, for ‘fair’ she does not deserve to be called; ‘we’ve been looking for you everywhere’—(here she told a sad story). ‘That odious old beau has been trying to persuade me to run away with him. He offers to settle—I don’t know what—upon me, and to make me Lady Spinke.’

‘And why don’t you accept his offer?’ said the barber, in an ecstasy of jealous rage.

‘Because I’m engaged, and engagements with me are sacred things,’ replied the fair Thomasine theatrically, yet tenderly. ‘But do look at that beautiful wheel.’

The fireworks were really splendid. Flights of rockets soared into the skies; magnificent wheels performed their mutations; star-pieces poured forth their radiant glories; maroon batteries resounded; Chinese fountains filled the air with glittering showers; pots-des-aigrettes, pots-des-brins, and pots-des-saucis-sons discharged their stars, serpents, and crackers; yew-trees burnt with brilliant fire; water-rockets turned the canal to flame; fire-balloons ascended; and a grand car with flaming wheels, drawn by sea-horses snorting fire, and containing a figure of Neptune, which, traversed the whole length of the canal, and encircled the Chinese temple—the bridge being removed to make way for it—and finally exploded, scattering serpents and crackers in every direction, concluded the exhibition, amid the general plaudits of the assemblage. Darkness for a few minutes enveloped the crowd, during which a few cries were heard in timid female tones; but the lamps were as soon as possible lighted, and the majority of the assemblage returned to the rotunda, where they repaired to the alcoves, and many a bowl of punch was emptied, many a bottle of champagne quaffed; after which dancing was resumed with greater spirit than ever.

Mr. Rathbone gave a capital supper to his party, in which the old beau contrived to get himself included. He contrived also to sit near the fair Thomasine, and pledged her so often and so deeply that he fell beneath the table. Here he was left by the others, and a minuet being struck up, Mr. Cripps offered his hand to the widow, and led her forth to dance; while Mr. Rathbone, greatly exhilarated by the punch he had drunk, stood by, laughing at them ready to split his sides; and the little barber took the opportunity of their being left alone together, to reprove the fair Thomasine for her improper conduct towards the old beau during supper.

Liberated by the departure of the Prince of Wales, who quitted the gardens on the conclusion of the fireworks, Randulph immediately returned to the rotunda, in the hope of finding Hilda still there. He had scarcely entered it when he perceived Firebras at supper by himself in one of the alcoves, and instantly joined him.

‘She is still here,’ said Firebras, ‘and as soon as I have finished my supper I will take you to her. There would be no use in going now, for Sir Norfolk has only just ordered supper, and I can merely introduce you as a partner for a dance. Sit down, and take a glass of champagne.’

Randulph declined the latter offer, and was obliged to control his impatience until Firebras thought fit to rise. Crossing the amphitheatre, they proceeded to an alcove, in which Sir Norfolk and Hilda were seated, and Firebras, bowing to the old knight, said—

‘Sir Norfolk, permit me to have the honour of presenting the friend I mentioned some hours ago to your fair charge. Miss Scarve,’ he added, after a significant look at Hilda, ‘this gentleman wishes to have the honour of dancing a minuet with you. I am sorry there is no time for a more ceremonious introduction to yourself, Sir Norfolk, but the musicians are striking up the dance.’

Upon this Hilda arose, and tendered her hand, with some trepidation, to Randulph, who, with a breast thrilling with joyful emotion, led her to the open space cleared for the dancers, and part of which was already occupied, as before related, by Mr. Cripps and the widow. No time was allowed Randulph to hazard a word to his partner. Scarcely were they placed when the minuet commenced. The grace with which they performed this charming, though formal dance, excited the admiration of all the beholders, and contrasted strongly with the exaggerated style in which it was executed by Mr. Cripps and Mrs. Nettleship. Indeed, a better foil—had such been desired—could not have been found than the two latter personages presented. Sir Norfolk planted himself on one side to view the dance, and there was unwonted elation in his countenance as he witnessed the graceful movements of his fair cousin and her partner. Trussell in his Turkish dress was among the spectators; and not far from him stood Cardwell Firebras. There were two other personages, also, who watched the dance, but who regarded it with other sentiments than those of satisfaction. These were Lady Brabazon and Beau Villiers.

‘So you see, Villiers, notwithstanding all your scheming, he has contrived to dance with her,’ said the former.

‘He has,’ replied the beau, partly removing his mask, and displaying a countenance inflamed with passion—‘but he has not exchanged a word with her, and I will take care he shall not exchange one.’

‘You are desperately in love with this girl, Villiers,’ said Lady Brabazon angrily. ‘I thought it was her fortune merely you aimed at.’

‘I have been foiled, and that has piqued me,’ replied Villiers.

‘Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle,’ rejoined Lady Brabazon. ‘After the failure of your attempt to carry her off, I wonder you will persevere.’

‘Hush!’ exclaimed the beau. ‘Some one may overhear us. I would have carried her off to-night, if I had known she would have been here. Your ladyship ought to be obliged to me for the trouble I am taking. I shall remove your rival, and you will then have young Crew entirely to yourself. And now to put Sir Norfolk on his guard.’

With this, he passed on to the Welsh baronet, and addressed him. The latter bowed stiffly in return, and approached nearer the dancers; and while Hilda was curtseying to her partner at the close of the minuet, he took her hand and led her away. The young man would have followed them, but Cardwell Firebras came up, and arrested him.

‘It won’t do,’ he said; ‘Villiers has told the old baronet who you are. I must go after him instantly, and make some excuse for my share in the matter, or I shall have to cross swords with him to-morrow morning. I have done all I can for you. Goodnight.’

Soon after this, Randulph quitted the masquerade with Trussell. With some difficulty a boat was procured to convey them home. Finding his nephew in no mood for conversation, Trussell, who was rather tired, and moreover had drunk a good deal of punch and champagne, disposed himself to slumber, nor did he awake till they reached Lambeth Stairs. Another boat had just landed, and two persons in dominos marched before them in the very direction they were going.

‘Why, who the deuce have we here?’ cried Trussell, running forward to overtake the party in advance. ‘Zounds, brother, is it you? Have you been at the masquerade?’

‘I have,’ replied Abel; ‘and I have seen all that has occurred there.’

THE SUPPER AT VAUXHALL—BEAU VILLIERS’s ATTEMPT TO CARRY OFF HILDA DEFEATED BY RANDULPH

Celebrated throughout Europe, and once esteemed the most delightful place of recreation of the kind, Vauxhall Gardens were in existence considerably more than a century. They were first opened with a ridotto al fresco, about the year 1730, and speedily rising to a high reputation, were enlarged, and laid out in the most superb manner.

A magnificent orchestra, of Gothic form, ornamented with carving and niches, and provided with a fine organ, was erected in the midst of the garden. There was likewise a rotunda, though not of equal dimensions with that of Ranelagh, being only seventy feet in diameter, with a dome-like roof, supported by four handsome Ionic columns, embellished with foliage at the base, while the shafts were wreathed with a Gothic balustrade, representing climbing figures. From the centre depended a magnificent chandelier.

A part of the rotunda, used as a saloon, was decorated with columns, between which were paintings by Hayman. The entrance from the gardens was through a Gothic portal. Moreover, there were pavillions or alcoves, ornamented with paintings, from designs by Hogarth and Hayman, appropriate to the place; each alcove having a table in it capable of accommodating six or eight persons, and leading in an extensive sweep to a magnificent piazza, five hundred feet in length, of Chinese architecture. This semicircle led to a further sweep of pavilions.

A noble gravel walk, nine hundred feet in length, bordered with lofty trees, and terminated by a broad lawn, in which there was a Gothic obelisk, faced the entrance. But the enchantment of the gardens commenced with the moment of their illumination, when upwards of two thousand lamps, lighted almost simultaneously, glimmered through the green leaves of the trees, and shed their radiance on the fairy scene around. This was the grand charm of Vauxhall. One of its minor attractions was a curious piece of machinery representing a miller’s house, a water-wheel, and a cascade, which, at that period of the art, was thought quite marvellous. There were numberless walks and wildernesses in the grounds, and most of the vistas were adorned with statues. In one of them, at a date a little posterior to this history, was a statue of Handel as Orpheus holding a lyre.

It was nearly ten o’clock when Randulph reached the gardens. He proceeded along the grand walk, which was brilliantly illuminated, and filled with company, as far as the obelisk, but he could see nothing of Sir Norfolk or Hilda.

He then turned into one of the side walks, and approached the orchestra, in front of which stood Kitty Conway, preparing to sing. She instantly detected him, and made a slight movement of recognition. As he passed the range of alcoves beneath the orchestra, he perceived Jacob, who instantly came towards him.

‘I’ve found it all out,’ said the porter—‘I knew I should. Mr. Willars is the contriver of the plot. He means to carry off Miss Hilda, and has engaged a coach for that purpose, which is stationed at the back o’ the gardens. Luckily, the coachman is a friend o’ mine, and it’s through him I’ve detected the scheme.’

‘But where is your mistress?’ cried Randulph.

‘There,’ replied Jacob, pointing to a party seated at supper beneath the grove of trees in front of the orchestra.

‘I see,’ replied Randulph. ‘By Heaven!’ he cried, ‘Mr. Villiers is coming this way. Two persons stop him. As I live, one of them is his valet, and the other Captain Culpepper, a fellow whom my uncle Trussell told me was a sort of bravo, and would cut any man’s throat for hire. Doubtless they are planning the abduction.

‘You may take your oath of it,’ replied Jacob. ‘I’ll manage to get near ’em unobserved. Come back to this place when they separate, and you shall know all.’

So saying, he slouched his hat over his eyes, and mingling with the crowd, got within ear-shot of the beau, who, as has been intimated, was addressing Captain Culpepper and Mr. Cripps.

Randulph, meanwhile, felt irresistibly drawn towards the table where Hilda was seated, and as he kept behind the trees, he was not noticed by the party, though he was noticed by Kitty Conway, from the orchestra, who, guessing his intention, was so much agitated, that, for the first time in her professional career, she made some false notes in her singing. Hilda’s seat was placed against a tree. On her right was Sir Norfolk Salusbury; and on the right of the baronet, Lady Brabazon; next her ladyship was a vacant chair—no doubt just quitted by Beau Villiers; then came Lady Fazakerly; then Sir Bulkeley Price; and lastly, Clementina Brabazon, who occupied the seat on the left of the miser’s daughter.

Partly screened by the tree against which Hilda was seated, Randulph bent forward, and breathed her name in the gentlest accents. Hilda heard the whisper, and looking round, beheld the speaker. How much may be conveyed in a glance! She read the intensity of his passion and the depth of his devotion in his eyes, and for the first time returned his gaze with a look of kindness, almost of tenderness; Randulph was transported; he could not resist the impulse that prompted him to advance and take her hand, which she unresistingly yielded to him. All this was the work of a minute; but the action had not been unobserved, either by Kitty Conway or Lady Brabazon. Both had felt a similar pang of jealousy, but revenge instantly occurred to the latter. While Randulph was in the act of raising Hilda’s hand to his lips, she touched Sir Norfolk’s arm, and, pointing in the direction of the lovers, whispered, ‘Look there!’

Sir Norfolk arose, and in a stern and peremptory voice, said to the young man, ‘Set free that lady’s hand, sir!’

‘Not unless she chooses to withdraw it,’ replied Randulph.

‘I am wholly to blame for this, Sir Norfolk,’ said Hilda, withdrawing her hand, and blushing deeply.

‘You are pleased to say so, Miss Scarve,’ returned Sir Norfolk; ‘but the young man has been guilty of a great indecorum, and I shall call him to a strict account for it.’

‘I shall be ready to answer the call whenever you please, Sir Norfolk,’ rejoined Randulph. ‘But this is not the place for menaces. You will do well to look after your charge.’

‘I shall take care to keep off impertinents like you,’ replied Sir Norfolk.

‘Better guard her against other dangers, which require more penetration than you care to practise,’ retorted Randulph. ‘I have only one answer to make to such insolence,’ said Sir Norfolk, ‘and that shall be given to-morrow. You shall hear from me, Mr. Crew.’

‘As soon as you please, Sir Norfolk,’ replied Randulph.

‘For my sake, Mr. Crew,’ interposed Hilda, ‘let this quarrel go no further. I have been the innocent cause of it. Promise me it shall not.’

‘I would willingly obey you in anything, Miss Scarve,’ replied Randulph; ‘but in this case it is not in my power. Farewell!’ Fixing one passionate look upon her, he then bowed haughtily to Sir Norfolk, who returned his salutation in kind, and withdrew.

As he walked away, he encountered Beau Villiers, who was returning from his conference. Villiers started on seeing him, but instantly recovered himself, and would have addressed him, but Randulph turned abruptly away.

‘What the devil has brought Randulph Crew here?’ said Villiers to Sir Singleton, as he joined the party. ‘I thought he was at Drury Lane.’

‘Devil knows!’ cried the old beau. ‘But he has made a pretty scene.’ And he proceeded to relate what had occurred. Villiers laughed heartily at the recital.

‘I hope old Salusbury will cut his throat,’ he said, in an undertone.

‘Why, it would be desirable to get him out of the way, certainly,’ replied the old beau. ‘The women are all mad about him.’

‘Especially Kitty Conway,’ observed Villiers. ‘Odds life! this accounts for her having feinted in the orchestra. I wondered what could be the matter with her, but now I understand it. All is prepared,’ he added, in a deep whisper to Lady Brabazon.

‘Be careful how you act,’ she replied, in a low tone. ‘You’ll find Sir Norfolk dangerous, and Randulph Crew is on the watch.’

‘Fear nothing,’ he rejoined, ‘I’ve taken my measures securely. Make towards the dark walk, and contrive to lead him and the others away.’

Lady Brabazon nodded. Soon after this she arose, and, without ceremony, took Sir Norfolk’s arm, while Villiers very gallantly offered his to Hilda. The rest of the party paired off in like manner. Leading the way in the direction agreed upon, Lady Brabazon expressed a desire to view the scenic representation of the mill and waterfall before mentioned, which was exhibited in a hollow of the great walk; and they proceeded towards it. Hilda was much displeased by the assiduities of her companion, and she could not help remarking that he contrived, on various pretences, to linger behind the rest of the party, and though she repeatedly urged him to rejoin them, he always made some excuse for not doing so. At last, on pausing longer than usual, they quite lost sight of them, and were hurrying forward at Hilda’s urgent request, when, as they passed one of the side vistas, Mr. Cripps, who was standing at the end of it, advanced towards his master.

‘Fortunately encountered, sir,’ said the valet, bowing; ‘Lady Brabazon sent me to look for you, to tell you that she and the party are gone down a walk on the left to see a fine painting in the Chinese pavilion at the end of it. With your permission, I’ll show you the way.’

‘Oh, yes, let us go to them, by all means,’ said Hilda unsuspectingly.

‘Lead on, then!’ cried the beau, scarcely able to conceal his satisfaction at the success of the scheme.

A few steps brought them to the end of a narrow walk, arched over by trees, the branches of which were so thickly interlaced, that the moonlight could not penetrate through them. Alarmed by its appearance, Hilda drew back. ‘How thoughtless of Sir Norfolk to leave me thus!’ she exclaimed.

‘Why, you are surely not afraid of accompanying me down this walk, Miss Scarve,’ laughed the beau. ‘My valet is with us, and shall protect you. The Chinese pavilion is not more than a hundred yards off; and the walk, though dark, is not solitary.’

Fancying she perceived some persons within it, Hilda suffered herself to be led on; but she had not advanced many steps when all her uneasiness returned, and she bitterly regretted having assented. But it was too late. The beau’s grasp had tightened upon her arm, and he drew her quickly forward, while Mr. Cripps proceeded at the same rapid pace. Once or twice, she thought she heard footsteps behind her, and almost fancied she could distinguish a figure walking near them, but she did not dare to express her terrors.

They had proceeded, so for as she could judge, about a hundred yards, when a sudden turn in the walk disclosed a low hedge; beyond was the open country bathed in moonlight. Coming to a sudden halt, the beau said, in a hurried, but imperative tone—

‘Miss Scarve, I love you to desperation, and am determined to make you mine. You are now in my power, and must accompany me.’

‘Never,’ replied Hilda resolutely. ‘And I command you to release me.’ She would have screamed for help, if Villiers, who grasped her more tightly, had not taken out his handkerchief, and, placing it over her mouth, prevented her cries. While this was passing, Captain Culpepper emerged from the trees, and hastened with Mr. Cripps towards him.

‘Bravo, sir,’ cried the captain. ‘All goes well this time. We’ll have her in the coach in a twinkling.’

‘Not so fast, villains!’ thundered Randulph, rushing forward. ‘I have allowed you to go thus far to see to what lengths your villainy would carry you. But you shall pay dearly for it.’

As he spoke, he rushed to the beau, and snatching Hilda from him, dashed him backwards with such force that he fell upon the ground. Another person likewise came to the rescue. This was Jacob, who, brandishing his cudgel, hurried to the scene of action. On seeing him the valet whipped out his blade, but it was beaten from his grasp, and he only avoided a terrible blow from the cudgel by a nimble leap aside. Without waiting for a second blow, he plunged into the wood, and made his escape.

Captain Culpepper fared no better. Before he could draw his sword, he received a blow on the head that stretched him senseless and bleeding on the ground. Hilda, meantime, had murmured her thanks to her deliverer, who felt, as he pressed her to his bosom, that the whole of his previous anxiety was more than repaid by the unutterable joy of the moment.

‘Hilda!’ he cried passionately, ‘I would risk a thousand lives for you. Forgive me if, at this moment, I dare to ask if I may hope?’

She murmured a faint response in the affirmative.

‘I am the happiest of men!’ cried Randulph, transported with delight.

‘Alas!’ exclaimed Hilda, ‘my avowal can give you little happiness. I can never be yours.’

‘There you speak truth!’ cried Villiers, who by this time had regained his feet, and furiously approached them. ‘You never shall be his.’

‘This is the leader of the gang!’ cried Jacob, who having just disposed of Captain Culpepper, now rushed towards the beau, brandishing his cudgel in a formidable manner. ‘I’ll soon settle him.’

‘Leave him alone, Jacob,’ cried Randulph authoritatively; ‘his punishment belongs to me.’

‘You’re wrong, sir,’ rejoined Jacob, ‘but I shan’t disobey you. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like a gen’l’man.’

‘Oblige me by stepping aside for a moment, Mr. Crew!’ said the beau, with forced politeness. And as Randulph complied, added—‘I shall expect satisfaction for the injury you have here done me.’

‘I might well refuse it,’ replied Randulph; ‘but I am too eager for vengeance myself to do so. You shall have the satisfaction you seek as soon as you please.’

‘To-morrow morning, then, at the earliest hour—at five—in Tothill Fields,’ said Villiers.

‘I will be there,’ replied Randulph. And, quitting the beau, he rejoined Hilda, to whom he offered his arm. They walked down the avenue together, Jacob following close beside them. Hilda allowed her hand to remain in his, while he poured the warmest protestations of attachment into her ear. She did not attempt to check him; and perhaps it would be difficult to say which of the two felt the most regret when that brief dream of happiness was ended, as they emerged into the lighted vista.

Almost immediately on entering the great walk, they met Sir Norfolk and Lady Brabazon and the rest of the party. Her ladyship was at first greatly confused at seeing Randulph, but she instantly guessed what had happened, and tried to put a good face on the matter. Advancing to Hilda, she hastily inquired what had happened; but the latter turned coldly from her, and taking the arm of Sir Norfolk Salusbury, desired to be led home.

‘Your ladyship is perfectly aware of the peril in which I have been placed,’ she said. ‘But I have been delivered from it by the courage and address of Mr. Crew.’

‘Before you go, Miss Scarve,’ said Lady Brabazon, ‘I beseech you to give me some explanation of what has happened.’

‘It must suffice, then, to say, that Mr. Villiers has attempted to carry me off,’ replied Hilda—‘but his purpose has been defeated.’

‘What is this I hear?’ cried Sir Norfolk. ‘Mr. Villiers guilty of so base an attempt? I will go in search of him instantly!’

‘I have undertaken the punishment of Mr. Villiers’s offence, sir,’ said Randulph.

‘You have an account to settle with me yourself, sir,’ rejoined Sir Norfolk sternly.

‘I will settle it at five o’clock to-morrow morning, in Tothill Fields,’ replied Randulph, in a low tone, ‘after I have arranged with Mr. Villiers.’

‘Be it so,’ replied Sir Norfolk. And he strode off with Hilda, followed by Jacob; while Randulph, without staying to exchange a word with Lady Brabazon, walked away in the opposite direction.

THE DUEL IN TOTHILL FIELDS, WESTMINSTER

It was a fresh and beautiful morning, though the sun was scarcely risen, and a thin silvery mist hung like a veil over the smooth surface of the water. Two or three watermen were lying asleep in their tilts, and they roused one of them, who speedily rowed them to the opposite bank, near which they found Mr. Hewitt, with two brace of swords under his arm, in addition to the one by his side, accompanied by a tall stout man, with a red face, dressed in a well-powdered wig, and a suit of purple velvet, and carrying a gold-headed cane, who was introduced as Mr. Molson, the surgeon.

‘You look famously,’ said the fencing-master to Randulph.

‘Follow my instructions, and you’re sure to come off victoriously.’

The party then walked along the Horseferry Road, which speedily brought them to Tothill Fields. They were the first on the ground, and Mr. Hewitt, after looking about for a short time, discovered a spot excellently adapted for the encounters. By this time, the sun having risen, the morning’s early promise of beauty was fully confirmed.

The spot selected for the combats commanded a fine view of Westminster Abbey, which reared its massive body and tall towers above a range of mean habitations masking its base. Cawing jackdaws in clouds wheeled in the sunny air above its pinnacles.

A calmer or more beautiful scene could not be imagined. Randulph’s reflections were interrupted by the approach of two persons from the left of the fields, who proved to be Sir Norfolk Salusbury and Cardwell Firebras. Sir Norfolk bowed stiffly to Randulph, and also to Trussell, and seeing that the beau was not arrived, said to the former, ‘As I am first in the field, I am entitled to the first bout.’

‘I am sorry I cannot oblige you, Sir Norfolk,’ replied Randulph; ‘but I must give Mr. Villiers priority.’

‘Well, as you please, sir,’ said the baronet, walking aside.

Cardwell Firebras then advanced to Randulph.

‘I am here as Sir Norfolk’s second,’ he said; ‘but I hope the matter may only serve as a little breathing for you both before breakfast. It is an idle quarrel. We must talk about Villiers’s attempt anon. But here he is.’

As he spoke, two chairs were seen approaching from the lower end of the fields. When they came within a hundred yards of the party they stopped, and from the first issued Mr. Villiers, and from the other Sir Bulkeley Price. Mr. Cripps walked by the side of his master’s chair, bearing a water-bottle and a glass. The new-comers advanced slowly towards the party, and Mr. Villiers, having bowed with much haughtiness to Randulph, gracefully saluted the rest of the company.

‘Have we anything to wait for, gentlemen?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ replied Trussell; ‘we are all ready.’

‘To business, then,’ rejoined the beau.

At a motion from his master, Mr. Cripps advanced towards him, and receiving his clouded cane, proceeded to divest him of his coat, leaving him on a light striped silk waistcoat, with sleeves of the same material. Randulph, meantime, threw off his upper garment, and rolled up the shirt sleeve on his right arm. Mr. Hewitt then stepped up to him, and gave him the German sword he had promised; while Mr. Villiers received an exquisitely tempered blade from the valet.

These preparations made, the seconds and bystanders fell back a few paces, Trussell, Firebras, and Hewitt standing on one side, and the two baronets on the other, while the surgeon stood at a little distance in the rear with Mr. Cripps. Advancing towards each other, the combatants saluted, and in another moment their blades were crossed, and several rapid passes exchanged.

The spectators watched the conflict with the greatest interest, for both parties appeared admirably matched, and the beau’s superior skill was counterbalanced by Randulph’s extraordinary vigour and quickness. Thrusts were made and parried on both sides, but not a single hit was given, until Randulph, finding his adversary engaged in tierce with a high point, made a firm thrust in carte over the arm, and passed his sword through the fleshy part of the other’s shoulder. At this successful hit, the seconds rushed forward, but before they reached the spot, the beau’s sword fell from his grasp.

‘It is nothing,’ said Villiers, surrendering himself to the surgeon, who likewise hurried towards him; ‘but I acknowledge myself defeated.’

While the beau’s wound was bound up by the surgeon, and he was led to the chair by Mr. Cripps, Sir Norfolk Salusbury, who had been a watchful spectator of the conflict, stepped forward, and said to Randulph—

‘Whatever may be the issue of our encounter, Mr. Crew, I shall declare that in the combat which has just taken place, you have conducted yourself like a man of honour and spirit.’

‘I am glad to receive the acknowledgment from you, Sir Norfolk,’ replied Randulph, bowing.

‘Pray do not hurry yourself on my account,’ said the baronet courteously.

‘I am quite ready for you,’ replied Randulph. ‘What I have gone through has only served to steady my nerves.’

With the assistance of Firebras, who had come over to him, Sir Norfolk then took off his coat, waistcoat, and shirt, and in this state presented so extraordinary an appearance, that Randulph could scarcely repress a smile. The punctilious old knight’s first step was to deliver his sword to Mr. Hewitt, who, on measuring it with that of Randulph, found that it exceeded the latter in length by two inches. He therefore gave him one of his own swords, and Sir Norfolk, beating an appeal with his right foot, bade his youthful opponent come on. Having gone through their salutes with the greatest formality, they commenced the combat with the utmost caution.

Sir Norfolk acted chiefly upon the defensive, and contented himself almost entirely with parrying the thrusts aimed at him. Randulph soon found that he had a formidable antagonist to deal with, and altering his plan, tried to compel him to attack him. He made several feints with great dexterity, and just touched his adversary’s breast with an inside thrust in carte, causing a slight effusion of blood.

This had the effect of rousing the old baronet into exertion, and in his turn he became the assailant. He attacked Randulph with such force and fury, that he drove him back several paces. The young man returned to the charge, and pressed his adversary in his turn, so that he regained his ground; but while making a pass in carte, his sword was turned near the wrist by a dexterous and sudden lunge on the part of the baronet, whose point entered his side just below the elbow, and inflicted a severe wound. Maddened by the pain, Randulph continued to fight desperately, but the seconds rushed between the combatants, and interposing their blades, declared that the strife must terminate, and that Sir Norfolk was the victor. The baronet immediately dropped his sword, and Randulph, whose strength had been fast failing, fell to the ground insensible.

THE DISCOVERY OF THE MYSTERIOUS PACKET—TREATS OF THE MISER’S ILLNESS, AND OF THE DISCOVERY OF THE MYSTERIOUS PACKET BY HILDA

His mind lightened, apparently, by what had taken place, Mr. Scarve remained perfectly quiet during the rest of the day, and retired early to rest; but he passed another sleepless night, and was seized with a new panic about his money.

The next day, finding himself unable to go downstairs, he ordered Jacob to bring up all his boxes, and to place them near him. His fever increasing, and assuming somewhat the character of an ague, he consented to have a small fire kept up constantly in his bedroom, and set his chair close beside it. In addition to his dressing-gown he wrapped an old blanket over his shoulders, and tried to keep his lower limbs warm by clothing them in a couple of pairs of worsted hose. His bed being totally destitute of hangings, he had a sheet hung up against the lower end of it to keep off the blaze of the fire, which he fancied disturbed him during the night. These slight comforts were all he permitted himself, and he remained as inflexible as ever on the score of medicine and medical advice.

‘A doctor can do no good,’ he said to Jacob, who urged him to send for one; ‘if abstinence won’t cure a man, no physic will.’

‘Well, perhaps you’re right, sir,’ said Jacob; ‘but I wish you’d think less o’ your worldly affairs, and more o’ your sperretual ones. Look at that pictur’ over your chimney-piece, and see how Death is takin’ away the covetous man’s treasures before his very eyes. It might be intended as a warnin’ to you.’

But he grew daily worse and worse, and his faculties became more and more enfeebled. He rambled about the house at night, almost in a state of somnambulism, muttering strange things about his treasure, and frequently visiting the cellar where he had buried the chest, unconscious that it was gone. At such times, Jacob constantly followed, to prevent him from doing himself a mischief, but took care not to be seen. His groans and lamentations were pitiful to hear, for he had begun to fancy himself a ruined man, and not even the sight of his money could assure him to the contrary. It was vain to reason with him. The distressing idea was too strongly impressed upon his mind to be removed. His next whim was to have his boxes opened by Hilda, to whom he had entrusted his keys, and he insisted upon certain deeds and papers being read to him, the meaning of which he only very imperfectly comprehended.

One night, when seated by the fireside wrapped in his blanket, and with his feet on a straw hassock, he desired his daughter to read him some more papers. The fire burnt as cheerily as it could in the starveling grate, and Hilda insisting upon having two candles to read by, there was more light than usual. Having got through several mortgages, leases, and bonds, to the innumerable clauses of which he listened in his usual apathetic manner, he suddenly turned round to her, and pointing to the strong box which formerly stood under his table in the room downstairs, signed to her to open it. Well aware that this box contained his most private papers, Hilda had hitherto avoided meddling with it, but thus enjoined, she no longer hesitated. Placing it on the table, therefore, she took the large bunch of keys, and soon finding the right one, unlocked it.

‘Is there anything in particular you wish me to read, dear father?’ she said, taking out some papers tied together with red tape. ‘Here is a bond for two thousand pounds from George Delahay Villiers, Esquire; another from Lady Brabazon; and another from Sir Bulkeley Price. Shall I read any of them?’

The miser shook his head.

‘Here are several bills,’ she continued, taking up a roll of smaller papers—‘and another bundle of mortgages, will you hear any of them?’

THE DISCOVERY OF THE MYSTERIOUS PACKET

The miser shook his head. The movement was almost mechanical with him.

‘Then I will go on,’ pursued Hilda. ‘Ah! what is this letter with the black seal? Shall I read it?’

The miser made no reply. He was gazing listlessly into the fire, and watching the wreaths of smoke ascend the chimney with childish delight. Hilda, therefore, opened the letter, and found a small memorandum enclosed in it, which she placed upon the table. Trembling with emotion, she then began to read aloud the following lines:—

‘“Old and valued Friend—If this should ever meet your eye, I shall have been a year in my grave, for, in accordance with our agreement, it will not be delivered to you until the expiration of that time after my death. The agreement, I need not remind you, was so formed that in case we should both die within the year, the contract entered into by us respecting the marriage of our children should be null and void.”’

Here Hilda was startled by a sharp cry from her father, and looking up, she saw that he was staring wildly and inquiringly at her.

‘What are you reading?’ he asked.

‘The letter delivered to you by Randulph Crew,’ she replied; ‘the letter from his father.’

‘And what business have you to read it?’ he cried. ‘Who gave you leave to do so?’

‘Having gone so far, I shall go on,’ rejoined Hilda; and she resumed her reading, ‘“now call upon you to fulfil your share of the contract, and to give your daughter to my son. When we entered into the engagement, I was supposed to be the richer of the two; but I am now sadly reduced, and if my son fulfils his word, and gives up the estates to pay my creditors, he will have little or nothing.”’

‘He has nothing—he has nothing!’ cried the miser, ‘I will never give my consent—never!’

‘“But under whatever circumstances he may be placed,”’ said Hilda, continuing the letter, ‘“whether he gives up the property or not, I call upon you to fulfil your part of the contract, as I would have fulfilled mine, whatever might have happened to you; and to make, as you have agreed to do, a settlement upon your daughter proportioned to your means.”’

‘I made no such agreement!’ cried the miser; ‘it is false—false!’

“‘I enclose a copy of the memorandum,”’ pursued Hilda, still reading; ‘“the original, as you know, is in the possession of Cardwell Firebras. He will see it executed. God so requite you as you shall fulfil your agreement or neglect it!

“‘Randulph Crew.’”

‘And here is the memorandum,’ she added, taking up the smaller piece of paper. ‘It is signed by Randulph Crew and John Scarve.’

‘It is a forgery!’ shrieked the miser.

‘The original is in the possession of Cardwell Firebras,’ said Hilda. ‘Father, you have dealt unjustly by Randulph Crew. You owe him a great reparation, and I trust you will make it.’

‘I owe him nothing,’ replied the miser; ‘it is all a fabrication. Give me the papers, that I may burn them! Give them to me directly.’

And getting up, he staggered towards her, and snatched the letter and memorandum from her, with the intention of throwing them into the fire. But before he could do so, the door opened, and admitted Abel Beechcroft.

RANDULPH DEFENDING HIMSELF AGAINST PHILIP FREWIN AND HIS MYRMIDONS—RANDULPH AGAIN DINES WITH LADY BRABAZON—HE RECEIVES A NOTE FROM KITTY CONWAY, AND IS ASSAULTED BY PHILIP FREWIN AND HIS MYRMIDONS ON HIS WAY TO SUP WITH HER.

The dinner passed off delightfully. It was a small party, consisting of Sir Bulkeley Price, Sir Norfolk Salusbury, and Lady Fazakerly. Everything was done to please Randulph, and the efforts were perfectly successful. The wine flowed freely after dinner—for it was a hard drinking age—and Randulph, who had been exceedingly temperate since the duel, began to feel the effect of it. As he was about to ascend to the drawing-room with the rest of the gentlemen, a note was handed him by a servant, which he instantly opened.

‘What says your billet, nephew?’ inquired Trussell, who was standing by.

‘Oh! it’s from Kitty Conway,’ said Randulph. ‘She has found out, I know not how, that I am here, and wishes me to sup with her to-night for the last time.’

‘And you will go, won’t you?’ said Trussell.

‘Not I,’ replied Randulph irresolutely.

‘Oh yes, you will,’ said Trussell; ‘and I’ll accompany you on your last visit, as I did on the first.’

And they went upstairs laughingly to the drawing-room.

Time passed by so fleetly in the fascinating society of Lady Brabazon, that Randulph was surprised, on glancing at his watch, to find it nearly eleven o’clock. ‘Jacob will be gone,’ he thought, ‘and will think I have forgotten him.’

Hastily taking leave of Lady Brabazon, who chided him playfully for running away so early, and engaged him to call upon her on the following morning, he went downstairs accompanied by Trussell. They found Jacob at the door, and in no very bland humour at having been kept so long.

‘My time’s more than up,’ said the latter gruffly, ‘and I was just goin’ away. What I want to say is this,—I’ve received a hint that master’s miserly nevy, Philip Frewin, is about to decamp with the money I gave Mr. Diggs t’other day. He’s at the Crown Inn, Ox-yard, King Street. Suppose you pay him a visit.’

‘I’ll readily do so to-morrow, Jacob,’ said Randulph; ‘but tonight I’m engaged. Come along with me. My way lies in the same direction as yours, and I want to talk to you about your master and young mistress.’

Jacob complied, and accompanied Randulph to the corner of Hedge Lane, a narrow thoroughfare running into Cockspur Street, where he took his leave. Randulph and his uncle then tracked the lane above mentioned, until they came to Whitcomb Street, where Kitty Conway then resided, having removed from the Hay-market to an old house in the latter street, erected three years after the Great Fire of London—namely, 1669.

Never having visited the pretty actress in her new abode, but having been told in the note that this date, which was inscribed in large figures on a shield over the door, would guide him to it, Randulph was looking out for the house, when he observed three men at a little distance behind him, who seemed to be dogging him and his uncle. The foremost was a tall thin man; the second a stout, square-set personage, attired in a shabby military garb; and the third a great hulking fellow with an atrociously black muzzle, dressed in a blue jacket, short trousers, and woollen cap.

Randulph could not help fancying he had seen these personages before, though he could not tell where, but he did not concern himself much about them, until just as he had discovered Kitty Conway’s dwelling, and was about to knock at the door, he saw that they were quickening their pace towards him. On a nearer approach, he was at no loss to detect Philip Frewin, and in his companions, Captain Culpepper and the fellow who had officiated as Jack-in-the-water at the Folly on the Thames.

‘Here is your man!’ shouted Philip, pointing out Randulph to the others; ‘upon him! don’t leave an unbroken bone in his body.’

Randulph, however, was prepared for the attack. Grasping the stout cane he held in his hand, he dealt Philip so severe a blow on the head with it that he stretched him on his back on the ground. At the same moment, Trussell received a blow from the cudgel of the athletic sailor, which sent him reeling against the door, to the posts of which he clung for support, while the ruffian turning to assault Randulph, encountered an unexpected adversary in the person of Jacob Post.

‘I thought what you were after, you scoundrels, when I saw you doggin’ these gen’l’men,’ cried Jacob; ‘I’m glad I got up in time. Turn your cudgel this way, you black-muzzled hound! Two can play at your game.’

While Jacob and his antagonist rapped away at each other as hard as they could, making the welkin ring with their blows, Randulph turned upon Culpepper, who attempted to draw his sword to assail him, and belaboured him so lustily with his cane, that the latter was soon fain to cry for quarter.

The sound of the cudgels, and the vociferations of the combatants, had alarmed the watch, who sprang their rattles, and hastened to the scene of strife, while Kitty Conway, hearing the noise, opened a window above, and seeing what was passing in the street, added her shrieks to the general clamour. Before, however, the watch could come up, Jacob had brought his athletic antagonist to the ground, and Culpepper had taken to his heels without being able to strike a single blow.

MR. CRIPPS DETECTED—HOW MR. CRIPPS’S MARRIAGE WITH THE WIDOW WAS INTERRUPTED

It was arranged that the ceremony should take place in the upper chamber, where Randulph first breakfasted with the beau, and the clergyman selected to perform it was Doctor Gaynam. Thus nothing seemed wanting on the valet’s part to complete the matter; and late on Wednesday evening he went to Billiter Square, to inform Mrs. Nettleship that all was ready. After a brief visit, for he was somewhat fatigued, he took a tender adieu of her, saying, as he squeezed her hand at parting—

‘We shall meet to-morrow, to part no more!’

The next morning, betimes, Mr. Cripps placed himself under the hands of Antoine, who proceeded to array him in a magnificent suit, which had never been worn by his master, it having only been sent home the night before by Desmartins.

It consisted of a coat of crimson-embossed velvet, richly laced with gold, breeches of the same material, and a white satin waistcoat flowered with gold. To these were added, pink silk hose rolled above the knee, superb diamond buckles, and point-bee cravat, and his master’s handsomest Ramillies periwig, which had been dressed by Peter Pokerich.

Nearly three hours were expended in thus attiring him; and when all was completed, Antoine declared that his master had never looked half so well—a sentiment in which Mr. Cripps, as he complacently surveyed himself in the cheval-glass, entirely concurred.

A little before twelve, Peter Pokerich and the fair Thomasine arrived. The lady was dressed in white and silver, with a fly-cap with long lappets, and looked so excessively pretty that Mr. Cripps could not help wishing she had been the bride instead of Mrs. Nettleship.

While he was welcoming them, and passing some high-flown compliments on the fair Thomasine’s charms, Mr. Jukes was shown into the room; but as he was in his butler’s dress, his nephew did not condescend to speak to him.

Shortly after this Antoine announced that the bride had arrived, and Mr. Cripps hurried downstairs to meet her.

Mrs. Nettleship, who had bestowed more than ordinary pains upon her person, wore a yellow satin sack embroidered with little dots of gold. She had large pearl earrings, a garnet necklace, and a diamond solitaire. Her complexion, which was naturally rather high, had been corrected by white French powder, and was further set off with abundance of little patches on her checks, neck, and shoulders. She carried a beautiful Indian fan, the handle of which was ornamented with precious stones.

She had arrived in great state, a gilt chariot lined with pale blue satin, hired for her from a coachmaker, by Mr. Rathbone, having formed her conveyance; and she was attended by a couple of footmen out of place, likewise hired for the occasion, habited in superb liveries of sky-blue cloth trimmed with silver, with silver shoulder-knots, and point d’Espagne hats.

Mr. Rathbone, who accompanied her, was dressed in a suit of purple velvet, laced with gold. Almost bewildered by the grandeur she beheld around, the widow was led upstairs by Mr. Cripps; her wonder increased at every step she took. The two long-eared spaniels and the macaw enchanted her; but she actually screamed with delight on beholding the monkey, in his little scarlet coat and bag-wig.

Coffee, chocolate, and champagne were then handed round by Antoine and the page; and while this was going on, the clergyman and his assistant were announced.

Doctor Gaynam had a much more respectable appearance than when he officiated at Sir Singleton Spinke’s marriage. He was dressed in his full canonicals, and wore a well-powdered full-bottomed wig, which Peter Pokerich would not have disdained.

Meanwhile Mr. Cripps had seated himself by the bride on one of the couches, and was talking very tenderly to her, when he perceived his uncle approach Mr. Rathbone, as if with the intention of addressing him.

He instantly arose, and taking the latter aside, whispered a few words to him, and then, having accomplished his object, which was to prevent any communication between him and Mr. Jukes, told the clergyman to proceed with the ceremony.

Doctor Gaynam was sipping a glass of usquebaugh, but he hastily gulped it down, and declared himself perfectly ready. He then took a prayer-book from the clerk, and stationed himself between the windows, motioning the others to take their places before him.

MR. CRIPPS DETECTED

All was soon arranged. Peter Pokerich and the fair Thomasine stood near the bride; Mr. Rathbone near the bridegroom; Antoine behind him; while the group was completed by the two Africans, who had mounted a settee in the corner, to obtain a full view of the ceremony. The page was on the floor keeping the dogs quiet, who were quarrelling with the monkey, and biting its tail.

Just as Doctor Gaynam had opened his book, and uttered a preliminary cough, a noise was heard at the door, and Mr. Cripps, turning to see what was the matter, beheld it open, and admit his master.

The valet’s alarm was instantly communicated to the whole assemblage. Antoine shrugged his shoulders, and lifted up his hands in affright. The two Africans exchanged glances of alarm, and all eyes were directed towards the beau, who with angry looks, and grasping his clouded cane, marched towards the valet. He was followed by Lady Brabazon, Sir Bulkeley Price, and Trussell Beechcroft.

Lady Brabazon was attended by her black page, leading her dog by a riband, and this arrival excited the anger of one of the spaniels, whose furious barking set the macaw screaming.

Mr. Cripps presented a very chopfallen appearance. All his assurance deserted him. His hands dropped to his side, and he scarcely dared to meet his master’s angry gaze.

‘Rascal!’ exclaimed Villiers, ‘I have at last fairly detected you. I’ll teach you to put on my clothes—to assume my name——’

‘What!’ screamed Mrs. Nettleship, dropping a bottle of salts which she had placed to her nose—‘isn’t it really himself—isn’t it Mr. Willars?’

‘No, madam,’ replied the beau—‘I am Mr. Villiers; and this rascal is only my valet, Crackenthorpe Cripps.’

‘This looks like the real gentleman, I must say,’ cried Mr. Rathbone, who was thunderstruck with surprise.

‘Oh, the villain!—the base deceiver!—the impostor!’ shrieked Mrs. Nettleship, clenching her hands, and regarding the valet as if she would annihilate him. ‘I’ll tear his eyes out! To deceive and expose me in this way—to—to—to—oh! I shall never survive it. Support me!’ she added, falling into the arms of the fair Thomasine.

‘This is really too bad of you, sir,’ said Mr. Cripps, who began to recover himself a little. ‘You’ve deceived me. I thought you were at Newmarket.’

‘I received information of your practices, rascal,’ replied the beau, ‘and resolving to see to what extent you carried them, I only went to a short distance from town, and then returned with Sir Bulkeley Price, with whom I have remained till now. And a pretty discovery I’ve made, i’faith! My house filled with company—my servants turned into your servants—a dinner, supper, confectionery, wine, fruit, musicians, and the devil knows what, ordered at my expense.’

‘Well, they’re not thrown away, sir,’ replied Mr. Cripps.

‘You can marry the lady yourself, if you think proper. I’ve no doubt she’ll consent to the exchange, and she has fifty thousand pounds.’

‘Oh, the impudence!’ exclaimed Mrs. Nettleship, jumping up.

‘I’ll not be taken in a second time. I’ll be revenged on all the sex!’

‘You are not aware, Mr. Willars, of the extensive frauds this rascal has practised upon you,’ said Mr. Rathbone. ‘He has actually signed a bond for five thousand pounds in your name, which I have in my pocket.’

‘The devil he has!’ exclaimed Villiers.

‘But it is of no effect, since the marriage has not taken place,’ said Mr. Cripps; ‘and if Mr. Villiers chooses to take the lady, he will of course pay you himself.’

In spite of himself, the beau could not help laughing.

‘Bad as Mr. Cripps is, he is not worse than the other party,’ said Trussell, stepping forward; ‘while he was duping them, they tried to dupe him. I understand from Mr. Jukes, who has it on unquestionable authority, that Mrs. Nettleship, so far from being a wealthy widow, is greatly in debt, while her friend there, Mr. Rathbone, hoped to pocket the five thousand pounds secured by the bond he has mentioned.’

‘Gadso! then it seems I’ve had an escape!’ cried Mr. Cripps.

‘You have,’ replied Trussell; ‘and your uncle would have told you all this before, if you had not kept him at a distance.’

‘I won’t stay here to be laughed at!’ cried the widow, looking defiance at the jeering countenances around her. ‘Mr. Rathbone, your arm. I’ll make you marry me yourself, or pay the penalty of the contract,’ she added, in a whisper.

‘You’ll not mistake a valet for a gentleman after this, Monsieur Rathbone,’ said Antoine—‘ha! ha!’

‘You had better go away by the back stairs,’ said Trussell, stopping them; ‘for there are a couple of officers in the hall waiting to arrest you!’

‘Curse on it! I sent them myself!’ said Mr. Rathbone, ‘to compel the rascal I supposed to be Mr. Wiliars to pay your debts.’

And hurrying out of the room, he acted upon Trussell’s suggestion.

‘And now, rascal,’ said the beau to the valet, ‘you are no longer in my service—I discharge you. And you may thank your stars that I let you off so easily.’

‘I was about to discharge you. sir,’ rejoined the valet, impertinently. ‘I don’t desire to live with a gentleman who takes his servants by surprise. He’s as bad as a jealous husband.’

‘Stay!’ cried the beau—‘you don’t leave me in that way. Antoine, stand by him. Now, sir, take off that peruke—take it off carefully—now the sword.’

The orders were obeyed, and the wig and sword delivered to the French valet.

‘Now take off the coat.’ Mr. Cripps complied with a sigh.

‘Now the waistcoat.’ The order was obeyed.

‘Now the cravat.’ And it was taken off.

‘Now the diamond buckles.’

‘Anything else?’ inquired Mr. Cripps, as he gave up the buckles. ‘Recollect there are ladies in the room, sir.’

‘Yes; take yourself off,’ rejoined the beau.

Even thus shorn of his splendour, Mr. Cripps maintained his customary assurance. He bowed profoundly and gracefully round, and quitted the room amid the laughter of the company.

ABEL BEECHCROFT DISCOVERING THE MISER IN THE CELLAR—DEATH OF THE MISER

No sooner, however, was one source of dread removed, than another was aroused. His hoards might be gone! Terrified by this idea, he flew to all his hiding-places, and placed their contents on the table. His dim eyes sparkled with unnatural brilliancy as he gloated over them.

While telling over the pieces, and weighing them in his hand, a new recollection crossed him. Snatching up the candle, he hurried to a small cupboard at one side of the room, at the bottom of which lay a heap of old rags and rubbish, apparently put there out of the way. Hastily removing this dusty pile, some half dozen leathern bags were exposed to view.

‘Here they are—here they are!’ he exclaimed, with a cry of childish delight. ‘Oh, my darlings!—my treasures!—-how glad I am to see you. You give me new life. Talk of physic—pshaw! there is none like gold. The sight of it cures me in an instant. I feel well—quite well; no, not quite,’ he added, as a sudden giddiness seized him, and he had to catch at the closet door for support; ‘not quite well; but better—much better. What a memory mine must be to forget these bags—each containing two hundred guineas—that’s twelve hundred! Twelve hundred guineas! and I had forgotten them. I hope I have not forgotten anything else. Let me see—oh! my head!—my head!’ he continued, shaking it mournfully. ‘My memory’s clean gone!—clean gone! But what shall I do with these bags? they’re not safe here. Jacob may find them in clearing the room. I’ll hide them in the cellar with the other treasure.’

Utterly forgetful that the chest had been removed, he immediately set about executing his design.

Listening at the door to hear that all was still, he took up two of the bags with the intention of carrying them downstairs; but finding them too heavy for him, he was obliged to content himself with one, and thus in transporting them all to the cellar, he had to perform six journeys. The last had nearly proved fatal, for as he tottered down the cellar steps, he missed his footing, and rolled to the bottom.

With some difficulty he got up again; but heedless of the bruises he had received, he picked up his candle, which was extinguished in the fall, and returned to his bedchamber to light it at the fire. This done, he procured the shovel, and repairing to the cellar commenced his task.

In his present state of debility and exhaustion, it cost him infinite labour to get up the bricks, and he was frequently obliged to desist from the toil and rest himself; but though he shook in every limb—though thick damps burst from every pore, he still persevered.

Having got out the bricks, he carefully scraped off the surface of the loose sandy soil. Surprised that the spade met with no resistance, his alarm was instantly excited, and he plunged it deeply into the ground.

But no chest was there!

For a few minutes he stood transfixed with despair. It never occurred to him that he had himself removed his treasure, but he concluded he had been robbed of it.

At length his anguish found vent in a piercing cry, and he rushed towards the door with the intention of calling up Jacob; but the recollection that forced itself upon him, that the porter was from home, checked him.

Other imperfect ideas thronged upon his bewildered brain. A glimmering recollection of digging up the chest crossed him, but he fancied he must have taken out its contents and buried them deeper in the ground. Somewhat calmed by the idea, he commenced digging anew with frightful ardour, and soon cleared out the soil to nearly the depth of three feet. But as he found nothing, his apprehensions returned with new force and paralysed his efforts.

Throwing aside the spade, he groped about in the sandy soil with his hands, in the hopes of finding a few pieces of gold. A single piece would have satisfied him; but there was none—nothing but little pebbles mixed with the sand. His moans, while thus employed, were truly piteous.

At this juncture, his candle, which had long been expiring in the socket, went out, leaving him in total darkness. A mortal faintness seized him at the same time. He tried to get out of the hole, but fell back with the effort—his head striking against the bricks. He struggled to get up again, but in vain—his limbs refused their office. He tried to cry out for help, but a hollow rattling sound alone issued from his throat.

At length, by a convulsive effort, he did contrive to lift his head from the ground; but that was all he could do. His hands clutched ineffectually at the sandy soil; his frame was powerless; and a stifled groan broke from his lips. But this condition was too horrible for long endurance. The muscles of the neck relaxed; his head fell heavily backwards; and after a gasp or two, respiration ceased.

Thus died this unhappy man, unattended, in a cellar, half entombed in the hole digged as a hiding-place for a portion of his wealth—wealth for which he had sacrificed all his comforts, all his feelings, all his affections, and for which alone of late he had seemed to live. Thus he perished—a fearful example of the effects of the heart-searing vice of which he was the slave and the victim.

After some little consideration, Abel went up alone to the miser’s room, and knocking two or three times, and receiving no answer, opened the door. Approaching the bed, he found it empty, with the clothes turned down, as left by the miser; and casting a hurried glance into the closet to satisfy himself that no person was there, he hastily ran downstairs to Hilda, to acquaint her with the alarming discovery he had made.

She was greatly terrified; but after a moment’s reflection, suggested that her father might possibly have gone down to the cellar, and related the circumstance which she herself had once witnessed there.

Concurring in the opinion, Abel offered immediately to go in search of him; and dissuading Hilda, who secretly shared his worst apprehensions, from accompanying him, took a candle and descended to the cellar.

As he entered the vault, he indistinctly perceived a ghastly object; and springing forward, held up the light, so as to reveal it more fully. His fancy had not deceived him. There, in a grave—evidently digged by his own hands—lay his old enemy—dead—dead!

While Abel was wrapt in contemplation of this miserable spectacle, and surrendering himself to the thoughts which it inspired, heavy steps were heard behind him, and Jacob rushed into the cellar.

‘Where is he?’ cried the porter, in accents of alarm. ‘Has anything happened? Ha! I see.’

And pushing past Abel Beechcroft, he precipitated himself into the hole with his master.

‘All’s over with him,’ he cried, in a voice of agony and self-reproach, and grasping the cold hand of the corpse. ‘This would never have happened if I had been at home. I’m in a manner his murderer.’

‘Another hand than yours has been at work here, Jacob,’ said Abel; ‘and terrible as your poor master’s fate has been, it may prove a salutary lesson to others. There he lies, who a few hours ago was the possessor of useless thousands, the value of which he knew not—nay, the very existence of which he knew not—for the few bags of gold beside him were the only palpable treasure he owned.

DISPERSION OF THE JACOBITE CLUB, AND DEATH OF CARDWELL FIREBRAS—THE SUMMER-HOUSE AT THE CHEQUERS—THE OLD MILL—THE JACOBITES BETRAYED

A glance satisfied Firebras that all was right, and he returned slowly to the house, the landlord stamping upon the floor as he quitted the building, as a signal to the grenadiers that they might now come forth from their concealment. On reaching the house, Firebras dismissed the landlord, and going up to Randulph, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, ‘I have rare news for you.’

‘And I have rare news for you,’ replied the other.

‘Hear mine first!’ cried Firebras. ‘What if I tell you I am come to offer you your estates and the hand of Hilda, if you join the Jacobite party?’

‘There would be no use in joining you now!’ returned Randulph.

‘You think I’m trifling with you!’ cried Firebras, producing a packet; ‘but this will speak to the contrary. Here is the assignment of your estates to Isaac Isaacs. A receipt in full of all claims is attached to it. The deed is yours, provided you join us.’

‘You amaze me,’ cried Randulph, gazing at the packet; ‘that is unquestionably the deed I executed.’

‘Most certainly it is,’ replied Firebras. ‘It is too long a story to tell you how I became possessed of it,’ he added, replacing it in his pocket, ‘but I have other intelligence for you. Mr. Scarve is dead!’ Randolph uttered an exclamation of surprise.

‘He died last night,’ pursued Firebras, ‘and left his property to Philip Frewin, in case of Hilda’s refusal to marry him.’

‘But Philip may not live to claim the fulfilment of the condition,’ cried Randulph.

‘Philip, also, is dead,’ replied Firebras. And smiling at Randulph’s astonishment, he added, ‘Now you see that all is in your grasp. Fate has given you the lady of your love. I offer you your fortune. Can you refuse to join us?’

‘Mr. Firebras,’ said Randulph, composing himself, ‘this is not the time to put such a question to me.’

‘Pardon me,’ cried Firebras sternly, ‘I must have an answer now—at this moment—or you lose your estates and Hilda for ever. Do not suppose I threaten lightly. I can, and will, make good my words.’

‘You mistake me altogether,’ rejoined Randulph. ‘I mean to say it would be useless for me to assent. You are betrayed.’

‘Betrayed!’ exclaimed Firebras, in a voice of thunder. ‘How! by whom? But this is a mere assertion made to turn me from my purpose.’

‘You will find it too true,’ replied Randulph. ‘The house is environed on all sides by grenadiers.’

‘I have just visited the summer-house,’ said Firebras. ‘There was no one there.’

‘The men were concealed in a lower chamber,’ said Randulph.

‘It’ may be so,’ cried Firebras, with a terrible imprecation. ‘But they shall not take me easily. My pistols! ha! they have been removed! The landlord, then, is our betrayer.’

‘He is,’ replied Randulph. ‘Your only chance of escape is apparent unconsciousness of the design. You might perhaps make good your own retreat—but the others——’

‘I will never desert them,’ said Firebras. ‘There is a boat at hand, for I ordered Jacob Post to be in waiting for you off the summer-house, for another purpose, and I caught a glimpse of him just now. Ha! here come our friends.’ And, as he spoke, Sir Norfolk Salusbury, Sir Bulkeley Price, Father Verselyn, Mr. Travers, and four or five other gentlemen entered the room.

‘Leave us, landlord,’ said Firebras; ‘we will call you when we want you.’ And the order being obeyed, he bolted the door. ‘We are betrayed, gentlemen,’ said Firebras, in a low tone; ‘the house is surrounded by guards, and our retreat is cut off by the river.’

As the words were uttered, the door was tried by some persons without, who, finding it fastened, proceeded to burst it open. ‘To the garden! to the garden!’ cried Firebras. And the party made for the window.

Before, however, the whole of them could pass through it, the officer and a party of grenadiers burst open the door, and endeavoured to seize them.

Firebras and the others, with the exception of Randulph, drew off.

DEATH OF TUE JACOBITE CLUB, AND OF CARDWELL FIREBRAS—DISPERSION

The Miser’s Daughter their swords, and the next instant an encounter took place. But, as all was buried in darkness, little mischief was done. In spite of the efforts of the soldiers to prevent them, five or six of the Jacobites contrived to get across the ditch, and gaining the mill, took shelter within it. They were followed by a party of grenadiers, who fired a few shots at them. Whether the circumstance was the result of accident or design is immaterial, but a few minutes afterwards the mill was found to be on fire. Flames burst from the upper windows, throwing a fierce glare on the groups below, and brightly illumining the towers of Westminster Abbey.

Repeated loud explosions were next heard, threatening each moment to shake the mill to pieces; while some of the unfortunate Jacobites were seen springing from a side window upon the waterwheel, and trying to descend by it. Two others, at the risk of breaking their necks, dropped from a window facing the river, and endeavoured to gain the vessel moored beside it. The fugitives on the water-wheel were held in check by a party of grenadiers, who, having thrown a couple of planks over the little stream, were enabled to reach them.

Meanwhile, favoured by the previous darkness, for all was now as bright as day, Firebras, Salusbury, and the rest of the Jacobites made good their retreat as far as the summer-house. Some of them even managed to force their way to the platform. Here a desperate struggle took place, in which Sir Norfolk was severely wounded in the side by a bayonet. By this time the fire had broken out in the mill, and its glare showed Jacob at a little distance in a skiff. Notwithstanding the menaces of the soldiers, who pointed their guns at him, and threatened to fire if he approached nearer, Jacob pushed resolutely towards the summer-house.

He was now close under the platform, and made signs to Randulph to descend, but the latter would not desert Sir Norfolk, who had been seized by a couple of grenadiers. He threw himself upon the old baronet’s captors, and in the struggle that ensued, the railing gave way, precipitating Sir Bulkeley Price, the Jesuit, and the grenadiers into the tide. Before the other soldiers had recovered from their surprise at this occurrence, Randulph had lowered Sir Norfolk into the skiff and sprung in after him.

Jacob’s efforts to push off were impeded by Sir Bulkeley Price, who clung to the stern of the skiff, earnestly imploring them to take him in. Father Verselyn caught hold of the steps, and apprehensive of some further disaster, crept along the side of the summer-house, and took refuge in a small sewer, in the slime of which it is supposed he perished, for he was never heard of more.

Meanwhile, Cardwell Firebras—engaged hand to hand with the officer, who, having vainly summoned him to surrender, attacked him in person—had reached the platform. Seeing escape impossible, Firebras, while defending himself against the officer, called to Randulph, whom he descried below, and held out the packet to him. The latter ordered Jacob to keep the skiff steady, and to bring it as near the combatants as possible.

While Jacob obeyed the injunction, a successful thrust from Firebras stretched his adversary upon the platform, but the next moment he received his own death-wound from Long Tom, who stepped forward as his officer fell, and discharged his musket into his breast. With a dying effort, Firebras stretched his hand over the rail, and consigning the packet to Randulph, fell backwards into the water. Possessed of the packet, Randulph turned to the aid of Sir Bulkeley Price, and pulling him into the skiff, Jacob instantly pushed off. Assisted by the stream, which ran very strong, they soon got under the sides of the vessel near the mill, and were sheltered from the fire of the soldiery.

Meanwhile, the conflagration raged fast and furiously, and before the skiff containing the fugitives had got half way to Westminster Bridge, a tremendous explosion took place, scattering the blazing fragments of the old mill far and wide into the river.

RANDOLPH CREW’S MARRIAGE WITH HILDA AT LAMBETH CHURCH—DETAILING AN EVENT WHICH MAY POSSIBLY HAVE BEEN ANTICIPATED

We shall hurry over the intervening period as rapidly as the lovers themselves would have hurried it over, and proceed at once to the wished-for day.

A little before nine o’clock, on this eventful morning, Randulph, who had taken up his quarters with Sir Bulkeley Price, in Saint James’s Square, entered the breakfast-room, arrayed in his bridal attire, which had been prepared for him by the skilful hands of Desmartins. He found Sir Bulkeley Price and Sir Norfolk Salusbury at the table—the latter having come up from Wales, whither he had retired to recruit himself after his wound, expressly to attend the ceremony. After receiving their congratulations, Randulph sat down with them, but as he could only swallow a cup of chocolate, he underwent much rallying on his want of appetite.

Breakfast over, the party drove to Whitehall Stairs, where a six-oared barge was in readiness to convey them across the river. Jacob Post was appointed coxswain of this barge, and he wore a waterman’s coat of scarlet cloth, and velvet jockey-shaped cap of the same colour. The six rowers were attired in the same livery, and presented a very gay appearance.

The morning was bright and beautiful, and everything seemed to Randulph to participate in his happiness. Each boat that passed them, seeing the purpose on which they were bent, cheered them cordially, and Jacob, who was greatly elated, returned their greetings lustily.

As they passed through Westminster Bridge, and shaped their rapid course to Lambeth, they passed a boat containing a couple in bridal attire, and rowed by watermen with favours in their caps. These were Mr. Rathbone and Mrs. Nettleship, who, having made a composition with their creditors, had come to the conclusion that the best thing they could do would be to fulfil their original agreement, and having heard that Randulph and Hilda were to be united at Lambeth, they determined, like Peter Pokerich and the fair Thomasine, to be married at the same time, and at the same church. The boats cheered each other as they passed. Shortly after this, they came up with a four-oared cutter, in which was a still more gaily dressed bridal party, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Deacle, the fair Thomasine, and Peter Pokerich. The sunny tresses, bright eyes, and dimpling cheeks of the bride attracted Sir Bulkeley’s admiration, and he called out to Peter that he ought to consider himself a very happy man; to which the little barber replied, ‘that he was the happiest man in the world—Mr. Crew excepted.’

Another cheering passed between the rowers; and Randulph’s barge swept over the sparkling waters to the stairs near Lambeth Palace, where he and his companions disembarked.

As Abel Beechcroft was extremely well known and highly respected in the neighbourhood, great preparations were made to lend éclat to his nephew’s wedding. A band of music was stationed on a lighter moored near the stairs; and the lighter itself was hung all over with flags and streamers. The band was playing, the bells ringing, and as Randulph leaped ashore, a loud shout from the crowd collected to see him land, welcomed him, while many flattering comments, in no very low key, were made upon his handsome appearance by the female part of the assemblage. In passing towards his uncle’s residence, Randulph noticed with interest a troop of pretty little girls with wreaths round their heads, and baskets of flowers in their hands, standing in the path leading to the church.

The party were admitted by Mr. Jukes, whose portly figure was well displayed in an expansive snowy waistcoat, a brown coat, spick and span new for the occasion, and a well-powdered bob-wig. The worthy butler gave Randulph a hearty welcome, and wished him many years of happiness, and having ushered him and the others into the parlour, returned to the hall to Jacob, to give him wedding favours for himself and the watermen, which the other hastened to distribute.

The meeting between the young bride and bridegroom was full of agitated delight. Abel looked perfectly happy, but thoughtful, as did Mrs. Crew, whose emotion found relief in an occasional sigh—not the sigh of misgiving, but the relief of a joy-oppressed heart.

Trussell was, as usual, in very high spirits. He shook Randulph heartily by the hand, wished him all sorts of happiness, and then cordially greeted the Welsh baronets. Besides Mrs. Clinton, there was another young lady present, the daughter of an old friend of Mrs. Crew’s, a Miss Wilbraham, who acted as bridesmaid to Hilda.

Soon afterwards, all being in readiness, the bride prepared to set forth under the care of Abel Beechcroft, who, before they quitted the house, in an earnest tone, invoked a blessing on her head and on that of his nephew. And both felt that the blessing of so good a man would not be thrown away.

Cheered by the good wishes and smiling countenances of the groups through which they had passed, and enlivened by the sunshine, the party entered the church. Peter Pokerich and the fair Thomasine, with Mr. Rathbone and Mrs. Nettleship, were already standing beside the altar. The young couple advanced, and took the central place, and the church was instantly crowded with spectators. The service was admirably performed by a venerable clergyman—an old and valued friend of Abel’s, and at its close, the concourse issued from the church, dividing into two lines, so as to allow a passage for the wedding train.

As soon as the happy couple were seen issuing hand-in-hand from the Gothic portal of the old church, a loud and joyous shout was raised by the assemblage, a couple of guns were fired on board the lighter, and the church bells rang forth a joyous peal.

It was a heart-cheering sight, and many a breast throbbed, and many an eye grew moist at beholding it. And plenty of spectators there were. The whole of the area before the church was filled, and the windows and towers of the old archiépiscopal palace were studded with faces. The little flower-girls now stepped forward, and strewed their fragrant offerings in the path of the happy pair, who walked on amid the continued cheers of the bystanders.

A little behind Randulph, on the right, walked Trussell, who, excited by the general enthusiasm, had placed his hat on his cane, and waved it to the crowd. Near him came Abel and Miss Wilbraham, the former with a glowing smile on his countenance, such as Mr. Jukes himself never remembered to have witnessed. After them walked Sir Norfolk Salusbury and Mrs. Crew. Next in order came Mr. and Mrs. Pokerich, the latter of whom thought it decorous to turn aside her pretty face from the ardent gaze of her enamoured little lord. Lastly came Mr. and Mrs. Rathbone, whose appearance did not seem greatly to interest the spectators. Sir Bulkeley Price had posted himself on the left of the church door, to watch the wedding train pass by, and to wait the coming forth of the clergyman.

As Randulph advanced through the crowd, Jacob Post stepped forward, and holding out his rough, honest hand to him, said in a voice, the sincerity of which could not be doubted, ‘God bless you, sir, and your lovely bride, and may you know years of uninterrupted happiness!’

‘And take my blessing too,’ said Mr. Jukes, likewise extending his hand. ‘An old man’s good wishes, though he be but a dependant, can do no harm.’

‘I thank you both!’ cried Randulph, in a voice of emotion; ‘and my wife thanks you too.’

‘I do—I do,’ she replied; ‘nor do I doubt the fulfilment of your wishes.’ And as she uttered these words, loud and deafening cheers rent the air, and another discharge of guns took place.

In this way they proceeded to the house, where they were followed by the rest of the party, and presently afterwards by the clergyman and Sir Bulkeley. They then all sat down to an excellent repast.

By desire of his hospitable master, Mr. Jukes invited the other couples and their friends to take refreshments at his house, which, as they delightedly availed themselves of the offer, were served to them in the summer-house overlooking the river; where, while enjoying themselves, they did not forget to drink long life and happiness to Randulph and his bride.

The honeymoon—all the rest of their life was a honeymoon—was passed by the happy couple, in good old-fashioned style, at Lambeth. They then proceeded to Cheshire, accompanied by Trussell and Mrs. Crew, and were soon afterwards followed by Abel, who passed the winter with them. In due time the prognostications of Mr. Jukes were fulfilled, and Abel displayed no objection to the endearments of two great-nieces and a great-nephew.

Appointed Randulph’s head-gamekeeper, Jacob Post passed the remainder of his days in the service of his new master. Of the two brothers Beechcroft, Abel was the first to pay the debt of nature, Trussell survived him two or three years, during which he was a great martyr to gout. He never, however, lost his temper, except when young Master Randulph accidentally trod on his toe, and then he would swear a round oath, to frighten him, and try to hit at him with his stick, as testy old gentlemen are wont to do in plays. Randulph and Hilda almost touched the verge of the nineteenth century; and from the anecdotes of one of their descendants, in the third generation, the materials of the present tale have been collected.