CHAPTER XX.
_In Which Ferdinand Receives More than One Visit, and Finds That Adversity Has Not Quite Deprived Him of His Friends_.
IN THE mean time morning broke upon the unfortunate Ferdinand. He had forgotten his cares in sleep, and, when he woke, it was with some difficulty that he recalled the unlucky incident of yesterday, and could satisfy himself that he was indeed a prisoner. But the bars of his bedroom window left him not very long in pleasing doubt.
His friend, the little waiter, soon made his appearance. "Slept pretty well, sir? Same breakfast as yesterday, sir? Tongue and ham, sir?
Perhaps you would like a kidney instead of a devil? It will be a change."
"I have no appet.i.te."
"It will come, sir. You an"t used to it. Nothing else to do here but to eat. Better try the kidney, sir. Is there anything you fancy?"
"I have made up my mind to go to gaol to-day." "Lord! sir, don"t think of it. Something will turn up, sir, take my word."
And sooth to say, the experienced waiter was not wrong. For bringing in the breakfast, followed by an underling with a great pomp of plated covers, he informed Ferdinand with a chuckle, that a gentleman was enquiring for him. "Told you your friends would come, sir."
The gentleman was introduced, and Ferdinand beheld Mr. Glas...o...b..ry.
"My dear Glas...o...b..ry," said Ferdinand, scarcely daring to meet his glance, "this is very kind, and yet I wished to have saved you this."
"My poor child," said Glas...o...b..ry.
"Oh! my dear friend, it is all over. This is a more bitter moment for you even than for me, kind friend. This is a terrible termination of all your zeal and labours."
"Nay!" said Glas...o...b..ry; "let us not think of anything but the present.
For what are you held in durance?"
"My dear Glas...o...b..ry, if it were only ten pounds, I could not permit you to pay it. So let us not talk of that. This must have happened sooner or later. It has come, and come unexpectedly: but it must be borne, like all other calamities."
"But you have friends, my Ferdinand."
"Would that I had not! All that I wish now is that I were alone in the world. If I could hope that my parents would leave me to myself, I should be comparatively easy. But when I think of them, and the injury I must do them, it is h.e.l.l, it is h.e.l.l."
"I wish you would tell me your exact situation," said Mr. Glas...o...b..ry.
"Do not let us talk of it; does my father know of this?"
"Not yet."
""Tis well; he may yet have a happy day. He will sell Armine."
Glas...o...b..ry shook his head and sighed. "Is it so bad?" he said.
"My dearest friend, if you will know the worst, take it. I am here for nearly three thousand pounds, and I owe at least ten more."
"And they will not take bail?"
"Not for this debt; they cannot. It is a judgment debt, the only one."
"And they gave you no notice?"
"None: they must have heard somehow or other that my infernal marriage was off. They have all waited for that. And now that you see that affairs are past remedy; let us talk of other topics, if you will be so kind as to remain half an hour in this dungeon. I shall quit it directly; I shall go to gaol at once."
Poor Glas...o...b..ry, he did not like to go, and yet it was a most melancholy visit. What could they converse about? Conversation, except on the interdicted subject of Ferdinand"s affairs, seemed quite a mockery. At last, Ferdinand said, "Dear Glas...o...b..ry, do not stay here; it only makes us both unhappy. Send Louis with some clothes for me, and some books. I will let you know before I leave this place. Upon reflection, I shall not do so for two or three days, if I can stay as long. See my lawyer; not that he will do anything; nor can I expect him; but he may as well call and see me. Adieu, dear friend."
Glas...o...b..ry was about to retire, when Ferdinand called him back. "This affair should be kept quiet," he said. "I told Louis to say I was out of town in Brook-street. I should be sorry were Miss Temple to hear of it, at least until after her marriage."
Ferdinand was once more alone with the mirror, the loo-table, the hard sofa, the caricatures which he hated even worse than his host"s portrait, the Hebrew Bible, and the Racing Calendar. It seemed a year that he had been shut up in this apartment, instead of a day, he had grown so familiar with every object. And yet the visit of Glas...o...b..ry had been an event, and he could not refrain from pondering over it. A spunging-house seemed such a strange, such an unnatural scene, for such a character. Ferdinand recalled to his memory the tower at Armine, and all its glades and groves, shining in the summer sun, and freshened by the summer breeze. What a contrast to this dingy, confined, close dungeon! And was it possible that he had ever wandered at will in that fair scene with a companion fairer? Such thoughts might well drive a man mad. With all his errors, and all his disposition at present not to extenuate them, Ferdinand Armine could not refrain from esteeming himself unlucky. Perhaps it is more distressing to believe ourselves unfortunate, than to recognise ourselves as imprudent.
A fond mistress or a faithful friend, either of these are great blessings; and whatever may be one"s sc.r.a.pes in life, either of these may well be sources of consolation. Ferdinand had a fond mistress once, and had Henrietta Temple loved him, why, he might struggle with all these calamities; but that sweet dream was past. As for friends, he had none, at least he thought not. Not that he had to complain of human nature. He had experienced much kindness from mankind, and many were the services he had received from kind acquaintances. With the recollection of Catch, to say nothing of Bond Sharpe, and above all, Count Mirabel, fresh in his mind, he could not complain of his companions. Glas...o...b..ry was indeed a friend, but Ferdinand sighed for a friend of his own age, knit to him by the same tastes and sympathies, and capable of comprehending all his secret feelings; a friend who could even whisper hope, and smile in a spunging-house.
The day wore away, the twilight shades were descending; Ferdinand became every moment more melancholy, when suddenly his constant ally, the waiter, rushed into the room. "My eye, sir, here is a regular n.o.b enquiring for you. I told you it would be all right."
"Who is it?"
"Here he is coming up."
Ferdinand caught the triumphant tones of Mirabel on the staircase.
"Which is the room? Show me directly. Ah! Armine, _mon ami! mon cher!_ Is this your friendship? To be in this cursed hole, and not send for me! _C"est une mauvaise plaisanterie_ to pretend we are friends! How are you, good fellow, fine fellow, excellent Armine? If you were not here I would quarrel with you. There, go away, man." The waiter disappeared, and Count Mirabel seated himself on the hard sofa.
"My dear fellow," continued the Count, twirling the prettiest cane in the world, "this is a _betise_ of you to be here and not send for me.
Who has put you here?"
"My dear Mirabel, it is all up."
"Pah! How much is it?"
"I tell you I am done up. It has got about that the marriage is off, and Morris and Levison have nabbed me for all the arrears of my cursed annuities."
"But how much?"
"Between two and three thousand."
The Count Mirabel gave a whistle.
"I brought five hundred, which I have. We must get the rest somehow or other."
"My dear Mirabel, you are the most generous fellow in the world; but I have troubled my friends too much. Nothing will induce me to take a sou from you. Besides, between ourselves, not my least mortification at this moment is some 1,500L., which Bond Sharpe let me have the other day for nothing, through Catch."
"Pah! I am sorry about that, though, because he would have lent us this money. I will ask Bevil."
"I would sooner die."
"I will ask him for myself."
"It is impossible."