IF WE pause now to take a calm and comprehensive review of the state and prospects of the three families, in whose feelings and fortunes we have attempted to interest the reader, it must be confessed that, however brilliant and satisfactory they might appear on the surface, the elements of discord, gloom, and unhappiness might be more profoundly discovered, and might even be held as rapidly stirring into movement. Miss Temple was the affianced bride of Lord Montfort, but her heart was Captain Armine’s: Captain Armine, in the estimation of his parents, was the pledged husband of Miss Grandison, while he and his cousin had, in fact, dissolved their engagement. Mr. Temple more than suspected his daughter’s partiality for Ferdinand. Sir Ratcliffe, very much surprised at seeing so little of his son, and resolved that the marriage should be no further delayed, was about to precipitate confessions, of which he did not dream, and which were to shipwreck all the hopes of his life. The Count Mirabel and Miss Grandison were both engaged in an active conspiracy. Lord Montfort alone was calm, and if he had a purpose to conceal, inscrutable. All things, however, foreboded a crisis.

Sir Ratcliffe, astonished at the marked manner in which his son absented himself from Brook-street, resolved upon bringing him to an explanation. At first he thought there might be some lovers’ quarrel; but the demeanour of Katherine, and the easy tone in which she ever spoke of her cousin, soon disabused him of this fond hope. He consulted his wife. Now, to tell the truth, Lady Armine, who was a shrewd woman, was not without her doubts and perplexities, but she would not confess them to her husband. Many circumstances had been observed by her which filled her with disquietude, but she had staked all her hopes upon this cast, and she was of a sanguine temper. She was leading an agreeable life. Katherine appeared daily more attached to her, and Lady Armine was quite of opinion that it is always very injudicious to interfere. She endeavoured to persuade Sir Ratcliffe that everything was quite right, and she assured him that the season would terminate, as all seasons ought to terminate, by the marriage.

And perhaps Sir Ratcliffe would have followed her example, only it so happened that as he was returning home one morning, he met his son in Grosvenor-square.

‘Why, Ferdinand, we never see you now,’ said Sir Ratcliffe.

‘Oh! you are all so gay,’ said Ferdinand. ‘How is my mother?’

‘She is very well. Katherine and herself have gone to see the balloon, with Lord Montfort and Count Mirabel. Come in,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, for he was now almost at his door.

The father and son entered. Sir Ratcliffe walked into a little library on the ground floor, which was his morning room.

‘We dine at home to-day, Ferdinand,’ said Sir Ratcliffe. ‘Perhaps you will come.’

‘Thank you, sir, I am engaged.’

‘It seems to me you are always engaged. For a person who does not like gaiety, it is very odd.’

‘Heigho!’ said Ferdinand. ‘How do you like your new horse, sir?’

‘Ferdinand, I wish to speak a word to you,’ said Sir Ratcliffe. ‘I do not like ever to interfere unnecessarily with your conduct; but the anxiety of a parent will, I think, excuse the question I am about to ask. When do you propose being married?’

‘Oh, I do not know exactly.’

‘Your grandfather has been dead now, you know, much more than a year. I cannot help thinking your conduct singular. There is nothing wrong between you and Katherine, is there?’

‘Wrong, sir?’

‘Yes, wrong? I mean, is there any misunderstanding? Have you quarrelled?’

‘No, sir, we have not quarrelled; we perfectly understand each other.’

‘I am glad to hear it, for I must say I think your conduct is very unlike that of a lover. All I can say is, I did not win your mother’s heart by such proceedings.’

‘Katherine has made no complaint of me, sir?’

‘Certainly not, and that surprises me still more.’

Ferdinand seemed plunged in thought. The silence lasted some minutes. Sir Ratcliffe took up the newspaper; his son leant over the mantel-piece, and gazed upon the empty fire-place. At length he turned round and said, ‘Father, I can bear this no longer; the engagement between Katherine and myself is dissolved.’

‘Good God! when, and why?’ exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, the newspaper falling from his hand.

‘Long since, sir; ever since I loved another woman, and she knew it.’

‘Ferdinand! Ferdinand!’ exclaimed the unhappy father; but he was so overpowered that he could not give utterance to his thoughts. He threw himself in a chair, and wrung his hands. Ferdinand stood still and silent, like a statue of Destiny, gloomy and inflexible.

‘Speak again,’ at length said Sir Ratcliffe. ‘Let me hear you speak again. I cannot believe what I have heard. Is it indeed true that your engagement with your cousin has been long terminated?’

Ferdinand nodded assent.

‘Your poor mother!’ exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe. ‘This will kill her.’ He rose from his seat, and walked up and down the room in great agitation.

‘I knew all was not right,’ he muttered to himself. ‘She will sink under it; we must all sink under it. Madman! you know not what you have done!’

‘It is in vain to regret, sir; my sufferings have been greater than yours.’

‘She will pardon you, my boy,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, in a quicker and kinder tone. ‘You have lived to repent your impetuous folly; Katherine is kind and generous; she loves us all; she must love you; she will pardon you. Yes! entreat her to forget it; your mother, your mother has great influence with her; she will exercise it, she will interfere; you are very young, all will yet be well.’

‘It is as impossible for me to marry Katherine Grandison, as for you yourself to do it, sir,’ said Ferdinand, in a tone of calmness.

‘You are not married to another?’

‘In faith; I am bound by a tie which I can never break.’

‘And who is this person?’

‘She must be nameless, for many reasons.’

‘Ferdinand,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, ‘you know not what you are doing. My life, your mother’s, the existence of our family, hang upon your conduct. Yet, yet there is time to prevent this desolation. I am controlling my emotions; I wish you to save us, you, all! Throw yourself at your cousin’s feet. She is soft-hearted; she may yet be yours!’

‘Dear father, it cannot be.’

‘Then-then, welcome ruin!’ exclaimed Sir Ratcliffe, in a hoarse voice. ‘And,’ he continued, pausing between every word, from the difficulty of utterance, ‘if the conviction that you have destroyed all our hopes, rewarded us for all our affection, our long devotion, by blasting every fond idea that has ever illumined our sad lives, that I and Constance, poor fools, have clung and clung to; if this conviction can console you, sir, enjoy it–

‘Ferdinand! my son, my child, that I never have spoken an unkind word to, that never gave me cause to blame or check him, your mother will be home soon, your poor, poor mother. Do not let me welcome her with all this misery. Tell me it is not true; recall what you have said; let us forget these harsh words; reconcile yourself to your cousin; let us be happy.’

‘Father, if my heart’s blood could secure your happiness, my life were ready; but this I cannot do.’

‘Do you know what is at stake? Everything. All, all, all! We can see Armine no more; our home is gone. Your mother and myself must be exiles. Oh! you have not thought of this: say you have not thought of this.’

Ferdinand hid his face; his father, emboldened, urged the fond plea. ‘You will save us, Ferdinand, you will be our preserver? It is all forgotten, is it not? It is a lovers’ quarrel, after all?’

‘Father, why should I trifle with your feelings? why should I feign what can never be? This sharp interview, so long postponed, ought not now to be adjourned. Indulge no hopes, for there are none.’

‘Then by every sacred power I revoke every blessing that since your birth I have poured upon your head. I recall the prayers that every night I have invoked upon your being. Great God! I cancel them. You have betrayed your cousin; you have deserted your mother and myself; you have first sullied the honour of our house, and now you have destroyed it. Why were you born? What have we done that your mother’s womb should produce such a curse? Sins of my father, they are visited upon me! And Glastonbury, what will Glastonbury say? Glastonbury, who sacrificed his fortune for you.’

‘Mr. Glastonbury knows all, sir, and has always been my confidant.’

‘Is he a traitor? For when a son deserts me, I know not whom to trust.’

‘He has no thoughts but for our welfare, sir. He will convince you, sir, I cannot marry my cousin.’

‘Boy, boy! you know not what you say. Not marry your cousin! Then let us die. It were better for us all to die.’

‘My father! Be calm, I beseech you; you have spoken harsh words; I have not deserted you or my mother; I never will. If I have wronged my cousin, I have severely suffered, and she has most freely forgiven me. She is my dear friend. As for our house: tell me, would you have that house preserved at the cost of my happiness? You are not the father I supposed, if such indeed be your wish.’

‘Happiness! Fortune, family, beauty, youth, a sweet and charming spirit, if these will not secure a man’s happiness, I know not what might. And these I wished you to possess.’

‘Sir, it is in vain for us to converse upon this subject. See Glastonbury, if you will. He can at least assure you that neither my feelings are light nor my conduct hasty. I will leave you now.’

Ferdinand quitted the room; Sir Ratcliffe did not notice his departure, although he was not unaware of it. He heaved a deep sigh, and was apparently plunged in profound thought.

CHAPTER XVIII

Ferdinand Is Arrested by Messrs. Morris and Levison, and Taken to a Spunging-House.

IT MUST be confessed that the affairs of our friends were in a critical state: everyone interested felt that something decisive in their respective fortunes was at hand. And, yet, so vain are all human plans and calculations, that the unavoidable crisis was brought about by an incident which no one anticipated. It so happened that the stormy interview between Sir Ratcliffe and his son was overheard by a servant. This servant, who had been engaged by Miss Grandison in London, was a member of a club to which a confidential clerk of Messrs. Morris and Levison belonged. In the ensuing evening, when this worthy knight of the shoulder-knot just dropped out for an hour to look in at this choice society, smoke a pipe, and talk over the affairs of his mistress and the nation, he announced the important fact that the match between Miss Grandison and Captain Armine was ‘no go,’ which, for his part, he did not regret, as he thought his mistress ought to look higher. The confidential clerk of Messrs. Morris and Levison listened in silence to this important intelligence, and communicated it the next morning to his employers. And so it happened that a very few days afterwards, as Ferdinand was lying in bed at his hotel, the door of his chamber suddenly opened, and an individual, not of the most prepossessing appearance, being much marked with smallpox, reeking with gin, and wearing top-boots and a belcher handkerchief, rushed into his room and enquired whether he were Captain Armine.

‘The same,’ said Ferdinand. ‘And pray, sir, who are you?’

‘Don’t wish to be unpleasant,’ was the answer, ‘but, sir, you are my prisoner.’

There is something exceedingly ignoble in an arrest: Ferdinand felt that sickness come over him which the uninitiated in such ceremonies must experience. However, he rallied, and enquired at whose suit these proceedings were taken.

‘Messrs. Morris and Levison, sir.’

‘Cannot I send for my lawyer and give bail?’

The bailiff shook his head. ‘You see, sir, you are taken in execution, so it is impossible.’

‘And the amount of the debt?’

‘Is 2,800L., sir.’

‘Well, what am I to do?’

‘Why, sir, you must go along with us. We will do it very quietly. My follower is in a hackney-coach at the door, sir. You can just step in as pleasant as possible. I suppose you would like to go to a house, and then you can send for your friends, you know.’

‘Well, if you will go down stairs, I will come to you.’

The bailiff grinned. ‘Can’t let you out of my sight, sir.’

‘Why, I cannot dress if you are here.’

The bailiff examined the room to see if there were any mode of escape; there was no door but the entrance; the window offered no chance. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘I likes to do things pleasant. I can stand outside, sir; but you must be quick.’

Ferdinand rang for his servant. When Louis clearly understood the state of affairs, he was anxious to throw the bailiff out of the window, but his master prevented him. Mr. Glastonbury had gone out some two hours; Ferdinand sent Louis with a message to his family, to say he was about leaving town for a few days; and impressing upon him to be careful not to let them know in Brook-street what had occurred, he completed his rapid toilet and accompanied the sheriff’s officer to the hackney-coach that was prepared for him.

As they jogged on in silence, Ferdinand revolved in his mind how it would be most advisable for him to act. Any application to his own lawyer was out of the question. That had been tried before, and he felt assured that there was not the slightest chance of that gentleman discharging so large a sum, especially when he was aware that it was only a portion of his client’s liabilities; he thought of applying for advice to Count Mirabel or Lord Catchimwhocan, but with what view? He would not borrow the money of them, even if they would lend it; and as it was, he bitterly reproached himself for having availed himself so easily of Mr. Bond Sharpe’s kind offices. At this moment, he could not persuade himself that his conduct had been strictly honourable to that gentleman. He had not been frank in the exposition of his situation. The money had been advanced under a false impression, if not absolutely borrowed under a false pretence. He cursed Catchimwhocan and his levity. The honour of the Armines was gone, like everything else that once belonged to them. The result of Ferdinand’s reflections was, that he was utterly done up; that no hope or chance of succour remained for him; that his career was closed; and not daring to contemplate what the consequences might be to his miserable parents, he made a desperate effort to command his feelings.

Here the coach turned up a dingy street, leading out of the lower end of Oxford-street, and stopped before a large but gloomy dwelling, which Ferdinand’s companion informed him was a spunging-house. ‘I suppose you would like to have a private room, sir; you can have every accommodation here, sir, and feel quite at home, I assure you.’

In pursuance of this suggestion, Captain Armine was ushered into the best drawing-room, with barred windows, and treated in the most aristocratic manner. It was evidently the chamber reserved only for unfortunate gentlemen of the utmost distinction. It was amply furnished with a mirror, a loo-table, and a very hard sofa. The walls were hung with old-fashioned caricatures by Bunbury; the fire-irons were of polished brass; over the mantel-piece was the portrait of the master of the house, which was evidently a speaking likeness, and in which Captain Armine fancied he traced no slight resemblance to his friend Mr. Levison; and there were also some sources of literary amusement in the room, in the shape of a Hebrew Bible and the Racing Calendar.

After walking up and down the room for an hour, meditating over the past, for it seemed hopeless to trouble himself any further with the future, Ferdinand began to feel faint, for it may be recollected that he had not even breakfasted. So pulling the bell-rope with such force that it fell to the ground, a funny little waiter immediately appeared, awed by the sovereign ring, and having, indeed, received private intelligence from the bailiff that the gentleman in the drawing-room was a regular nob.

And here, perhaps, I should remind the reader, that of all the great distinctions in life none perhaps is more important than that which divides mankind into the two great sections of NOBS and SNOBS. It might seem at the first glance, that if there were a place in the world which should level all distinctions, it would be a debtors’ prison. But this would be quite an error. Almost at the very moment that Captain Armine arrived at his sorrowful hotel, a poor devil of a tradesman who had been arrested for fifty pounds, and torn from his wife and family, had been forced to repair to the same asylum. He was introduced into what is styled the coffee-room, being a long, low, unfurnished sanded chamber, with a table and benches; and being very anxious to communicate with some friend, in order, if possible, to effect his release, and prevent himself from being a bankrupt, he had continued meekly to ring at intervals for the last half-hour in order that he might write and forward his letter. The waiter heard the coffee-room bell ring, but never dreamed of noticing it, though the moment the signal of the private room sounded, and sounded with so much emphasis, he rushed upstairs, three steps at a time, and instantly appeared before our hero: and all this difference was occasioned by the simple circumstance, that Captain Armine was a NOB, and the poor tradesman a SNOB.

‘I am hungry,’ said Ferdinand. ‘Can I get anything to eat at this damned place?’

‘What would you like, sir? Anything you choose, sir. Mutton chop, rump steak, weal cutlet? Do you a fowl in a quarter of an hour; roast or boiled, sir?’

‘I have not breakfasted yet; bring me some breakfast.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the little waiter. ‘Tea, sir? Coffee, eggs, toast, buttered toast, sir? Like any meat, sir? Ham, sir? Tongue, sir? Like a devil, sir?’

‘Anything, everything, only be quick.’

‘Yes, sir,’ responded the waiter. ‘Beg pardon, sir. No offence, I hope, but custom to pay here, sir. Shall be happy to accommodate you, sir. Know what a gentleman is.’

‘Thank you, I will not trouble you,’ said Ferdinand; ‘get me that note changed.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the little waiter, bowing very low as he disappeared.

‘Gentleman in best drawing-room wants breakfast. Gentleman in best drawing-room wants change for a ten-pound note. Breakfast immediately for gentleman in best drawing-room. Tea, coffee, toast, ham, tongue, and a devil. A regular nob!’

Ferdinand was so exhausted that he had postponed all deliberation as to his situation until he had breakfasted; and when he had breakfasted, he felt dull. It is the consequence of all meals. In whatever light he viewed his affairs, they seemed inextricable. He was now in a spunging-house; he could not long remain here, he must be soon in a gaol. A gaol! What a bitter termination of all his great plans and hopes! What a situation for one who had been betrothed to Henrietta Temple! He thought of his cousin, he thought of her great fortune, which might have been his. Perhaps at this moment they were all riding together in the Park. In a few days all must be known to his father. He did not doubt of the result. Armine would immediately be sold, and his father and mother, with the wretched wreck of their fortune, would retire to the Continent. What a sad vicissitude! And he had done it all; he, their only child, their only hope, on whose image they had lived, who was to restore the house. He looked at the bars of his windows, it was a dreadful sight. His poor father, his fond mother, he was quite sure their hearts would break. They never could survive all this misery, this bitter disappointment of all their chopes. Little less than a year ago and he was at Bath, and they were all joy and triumph. What a wild scene had his life been since! O Henrietta! why did we ever meet? That fatal, fatal morning! The cedar tree rose before him, he recalled, he remembered everything. And poor Glastonbury—it was a miserable end. He could not disguise it from himself, he had been most imprudent, he had been mad. And yet so near happiness, perfect, perfect happiness! Henrietta might have been his, and they might have been so happy! This confinement was dreadful; it began to press upon his nerves. No occupation, not the slightest resource. He took up the Racing Calendar, he threw it down again. He knew all the caricatures by heart, they infinitely disgusted him. He walked up and down the room till he was so tired that he flung himself upon the hard sofa. It was intolerable.

A gaol must be preferable to this. There must be some kind of wretched amusement in a gaol; but this ignoble, this humiliating solitude, he was confident he should go mad if he remained here. He rang the bell again.

‘Yes, sir,’ said the little waiter.

‘This place is intolerable to me,’ said Captain Armine. ‘I really am quite sick of it. What can I do?’

The waiter looked a little perplexed.

‘I should like to go to gaol at once,’ said Ferdinand.

‘Lord! sir!’ said the little waiter.

‘Yes! I cannot bear this,’ he continued; ‘I shall go mad.’

‘Don’t you think your friends will call soon, sir?’

‘I have no friends,’ said Ferdinand. ‘I hope nobody will call.’

‘No friends!’ said the little waiter, who began to think Ferdinand was not such a nob as he had imagined. ‘Why, if you have no friends, sir, it would be best to go to the Fleet, I think.’

‘By Jove, I think it would be better.’

‘Master thinks your friends will call, I am sure.’

‘Nobody knows I am here,’ said Ferdinand.

‘Oh!’ said the little waiter, ‘You want to let them know, do you, sir?’

‘Anything sooner; I wish to conceal my disgrace.’

‘O sir! you are not used to it; I dare say you never were nabbed before?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘There it is; if you will be patient, you will see everything go well.’

‘Never, my good fellow; nothing can go well.’

‘O sir! you are not used to it. A regular nob like you, nabbed for the first time, and for such a long figure, sir, sure not to be diddled. Never knowed such a thing yet. Friends sure to stump down, sir.’

‘The greater the claim, the more difficulty in satisfying it, I should think,’ said Ferdinand.

‘Lord! no, sir: you are not used to it. It is only poor devils nabbed for their fifties and hundreds that are ever done up. A nob was never nabbed for the sum you are, sir, and ever went to the wall. Trust my experience. I never knowed such a thing.’

Ferdinand could scarcely refrain from a smile. Even the conversation of the little waiter was a relief to him.

‘You see, sir,’ continued that worthy, ‘Morris and Levison would never have given you such a deuce of a tick unless they knowed your resources. Trust Morris and Levison for that. You done up, sir! a nob like you, that Morris and Levison have trusted for such a tick! Lord! sir, you don’t know nothing about it. I could afford to give them fifteen shillings in the pound for their debt myself and a good day’s business, too. Friends will stump down, sir, trust me.’

‘Well, it is some satisfaction for me to know that they will not, and that Morris and Levison will not get a farthing.’

‘Well, sir,’ said the incredulous little functionary, ‘when I find Morris and Levison lose two or three thousand pounds by a nob who is nabbed for the first time, I will pay the money myself, that is all I know.’

Here the waiter was obliged to leave Ferdinand, but he proved his confidence in that gentleman’s fortunes by his continual civility, and in the course of the day brought him a stale newspaper. It seemed to Ferdinand that the day would never close. The waiter pestered him about dinner, eulogising the cook, and assuring him that his master was famous for champagne. Although he had no appetite, Ferdinand ordered dinner in order to ensure the occurrence of one incident. The champagne made him drowsy; he was shown to his room; and for a while he forgot his cares in sleep.