CHAPTER XXI.

_The Crisis_.

ALTHOUGH, when Ferdinand was once more left alone to his reflections, it

did not appear to him that anything had occurred which should change his

opinion of his forlorn lot, there was something, nevertheless, inspiring

in the visit of his friend Count Mirabel. It did not seem to him,

indeed, that he was one whit nearer extrication from his difficulties

than before; and as for the wild hopes as to Henrietta, he dismissed

them from his mind as the mere fantastic schemes of a sanguine spirit,

and yet his gloom, by some process difficult to analyse, had in great

measure departed. It could not be the champagne, for that was a remedy

he had previously tried; it was in some degree doubtless the magic

sympathy of a joyous temperament: but chiefly it might, perhaps, be

ascribed to the flattering conviction that he possessed the hearty

friendship of a man whose good-will was, in every view of the case, a

very enviable possession. With such a friend as Mirabel, he could not

deem himself quite so unlucky as in the morning. If he were fortunate,

and fortunate so unexpectedly, in this instance, he might be so in

others. A vague presentiment that he had seen the worst of life came

over him. It was equally in vain to justify the consoling conviction or

to resist it; and Ferdinand Armine, although in a spunging-house, fell

asleep in better humour with his destiny than he had been for the last

eight months.

His dreams were charming: he fancied that he was at Armine, standing

by the Barbary rose-tree. It was moonlight; it was, perhaps, a slight

recollection of the night he had looked upon the garden from the window

of his chamber, the night after he had first seen Henrietta. Suddenly,

Henrietta Temple appeared at his window, and waved her hand to him with

a smiling face. He immediately plucked for her a flower, and stood with

his offering beneath her window. She was in a riding-habit, and she told

him that she had just returned from Italy. He invited her to descend,

and she disappeared; but instead of Henrietta, there came forward from

the old Place-----the duchess, who immediately enquired whether he had

seen his cousin; and then her Grace, by some confused process common in

dreams, turned into Glastonbury, and pointed to the rose-tree, where, to

his surprise, Katherine was walking with Lord Montfort. Ferdinand called

out for Henrietta, but, as she did not appear, he entered the Place,

where he found Count Mirabel dining by himself, and just drinking

a glass of champagne. He complained to Mirabel that Henrietta had

disappeared, but his friend laughed at him, and said that, after such a

long ride, leaving Italy only yesterday, he could scarcely expect to see

her. Satisfied with this explanation, Ferdinand joined the Count at his

banquet, and was awakened from his sleep, and his dream apparently, by

Mirabel drawing a cork.

Ah! why did he ever wake? It was so real; he had seen her so plainly; it

was life; it was the very smile she wore at Ducie; that sunny glance, so

full of joy, beauty, and love, which he could live to gaze on! And now

he was in prison, and she was going to be married to another. Oh! there

are things in this world that may well break hearts!

The cork of Count Mirabel was, however, a substantial sound, a gentle

tap at his door: he answered it, and the waiter entered his chamber.

‘Beg pardon, sir, for disturbing you; only eight o’clock.’

‘Then why the deuce do you disturb me?’ ‘There has been another nob,

sir. I said as how you were not up, and he sent his compliments,

and said as how he would call in an hour, as he wished to see you

particular.’ ‘Was it the Count?’

‘No, sir; but it was a regular nob, sir, for he had a coronet on his

cab. But he would not leave his name.’

‘Catch, of course,’ thought Ferdinand to himself. ‘And sent by Mirabel.

I should not wonder, if after all, they have broken the bank at

Crocky’s. Nothing shall induce me to take a ducat.’

However, Ferdinand thought fit to rise, and contrived to descend to the

best drawing-room about a quarter of an hour after the appointed time.

To his extreme surprise he found Lord Montfort.

‘My dear friend,’ said Lord Montfort, looking a little confused; ‘I am

afraid I have sadly disturbed you. But I could not contrive to find you

yesterday until it was so late that I was ashamed to knock them up here,

and I thought, therefore, you would excuse this early call, as, as, as,

I wished to see you very much indeed.’

‘You are extremely kind,’ said Captain Armine. ‘But really I much regret

that your lordship should have had all this trouble.’

‘Oh! what is trouble under such circumstances!’ replied his lordship. ‘I

cannot pardon myself for being so stupid as not reaching you yesterday.

I never can excuse myself for the inconvenience you have experienced.’

Ferdinand bowed, but was so perplexed that he could not say a word.

‘I hope, my dear Armine,’ said his lordship, advancing rather slowly,

putting his arm within that of Ferdinand, and then walking up and down

the room together, ‘I hope you will act at this moment towards me as I

would towards you, were our respective situations changed.’

Ferdinand bowed, but said nothing.

‘Money, you know, my good fellow,’ continued Lord Montfort, ‘is a

disagreeable thing to talk about; but there are circumstances which

should deprive such conversation between us of any awkwardness which

otherwise might arise.’

‘I am not aware of them, my lord,’ said Ferdinand, ‘though your good

feelings command my gratitude.’

‘I think, upon reflection, we shall find that there are some,’ said Lord

Montfort. ‘For the moment I will only hope that you will esteem those

good feelings, and which, on my part, I am anxious should ripen into

sincere and intimate friendship, as sufficient authority for my placing

your affairs in general in that state that they may in future

never deprive your family and friends of society necessary to their

happiness.’

‘My lord, I am sure that adversity has assumed a graceful hue with me,

for it has confirmed my most amiable views of human nature. I shall not

attempt to express what I feel towards your lordship for this generous

goodness, but I will say I am profoundly impressed with it; not the

less, because I cannot avail myself in the slightest degree of your

offer.’

‘You are too much a man of the world, I am sure, my dear Armine, to

be offended by my frankness. I shall, therefore, speak without fear of

misconception. It does appear to me that the offer which I have made you

is worthy of a little more consideration. You see, my dear friend, that

you have placed yourself in such a situation that however you may act

the result cannot be one completely satisfactory. The course you should

pursue, therefore, as, indeed, all conduct in this world should be, is a

matter of nice calculation. Have you well considered the consequences of

your rushing upon ruin? In the first place, your family will receive a

blow from which even future prosperity may not recover them. Your family

estate, already in a delicate position, may be irrecoverably lost;

the worldly consequences of such a vicissitude are very considerable;

whatever career you pursue, so long as you visibly possess Armine,

you rank always among the aristocracy of the land, and a family that

maintains such a position, however decayed, will ultimately recover. I

hardly know an exception to this rule. I do not think, of all men, that

you are most calculated to afford one.’

‘What you say has long pressed itself upon us,’ said Captain Armine.

‘Then, again,’ resumed Lord Montfort, ‘the feelings and even interests

of your friends are to be considered. Poor Glastonbury! I love that old

man myself. The fall of Armine might break his heart; he would not like

to leave his tower. You see, I know your place.’

‘Poor Glastonbury!’ said Ferdinand.

‘But above all,’ continued Lord Montfort, ‘the happiness, nay, the very

health and life of your parents, from whom all is now concealed, would

perhaps be the last and costliest sacrifices of your rashness.’

Ferdinand threw himself on the sofa and covered his face.

‘Yet all this misery, all these misfortunes, may be avoided, and you

yourself become a calm and happy man, by--for I wish not to understate

your view of the subject, Armine--putting yourself under a pecuniary

obligation to me. A circumstance to be avoided in the common course of

life, no doubt; but is it better to owe me a favour and save your family

estate, preserve your position, maintain your friend, and prevent the

misery, and probable death, of your parents, or be able to pass me in

the street, in haughty silence if you please, with the consciousness

that the luxury of your pride has been satisfied at the cost of every

circumstance which makes existence desirable?’

‘You put the case strongly,’ said Ferdinand; ‘but no reasoning can ever

persuade me that I am justified in borrowing 3,000L., which I can never

repay.’

‘Accept it, then.’

‘’Tis the same thing,’ said Ferdinand.

‘I think not,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘but why do you say never?’

‘Because it is utterly impossible that I ever can.’

‘How do you know you may not marry a woman of large fortune?’ said Lord

Montfort. ‘Now you seem to me exactly the sort of man who would marry an

heiress.’

‘You are thinking of my cousin,’ said Ferdinand. ‘I thought that you

had discovered, or that you might have learnt, that there was no real

intention of our union.’

‘No, I was not thinking of your cousin,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘though,

to tell you the truth, I was once in hopes that you would marry her.

However, that I well know is entirely out of the question, for I believe

Miss Grandison will marry someone else.’

‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Ferdinand, a little agitated. ‘Well! may she be

happy! I love Kate from the bottom of my heart. But who is the fortunate

fellow?’

‘’Tis a lady’s secret,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘But let us return to our

argument. To be brief: either, my dear Armine, you must be convinced by

my reasoning, or I must remain here a prisoner like yourself; for, to

tell you the truth, there is a fair lady before whom I cannot present

myself except in your company.’

Ferdinand changed countenance. There wanted but this to confirm

his resolution, which had scarcely wavered. To owe his release to

Henrietta’s influence with Lord Montfort was too degrading.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘you have touched upon a string that I had hoped

might have been spared me. This conversation must, indeed, cease. My

mouth is sealed from giving you the reasons, which nevertheless render

it imperative on me to decline your generous offer.’

‘Well, then,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘I must see if another can be more

successful,’ and he held forth a note to the astounded Ferdinand, in

Henrietta’s writing. It dropped from Ferdinand’s hand as he took it.

Lord Montfort picked it up, gave it him again, and walked to the other

end of the room. It was with extreme difficulty that Ferdinand prevailed

on himself to break the seal. The note was short; the hand that traced

the letters must have trembled. Thus it ran:--

‘Dearest Ferdinand,--Do everything that Digby wishes. He is our best

friend. Digby is going to marry Katherine; are you happy? Henrietta.’

Lord Montfort looked round; Ferdinand Armine was lying senseless on the

sofa.

Our friend was not of a swooning mood, but we think the circumstances

may excuse the weakness.

As for Lord Montfort, he rang the bell for the little waiter, who, the

moment he saw what had occurred, hurried away and rushed up stairs again

with cold water, a bottle of brandy, and a blazing sheet of brown paper,

which he declared was an infallible specific. By some means or other

Ferdinand was in time recovered, and the little waiter was fairly

expelled.

‘My dear friend,’ said Ferdinand, in a faint voice; ‘I am the happiest

man that ever lived; I hope you will be, I am sure you will be;

Katherine is an angel. But I cannot speak. It is so strange.’

‘My dear fellow, you really must take a glass of brandy,’ said Lord

Montfort. ‘It is strange, certainly. But we are all happy.’

‘I hardly know where I am,’ said Ferdinand, after a few minutes. ‘Am I

really alive?’

‘Let us think how we are to get out of this place. I suppose they will

take my cheque. If not, I must be off.’

‘Oh, do not go,’ said Ferdinand. ‘If you go I shall not believe it is

true. My dear Montfort, is it really true?’

‘You see, my dear Armine,’ said Lord Montfort, smiling, ‘it was fated

that I should marry a lady you rejected. And to tell you the truth, the

reason why I did not get to you yesterday, as I ought to have done, was

an unexpected conversation I had with Miss Grandison. I really think

this arrest was a most fortunate incident. It brought affairs to a

crisis. We should have gone on playing at cross purposes for ever.’

Here the little waiter entered again with a note and a packet.

‘The same messenger brought them?’ asked Ferdinand.

‘No, sir; the Count’s servant brought the note, and waits for an answer;

the packet came by another person.’

Ferdinand opened the note and read as follows:--

‘Berkeley-square, half-past 7, morning.

‘Mon Ami,--Best joke in the world! I broke Crocky’s bank three times.

Of course; I told you so. I win 15,000L. Directly I am awake I will send

you the three thousand, and I will lend you the rest till your marriage.

It will not be very long. I write this before I go to bed, that you may

have it early. Adieu, _cher ami_.

‘_Votre affectionné_,

‘De Mirabel.

‘My arrest was certainly the luckiest incident in the world,’ said

Ferdinand, handing the note to Lord Montfort. ‘Mirabel dined here

yesterday, and went and played on purpose to save me. I treated it as

a joke. But what is this?’ Ferdinand opened the packet. The handwriting

was unknown to him. Ten bank notes of 300L. each fell to the ground.

‘Do I live in fairyland?’ he exclaimed. ‘Now who can this be? It cannot

be you; it cannot be Mirabel. It is wondrous strange.’

‘I think I can throw some light upon it,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘Katherine

was mysteriously engaged with Glastonbury yesterday morning. They were

out together, and I know they went to her lawyer’s. There is no doubt it

is Katherine. I think, under the circumstances of the case, we need have

no delicacy in availing ourselves of this fortunate remittance. It will

at least save us time,’ said Lord Montfort, ringing the bell. ‘Send your

master here directly,’ he continued to the waiter.

The sheriff’s officer appeared; the debt, the fees, all were paid, and

the discharge duly taken. Ferdinand in the meantime went up stairs to

lock up his dressing-case; the little waiter rushed after him to pack

his portmanteau. Ferdinand did not forget his zealous friend, who

whispered hope when all was black. The little waiter chuckled as he put

his ten guineas in his pocket. ‘You see, sir,’ he said, ‘I was quite

right. Knowed your friends would stump down. Fancy a nob like you being

sent to quod! Fiddlededee! You see, sir, you weren’t used to it.’

And so Ferdinand Armine bid adieu to the spunging-house, where, in the

course of less than eight-and-forty hours, he had known alike despair

and rapture. Lord Montfort drove along with a gaiety unusual to him.

‘Now, my dear Armine,’ he said, ‘I am not a jot the less in love with

Henrietta than before. I love her as you love Katherine. What folly to

marry a woman who was in love with another person! I should have made

her miserable, when the great object of all my conduct was to make her

happy. Now Katherine really loves me as much as Henrietta loves you. I

have had this plan in my head for a long time. I calculated finely; I

was convinced it was the only way to make us all happy. And now we shall

all be related; we shall be constantly together; and we will be brother

friends.’

‘Ah! my dear Montfort,’ said Ferdinand, ‘what will Mr. Temple say?’

‘Leave him to me,’ said Lord Montfort.

‘I tremble,’ said Ferdinand, ‘if it were possible to anticipate

difficulties to-day.’

‘I shall go to him at once,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘I am not fond of

suspense myself, and now it is of no use. All will be right.’

‘I trust only to you,’ said Ferdinand; ‘for I am as proud as Temple. He

dislikes me, and he is too rich for me to bow down to him.’

‘I take it upon myself,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘Mr. Temple is a calm,

sensible man. You will laugh at me, but the truth is, with him it must

be a matter of calculation: on the one hand, his daughter’s happiness, a

union with a family second to none in blood, alliances, and territorial

position, and only wanting his wealth to revive all its splendour; on

the other, his daughter broken-hearted, and a duke for his son-in-law.

Mr. Temple is too sensible a man to hesitate, particularly when I remove

the greatest difficulty he must experience. Where shall I out you down?

Berkeley-Square?’