The next morning Frank Hazeldean was sitting over his solitary
breakfast-table. It was long past noon. The young man had risen early,
it is true, to attend his military duties, but he had contracted the
habit of breakfasting late. One's appetite does not come early when one
lives in London, and never goes to bed before daybreak.
There was nothing very luxurious or effeminate about Frank's rooms,
though they were in a very dear street, and he paid a monstrous high
price for them. Still, to a practised eye, they betrayed an inmate who
can get through his money, and make very little show for it. The walls
were covered with coloured prints of racers and steeple-chases,
interspersed with the portraits of opera-dancers--all smirk and caper.
Then there was a semicircular recess, covered with red cloth, and fitted
up for smoking, as you might perceive by sundry stands full of Turkish
pipes in cherry-stick and jessamine, with amber mouthpieces; while a
great serpent hookah, from which Frank could no more have smoked than he
could have smoked out of the head of a boa constrictor, coiled itself up
on the floor; over the chimney-piece was a collection of Moorish arms.
What use on earth, ataghan and scimitar, and damasquined pistols, that
would not carry straight three yards, could be to an officer in his
Majesty's Guards, is more than I can conjecture, or even Frank
satisfactorily explain. I have strong suspicions that this valuable
arsenal passed to Frank in part-payment of a bill to be discounted. At
all events, if so, it was an improvement on the bear that he had sold to
the hairdresser. No books were to be seen anywhere, except a Court
Guide, a Racing Calendar, an Army List, the Sporting Magazine complete,
(whole bound in scarlet morocco, at about a guinea per volume,) and a
small book, as small as an Elzevir, on the chimney-piece, by the side of
a cigar-case. That small book had cost Frank more than all the rest put
together; it was his Own Book, his book _par excellence_; book made up
by himself--his BETTING BOOK!
On a centre table were deposited Frank's well-brushed hat--a satin-wood
box, containing kid-gloves, of various delicate tints, from primrose to
lilac--a tray full of cards and three-cornered notes--an opera-glass,
and an ivory subscription ticket to his opera stall.
In one corner was an ingenious receptacle for canes, sticks, and
whips--I should not like, in these bad times, to have paid the bill
for them;--and, mounting guard by that receptacle, stood a pair of
boots as bright as Baron Levy's--"the force of brightness could no
further go." Frank was in his dressing-gown--very good taste--quite
Oriental--guaranteed to be true India cachmere, and charged as such.
Nothing could be more neat, though perfectly simple, than the
appurtenances of his breakfast-table;--silver tea-pot, ewer and
basin--all fitting into his dressing-box--(for the which may Storr and
Mortimer be now praised, and some day paid!) Frank looked very
handsome--rather tired, and exceedingly bored. He had been trying to
read the _Morning Post_, but the effort had proved too much for him.
Poor dear Frank Hazeldean!--true type of many a poor dear fellow who has
long since gone to the dogs. And if, in this road to ruin, there had
been the least thing to do the traveller any credit by the way! One
feels a respect for the ruin of a man like Audley Egerton. He is ruined
_en roi!_ From the wrecks of his fortune he can look down and see
stately monuments built from the stones of that dismantled edifice. In
every institution which attests the humanity of England, was a record of
the princely bounty of the public man. In those objects of party, for
which the proverbial sinews of war are necessary--in those rewards for
service, which private liberality can confer--the hand of Egerton had
been opened as with the heart of a king. Many a rising member of
Parliament, in those days when talent was brought forward through the
aid of wealth and rank, owed his career to the seat which Audley
Egerton's large subscription had secured to him; many an obscure
supporter in letters and the press looked back to the day when he had
been freed from the gaol by the gratitude of the patron. The city he
represented was embellished at his cost; through the shire that held his
mortgaged lands, which he had rarely ever visited, his gold had flowed
as a Pactolus; all that could animate its public spirit, or increase its
civilisation, claimed kindred with his munificence, and never had a
claim disallowed. Even in his grand careless household, with its large
retinue and superb hospitality, there was something worthy of a
representative of that time-honoured portion of our true nobility--the
untitled gentlemen of the land. The great commoner had, indeed,
"something to show" for the money he had disdained and squandered. But
for Frank Hazeldean's mode of getting rid of the dross, when gone, what
would be left to tell the tale? Paltry prints in a bachelor's lodging; a
collection of canes and cherry-sticks; half-a-dozen letters in ill-spelt
French from a _figurante_; some long-legged horses, fit for nothing but
to lose a race; that damnable Betting-Book; and--_sic transit
gloria_--down sweeps some hawk of a Levy, on the wings of an I O U, and
not a feather is left of the pigeon!
Yet Frank Hazeldean has stuff in him--a good heart, and strict honour.
Fool though he seem, there is sound sterling sense in some odd corner of
his brains, if one could but get at it. All he wants to save him from
perdition is, to do what he has never yet done--viz., pause and think.
But, to be sure, that same operation of thinking is not so easy for
folks unaccustomed to it, as people who think--think!
"I can't bear this," said Frank suddenly, and springing to his feet.
"This woman, I cannot get her out of my head. I ought to go down to the
governor's; but then if he gets into a passion and refuses his consent,
where am I? And he will too, I fear. I wish I could make out what Randal
advises. He seems to recommend that I should marry Beatrice at once, and
trust to my mother's influence to make all right afterwards. But when I
ask, '_Is_ that your advice?' he backs out of it. Well, I suppose he is
right there. I can understand that he is unwilling, good fellow, to
recommend anything that my father would disapprove. But still--"
Here Frank stopped in his soliloquy, and did make his first desperate
effort to--think!
Now, O dear reader, I assume, of course, that thou art one of the class
to which thought is familiar; and, perhaps, thou hast smiled in disdain
or incredulity at that remark on the difficulty of thinking which
preceded Frank Hazeldean's discourse to himself. But art thou quite sure
that when thou hast tried to _think_ thou hast always succeeded? Hast
thou not often been duped by that pale visionary simulacrum of thought
which goes by the name of _reverie?_ Honest old Montaigne confessed
that he did not understand that process of sitting down to think, on
which some folks express themselves so glibly. He could not think unless
he had a pen in his hand, and a sheet of paper before him; and so, by a
manual operation, seized and connected the links of ratiocination. Very
often has it happened to myself, when I have said to Thought
peremptorily, "Bestir thyself--a serious matter is before thee--ponder
it well--think of it," that that same Thought has behaved in the most
refractory, rebellious manner conceivable--and instead of concentrating
its rays into a single stream of light, has broken into all the
desultory tints of the rainbow, colouring senseless clouds, and running
off into the seventh heaven--so that after sitting a good hour by the
clock, with brows as knit as if I was intent on squaring the circle, I
have suddenly discovered that I might as well have gone comfortably to
sleep--I have been doing nothing but dream--and the most nonsensical
dreams! So when Frank Hazeldean, as he stopped at that meditative "But
still"--and leaning his arm on the chimney-piece, and resting his face
on his hand, felt himself at the grave crisis of life, and fancied he
was going "to think on it," there only rose before him a succession of
shadowy pictures. Randal Leslie with an unsatisfactory countenance, from
which he could extract nothing;--the Squire, looking as black as thunder
in his study at Hazeldean;--his mother trying to plead for him, and
getting herself properly scolded for her pains;--and then off went that
Will-o'-the-wisp which pretended to call itself Thought, and began
playing round the pale charming face of Beatrice di Negra in the
drawing-room at Curzon Street, and repeating, with small elfin voice,
Randal Leslie's assurance of the preceding day, "as to her affection for
you, Frank, there is no doubt of _that_; she only begins to think you
are trifling with her." And then there was a rapturous vision of a young
gentleman on his knee, and the fair pale face bathed in blushes, and a
clergyman standing by the altar, and a carriage and four with white
favours at the church door; and of a honeymoon, which would have
astonished as to honey all the bees of Hymettus. And in the midst of
these phantasmagoria, which composed what Frank fondly styled "making up
his mind," there came a single man's elegant rat-tat-tat at the street
door.
"One never _has_ a moment for _thinking_," cried Frank, and he called
out to his valet "Not at home."
But it was too late. Lord Spendquick was in the hall, and presently
within the room. How d'ye do's were exchanged and hands shaken.
LORD SPENDQUICK.--"I have a note for you, Hazeldean."
FRANK, (lazily.)--"From whom?"
LORD SPENDQUICK.--"Levy. Just come from him--never saw him in such a
fidget. He was going into the city--I suppose to see X. Y. Dashed off
this note for you--and would have sent it by a servant, but I said I
would bring it."
FRANK, (looking fearfully at the note.)--"I hope he does not want his
money yet. _Private and confidential_--that looks bad."
SPENDQUICK.--"Devilish bad indeed."
Frank opens the note and reads half aloud, "Dear Hazeldean."
SPENDQUICK, (interrupting.)--"Good sign! He always 'Spendquicks' me when
he lends me money; and 'tis 'My dear Lord' when he wants it back.
Capital sign!"
Frank reads on, but to himself, and with a changing countenance--
"Dear Hazeldean,--I am very sorry to tell you that, in consequence of
the sudden failure of a house at Paris with which I had large dealings,
I am pressed, on a sudden, for all the ready money I can get. I don't
want to inconvenience you; but do try and see if you can take up those
bills of yours which I hold, and which, as you know, have been due some
little time. I had hit on a way of arranging your affairs; but when I
hinted at it, you seemed to dislike the idea; and Leslie has since told
me that you have strong objections to giving any security on your
prospective property. So no more of that, my dear fellow. I am called
out in haste to try what I can do for a very charming client of mine,
who is in great pecuniary distress, though she has for her brother a
foreign Count, as rich as Croesus. There is an execution in her house. I
am going down to the tradesman who put it in, but have no hope of
softening him; and I fear there will be others before the day is out.
Another reason for wanting money, if you can help me, _mon cher!_--An
execution in the house of one of the most brilliant women in London--an
execution in Curzon Street, May Fair! It will be all over the town, if I
can't stop it.--Yours in haste, LEVY.
"_P.S._--Don't let what I have said vex you too much. I should not
trouble you if Spendquick and Borrowell would pay me something. Perhaps
you can get them to do so."
* * * * *
Struck by Frank's silence and paleness, Lord Spendquick here, in the
kindest way possible, laid his hand on the young Guardsman's shoulder,
and looked over the note with that freedom which gentlemen in
difficulties take with each other's private and confidential
correspondence. His eye fell on the postscript. "Oh, damn it," cried
Spendquick, "but that's too bad--employing you to get me to pay him!
Such horrid treachery. Make yourself easy, my dear Frank; I could never
suspect you of anything so unhandsome. I could as soon suspect myself
of--paying him--"
"Curzon Street! Count!" muttered Frank, as if waking from a dream. "It
must be so." To thrust on his boots--change his dressing-robe for a
frock-coat--catch at his hat, gloves, and cane--break from
Spendquick--descend the stairs--a flight at a leap--gain the
street--throw himself into a cabriolet; all this was done before his
astounded visitor could even recover breath enough to ask "What's the
matter?"
Left thus alone, Lord Spendquick shook his head--shook it twice, as if
fully to convince himself that there was nothing in it; and then
re-arranging his hat before the looking-glass, and drawing on his gloves
deliberately, he walked down stairs, and strolled into White's, but with
a bewildered and absent air. Standing at the celebrated bow-window for
some moments in musing silence, Lord Spendquick at last thus addressed
an exceedingly cynical, sceptical, old _roué_:--
"Pray, do you think there is any truth in the stories about people in
former times selling themselves to the devil?"
"Ugh," answered the _roué_, much too wise ever to be surprised. "Have
you any personal interest in the question?"
"I!--no; but a friend of mine has just received a letter from Levy, and
he flew out of the room in the most extra-or-di-na-ry manner--just as
people did in those days when their time was up! And Levy, you know,
is--"
"Not quite as great a fool as the other dark gentleman to whom you would
compare him; for Levy never made such bad bargains for himself. Time up!
No doubt it is. I should not like to be in your friend's shoes."
"Shoes!" said Spendquick, with a sort of shudder; "you never saw a
neater fellow, nor one, to do him justice, who takes more time in
dressing than he does in general. And, talking of shoes--he rushed out
with the right boot on the left foot, and the left boot on the right.
Very mysterious." And a third time Lord Spendquick shook his head--and a
third time that head seemed to him wond'rous empty.