_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.