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 semi-circular 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 hair-dresser. 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 satinwood
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 Indian cashmere, 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 jail 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 civilization, 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,--namely, 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 revery? 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 ‘t is ‘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 to 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 a 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, snatch 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 downstairs, 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 roue,
“Pray, do you think there is any truth in the stories about people in
former times selling themselves to the devil?”
“Ugh,” answered the rout, 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 ex-tra-ordi-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 wondrous empty.