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 whit1 nearer extrication2 from his difficulties than before; and as for the wild hopes as to Henrietta, he dismissed them from his mind as the mere3 fantastic schemes of a sanguine4 spirit, and yet his gloom, by some process difficult to analyse, had in great measure departed. It could not be the champagne5, for that was a remedy he had previously6 tried; it was in some degree doubtless the magic sympathy of a joyous7 temperament8: but chiefly it might, perhaps, be ascribed to the flattering conviction that he possessed9 the hearty10 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 presentiment11 that he had seen the worst of life came over him. It was equally in vain to justify12 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, standing13 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 chamber14, 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 descend15, and she disappeared; but instead of Henrietta, there came forward from the old Place———the duchess, who immediately enquired16 whether he had seen his cousin; and then her Grace, by some confused process common in dreams, turned into Glastonbury, and pointed17 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 awakened18 from his sleep, and his dream apparently19, by Mirabel drawing a cork20.
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 contrived21 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 contrive22 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 perplexed23 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 gratitude24.’
‘I think, upon reflection, we shall find that there are some,’ said Lord Montfort. ‘For the moment I will only hope that you will esteem25 those good feelings, and which, on my part, I am anxious should ripen26 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 graceful27 hue28 with me, for it has confirmed my most amiable29 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 worthy30 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 vicissitude31 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, nay32, the very health and life of your parents, from whom all is now concealed33, would perhaps be the last and costliest34 sacrifices of your rashness.’
Ferdinand threw himself on the sofa and covered his face.
‘Yet all this misery35, 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 pecuniary36 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 haughty37 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 justified38 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 utterly39 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 entirely40 out of the question, for I believe Miss Grandison will marry someone else.’
‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Ferdinand, a little agitated41. ‘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 countenance42. 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 imperative43 on me to decline your generous offer.’
‘Well, then,’ said Lord Montfort, ‘I must see if another can be more successful,’ and he held forth44 a note to the astounded45 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 wondrous46 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 delicacy47 in availing ourselves of this fortunate remittance48. 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 zealous49 friend, who whispered hope when all was black. The little waiter chuckled50 as he put his ten guineas in his pocket. ‘You see, sir,’ he said, ‘I was quite right. Knowed your friends would stump51 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 rapture52. Lord Montfort drove along with a gaiety unusual to him.
‘Now, my dear Armine,’ he said, ‘I am not a jot53 the less in love with Henrietta than before. I love her as you love Katherine. What folly54 to marry a woman who was in love with another person! I should have made her miserable55, 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 today.’
‘I shall go to him at once,’ said Lord Montfort; ‘I am not fond of suspense56 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 territorial57 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?’
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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extrication
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| n.解脱；救出，解脱 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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chamber
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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apparently
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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esteem
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ripen
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graceful
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hue
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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vicissitude
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| n.变化，变迁，荣枯，盛衰 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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costliest
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| adj.昂贵的( costly的最高级 )；代价高的；引起困难的；造成损失的 | |
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misery
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pecuniary
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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utterly
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entirely
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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countenance
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imperative
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forth
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astounded
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wondrous
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delicacy
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remittance
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zealous
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stump
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rapture
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jot
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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territorial
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| adj.领土的，领地的 | |
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