University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Claude walked the room till morning, grasping at
a thousand expedients to extricate himself from his
disagreeable dilemma. The idea of imprisonment has
a moral effect upon the mind which no one can conceive
who has not experienced it. The circumstances
of his own confinement, too, were peculiarly painful.
Had he been thrown into a dungeon for a crime
of which he was innocent, he could much better have
supported the misfortune than he now found himself
able to do the consciousness that he was imprisoned
for a cause held by all mankind to be a good and sufficient
one. He racked his brain for some means of
paying Carolan, whose cruel conduct sunk deeply into
his heart as he contrasted the dark, dirty walls—the
miserable, dilapidated room and furniture—the greasy
and ragged beings who were his companions, with
the brilliant circle and magnificent halls, in the midst
of which his oppressor was probably moving at that
instant. He did not feel indignation or a desire of
vengeance so much as he felt surprise and wonder,
that one in Carolan's position could be so deaf to the
dictates of common humanity and common decency
as to crush so remorselessly into the earth—without
examination or forbearance—one who, at least, was a
fellow-being. Sad and dark were the thoughts with
which he beguiled the hours of that long and sleepless
night, walking the floor after all his fellow-lodgers
were asleep. How strangely the scenes of the past
year rose upon his memory! How varied and yet
swift had been his course to his present condition!
All those whom he had made acquaintance with—the
young, the fair, the happy, the free — appeared to
him. Ida—bright, radiant, gorgeous—as he had first

seen her—and pale and sad, as she had crossed him
that night—was he beloved by that tender and beautiful
being? Amid the scenes in which she moved,
was her heart with him in this rude abode? Ah, yes;
and for a moment the idea of her sympathy touched
the rough walls with sweetness, and made the stained
boards beneath his feet soft as a path of roses. Poor
Denham's pale and bloody face here rose to him,
startling his tender dreams with the ghostly visage of
death—and the mysterious assassin, with his uplifted
dagger—and Elkington—and the blow.

His frame was agitated, his blood heated and feverish;
and human life seemed such a solemn and strange
medley—such a mockery—that again dark ideas of
self-destruction dashed across his mind, and he thought
that in one moment he could end his gloomy and harrowing
pains, and sleep—with poor Denham—where
“poison nor fire” could touch him farther. It required
all his habitual self-command to shake himself
free from these excited thoughts. Nor would he,
perhaps, have been able to do so but for one reflection,
which is a support to the upright mind in the darkest
hour of distress and peril. He had nothing to accuse
himself of. He had not, at least knowingly, done
wrong. Nay, more (for his principles were so fixed
that they did not waver even while enduring the painful
consequences of them), he had done right. He
had sacrificed himself to his sense of duty. Thus far
the results had been ruin and humiliation—a stained
name—cooled friends—triumphant enemies. But he
knew that, as in the game of whist, although bad play
sometimes succeeds, and the observance of skill fails,
these results are but accidental and temporary chances,
and in no way alter the general value of fixed and wise
rules of action.

One hope struck him: that by the aid of St. Hillaire—Lavalle—Digby—Kühl,
etc., he might procure
such a security against his departure from Berlin as
would release him from the actual limits of a prison.

It was then his intention to boldly and openly abandon
all pretensions to admission in the societé to which he
had been accustomed—to give lessons in English or
French, for he was perfectly capable of both—to live
with an economy as strict as health and decency would
permit—and to toil with ardour till he could accumulate
sufficient to discharge all the obligations he had
contracted. Rossi, who depended on him, and poor
Mrs. Denham, occurred to him; but the pang which he
experienced on account of not being able to continue
to them the assistance he had promised, he felt would
be manly to bear with patience, and yet wiser to dismiss
altogether from his mind. He repeated the line
from our great poet, “What is done, is done,” and
“Things without remedy should be without regard.”
Wisdom, although flowing from the murderer's lips.
The pale morning broke upon his meditations.

As daylight dawned his companions arose. They
looked, in the clearer beams of day, more repulsive and
hideous. Their clothes were miserable—their persons
filthy—their breath rank. Many wore no other
article of dress than a large robe de chambre of greasy
sheepskin, the wool turned next their skin. They
had diseases, some of them—eyes sore and inflamed
by debauchery—and noses red and carbuncled. These
were the men who, in a general spirit of benevolence,
he had wished to receive on some terms of equality.
Now he shrunk from them with an aversion which he
could neither conquer nor conceal. They were his
fellow-creatures, with immortal souls like his own, but,
thus fallen—by whatever cause—he found them loathsome
and unendurable. Fearful decrees of Providence,
which renders one unhappy mortal so far beneath
another that nature revolts, and the sweet theories
of humanity fall before their touch!

The breakfast was brought up at eight—a mass of
greasy soup, which he could not eat.

“You have no money?” inquired the jailer, who
perceived he did not eat.

“None!”

“Ah, but you'll get nothing else. You must come
to it at last.”

“Perhaps the gentleman would like a roasted chicken
and some Champagne!” said his rude acquaintance
of the previous evening.

“Bring us a few strawberries and cream,” cried a
second.

“Will you take them with or without sugar?” asked
the first; and there was a general grin.

The prospect of being without food was seriously
alarming, and Claude begged paper, pens, and a messenger
to carry a note.

“Where's your cash to pay for these things?” said
the man.

“I am sure—that is, I hope—my friend will pay.”

“Ah! so,” said the man.

“And cannot I have a room to myself?”

“Keh! diable—no,” said the man. “Is that a reasonable
request? You're not in a hotel. Why you
more than they?”

“The gentleman is of a thoughtful disposition, and
fond of solitude,” said his persecutor. “I myself
should like an apartment looking out on a garden, with
a balcony.”

This facetiousness was received with a general
laugh.

“Take my watch,” said Claude, “and let me have
a little money on it till I can see my friends.”

The man shook his head.

On a greasy table, with broken legs, and polished by
being used not a little as a seat, Claude wrote a letter to
Digby, begging him to come and see him. The messenger
took it, and soon returned. The gentleman was not
at home, but Claude felt relieved. The idea of quitting
the room and company in which he now found
himself was his principal desire. It seemed that this
alone would almost make him happy. Alas! how
were his wishes narrowed since the time when he

dreamed of palaces—and equipages—and Ida hanging
on his arm, a fond and happy wife! Every moment
in his present position was almost insupportable. The
rough humour, mixed with malice, of his enemy—for,
although he had not been twelve hours in this den of
common misery, he had (poor human nature!) already
an enemy—had gained the rest to his side. His undisguiseable
repugnance to their familiarity, and his
desire to escape from contact with them, were observed,
and resented by nearly all; and they endeavoured
to make his situation as uncomfortable as possible, as
some meaner birds of prey might pick at Prometheus
while chained and writhing under the beaks of his
fierce vulture.

“Don't mind 'em, sir,” said a wretched little hunchback.
“They're a rough set, and don't know how to
behave. Forgive them. They don't know what they
do.”

The words of our Saviour, unconsciously uttered by
this ignorant creature! Claude held out his hand for
his, and shook it heartily.

“My honest fellow, one day you and I shall be better
acquainted, perhaps.”

His air and manner struck even those rude eyes,
and for some time there was a cessation of hostilities.

In the mean time, where was Digby? Every time
the door opened, he started. A hundred times his
heart beat quick, as he thought he heard his friend's
step; but still he did not come. The day wore away.
Night came. No reply from him. At ten, Claude,
exhausted, lay down upon his couch, but he could not
sleep. He fell sometimes into that dreadful state of
dozing, when all the stings of reality seem sharpened,
and the soul is given up to its horrors without the
support of waking reason. He was oppressed with
frightful dreams. He started often. Sometimes he
thought himself falling off a precipice; sometimes the
ghostly image of Denham glided over him, and once
he woke screaming, with the dagger of his assassin

glimmering over him in the shadow, and in the act of
piercing his heart. He thought now he should be
obliged to remain a year in prison. What hope had
he of relief? How could he ever pay his debts? A
year with his present associates would cause him to
contract foul diseases—would make him, perhaps, as
unclean and gross as they! He rose again to escape
from these dreadful apprehensions. His eyeballs
burned, his head ached, and he found vermin crawling
over him.

“Ah! Carolan,” he thought, “may Heaven forgive
you. I fear I never can, ruthless—bitter oppressor!
And this is the bland and polished man I met with so
much pleasure—the smiling, elegant, hospitable, affluent
leader of rank and fashion. How little do we
know men from seeing them in society—from dining
with them—from being with them in assemblies of
pleasure! How few reflect, while they enjoy this
person's profuse hospitality and accept his courteous
attentions, that, were they once beneath his grasp—
were they once to offend his pride—they would be
thrust, unpitied, into a loathsome dungeon—deprived
of light, air, exercise, food—left to mourn—to die, perhaps,
within these dismal walls, while music, and
laughter, and the giddy dance are going on almost
within sound of their groans; and when this man
comes to die—as the richest, the greatest must—will no
stern image of his victim frown pale and accusing by
his bedside? Will he be called to no account for
the pangs his jewelled hand has inflicted? for the misery
which a word from his bland lips could have
spared? Ah! cruel and thoughtless enemy. The
ways of God are fearful, and you may one day feel
with horror the bitterness which the captive drinks—
the cruelty of trampling on the helpless!”

Morning again broke, and again the breakfast came.
He took a cup and ate. His face was so pale and
haggard, that, although his tormentor ventured a jest
upon the recovery of his appetite, it was received in

silence by the circle of by-standers, who proceeded to
light their pipes without paying him any more attention.
The food, which had looked so loathsome, tasted
better than he expected. It was clean, and not disagreeable.

“Besides,” thought he, “it is my fare. Hunger
brings down pride, and misery learns to bow. Alas!
it is a useful lesson.”

He now wrote a note to the English embassy, with
the members of which he had a passing acquaintance.
It was answered in an hour, by an order from the director
of the prison to put him in a room by himself,
and give him every attention compatible with his security;
and his heart leaped within him in being shown
into a cleaner room down stairs, fronting on the square.
The lower half of the windows were boarded up, but
there was a small hole in each one of them through
which he could look into the street. There was also a
bedstead and a bed, a wash-hand basin and water, a
wooden chair, and a table with four legs. Moreover,
he was here alone. His first moment of solitude in
this new chamber was one of exquisite pleasure. The
man said he had also procured 50 thalers on his watch
and seals, which he held at his orders, and he agreed
to send in better food from an adjoining restaurant.
The good-humoured jailer seemed to sympathize with
him in his delight, and said,

“You'll be better here, won't you? I'm glad they
gave you this room.”

This expression of kindness touched Claude's heart.
He had scarcely been an hour alone when Digby came
in. His face wore an expression of the deepest indignation
which Claude had seen there yet, and there
was also perceptible in his manner a certain roughness
and want of respect very different from that he
had usually adopted towards him.

“Well, how are you, Mr. Wyndham?” said he.
“Sorry to see you here—a—a—these things will—a
—happen; but you musn't think yourself the only unfortunate—a—a—man

in the world; I—I—also have
my griefs.”

“What griefs?” said Claude, who, even in his misfortune,
had a heart open to those of others.

“Mary—our Mary—the little—ungrateful—a—a—
fool—has—a—a—eloped from us.”

“Great Heaven!” said Claude.

“Yes—and with that—a—” (he looked around as if
to assure himself that his formidable foe could not hear
him) “infamous—profligate Elkington. She left a—
note—to me—stating that `he had promised to marry
her—that I must not be either alarmed or angry—that
we should meet again in London—and that she should
receive us as the Countess of Beverly.”'

“What incredible infatuation!” said Claude; “what
black-hearted villany!”

“I think, moreover, that her mother was—a—a—
privy to her flight, sir; I—she—” he drew out his
handkerchief, and wept a few moments in silence.

“Indeed, this pains as much as it surprises me,” said
Claude.

“D—n them, let them go!” said Digby, rising in
wrath; “she is no daughter of mine. I disinherit her
—I disown her; and as for her mother—”

This intelligence greatly astonished Claude, and he
sympathized deeply with the bereaved father.

“Let them go,” said Digby. “I shall never utter
her name again. What did you want to see me for?”
he demanded, abruptly.

“Ah, at this moment I cannot think of intruding my
affairs upon you.”

“I'm very sorry for you, I'm sure,” said Digby;
“but these things happen every day, and they must be
borne. I was in jail once twenty-four hours myself.
I did not mind it. It's nothing, after all. Imagine
yourself in a ship—or indisposed—or that it rains. It
is the very same thing. You've an excellent room
here. What's the amount of your debt?”

“Fifty pounds!”

“Ah, fifty pounds! Bless me! a good round sum.
How are you going to pay it? You have funds, I
hope.”

“No, not a cent.”

“Ah—ah! that's bad! What are you going to do
about it?”

Claude, although chilled by this cold and careless
air, which he did not expect, related to him his plan to
procure security and teach English.

“Ah—ah! security—for your appearance—hey?
Yes—but whom have you fixed upon? You have a
plenty of friends, I believe. I'll tell you who'd be
your security in a minute—if you'd ask her; and I
have no objection—for it sha'n't be said of me that I deserted
a friend in distress—to see her privately myself.
She'll plank the money in two seconds—I'm quite sure
she will. I should not mind asking her right up and
down—right out and out—that's the way to do business.”

“Whom do you mean?”

“That young Countess Ida!”

Claude started.

“What, you won't?”

“Certainly not.”

“Oh—ah! you'll think of it, perhaps. You'll take
a different view of it when you have been here a week
or so. Well, I've an engagement myself at present;
my head's so battered with the thoughts of my poor
Mary, that I scarcely know—a—a—I'm on my head
or my heels. If I can do anything in the world for
you, you may command me.”

“Mr. Digby,” said Claude, “I will be frank with
you. I am here under extremely disagreeable circumstances,
and I wish to be released on bail for my appearance.
I intended to solicit this favour of you. It
is but a nominal risk. I need not explain that you are
liable for the debt only in case of my running away,
which I hope you feel there's no danger of.”

“What's the amount?” said Digby, turning very red.

“Fifty pounds. If I get out I can make my living;
if I remain here, I really can't see how I am to do
anything.”

“Well, well, I'll think of it. I'll—see Mrs. Digby,”
said Digby.

“No,” said Claude, “it is not requisite; the service
I ask of you is not one which requires consideration.
Say yes or no, and relieve me from farther suspense.
Will you deposite the money in court for my appearance?”

“Why we—you see—a—I—the fact is, my dear
fellow, since we left London, the—a—a—times are
hard—devilish hard. My agent writes me of very serious
losses. Nothing on earth would give me greater
pleasure than to oblige you; but money, you know, is
—a—a—money; and I have long ago—a—a—made a
resolution never to become security, under any circumstances,
for—a—a—any man. Besides, I'm going
back to London immediately; and, in fact, I come
to make my parting visit. I hope, with all my heart,
you'll get out of your difficulty,” he continued, shaking
very heartily the hand which Claude did not refuse;
“I do, Wyndham, upon my soul I do. Any commands
for London?”

“None.”

“Well, adieu — good-by. God bless you! My
heart bleeds to see you here;” and, very red in the
face, Digby withdrew.

He was no sooner gone than several officers of the
court came to prosecute the suit against him in behalf
of Carolan. He had been arrested so abruptly in consequence
of Carolan's complaint that he was about to
elude the debt by flight. He confessed the amount
at once, without defence or explanation. By this proceeding
about a hundred thalers were added to the original
sum.

Several more days passed in this way. No one came
to see him. At length he was brought up to court to
hear the judgment pronounced. He was ushered into

a neat, small room, where three gentlemen on the bench
and two clerks, with two or three bailiffs and Count
Carolan's lawyer, composed all the company. One of
the judges had dined in company with him at Carolan's
several times, and discovered a disposition to cultivate
his acquaintance. This same person now regarded
him with cool, quiet indifference, with which
he would have looked upon any other prisoner. The
sentence was read, and he was condemned to remain
in prison till the debt was paid.

He was at once reconducted to his dreary dwelling;
and, with a fainting soul, he felt, as the doors once
more closed upon him, as if he were stepping into his
grave.

A week more elapsed. No one visited him; and he
was determined, after the unexpected rebuff received
from Digby, not to solicit the attention of any other
friend—not of St. Hillaire—not even of Lavalle. He
borrowed a few books, but his money was rapidly gliding
away, and he trembled to lay out a cent for anything
but the actual necessities of life. He found he
was obliged to pay two thalers a month for the bed;
and every sheet of paper he used, and every message
he sent, cost him something. His food was also expensive;
and, although he denied himself all luxuries,
he could not avoid spending comparatively a great
deal. Here—abandoned — sad — hopeless — without
occupation—without company—he learned the use of
money. Every groschen he expended was first carefully
considered. He had no soap, no napkins; his
washing was obliged to be curtailed, and the luxury of
clean linen to be surrendered. In four weeks he had
altered in appearance. Accustomed to much air and
exercise, the confinement debilitated him. His face
grew thin and pale, and his spirits sad. He felt as if
about to lose his health. Pains and aches came over
him. He was pining for air—for the sight of men—
of nature. He thought the world was a passed thing
with him—a vanished dream. He thought he should

speedily step from his dismal abode into the last, and,
perhaps, scarcely less cheerless refuge of the captive
—the grave.