He passed on rudely. She half opened the parlour door, and looked in: her husband was lying back on the sofa, seemingly stupefied by despair: one of the Bow-street officers was chafing his temples, another was rummaging his desk, and the third was closely examining certain notes, which he had just taken from the prisoner’s pockets.
“What is the matter?” cried Mrs. Ludgate, advancing. Her husband lifted up his eyes, saw her, started up, and, stamping furiously, exclaimed, “Cursed, cursed woman! you have brought me to the gallows, and all for this trumpery!” cried he, snatching her gaudy hat from her head, and trampling it under his feet. “For this—for this! you vain, you ugly creature, you have brought your husband to the gallows!”
One of the Bow-street officers caught hold of his uplifted arm, which trembled with rage. His wife sank to the ground; a second paralytic stroke deprived her of the power of speech. As they were carrying her up stairs, Mrs. Pimlico and the rest of the company came out of the dining-room, some of them with cards in their hands, all eagerly asking what was the matter? When they learnt that the Bow-street officers were in the house, and that Mr. Ludgate was taken into custody for uttering forged bank-notes, there was a general uproar. Some declared it was shocking! others protested it was no more than might have been expected! The Ludgates lived so much above their circumstances! Then he was such a coxcomb; and she such a poor vain creature! Better for people to do like their neighbours—to make no show, and live honestly!
In the midst of these effusions of long suppressed envy, some few of the company attempted a slight word or two of apology for their host and hostess; and the most humane went up to the wretched woman’s bedchamber, to offer assistance and advice. But the greater number were occupied in tucking up their white gowns, finding their clogs, or calling for hackney coaches. In less than a quarter of an hour the house was clear of all Mrs. Ludgate’s friends. And it is to please such friends that whole families ruin themselves by unsuitable expense.
Lucy and Allen were not, however, of this class of friends. A confused report of what had passed the preceding night was spread the next morning in Cranbourne-alley, by a young lady, who had been at Mrs. Ludgate’s rout. The moment the news reached Allen’s shop, he and Lucy set out immediately to offer their assistance to the unfortunate family. When they got to Weymouth-street, they gave only a single knock at the door, that they might not create any alarm. They were kept waiting a considerable time, and at last the door was opened by a slip-shod cook-maid, who seemed to be just up, though it was near eleven o’clock. She showed them into the parlour, which was quite dark; and, whilst she was opening the shutters, told them that the house had been up all night, what with the Bow-street officers and her mistress’s fits. Her master, she added, was carried off to prison, she believed. Lucy asked who was with Mrs. Ludgate, and whether she could go up to her room?
“There’s nobody with her, ma’am, but nurse, that called by chance, early this morning, to see the children, and had the good-nature to stay to help, and has been sitting in mistress’s room, whilst I went to my bed. I’ll step up and see if you can go in, ma’am.”
They waited for some time in the parlour, where every thing looked desolate and in disorder. The ashes covered the hearth; the poker lay upon the table, near Mr. Ludgate’s desk, the lock of which had been broken open; a brass flat candlestick, covered with tallow, was upon the window-seat, and beside it a broken cruet of vinegar; a cravat, and red silk handkerchief, which had been taken from Mr. Ludgate’s neck when he swooned, lay under the table. Lucy and her husband looked at one another for some moments without speaking. At last Allen said, “We had better lock up this press, where there are silver spoons and china, for there is nobody now left to take care of any thing, and the creditors will be here soon to seize all they can.” Lucy said that she would go up into the dining-room, and take an inventory of the furniture. In the dining-room she found Jack the footboy collecting shillings from beneath the candlesticks on the card-tables: the two little children were sitting on the floor, the girl playing with a pack of cards, the boy drinking the dregs of a decanter of white wine.—“Poor children! Poor creatures!” said Lucy; “is there nobody to take care of you?”
“No; nobody but Jack,” said the boy, “and he’s going away. Papa’s gone I don’t know where; and mama’s not up yet, so we have had no breakfast.”
The cook-maid came in to say that Mrs. Ludgate was awake, and sensible now, and would be glad to see Mrs. Allen, if she’d be so good as to walk up. Lucy told the children, who clung to her, that she would take them home with her, and give them some breakfast, and then hastened up stairs. She found her wretched friend humbled indeed to the lowest state of imbecile despair. Her speech had returned; but she spoke with difficulty, and scarcely so as to be intelligible. The good-natured nurse supported her in the bed, saying repeatedly, “Keep a good heart, madam; keep a good heart! Don’t let your spirits sink so as this, and all may be well yet.”
“O Lucy! Lucy! What will become of me now? What a change is here! And nobody to help or advise me! Nobody upon earth! I am forsaken by all the world!”