“Such, he positively declares, is his fixed determination.  So hold yourself prepared, sir, to meet even this unpleasant event.”

The debt for which the warrant had been issued against Mr. Fenwick, amounted to ninety dollars.

The whole of the remaining part of that day was spent in the effort to obtain security in the case.  But in vain.  His friends knew too well his inability to protect them from certain loss, should they step between him and the law.  Talents, education, brilliant addresses, fine poetry “and all that,” turned to no good and useful ends, he found availed him nothing now.  Even many of those with whom he had been in intimate literary association, shrunk away from the penniless individual, and those who did not actually shun him had lost much of their former cordiality.

The idea of being sent to jail for debt, was to him a terrible one.  And he turned from it with a sinking at the heart.  He said nothing to Adelaide on returning home in the evening, for the high communion of spirit, in which they had promised themselves such deep and exquisite delight, had long since given place to coldness, and a state of non-sympathy.  He found her deeply buried, as usual, in some volume of romance, while every thing around her was in disorder, and full of unmitigated realities.  They were living alone in two small rooms, and the duty of keeping them in order and providing their frugal meals devolved as a heavy task upon Adelaide—­so heavy, that she found it utterly impossible to do it justice.

The fire—­that essential preliminary to household operations—­had not even been made, when Fenwick reached home, and the dinner table remained still on the floor, with its unwashed dishes strewn over it, in admirable confusion.

With a sigh, Adelaide resigned her book, soon after her husband came in, and commenced preparations for the evening meal.  This was soon ready, and despatched in silence, except so far as the aimless prattle of their little girl interrupted it.  Tea over, Mrs. Fenwick put Anna to bed, much against her will, and then drew up to the table again with her book.

Cheerless and companionless did her husband feel as he let his eye fall upon her, buried in selfish enjoyment, while his own heart was wrung with the bitterest recollections and the most heart-sickening anticipations.

Thoughts of the gaming table passed through his mind, and with the thought he placed his hand involuntarily upon his pocket.  It was empty.  Sometimes his mind would rise into a state of vigorous activity, with the internal consciousness of a power to do any thing.  But, alas—­it was strength without skill—­intellectual power without the knowledge to direct it aright.

Late on the next morning he arose from a pillow that had been blessed with but little sleep, and that unrefreshing.  It was past eleven o’clock before Adelaide had breakfast on the table.  This over, she, without even dressing Anna or arranging her own person sat down to her novel, while he gave himself to the most gloomy and desponding reflections.  He feared to go out lest the first man he should meet, should prove an officer with an execution upon his person.