"Five hundred pounds," he replied.
Temple started: it was more than he expected. "But something must be
done," said he: "that sweet maid must not wear out her life in a prison.
I will see you again to-morrow, my friend," said he, shaking Eldridge's
hand: "keep up your spirits: light and shade are not more happily
blended than are the pleasures and pains of life; and the horrors of the
one serve only to increase the splendor of the other."
"You never lost a wife and son," said Eldridge.
"No," replied he, "but I can feel for those that have." Eldridge pressed
his hand as they went toward the door, and they parted in silence.
When they got without the walls of the prison, Temple thanked his friend
Blakeney for introducing him to so worthy a character; and telling him
he had a particular engagement in the city, wished him a good evening.
"And what is to be done for this distressed man," said Temple, as he
walked up Ludgate Hill. "Would to heaven I had a fortune that would
enable me instantly to discharge his debt: what exquisite transport, to
see the expressive eyes of Lucy beaming at once with pleasure for her
father's deliverance, and gratitude for her deliverer: but is not my
fortune affluence," continued he, "nay superfluous wealth, when compared
to the extreme indigence of Eldridge; and what have I done to deserve
ease and plenty, while a brave worthy officer starves in a prison? Three
hundred a year is surely sufficient for all my wants and wishes: at any
rate Eldridge must be relieved.
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