CHAPTER XVII.
WHICH CONCLUDES THE FIRST PART OF THIS HISTORY.
The curate had gone on his daily errand to Fairoaks, and was up-stairsin Pen's study pretending to read with his pupil, in the early part ofthat very afternoon when Mrs. Portman after transacting business withMrs. Pybus had found the weather so exceedingly fine that she pursuedher walk as far as Fairoaks, in order to pay a visit to her dear friendthere. In the course of their conversation, the rector's lady toldMrs. Pendennis and the major a very great secret about the curate, Mr.Smirke, which was no less than that he had an attachment, a very oldattachment, which he had long kept quite private.
"And on whom is it that Mr. Smirke has bestowed his heart?" asked Mrs.Pendennis, with a superb air, but rather an inward alarm.
"Why, my dear," the other lady answered, "when he first came and used todine at the Rectory, people said we wanted him for Myra, and we wereforced to give up asking him. Then they used to say he was smitten inanother quarter; but I always contradicted it, for my part, and saidthat you--"
"That _I_," cried Mrs. Pendennis; "people are very impertinent, I amsure. Mr. Smirke came here as Arthur's tutor, and I am surprised thatany body should dare to speak so--"
"'Pon my soul, it is a _little_ too much," the major said, laying downthe newspaper and the double eye-glass.
"I've no patience with that Mrs. Pybus," Helen continued, indignantly.
"I told her there was no truth in it," Mrs. Portman said. "I always saidso, my dear: and now it comes out that my demure gentleman has beenengaged to a young lady--Miss Thompson, of Clapham Common, ever so long:and I am delighted, for my part, and on Myra's account, too, for anunmarried curate is always objectionable about one's house: and ofcourse it is strictly private, but I thought I would tell you, as itmight remove unpleasantnesses. But mind: not one word, if you please,about the story."
Mrs. Pendennis said, with perfect sincerity, that she was exceedinglyglad to hear the news: and hoped Mr. Smirke, who was a very kindand amiable man, would have a deserving wife: and when her visitorwent away, Helen and her brother talked of the matter with greatsatisfaction, the kind lady rebuking herself for her haughty behaviorto Mr. Smirke, whom she had avoided of late, instead of being gratefulto him for his constant attention to Arthur.
"Gratitude to this kind of people," the major said, "is very well; butfamiliarity is out of the question. This gentleman gives his lessonsand receives his money like any other master. You are too humble, mygood soul. There must be distinctions in ranks, and that sort of thing.I told you before, you were too kind to Mr. Smirke."
But Helen did not think so; and now that Arthur was going away, and shebethought her how very polite Mr. Smirke had been; how he had gone onmessages for her; how he had brought books and copied music; how he hadtaught Laura so many things, and given her so many kind presents, herheart smote her on account of her ingratitude toward the curate;--somuch so, that when he came down from study with Pen, and was hankeringabout the hall previous to his departure, she went out and shook handswith him with rather a blushing face, and begged him to come into herdrawing-room, where she said they now never saw him. And as there was tobe rather a good dinner that day, she invited Mr. Smirke to partake ofit; and we may be sure that he was too happy to accept such a delightfulsummons.
Eased, by the above report, of all her former doubts and misgivingsregarding the curate, Helen was exceedingly kind and gracious to Mr.Smirke during dinner, redoubling her attentions, perhaps because MajorPendennis was very high and reserved with his nephew's tutor. WhenPendennis asked Smirke to drink wine, he addressed him as if he was asovereign speaking to a petty retainer, in a manner so condescending,that even Pen laughed at it, although quite ready, for his part, to beas conceited as most young men are.
But Smirke did not care for the impertinences of the major so long as hehad his hostess's kind behavior; and he passed a delightful time by herside at table, exerting all his powers of conversation to please her,talking in a manner both clerical and worldly, about the Fancy Bazaar,and the Great Missionary Meeting, about the last new novel, and thebishop's excellent sermon--about the fashionable parties in London,an account of which he read in the newspapers--in fine, he neglectedno art, by which a college divine who has both sprightly and serioustalents, a taste for the genteel, an irreproachable conduct, and asusceptible heart, will try and make himself agreeable to the personon whom he has fixed his affections.
Major Pendennis came yawning out of the dining-room very soonafter his sister and little Laura had left the apartment--"What anunsufferable bore that man is, and how he did talk!" the major said.
"He has been very good to Arthur, who is very fond of him," Mrs.Pendennis said--"I wonder who the Miss Thompson is whom he is goingto marry."
"I always thought the fellow was looking in another direction," saidthe major.
"And in what?" asked Mrs. Pendennis, quite innocently--"toward MyraPortman?"
"Toward Helen Pendennis, if you must know," answered her brother-in-law.
"Toward me! impossible!" Helen said, who knew perfectly well that suchhad been the case. "His marriage will be a very happy thing. I hopeArthur will not take too much wine."
Now Arthur flushed with a good deal of pride at the privilege of havingthe keys of the cellar, and remembering that a very few more dinnerswould probably take place which he and his dear friend Smirke couldshare, had brought up a liberal supply of claret for the company'sdrinking, and when the elders with little Laura left him, he and thecurate began to pass the wine very freely.
One bottle speedly yielded up the ghost, another shed more than halfits blood, before the two topers had been much more than half an hourtogether--Pen, with a hollow laugh and voice, had drunk off one bumperto the falsehood of women, and had said sardonically, that wine, at anyrate, was a mistress who never deceived, and was sure to give a man awelcome.
Smirke gently said that he knew for his part some women who were alltruth and tenderness; and casting up his eyes toward the ceiling, andheaving a sigh as if evoking some being dear and unmentionable, he tookup his glass and drained it, and the rosy liquor began to suffuse hisface.
Pen trolled over some verses he had been making that morning, in whichhe informed himself that the woman who had slighted his passion couldnot be worthy to win it: that he was awaking from love's mad fever, and,of course, under these circumstances, proceeded to leave her, and toquit a heartless deceiver: that a name which had one day been famous inthe land, might again be heard in it: and, that though he never shouldbe the happy and careless boy he was but a few months since, or hisheart be what it had been ere passion had filled it and grief hadwell-nigh killed it; that though to him personally death was as welcomeas life, and that he would not hesitate to part with the latter, but forthe love of one kind being whose happiness depended on his own--yet hehoped to show he was a man worthy of his race, and that one day thefalse one should be brought to know how great was the treasure and noblethe heart which she had flung away.
Pen, we say, who was a very excitable person, rolled out these verses inhis rich, sweet voice, which trembled with emotion while our young poetspoke. He had a trick of blushing when in this excited state, and hislarge and honest gray eyes also exhibited proofs of a sensibility sogenuine, hearty, and manly, that Miss Costigan, if she had a heart, mustneeds have softened toward him; and very likely she was, as he said,altogether unworthy of the affection which he lavished upon her.
The sentimental Smirke was caught by the emotion which agitated hisyoung friend. He grasped Pen's hand over the dessert dishes and wineglasses. He said the verses were beautiful: that Pen was a poet, a greatpoet, and likely by heaven's permission to run a great career in theworld. "Go on and prosper, dear Arthur," he cried; "the wounds underwhich at present you suffer are only temporary, and the very grief youendure will cleanse and strengthen your heart. I have always prophesiedthe greatest and brightest things of you, as soon as you have correctedsome failings and weaknesses of
character, which at present belong toyou. But you will get over these, my boy; you will get over these; andwhen you are famous and celebrated, as I know you will be, will youremember your old tutor and the happy early days of your youth?"
Pen swore he would: with another shake of the hand across the glassesand apricots. "I shall never forget how kind you have been to me,Smirke," he said. "I don't know what I should have done without you.You are my best friend."
"Am I, _really_, Arthur?" said Smirke, looking through his spectacles;and his heart began to beat so that he thought Pen must almost hear itthrobbing.
"My best friend, my friend _forever_," Pen said. "God bless you, oldboy," and he drank up the last glass of the second bottle of the famouswine which his father had laid in, which his uncle had bought, whichLord Levant had imported, and which now, like a slave indifferent, wasministering pleasure to its present owner, and giving its young masterdelectation.
"We'll have another bottle, old boy," Pen said, "by Jove we will.Hurray!--claret goes for nothing. My uncle was telling me that hesaw Sheridan drink five bottles at Brookes's, besides a bottle ofMaraschino. This is some of the finest wine in England, he says. So itis, by Jove. There's nothing like it. _Nunc vino pellite curas--crasingens iterabimus aeq_--fill your glass, Old Smirke, a hogshead of itwon't do you any harm." And Mr. Pen began to sing the drinking song outof Der Freischuetz. The dining-room windows were open, and his mother wassoftly pacing on the lawn outside, while little Laura was looking at thesunset. The sweet fresh notes of the boy's voice came to the widow. Itcheered her kind heart to hear him sing.
"You--you are taking too much wine, Arthur," Mr. Smirke said,softly--"you are exciting yourself."
"No," said Pen, "women give headaches, but this don't. Fill your glass,old fellow, and let's drink--I say, Smirke, my boy--let's drink toher--_your_ her, I mean, not mine, for whom I swear I'll care nomore--no, not a penny--no, not a fig--no, not a glass of wine. Tellus about the lady, Smirke; I've often seen you sighing about her."
"Oh!" said Smirke--and his beautiful cambric shirt front and glisteningstuds heaved with the emotion which agitated his gentle and sufferingbosom.
"Oh--what a sigh!" Pen cried, growing very hilarious; "fill, my boy, anddrink the toast, you can't refuse a toast, no gentleman refuses a toast.Here's her health, and good luck to you, and may she soon be Mrs.Smirke."
"_Do_ you say so?" Smirke said, all of a tremble. "Do you really say so,Arthur?"
"Say so; of course, I say so. Down with it. Here's Mrs. Smirke's goodhealth: hip, hip, hurray!"
Smirke convulsively gulped down his glass of wine, and Pen waved hisover his head, cheering so as to make his mother and Laura wonder on thelawn, and his uncle, who was dozing over the paper in the drawing-room,start, and say to himself, "that boy's drinking too much."
Smirke put down the glass.
"I accept the omen," gasped out the blushing curate. "Oh, my dearArthur, you--you know her--"
"What--Myra Portman? I wish you joy: she's got a dev'lish large waist;but I wish you joy, old fellow."
"Oh, Arthur!" groaned the curate again, and nodded his head, speechless.
"Beg your pardon--sorry I offended you--but she _has_ got a large waist,you know--devilish large waist," Pen continued--the third bottleevidently beginning to act upon the young gentleman.
"It's not Miss Portman," the other said, in a voice of agony.
"Is it any body at Chatteries or at Clapham? Somebody here? No--it ain'told Pybus? it can't be Miss Rolt at the factory--she's only fourteen."
"It's somebody rather older than I am, Pen," the curate cried, lookingup at his friend, and then guiltily casting his eyes down into hisplate.
Pen burst out laughing. "It's Madame Fribsby, by Jove, it's MadameFribsby. Madame Frib, by the immortal gods!"
The curate could contain no more. "O Pen," he cried, "how can yousuppose that any of those--of those more than ordinary beings you havenamed, could have an influence upon this heart, when I have been dailyin the habit of contemplating perfection! I may be insane, I may bemadly ambitious, I may be presumptuous--but for two years my heart hasbeen filled by one image, and has known no other idol. Haven't I lovedyou as a son, Arthur?--say, hasn't Charles Smirke loved you as a son?"
"Yes, old boy, you've been very good to me," Pen said, whose liking,however, for his tutor was not by any means of the filial kind.
"My means," rushed on Smirke, "are at present limited, I own, and mymother is not so liberal as might be desired; but what she has willbe mine at her death. Were she to hear of my marrying a lady of rankand good fortune, my mother would be liberal, I am sure she would beliberal. Whatever I have or subsequently inherit--and it's five hundreda year at the very least--would be settled upon her and--and--and youat my death--that is--"
"What the deuce do you mean?--and what have I to do with your money?"cried out Pen, in a puzzle.
"Arthur, Arthur!" exclaimed the other wildly; "You say I am your dearestfriend--let me be more. Oh, can't you see that the angelic being Ilove--the purest, the best of women--is no other than your dear, dearangel of a mother."
"My mother!" cried out Arthur, jumping up, and sober in a minute. "Pooh!damn it, Smirke, you must be mad--she's seven or eight years older thanyou are."
"Did _you_ find that any objection," cried Smirke piteously, andalluding, of course, to the elderly subject of Pen's own passion.
The lad felt the hint, and blushed quite red. "The cases are notsimilar, Smirke," he said, "and the allusion might have been spared.A man may forget his own rank and elevate any woman to it; but allowme to say our positions are very different."
"How do you mean, dear Arthur?" the curate interposed sadly, cowering ashe felt that his sentence was about to be read.
"Mean?" said Arthur. "I mean what I say. My tutor, I say, _my tutor_,has no right to ask a lady of my mother's rank of life to marry him.It's a breach of confidence. I say it's a liberty you take, Smirke--it'sa liberty. Mean, indeed!"
"Oh Arthur!" the curate began to cry, with clasped hands, and a scaredface, but Arthur gave another stamp with his foot, and began to pull atthe bell. "Don't let's have any more of this. We'll have some coffee, ifyou please," he said, with a majestic air: and the old butler enteringat the summons, Arthur bade him to serve that refreshment.
John said he had just carried coffee into the drawing-room, where hisuncle was asking for Master Arthur, and the old man gave a glanceof wonder at the three empty claret-bottles. Smirke said he thoughthe'd--he'd rather not go into the drawing-room, on which Arthurhaughtily said, "As you please," and called for Mr. Smirke's horse tobe brought round. The poor fellow said he knew the way to the stableand would get his pony himself, and he went into the hall and sadly puton his coat and hat.
Pen followed him out uncovered. Helen was still walking up and down thesoft lawn as the sun was setting, and the curate took off his hat andbowed by way of farewell, and passed on to the door leading to thestable-court by which the pair disappeared. Smirke knew the way to thestables, as he said, well enough. He fumbled at the girths of the saddlewhich Pen fastened for him, and put on the bridle and led the pony intothe yard. The boy was touched by the grief which appeared in the other'sface as he mounted. Pen held out his hand, and Smirke wrung it silently.
"I say, Smirke," he said, in an agitated voice, "forgive me if I havesaid any thing harsh--for you have always been very, very kind to me.But it can't be, old fellow, it can't be. Be a man. God bless you."
Smirke nodded his head silently, and rode out of the lodge gate; and Penlooked after him for a couple of minutes, until he disappeared down theroad, and the clatter of the pony's hoofs died away. Helen was stilllingering in the lawn waiting until the boy came back--she put hishair off his forehead and kissed it fondly. She was afraid he had beendrinking too much wine. Why had Mr. Smirke gone away without any tea?
He looked at her with a kind humor beaming in his eyes; "Smirke isunwell," he said, with a laugh. For a long while Helen had not seen theboy
looking so cheerful. He put his arm round her waist, and walked herup and down the walk in front of the house. Laura began to drub on thedrawing-room window and nod and laugh from it. "Come along you twopeople," cried out Major Pendennis, "your coffee is getting quite cold."
When Laura was gone to bed, Pen, who was big with his secret, burstout with it, and described the dismal but ludicrous scene which hadoccurred. Helen heard of it with many blushes, which became her paleface very well, and a perplexity which Arthur roguishly enjoyed.
"Confound the fellow's impudence," Major Pendennis said, as he took hiscandle, "where will the assurance of these people stop?" Pen and hismother had a long talk that night, full of love, confidence, andlaughter, and the boy somehow slept more soundly and woke up more easilythan he had done for many months before.
* * * * *
Before the great Mr. Dolphin quitted Chatteries, he not only made anadvantageous engagement with Miss Fotheringay, but he liberally leftwith her a sum of money to pay off any debts which the little familymight have contracted during their stay in the place, and which, mainlythrough the lady's own economy and management, were not considerable.The small account with the spirit merchant, which Major Pendennis hadsettled, was the chief of Captain Costigan's debts, and though thecaptain at one time talked about repaying every farthing of the money,it never appears that he executed his menace, nor did the laws of honorin the least call upon him to accomplish that threat.
When Miss Costigan had seen all the outstanding bills paid to theuttermost shilling, she handed over the balance to her father, who brokeout into hospitalities to all his friends, gave the little Creeds moreapples and gingerbread, than he had ever bestowed upon them, so that thewidow Creed ever after held the memory of her lodger in veneration, andthe young ones wept bitterly when he went away; and in a word, managedthe money so cleverly that it was entirely expended before many days,and that he was compelled to draw upon Mr. Dolphin for a sum to pay fortraveling expenses when the time of their departure arrived.
There was held at an inn in that county town a weekly meeting of afestive, almost a riotous character, of a society of gentlemen whocalled themselves the Buccaneers. Some of the choice spirits ofChatteries belonged to this cheerful club. Graves, the apothecary (thanwhom a better fellow never put a pipe in his mouth and smoked it),Smart, the talented and humorous portrait-painter of High-street,Croker, an excellent auctioneer, and the uncompromising Hicks, the ableeditor for twenty-three years of the County Chronicle and ChatteriesChampion, were among the crew of the Buccaneers, whom also Bingley themanager liked to join of a Saturday evening, whenever he receivedpermission from his lady.
Costigan had been also an occasional Buccaneer. But a want ofpunctuality of payments had of late somewhat excluded him from thesociety, where he was subject to disagreeable remarks from the landlord,who said that a Buccaneer who didn't pay his shot was utterly unworthyto be a Marine Bandit. But when it became known to the 'Ears, as theclubbists called themselves familiarly, that Miss Fotheringay had madea splendid engagement, a great revolution of feeling took place in theclub regarding Captain Costigan. Solly, mine host of the Grapes, (andI need not say as worthy a fellow as ever stood behind a bar), toldthe gents in the Buccaneers' room one night how noble the captain hadbeayved: having been round and paid off all his ticks in Chatteries,including his score of three pound fourteen here, and pronounced thatCos was a good feller, a gentleman at bottom, and he, Solly, had alwayssaid so, and finally worked upon the feelings of the Buccaneers to givethe captain a dinner.
The banquet took place on the last night of Costigan's stay inChatteries, and was served in Solly's accustomed manner. As good aplain dinner of old English fare as ever smoked on a table was preparedby Mrs. Solly; and about eighteen gentlemen sate down to the festiveboard. Mr. Jubber (the eminent draper of High-street) was in the chair,having this distinguished guest of the club on his right. The ableand consistent Hicks, officiated as croupier on the occasion; most ofthe gentlemen of the club were present, and H. Foker, Esq., and ----Spavin, Esq., friends of Captain Costigan, were also participatorsin the entertainment. The cloth having been drawn, the chairman said,"Costigan, there is wine, if you like," but the captain preferringpunch, that liquor was voted by acclamation: and "Non Nobis," havingbeen sung in admirable style by Messrs. Bingley, Hicks, and Bullby (ofthe cathedral choir, than whom a more jovial spirit ne'er tossed off abumper or emptied a bowl), the chairman gave the health of the "King!"which was drunk with the loyalty of Chatteries men, and then withoutfurther circumlocution proposed their friend "Captain Costigan."
After the enthusiastic cheering which rang through old Chatteries hadsubsided, Captain Costigan rose in reply, and made a speech of twentyminutes, in which he was repeatedly overcome by his emotions.
The gallant captain said he must be pardoned for incoherence, if hisheart was too full to speak. He was quitting a city celebrated forits antiquitee, its hospitalitee, the beautee of its women, the manlyfidelitee, generositee, and jovialitee of its men. (Cheers). He wasgoing from that ancient and venerable city, of which while mimoreeheld her sayt, he should never think without the fondest emotion, to amethrawpolis where the talents of his daughther were about to have fullplay, and where he would watch over her like a guardian angel. He shouldnever forget that it was at Chatteries she had acquired the skill whichshe was about to exercise in another sphere, and in her name and hisown, Jack Costigan thanked and blessed them. The gallant officer's speechwas received with tremendous cheers.
Mr. Hicks, Croupier, in a brilliant and energetic manner, proposed MissFotheringay's health.
Captain Costigan returned thanks in a speech full of feeling andeloquence.
Mr. Jubber proposed the Drama and the Chatteries Theater, and Mr.Bingley was about to rise, but was prevented by Captain Costigan, who,as long connected with the Chatteries Theater, and on behalf of hisdaughter, thanked the company. He informed them that he had been ingarrison, at Gibraltar, and at Malta, and had been at the taking ofFlushing. The Duke of York was a patron of the Drama; he had the honorof dining with His Royal Highness and the Duke of Kent many times; andthe former had justly been named the friend of the soldier. (Cheers.)
The army was then proposed, and Captain Costigan returned thanks. Inthe course of the night he sang his well known songs, "The Deserter,""The Shan Van Voght," "The Little Pig under the Bed," and "The Vale ofAvoca." The evening was a great triumph for him--it ended. All triumphsand all evenings end. And the next day, Miss Costigan having taken leaveof all her friends, and having been reconciled to Miss Rouncy, to whomshe left a necklace and a white satin gown--the next day he and MissCostigan had places in the Competitor coach rolling by the gates ofFairoaks Lodge--and Pendennis never saw them.
Tom Smith, the coachman, pointed out Fairoaks to Mr. Costigan, who sateon the box smelling of rum-and-water--and the captain said it was apoor place--and added, "Ye should see Castle Costigan, County Mayo, meboy,"--which Tom said he should like very much to see.
* * * * *
They were gone and Pen had never seen them! He only knew of theirdeparture by its announcement in the county paper the next day andstraight galloped over to Chatteries to hear the truth of this news.They were gone indeed. A card of "Lodgings to let" was placed in thedear little familiar window. He rushed up into the room and viewed itover. He sate ever so long in the old window-seat looking into thedean's garden: whence he and Emily had so often looked out together. Hewalked, with a sort of terror, into her little empty bed-room. It wasswept out and prepared for new comers. The glass which had reflected herfair face was shining ready for her successor. The curtains lay squarefolded on the little bed: he flung himself down and buried his head onthe vacant pillow.
Laura had netted a purse into which his mother had put some sovereigns,and Pen had found it on his dressing-table that very morning. He gaveone to the little servant who had been used to wait upon the Costigans,and another to the children,
because they said they were very fond ofher. It was but a few months back, yet what years ago it seemed sincehe had first entered that room! He felt that it was all done. The verymissing her at the coach had something fatal in it. Blank, weary,utterly wretched and lonely the poor lad felt.
His mother saw she was gone by his look when he came home. He was eagerto fly too now, as were other folks round about Chatteries. Poor Smirkewanted to go away from the sight of the syren widow. Foker began tothink he had had enough of Baymouth, and that a few supper parties atSaint Boniface would not be unpleasant. And Major Pendennis longed to beoff, and have a little pheasant-shooting at Stillbrook, and get rid ofall annoyances and _tracasseries_ of the village. The widow and Lauranervously set about the preparation for Pen's kit, and filled trunkswith his books and linen. Helen wrote cards with the name of ArthurPendennis, Esq., which were duly nailed on the boxes; and at which bothshe and Laura looked with tearful, wistful eyes. It was not until long,long after he was gone, that Pen remembered how constant and tender theaffection of these women had been, and how selfish his own conduct was.
* * * * *
A night soon comes, when the mail, with echoing horn and blazing lamps,stops at the lodge-gate of Fairoaks, and Pen's trunks and his uncle'sare placed on the roof of the carriage, into which the pair presentlyafterward enter. Helen and Laura are standing by the evergreens of theshrubbery, their figures lighted up by the coach lamps; the guard cries,All right: in another instant the carriage whirls onward; the lightsdisappear, and Helen's heart and prayers go with them. Her saintedbenedictions follow the departing boy. He has left the home-nest inwhich he has been chafing, and whither, after his very first flight, hereturned bleeding and wounded; he is eager to go forth again, and tryhis restless wings.
How lonely the house looks without him! The corded trunks and book-boxesare there in his empty study. Laura asks leave to come and sleep inHelen's room: and when she has cried herself to sleep there, the mothergoes softly into Pen's vacant chamber, and kneels down by the bed, onwhich the moon is shining, and there prays for her boy, as mothers onlyknow how to plead. He knows that her pure blessings are following him,as he is carried miles away.