CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH THE MAJOR MAKES HIS APPEARANCE.
Our acquaintance, Major Arthur Pendennis, arrived in due time atFairoaks, after a dreary night passed in the mail-coach, where a stoutfellow-passenger, swelling preternaturally with great-coats, had crowdedhim into a corner, and kept him awake by snoring indecently; where awidow lady, opposite, had not only shut out the fresh air by closingall the windows of the vehicle, but had filled the interior with fumesof Jamaica rum and water, which she sucked perpetually from a bottlein her reticule; where, whenever he caught a brief moment of sleep,the twanging of the horn at the turnpike-gates, or the scuffling ofhis huge neighbor wedging him closer and closer, or the play of thewidow's feet on his own tender toes, speedily woke up the poor gentlemanto the horrors and realities of life--a life which has passed away nowand become impossible, and only lives in fond memories. Eight milesan hour, for twenty or five-and-twenty hours, a tight mail-coach, ahard seat, a gouty tendency, a perpetual change of coachmen grumblingbecause you did not fee them enough, a fellow-passenger partial tospirits-and-water--who has not borne with these evils in the jolly oldtimes? and how could people travel under such difficulties? And yet theydid, and were merry too. Next the widow, and by the side of the major'sservant on the roof, were a couple of school-boys going home for themidsummer holidays, and Major Pendennis wondered to see them sup at theinn at Bagshot, where they took in a cargo of ham, eggs, pie, pickles,tea, coffee, and boiled beef, which surprised the poor major, sipping acup of very feeble tea, and thinking with a tender dejection that LordSteyne's dinner was coming off at that very moment. The ingenuous ardorof the boys, however, amused the major, who was very good-natured, andhe became the more interested when he found that the one who traveledinside with him, was a lord's son, whose noble father Pendennis, ofcourse, had met in the world of fashion, which he frequented. Thelittle lord slept all night through, in spite of the squeezing, andthe horn-blowing, and the widow; and he looked as fresh as paint (and,indeed, pronounced himself to be so) when the major, with a yellowface, a bristly beard, a wig out of curl, and strong rheumatic griefsshooting through various limbs of his uneasy body, descended at thelittle lodge-gate at Fairoaks where the portress and gardener's wifereverentially greeted him; and, still more respectfully, Mr. Morgan,his man.
Helen was on the lookout for this expected guest, and saw him from herwindow. But she did not come forward immediately to greet him. She knewthe major did not like to be seen at a surprise, and required a littlepreparation before he cared to be visible. Pen, when a boy, had incurredsad disgrace, by carrying off from the major's dressing-table a littlemorocco box, which it must be confessed contained the major's backteeth, which he naturally would leave out of his jaws in a joltingmail-coach, and without which he would not choose to appear. Morgan,his man, made a mystery of his wigs: curling them in private places:introducing them mysteriously to his master's room;--nor without hishead of hair would the major care to show himself to any member ofhis family or any acquaintance. He went to his apartment then, andsupplied these deficiencies; he groaned and moaned, and wheezed, andcursed Morgan through his toilet, as an old buck will, who has beenup all night with a rheumatism, and has a long duty to perform. Andfinally being belted, curled, and set straight, he descended upon thedrawing-room, with a grave, majestic air, such as befitted one who wasat once a man of business and a man of fashion.
Pen was not there, however, only Helen, and little Laura sewing at herknees; and to whom he never presented more than a fore-finger, as hedid on this occasion, after saluting his sister-in-law. Laura took thefinger, trembling, and dropped it--and then fled out of the room. MajorPendennis did not want to keep her, or indeed to have her in the houseat all, and had his private reason for disapproving of her: which wemay mention on some future occasion. Meanwhile Laura disappeared andwandered about the premises seeking for Pen; whom she presently found inthe orchard, pacing up and down a walk there, in earnest conversationwith Mr. Smirke. He was so occupied that he did not hear Laura's clearvoice singing out, until Smirke pulled him by the coat, and pointedtoward her as she came running.
She ran up and put her hand into his. "Come in, Pen," she said, "there'ssomebody come; uncle Arthur's come."
"He is, is he?" said Pen, and she felt him grasp her little hand. Helooked round at Smirke with uncommon fierceness, as much as to say, Iam ready for him or any man.--Mr. Smirke cast up his eyes as usual andheaved a gentle sigh.
"Lead on, Laura," Pen said, with a half fierce half comic air--"Lead on,and say I wait upon my uncle." But he was laughing in order to hide agreat anxiety: and was screwing his courage inwardly to face the ordealwhich he knew was now before him.
Pen had taken Smirke into his confidence in the last two days, andafter the outbreak attendant on the discovery of Dr. Portman, andduring every one of those forty-eight hours which he had passed in Mr.Smirke's society, had done nothing but talk to his tutor about MissFotheringay--Miss Emily Fotheringay--Emily, &c., to all which talkSmirke listened without difficulty, for he was in love himself, mostanxious in all things to propitiate Pen, and indeed very much himselfenraptured by the personal charms of this goddess, whose like, neverhaving been before at a theatrical representation, he had not behelduntil now. Pen's fire and volubility, his hot eloquence and richpoetical tropes and figures, his manly heart, kind, ardent, and hopeful,refusing to see any defects in the person he loved, any difficulties intheir position that he might not overcome, half convinced Mr. Smirkethat the arrangement proposed by Mr. Pen was a very feasible and prudentone and that it would be a great comfort to have Emily settled atFairoaks, Captain Costigan in the yellow room, established for lifethere, and Pen married at eighteen.
And it is a fact that in these two days, the boy had almost talked overhis mother too; had parried all her objections one after another withthat indignant good sense which is often the perfection of absurdity andhad brought her almost to acquiesce in the belief that if the marriagewas doomed in heaven, why doomed it was--that if the young woman was agood person, it was all that she, for her part, had to ask; and ratherto dread the arrival of the guardian uncle who, she foresaw, wouldregard Mr. Pen's marriage in a manner very different to that simple,romantic, honest, and utterly absurd way, in which the widow was alreadydisposed to look at questions of this sort.
For as in the old allegory of the gold and silver shield, about whichthe two knights quarreled, each is right according to the point fromwhich he looks: so about marriage; the question whether it is foolishor good, wise or otherwise, depends upon the point of view from whichyou regard it. If it means a snug house in Belgravia, and pretty littledinner parties, and a pretty little brougham to drive in the Park, anda decent provision, not only for the young people, but for the littleBelgravians to come; and if these are the necessaries of life (and theyare with many honest people), to talk of any other arrangement is anabsurdity: of love in lodgings--a babyish folly of affection: that can'tpay coach-hire or afford a decent milliner--as mere wicked balderdashand childish romance. If, on the other hand your opinion is that people,not with an assured subsistence, but with a fair chance to obtain it,and with the stimulus of hope, health, and strong affection, may takethe chance of fortune for better or worse, and share its good or itsevil together, the polite theory then becomes an absurdity in its turn:worse than an absurdity, a blasphemy almost, and doubt of Providence;and a man who waits to make his chosen woman happy, until he can driveher to church in a neat little carriage with a pair of horses, is nobetter than a coward or a trifler, who is neither worthy of love norof fortune.
I don't say that the town folks are not right, but Helen Pendennis wasa country bred woman, and the book of life, as she interpreted it, toldher a different story to that page which is read in cities. Like mostsoft and sentimental women, match-making, in general, formed a greatpart of her thoughts, and I dare say she had begun to speculate abouther son's falling in love and marrying long before the subject had everentered into the brains of the you
ng gentleman. It pleased her (withthat dismal pleasure which the idea of sacrificing themselves gives tocertain women), to think of the day when she would give up all to Pen,and he should bring his wife home, and she would surrender the keysand the best bed-room, and go and sit at the side of the table, andsee him happy. What did she want in life but to see the lad prosper?As an empress certainly was not too good for him, and would be honoredby becoming Mrs. Pen; so if he selected humble Esther instead of QueenVashti, she would be content with his lordship's choice. Never mindhow lowly or poor the person might be who was to enjoy that prodigioushonor, Mrs. Pendennis was willing to bow before her and welcome her,and yield her up the first place. But an actress--a mature woman, whohad long ceased blushing except with rouge, as she stood under the eagerglances of thousands of eyes--an illiterate and ill-bred person, verylikely, who must have lived with light associates, and have hearddoubtful conversation--Oh! it was hard that such a one should be chosen,and that the matron should be deposed to give place to such a Sultana.
All these doubts the widow laid before Pen during the two days whichhad of necessity to elapse ere the uncle came down; but he met themwith that happy frankness and ease which a young gentleman exhibitsat his time of life, and routed his mother's objections with infinitesatisfaction to himself. Miss Costigan was a paragon of virtue anddelicacy; she was as sensitive as the most timid maiden; she was as pureas the unsullied snow; she had the finest manners, the most graceful witand genius, the most charming refinement and justness of appreciation inall matters of taste; she had the most admirable temper and devotion toher father, a good old gentleman of high family and fallen fortunes, whohad lived, however, with the best society in Europe: he was in no hurry,and could afford to wait any time--till he was one-and-twenty. But hefelt (and here his face assumed an awful and harrowing solemnity) thathe was engaged in the one only passion of his life, and that DEATH alonecould close it.
Helen told him, with a sad smile and shake of the head, that peoplesurvived these passions, and as for long engagements contractedbetween very young men and old women--she knew an instance in her ownfamily--Laura's poor father was an instance--how fatal they were.
Mr. Pen, however, was resolved that death must be his doom in case ofdisappointment, and rather than this--rather than balk him, infact--this lady would have submitted to any sacrifice or personal pain,and would have gone down on her knees and have kissed the feet of aHottentot daughter-in-law.
Arthur knew his power over the widow, and the young tyrant was touchedwhile he exercised it. In those two days he brought her almost intosubmission, and patronized her very kindly; and he passed one eveningwith the lovely pie-maker at Chatteries, in which he bragged of hisinfluence over his mother; and he spent the other night in composing amost flaming and conceited copy of verses to his divinity, in which hevowed, like Montrose, that he would make her famous with his sword andglorious by his pen, and that he would love her as no mortal woman hadbeen adored since the creation of womankind.
It was on that night, long after midnight, that wakeful Helen, passingstealthily by her son's door, saw a light streaming through the chink ofthe door into the dark passage, and heard Pen tossing and tumbling, andmumbling verses in his bed. She waited outside for a while, anxiouslylistening to him. In infantile fevers and early boyish illnesses, many anight before, the kind soul had so kept watch. She turned the lock verysoftly now, and went in so gently, that Pen for a moment did not seeher. His face was turned from her. His papers on his desk were scatteredabout, and more were lying on the bed round him. He was biting a penciland thinking of rhymes and all sorts of follies and passions. He wasHamlet jumping into Ophelia's grave; he was the Stranger taking Mrs.Haller to his arms, beautiful Mrs. Haller with the raven ringletsfalling over her shoulders. Despair and Byron, Thomas Moore and all theLoves of the Angels, Waller and Herrick, Beranger and all the love-songshe had ever read, were working and seething in this young gentleman'smind, and he was at the very height and paroxysm of the imaginativefrenzy, when his mother found him.
"Arthur," said the mother's soft silver voice: and he started up andturned round. He clutched some of the papers and pushed them under thepillow.
"Why don't you go to sleep, my dear?" she said, with a sweet tendersmile, and sate down on the bed and took one of his hot hands.
Pen looked at her wildly for an instant--"I couldn't sleep," hesaid--"I--I was--I was writing."--And hereupon he flung his arms roundher neck and said, "O mother! I love her, I love her!"--How could such akind soul as that help soothing and pitying him? The gentle creature didher best: and thought with a strange wonderment and tenderness, that itwas only yesterday that he was a child in that bed: and how she used tocome and say her prayers over it before he woke upon holiday mornings.
They were very grand verses, no doubt, although Miss Fotheringay didnot understand them; but old Cos, with a wink and a knowing fingeron his nose, said, "Put them up with th' other letthers, Millydarling. Poldoody's pomes was nothing to this." So Milly locked upthe manuscripts.
When, then, the major being dressed and presentable, presented himselfto Mrs. Pendennis, he found in the course of ten minutes' colloquy thatthe poor widow was not merely distressed at the idea of the marriagecontemplated by Pen, but actually more distressed at thinking that theboy himself was unhappy about it, and that his uncle and he should haveany violent altercation on the subject. She besought Major Pendennisto be very gentle with Arthur: "He has a very high spirit, and willnot brook unkind words," she hinted. "Dr. Portman spoke to him veryroughly--and I must own unjustly, the other night--for my dearest boy'shonor is as high as any mother can desire--but Pen's answer quitefrightened me, it was so indignant. Recollect he is a man now; and bevery--very cautious," said the widow, laying a fair long hand on themajor's sleeve.
He took it up, kissed it gallantly, and looked in her alarmed face withwonder, and a scorn which he was too polite to show. "_Bon dieu!_"thought the old negotiator, "the boy has actually talked the womanround, and she'd get him a wife as she would a toy, if master cried forit. Why are there no such things as _lettres-de-cachet_--and a Bastilefor young fellows of family?" The major lived in such good company thathe might be excused for feeling like an earl.--He kissed the widow'stimid hand, pressed it in both his, and laid it down on the table withone of his own over it, as he smiled and looked her in the face.
"Confess," said he, "now that you are thinking how you possibly can makeit up to your conscience to let the boy have his own way."
She blushed, and was moved, in the usual manner of females. "I amthinking that he is very unhappy; and I am too--"
"To contradict him or to let him have his own wish?" asked the other;and added, with great comfort to his inward self, "I'm d--d if heshall."
"To think that he should have formed so foolish and cruel and fatal anattachment," the widow said, "which can but end in pain whatever be theissue."
"The issue shan't be marriage, my dear sister," the major said,resolutely. "We're not going to have a Pendennis, the head of the house,marry a strolling mountebank from a booth. No, no, we won't marry intoGreenwich Fair, ma'am."
"If the match is broken suddenly off," the widow interposed, "I don'tknow what may be the consequence. I know Arthur's ardent temper,the intensity of his affections, the agony of his pleasures anddisappointments, and I tremble at this one, if it must be. Indeed,indeed, it must not come on him too suddenly."
"My dear madam," the major said, with an air of the deepestcommiseration, "I've no doubt Arthur will have to suffer confoundedlybefore he gets over the little disappointment. But is he, think you,the only person who has been so rendered miserable?"
"No, indeed," said Helen, holding down her eyes. She was thinking of herown case, and was at that moment seventeen again, and most miserable.
"I, myself," whispered her brother-in-law, "have undergone a disappointmentin early life. A young woman with fifteen thousand pounds, niece to anearl--most accomplished creature--a third of her money would
have run upmy promotion in no time, and I should have been a lieutenant-colonelat thirty: but it might not be. I was but a penniless lieutenant: herparents interfered, and I embarked for India--where I had the honor ofbeing secretary to Lord Buckley, when commander-in-chief--without her.What happened? We returned our letters, sent back our locks of hair(the major here passed his fingers through his wig), we suffered, but werecovered. She is now a baronet's wife with thirteen grown-up children:altered, it is true, in person; but her daughters remind me of what shewas, and the third is to be presented early next week."
Helen did not answer. She was still thinking of old times. I suppose ifone lives to be a hundred, there are certain passages of one's earlylife whereof the recollection will always carry us back to youth again,and that Helen was thinking of one of these.
"Look at my own brother, my dear creature," the major continuedgallantly: "he himself, you know, had a little disappointment whenhe started in the--the medical profession--an eligible opportunitypresented itself. Miss Balls, I remember the name, was daughter ofan apoth--a practitioner in very large practice; my brother had verynearly succeeded in his suit.--But difficulties arose: disappointmentssupervened, and--and I am sure he had no reason to regret thedisappointment, which gave him this hand," said the major, and he oncemore politely pressed Helen's fingers.
"Those marriages between people of such different rank and age," saidHelen, "are sad things. I have known them produce a great deal ofunhappiness.--Laura's father, my cousin, who--who was brought up withme"--she added in a low voice, "was an instance of that."
"Most injudicious," cut in the major. "I don't know any thing morepainful than for a man to marry his superior in age or his inferior instation. Fancy marrying a woman of a low rank of life, and having yourhouse filled with her confounded tag-rag-and-bobtail of relations!Fancy your wife attached to a mother who dropped her h's, or calledMaria Marire! How are you to introduce her into society? My dear Mrs.Pendennis, I will name no names, but in the very best circles of Londonsociety I have seen men suffering the most excruciating agony, I haveknown them to be cut, to be lost entirely, from the vulgarity oftheir wives' connections. What did Lady Snapperton do last year at her_dejeune dansant_ after the Bohemian Ball? She told Lord Brounckerthat he might bring his daughters or send them with a proper chaperon,but that she would not receive Lady Brouncker: who was a druggist'sdaughter, or some such thing, and as Tom Wagg remarked of her, neverwanted medicine certainly, for she never had an _h_ in her life. GoodGed, what would have been the trifling pang of a separation in thefirst instance to the enduring infliction of a constant misallianceand intercourse with low people?"
"What, indeed!" said Helen, dimly disposed toward laughter, but yetchecking the inclination, because she remembered in what prodigiousrespect her deceased husband held Major Pendennis and his stories of thegreat world.
"Then this fatal woman is ten years older than that silly youngscapegrace of an Arthur. What happens in such cases, my dear creature?I don't mind telling _you_, now we are alone: that in the highest stateof society, misery, undeviating misery, is the result. Look at LordClodworthy come into a room with his wife--why, good Ged, she looks likeClodworthy's mother. What's the case between Lord and Lady Willowbank,whose love match was notorious? He has already cut her down twice whenshe has hanged herself out of jealousy for Mademoiselle de SainteCunegonde, the dancer; and mark my words, good Ged, one day he'll _not_cut the old woman down. No, my dear madam, you are not in the world, butI am: you are a little romantic and sentimental (you know you are--womenwith those large beautiful eyes always are); you must leave this matterto my experience. Marry this woman! Marry at eighteen an actress ofthirty--bah, bah!--I would as soon he sent into the kitchen and marriedthe cook."
"I know the evils of premature engagements," sighed out Helen: and asshe made this allusion no less than thrice in the course of the aboveconversation, and seems to be so oppressed with the notion of longengagements and unequal marriages, and as the circumstance we have torelate will explain what perhaps some persons are anxious to know,namely, who little Laura is, who has appeared more than once beforeus, it will be as well to clear up these points in another chapter.