The History of Pendennis, Volume 2

  CHAPTER XIII.

  WHICH HAD VERY NEARLY BEEN THE LAST OF THE STORY.

  Doctor Portman's letter was sent off to its destination in London, andthe worthy clergyman endeavored to sooth down Mrs. Pendennis into somestate of composure until an answer should arrive, which the doctortried to think, or, at any rate, persisted in saying, would besatisfactory as regarded the morality of Mr. Pen. At least Helen'swish of moving upon London and appearing in person to warn her son ofhis wickedness, was impracticable for a day or two. The apothecaryforbade her moving even so far as Fairoaks for the first day, and itwas not until the subsequent morning that she found herself again backon her sofa at home, with the faithful, though silent Laura, nursingat her side.

  Unluckily for himself and all parties, Pen never read that homilywhich Doctor Portman addressed to him, until many weeks after theepistle had been composed; and day after day, the widow waited for herson's reply to the charges against him; her own illness increasingwith every day's delay. It was a hard task for Laura to bear theanxiety; to witness her dearest friend's suffering: worst of all, tosupport Helen's estrangement, and the pain caused to her by thataverted affection. But it was the custom of this young lady to theutmost of her power, and by means of that gracious assistance whichHeaven awarded to her pure and constant prayers, to do her duty. And,as that duty was performed quite noiselessly--while, thesupplications, which endowed her with the requisite strength forfulfilling it, also took place in her own chamber, away from allmortal sight,--we, too, must be perforce silent about these virtues ofhers, which no more bear public talking about, than a flower will bearto bloom in a ball-room. This only we will say-that a good woman isthe loveliest flower that blooms under Heaven; and that we look withlove and wonder upon its silent grace, its pure fragrance, itsdelicate bloom of beauty. Sweet and beautiful!--the fairest and themost spotless!--is it not pity to see them bowed down or devoured byGrief or Death inexorable--wasting in disease-pining with long pain-orcut off by sudden fate in their prime? _We_ may deserve grief--butwhy should these be unhappy?--except that we know that Heaven chastensthose whom it loves best; being pleased, by repeated trials, to makethese pure spirits more pure.

  So Pen never got the letter, although it was duly posted andfaithfully discharged by the postman into his letter-box in LambCourt, and thence carried by the laundress to his writing-table withthe rest of his lordship's correspondence; into which room, have wenot seen a picture of him, entering from his little bedroom adjoining,as Mrs. Flanagan, his laundress, was in the act of drinking his gin?

  Those kind readers who have watched Mr. Arthur's career hitherto, andhave made, as they naturally would do, observations upon the moralcharacter and peculiarities of their acquaintance, have probablydiscovered by this time what was the prevailing fault in Mr. Pen'sdisposition, and who was that greatest enemy, artfully indicated inthe title-page, with whom he had to contend. Not a few of us, mybeloved public, have the very same rascal to contend with: a scoundrelwho takes every opportunity of bringing us into mischief, of plungingus into quarrels, of leading us into idleness and unprofitablecompany, and what not. In a word, Pen's greatest enemy was himself:and as he had been pampering, and coaxing, and indulging thatindividual all his life, the rogue grew insolent, as all spoiledservants will be; and at the slightest attempt to coerce him, or makehim do that which was unpleasant to him, became frantically rude andunruly. A person who is used to making sacrifices--Laura, forinstance, who had got such a habit of giving up her own pleasure forothers-can do the business quite easily; but Pen, unaccustomed as hewas to any sort of self-denial, suffered woundily when called on topay his share, and savagely grumbled at being obliged to forego anything he liked.

  He had resolved in his mighty mind then that he would not see Fanny;and he wouldn't. He tried to drive the thoughts of that fascinatinglittle person out of his head, by constant occupation, by exercise, bydissipation, and society. He worked, then, too much; he walked androde too much; he ate, drank, and smoked too much; nor could all thecigars and the punch of which he partook drive little Fanny's imageout of his inflamed brain, and at the end of a week of this disciplineand self-denial our young gentleman was in bed with a fever. Let thereader who has never had a fever in chambers pity the wretch who isbound to undergo that calamity.

  A committee of marriageable ladies, or of any Christian personsinterested in the propagation of the domestic virtues, should employ aCruikshank, or a Leech, or some other kindly expositor of the folliesof the day, to make a series of designs representing the horrors of abachelor's life in chambers, and leading the beholder to think ofbetter things, and a more wholesome condition. What can be moreuncomfortable than the bachelor's lonely breakfast?--with the blackkettle in the dreary fire in Midsummer; or, worse still, with the firegone out at Christmas, half an hour after the laundress has quittedthe sitting-room? Into this solitude the owner enters shivering, andhas to commence his day by hunting for coals and wood: and before hebegins the work of a student, has to discharge the duties of ahousemaid, vice Mrs. Flanagan, who is absent without leave. Or, again,what can form a finer subject for the classical designer than thebachelor's shirt--that garment which he wants to assume just atdinner-time, and which he finds without any buttons to fasten it? Thenthere is the bachelor's return to chambers after a merry Christmasholiday, spent in a cozy country-house, full of pretty faces, and kindwelcomes and regrets. He leaves his portmanteau at the barber's in thecourt: he lights his dismal old candle at the sputtering little lampon the stair: he enters the blank familiar room, where the only tokensto greet him, that show any interest in his personal welfare, are theChristmas bills, which are lying in wait for him, amicably spread outon his reading-table. Add to these scenes an appalling picture ofbachelor's illness, and the rents in the Temple will begin to fallfrom the day of the publication of the dismal diorama. To be well inchambers is melancholy, and lonely and selfish enough; but to be illin chambers--to pass nights of pain and watchfulness--to long for themorning and the laundress--to serve yourself your own medicine by yourown watch--to have no other companion for long hours but your ownsickening fancies and fevered thoughts: no kind hand to give you drinkif you are thirsty, or to smooth the hot pillow that crumples underyou--this indeed, is a fate so dismal and tragic, that we shall notenlarge upon its horrors; and shall only heartily pity those bachelorsin the Temple who brave it every day.

  This lot befell Arthur Pendennis after the various excesses which wehave mentioned, and to which he had subjected his unfortunate brains.One night he went to bed ill, and next the day awoke worse. His onlyvisitor that day, besides the laundress, was the Printer's Devil, fromthe "Pall Mall Gazette Office," whom the writer endeavored, as best hecould, to satisfy. His exertions to complete his work rendered hisfever the greater: he could only furnish a part of the quantity of"copy" usually supplied by him; and Shandon being absent, andWarrington not in London to give a help, the political and editorialcolumns of the "Gazette" looked very blank indeed; nor did thesub-editor know how to fill them. Mr. Finucane rushed up to Pen'sChambers, and found that gentleman so exceedingly unwell, that thegood-natured Irishman set to work to supply his place, if possible,and produced a series of political and critical compositions, such asno doubt greatly edified the readers of the periodical in which he andPen were concerned. Allusions to the greatness of Ireland, and thegenius and virtue of the inhabitants of that injured country, flowedmagnificently from Finucane's pen; and Shandon, the Chief of thepaper, who was enjoying himself placidly at Boulogne-sur-mer, lookingover the columns of the journal, which was forwarded to him, instantlyrecognized the hand of the great sub-editor, and said, laughing, as heflung over the paper to his wife, "Look here, Mary, my dear, here isJack at work again." Indeed, Jack was a warm friend, and a gallantpartisan, and when he had the pen in hand, seldom let slip anopportunity of letting the world know that Rafferty was the greatestpainter in Europe, and wondering at the petty jealousy of the Academy,which refused to make him an R. A.: of stating that it was
generallyreported at the West End, that Mr. Rooney, M. P. was appointedGovernor of Barataria; or of introducing into the subject in hand,whatever it might be, a compliment to the Round Towers, or the Giant'sCauseway. And besides doing Pen's work for him, to the best of hisability, his kind-hearted comrade offered to forego his Saturday's andSunday's holiday, and pass those days of holiday and rest asnurse-tender to Arthur, who, however, insisted, that the other shouldnot forego his pleasure, and thankfully assured him that he could bearbest his malady alone.

  Taking his supper at the Back-Kitchen on the Friday night, afterhaving achieved the work of the paper, Finucane informed CaptainCostigan of the illness of their young friend in the Temple; andremembering the fact two days afterward, the captain went to LambCourt and paid a visit to the invalid on Sunday afternoon. He foundMrs. Flanagan, the laundress, in tears in the sitting-room, and got abad report of the poor dear young gentleman within. Pen's conditionhad so much alarmed her, that she was obliged to have recourse to thestimulus of brandy to enable her to support the grief which hisillness occasioned. As she hung about his bed, and endeavored tominister to him, her attentions became intolerable to the invalid, andhe begged her peevishly not to come near him. Hence the laundress'stears and redoubled grief, and renewed application to the bottle,which she was accustomed to use as an anodyne. The captain rated thewoman soundly for her intemperance, and pointed out to her the fatalconsequences which must ensue if she persisted in her imprudentcourses. Pen, who was by this time in a very fevered state, was yetgreatly pleased to receive Costigan's visit. He heard the well-knownvoice in his sitting-room, as he lay in the bedroom within, and calledthe captain eagerly to him, and thanked him for coming, and begged himto take a chair and talk to him. The captain felt the young man'spulse with great gravity--(his own tremulous and clammy hand growingsteady for the instant while his finger pressed Arthur's throbbingvein)--the pulse was beating very fiercely--Pen's face was haggardand hot--his eyes were bloodshot and gloomy; his "bird," as thecaptain pronounced the word, afterward giving a description of hiscondition, had not been shaved for nearly a week. Pen made his visitorsit down, and, tossing and turning in his comfortless bed, began totry and talk to the captain in a lively manner, about theBack-Kitchen, about Vauxhall and when they should go again, and aboutFanny--how was little Fanny?

  Indeed how was she? We know how she went home very sadly on theprevious Sunday evening, after she had seen Arthur light his lamp inhis chambers, while he was having his interview with Bows. Bows cameback to his own rooms presently, passing by the Lodge door, andlooking into Mrs. Bolton's, according to his wont, as he passed, butwith a very melancholy face. She had another weary night that night.Her restlessness wakened her little bedfellows more than once. Shedaren't read more of Walter Lorraine: Father was at home, and wouldsuffer no light. She kept the book under her pillow, and felt for itin the night. She had only just got to sleep, when the children beganto stir with the morning, almost as early as the birds. Though she wasvery angry with Bows, she went to his room at her accustomed hour inthe day, and there the good-hearted musician began to talk to her.

  "I saw Mr. Pendennis last night, Fanny," he said.

  "Did you? I thought you did," Fanny answered, looking fiercely at themelancholy old gentleman.

  "I've been fond of you ever since we came to live in this place," hecontinued. "You were a child when I came; and you used to like me,Fanny, until three or four days ago: until you saw this gentleman."

  "And now, I suppose, you are going to say ill of him," said Fanny."Do, Mr. Bows--that will make me like you better."

  "Indeed I shall do no such thing," Bows answered; "I think he is avery good and honest young man."

  "Indeed, you know that if you said a word against him, I would neverspeak a word to you again--never!" cried Miss Fanny; and clenched herlittle hand, and paced up and down the room. Bows noted, watched, andfollowed the ardent little creature with admiration and gloomysympathy. Her cheeks flushed, her frame trembled; her eyes beamedlove, anger, defiance. "You would like to speak ill of him," she said;"but you daren't--you know you daren't!"

  "I knew him many years since," Bows continued, "when he was almost asyoung as you are, and he had a romantic attachment for our friend thecaptain's daughter--Lady Mirabel that is now."

  Fanny laughed. "I suppose there was other people, too, that had aromantic attachment for Miss Costigan," she said: "I don't want tohear about 'em."

  "He wanted to marry her; but their ages were quite disproportionate:and their rank in life. She would not have him because he had nomoney. She acted very wisely in refusing him; for the two would havebeen very unhappy, and she wasn't a fit person to go and live with hisfamily, or to make his home comfortable. Mr. Pendennis has his way tomake in the world, and must marry a lady of his own rank. A woman wholoves a man will not ruin his prospects, cause him to quarrel with hisfamily, and lead him into poverty and misery for her gratification. Anhonest girl won't do that, for her own sake, or for the man's."

  Fanny's emotion, which but now had been that of defiance and anger,here turned to dismay and supplication. "What do I know aboutmarrying, Bows?" she said; "When was there any talk of it? What hasthere been between this young gentleman and me that's to make peoplespeak so cruel? It was not my doing; nor Arthur's--Mr. Pendennis's--that I met him at Vauxhall. It was the captain took me andma there. We never thought of nothing wrong, I'm sure. He came andrescued us, and was so very kind. Then he came to call and ask afterus: and very, very good it was of such a grand gentleman to be sopolite to humble folks like us! And yesterday ma and me just went towalk in the Temple Gardens, and--and"--here she broke out with thatusual, unanswerable female argument of tears--and cried, "Oh! I wish Iwas dead! I wish I was laid in my grave; and had never, neverseen him!"

  "He said as much himself, Fanny," Bows said; and Fanny asked throughher sobs, Why, why should he wish he had never seen her? Had she everdone him any harm? Oh, she would perish rather than do him any harm.Whereupon the musician informed her of the conversation of the dayprevious, showed her that Pen could not and must not think of her as awife fitting for him, and that she, as she valued her honestreputation, must strive too to forget him. And Fanny, leaving themusician, convinced but still of the same mind, and promising that shewould avoid the danger which menaced her, went back to the Porter'sLodge, and told her mother all. She talked of her love for Arthur, andbewailed, in her artless manner, the inequality of their condition,that set barriers between them. "There's the Lady of Lyons," Fannysaid; "Oh, ma! how I did love Mr. Macready when I saw him do it; andPauline, for being faithful to poor Claude, and always thinking ofhim; and he coming back to her, an officer, through all his dangers!And if every body admires Pauline--and I'm sure every body does, forbeing so true to a poor man--why should a gentleman be ashamed ofloving a poor girl? Not that Mr. Arthur loves me--Oh, no, no! I ain'tworthy of him; only a princess is worthy of such a gentleman as him.Such a poet!--writing so beautifully, and looking so grand! I'm surehe's a nobleman, and of ancient family, and kep out of his estate.Perhaps his uncle has it. Ah, if I might, oh, how I'd serve him, andwork for him, and slave for him, that I would. I wouldn't ask for morethan that, ma--just to be allowed to see him of a morning; andsometimes he'd say 'How d'you do, Fanny?' or, 'God bless you Fanny!'as he said on Sunday. And I'd work, and work; and I'd, sit up allnight, and read, and learn, and make myself worthy of him. The captainsays his mother lives in the country, and is a grand lady there. Oh,how I wish I might go and be her servant, ma! I can do plenty ofthings, and work very neat; and--and sometimes he'd come home, and Ishould see him!"

  The girl's head fell on her mother's shoulder as she spoke, and shegave way to a plentiful outpouring of girlish tears, to which thematron, of course, joined her own. "You mustn't think no more of him,Fanny," she said. "If he don't come to you, he's a horrid,wicked man."

  "Don't call him so, mother," Fanny replied. "He's the best of men, thebest and the kindest. Bows says he thinks he is unhappy at leavingpo
or little Fanny. It wasn't his fault, was it, that we met?--and itain't his that I mustn't see him again. He says I mustn't--and Imustn't, mother. He'll forget me, but I shall never forget him. No!I'll pray for him, and love him always--until I die--and I shall die,I know I shall--and then my spirit will always go and be with him."

  "You forget your poor mother, Fanny, and you'll break my heart bygoin' on so," Mrs. Bolton said. "Perhaps you will see him. I'm sureyou'll see him. I'm sure he'll come to-day. If ever I saw a manin love, that man is him. When Emily Budd's young man first came abouther, he was sent away by old Budd, a most respectable man, andvioloncello in the orchestra at the Wells; and his own family wouldn'thear of it neither. But he came back. We all knew he would. Emilyalways said so; and he married her; and this one will come back too;and you mark a mother's words, and see if he don't, dear."

  At this point of the conversation Mr. Bolton entered the Lodge for hisevening meal. At the father's appearance, the talk between mother anddaughter ceased instantly. Mrs. Bolton caressed and cajoled the surlyundertaker's aid-de-camp, and said, "Lor, Mr. B., who'd have thought tosee you away from the Club of a Saturday night. Fanny, dear, get yourpa some supper. What will you have, B.? The poor gurl's got agathering in her eye, or somethink in it--_I_ was looking at itjust now as you came in." And she squeezed her daughter's hand as asignal of prudence and secrecy; and Fanny's tears were dried uplikewise; and by that wondrous hypocrisy and power of disguise whichwomen practice, and with which weapons of defense nature endows them,the traces of her emotion disappeared; and she went and took her work,and sat in the corner so demure and quiet, that the careless maleparent never suspected that any thing ailed her.

  Thus, as if fate seemed determined to inflame and increase the poorchild's malady and passion, all circumstances and all parties roundabout her urged it on. Her mother encouraged and applauded it; and thevery words which Bows used in endeavoring to repress her flame onlyaugmented this unlucky fever. Pen was not wicked and a seducer: Penwas high-minded in wishing to avoid her. Pen loved her: the good andthe great, the magnificent youth, with the chains of gold and thescented auburn hair! And so he did; or so he would have loved her fiveyears back, perhaps, before the world had hardened the ardent andreckless boy--before he was ashamed of a foolish and imprudentpassion, and strangled it as poor women do their illicit children, noton account of the crime, but of the shame, and from dread that thefinger of the world should point to them.

  What respectable person in the world will not say he was quite rightto avoid a marriage with an ill-educated person of low degree, whoserelations a gentleman could not well acknowledge, and whose mannerswould not become her new station?--and what philosopher would not tellhim that the best thing to do with these little passions if theyspring up, is to get rid of them, and let them pass over and curethem: that no man dies about a woman, or vice versa: and that one orthe other having found the impossibility of gratifying his or herdesire in the particular instance, must make the best of matters,forget each other, look out elsewhere, and choose again? And yet,perhaps, there may be something said on the other side. Perhaps Bowswas right in admiring that passion of Pen's, blind and unreasoning asit was, that made him ready to stake his all for his love; perhaps, ifself-sacrifice is a laudable virtue, mere worldly self-sacrifice isnot very much to be praised;--in fine, let this be a reserved pointto be settled by the individual moralist who chooses to debate it.

  So much is certain, that with the experience of the world which Mr.Pen now had, he would have laughed at and scouted the idea of marryinga penniless girl out of a kitchen. And this point being fixed in hismind, he was but doing his duty as an honest man, in crushing anyunlucky fondness which he might feel toward poor little Fanny.

  So she waited and waited in hopes that Arthur would come. She waitedfor a whole week, and it was at the end of that time that the poorlittle creature heard from Costigan of the illness under which Arthurwas suffering.

  It chanced on that very evening after Costigan had visited Pen, thatArthur's uncle, the excellent major, arrived in town from Buxton,where his health had been mended, and sent his valet Morgan to makeinquiries for Arthur, and to request that gentleman to breakfast withthe major the next morning. The major was merely passing throughLondon on his way to the Marquis of Steyne's house of Stillbrook,where he was engaged to shoot partridges.

  Morgan came back to his master with a very long face. He had seen Mr.Arthur; Mr. Arthur was very bad indeed; Mr. Arthur was in bed with afever. A doctor ought to be sent to him; and Morgan thought his casemost alarming.

  Gracious goodness! this was sad news indeed. He had hoped that Arthurcould come down to Stillbrook: he had arranged that he should go, andprocured an invitation for his nephew from Lord Steyne. He must gohimself; he couldn't throw Lord Steyne over; the fever might becatching: it might be measles: he had never himself had the measles;they were dangerous when contracted at his age. Was any body withMr. Arthur?

  Morgan said there was somebody a nussing of Mr. Arthur.

  The major then asked, had his nephew taken any advice? Morgan said hehad asked that question, and had been told that Mr. Pendennis had hadno doctor.

  Morgan's master was sincerely vexed at hearing of Arthur's calamity.He would have gone to him, but what good could it do Arthur that he,the major, should catch a fever? His own ailments rendered it absolutelyimpossible that he should attend to any body but himself. Butthe young man must have advice--the best advice; and Morgan wasstraightway dispatched with a note from Major Pendennis to his friendDoctor Goodenough, who by good luck happened to be in London and athome, and who quitted his dinner instantly, and whose carriage was inhalf an hour in Upper Temple Lane, near Pen's chambers. The major hadasked the kind-hearted physician to bring him news of his nephew atthe Club where he himself was dining, and in the course of the nightthe doctor made his appearance. The affair was very serious: thepatient was in a high fever: he had had Pen bled instantly: and wouldsee him the first thing in the morning. The major went disconsolateto bed with this unfortunate news. When Goodenough came to see himaccording to his promise the next day, the doctor had to listen for aquarter of an hour to an account of the major's own maladies, beforethe latter had leisure to hear about Arthur.

  He had had a very bad night--his--his nurse said; at one hour he hadbeen delirious. It might end badly: his mother had better be sent forimmediately. The major wrote the letter to Mrs. Pendennis with thegreatest alacrity, and at the same time with the most politeprecautions. As for going himself to the lad, in his state it wasimpossible. "Could I be of any use to him, my dear doctor?" he asked.

  The doctor, with a peculiar laugh, said, No: he didn't think the majorcould be of any use; that his own precious health required the mostdelicate treatment, and that he had best go into the country and stay:that he himself would take care to see the patient twice a day, and doall in his power for him.

  The major declared upon his honor, that if he could be of any use hewould rush to Pen's chambers. As it was, Morgan should go and see thatevery thing was right. The doctor must write to him by every post toStillbrook; it was but forty miles distant from London, and if anything happened he would come up at any sacrifice.

  Major Pendennis transacted his benevolence by deputy and by post."What else could he do," as he said? "Gad, you know, in these cases,it's best not disturbing a fellow. If a poor fellow goes to the bad,why, Gad, you know, he's disposed of. But in order to get well (and inthis, my dear doctor, I'm sure that you will agree with me), the bestway is to keep him quiet--perfectly quiet."

  Thus it was the old gentleman tried to satisfy his conscience; and hewent his way that day to Stillbrook by railway (for railways havesprung up in the course of this narrative, though they have not quitepenetrated into Pen's country yet), and made his appearance in hisusual trim order and curly wig, at the dinner-table of the Marquis ofSteyne. But we must do the major the justice to say, that he was veryunhappy and gloomy in demeanor. Wagg and Wenham rallied him about hislow spirits;
asked whether he was crossed in love? and otherwisediverted themselves at his expense. He lost his money at whist afterdinner, and actually trumped his partner's highest spade. And thethoughts of the suffering boy, of whom he was proud, and whom he lovedafter his manner, kept the old fellow awake half through the night,and made him feverish and uneasy.

  On the morrow he received a note in a handwriting which he did notknow: it was that of Mr. Bows, indeed, saying, that Mr. ArthurPendennis had had a tolerable night; and that as Dr. Goodenough hadstated that the major desired to be informed of his nephew's health,he, R. B., had sent him the news per rail.

  The next day he was going out shooting, about noon, with some of thegentlemen staying at Lord Steyne's house; and the company, waitingfor the carriages, were assembled on the terrace in front of thehouse, when a fly drove up from the neighboring station, and agray-headed, rather shabby old gentleman, jumped out, and asked forMajor Pendennis? It was Mr. Bows. He took the major aside and spoke tohim; most of the gentlemen round about saw that something serious hadhappened, from the alarmed look of the major's face.

  Wagg said, "It's a bailiff come down to nab the major;" but nobodylaughed at the pleasantry.

  "Hullo! What's the matter, Pendennis?" cried Lord Steyne, with hisstrident voice; "any thing wrong?"

  "It's--it's my boy that's _dead_," said the major, and burst into asob--the old man was quite overcome.

  "Not dead, my lord; but very ill when I left London," Mr. Bows said,in a low voice.

  A britzka came up at this moment as the three men were speaking. Thepeer looked at his watch. "You've twenty minutes to catch themail-train. Jump in, Pendennis; and drive like h--, sir, doyou hear?"

  The carriage drove off swiftly with Pendennis and his companions, andlet us trust that the oath will be pardoned to the Marquis of Steyne.

  The major drove rapidly from the station to the Temple, and found atraveling carriage already before him, and blocking up the narrowTemple Lane. Two ladies got out of it, and were asking their way ofthe porters; the major looked by chance at the panel of the carriage,and saw the worn-out crest of the eagle looking at the sun, and themotto, "nec tenui penna," painted beneath. It was his brother's oldcarriage, built many, many years ago. It was Helen and Laura that wereasking their way to poor Pen's room.

  He ran up to them; hastily clasped his sister's arm and kissed herhand; and the three entered into Lamb-court, and mounted the long,gloomy stair.

  They knocked very gently at the door, on which Arthur's name waswritten, and it was opened by Fanny Bolton.