CHAPTER XIX.
"FAIROAKS TO LET."
Our poor widow (with the assistance of her faithful Martha ofFairoaks, who laughed and wondered at the German ways, andsuperintended the affairs of the simple household) had made a littlefeast in honor of Major Pendennis's arrival, of which, however, onlythe major and his two younger friends partook, for Helen sent to saythat she was too unwell to dine at their table, and Laura bore hercompany. The major talked for the party, and did not perceive, orchoose to perceive, what a gloom and silence pervaded the other twosharers of the modest dinner. It was evening before Helen and Lauracame into the sitting-room to join the company there. She came inleaning on Laura, with her back to the waning light, so that Arthurcould not see how palid and woe-stricken her face was, and as she wentup to Pen, whom she had not seen during the day, and placed her fondarms on his shoulder and kissed him tenderly, Laura left her, andmoved away to another part of the room. Pen remarked that his mother'svoice and her whole frame trembled, her hand was clammy cold as sheput it up to his forehead, piteously embracing him. The spectacle ofher misery only added, somehow, to the wrath and testiness of theyoung man. He scarcely returned the kiss which the suffering lady gavehim: and the countenance with which he met the appeal of her look washard and cruel. "She persecutes me," he thought within himself, "andshe comes to me with the air of a martyr." "You look very ill, mychild," she said. "I don't like to see you look in that way." And shetottered to a sofa, still holding one of his passive hands in herthin, cold, clinging fingers.
"I have had much to annoy me, mother," Pen said with a throbbingbreast: and as he spoke Helen's heart began to beat so, that she satealmost dead and speechless with terror.
Warrington, Laura, and Major Pendennis, all remained breathless,aware that a storm was about to break.
"I have had letters from London," Arthur continued, "and one that hasgiven me more pain than I ever had in my life. It tells me that formerletters of mine have been intercepted and purloined away from me;that--that a young creature who has shown the greatest love and carefor me, has been most cruelly used by--by you, mother."
"For God's sake stop," cried out Warrington. "She's ill--don't you seeshe is ill?"
"Let him go on," said the widow faintly.
"Let him go on and kill her," said Laura, rushing up to her mother'sside. "Speak on, sir, and see her die."
"It is you who are cruel," cried Pen, more exasperated and moresavage, because his own heart, naturally soft and weak, revoltedindignantly at the injustice of the very suffering which was laid athis door. "It is you that are cruel, who attribute all this pain tome: it is you who are cruel with your wicked reproaches, your wickeddoubts of me, your wicked persecutions of those who love me--yes,those who love me, and who brave every thing for me, and whom youdespise and trample upon because they are of lower degree than you.Shall I tell you what I will do--what I am resolved to do, now that Iknow what your conduct has been? I will, go back to this poor girlwhom you turned out of my doors, and ask her to come back and share myhome with me. I'll defy the pride which persecutes her, and thepitiless suspicion which insults her and me."
"Do you mean, Pen, that you--" here the widow, with eager eyes andout-stretched hands, was breaking out, but Laura stopped her;"Silence, hush, dear mother," she cried and the widow hushed. Savagelyas Pen spoke, she was only too eager to hear what more he had to say,"Go on, Arthur, go on, Arthur," was all she said, almost swooning awayas she spoke.
"By Gad, I say he shan't go on, or I won't hear him, by Gad," themajor said, trembling too in his wrath. "If you choose, sir, after allwe've done for you, after all I've done for you myself, to insult yourmother and disgrace your name, by allying yourself with a low-bornkitchen-girl, go and do it, by Gad, but let us, ma'am have no more todo with him. I wash my hands of you, sir--I wash my hands of you. I'man old fellow--I ain't long for this world. I come of as ancient andhonorable a family as any in England, by Gad, and I did hope, before Iwent off the hooks, by Gad, that the fellow that I'd liked, andbrought up, and nursed through life, by Jove, would do something toshow me that our name--yes, the name of Pendennis, by Gad, was leftundishonored behind us, but if he won't, dammy, I say, amen. By G--,both my father and my brother Jack were the proudest men in England,and I never would have thought that there would come this disgrace tomy name--never--and--and I'm ashamed that it's Arthur Pendennis." Theold fellow's voice here broke off into a sob: it was a second timethat Arthur had brought tears from those wrinkled lids.
The sound of his breaking voice stayed Pen's anger instantly, and hestopped pacing the room, as he had been doing until that moment. Laurawas by Helen's sofa; and Warrington had remained hitherto an almostsilent, but not uninterested spectator of the family storm. As theparties were talking, it had grown almost dark; and after the lullwhich succeeded the passionate outbreak of the major, George's deepvoice, as it here broke trembling into the twilight room, was heardwith no small emotion by all.
"Will you let me tell you something about myself, my kind friends?" hesaid, "you have been so good to me, ma'am--you have been so kind tome, Laura--I hope I may call you so sometimes--my dear Pen and I havebeen such friends that--that I have long wanted to tell you my story,such as it is, and would have told it to you earlier but that it is asad one, and contains another's secret. However, it may do good forArthur to know it--it is right that every one here should. It willdivert you from thinking about a subject, which, out of a fatalmisconception, has caused a great deal of pain to all of you. May Iplease tell you, Mrs. Pendennis?"
"Pray speak," was all Helen said; and indeed she was not much heeding;her mind was full of another idea with which Pen's words had suppliedher, and she was in a terror of hope that what he had hinted might beas she wished.
George filled himself a bumper of wine and emptied it, and began tospeak. "You all of you know how you see me," he said, "A man without adesire to make an advance in the world; careless about reputation; andliving in a garret and from hand to mouth, though I have friends and aname, and I dare say capabilities of my own, that would serve me if Ihad a mind. But mind I have none. I shall die in that garret mostlikely, and alone. I nailed myself to that doom in early life. Shall Itell you what it was that interested me about Arthur years ago, andmade me inclined toward him when first I saw him? The men from ourcollege at Oxbridge brought up accounts of that early affair with theChatteris actress, about whom Pen has often talked to me since; andwho, but for the major's generalship, might have been yourdaughter-in-law, ma'am. I can't see Pen in the dark, but he blushes,I'm sure; and I dare say Miss Bell does; and my friend MajorPendennis, I dare say, laughs as he ought to do--for he won. Whatwould have been Arthur's lot now had he been tied at nineteen to anilliterate woman older than himself, with no qualities in commonbetween them to make one a companion for the other, no equality, noconfidence, and no love speedily? What could he have been but mostmiserable? And when he spoke just now and threatened a similar union,be sure it was but a threat occasioned by anger, which you must giveme leave to say, ma'am, was very natural on his part, for after agenerous and manly conduct--let me say who know the circumstanceswell--most generous and manly and self-denying (which is rare withhim)--he has met from some friends of his with a most unkindsuspicion, and has had to complain of the unfair treatment of anotherinnocent person, toward whom he and you all are under muchobligation."
The widow was going to get up here, and Warrington, seeing her attemptto rise, said, "Do I tire you, ma'am?"
"O no--go on--go on," said Helen, delighted, and he continued.
"I liked him, you see, because of that early history of his, which hadcome to my ears in college gossip, and because I like a man, if youwill pardon me for saying so, Miss Laura, who shows that he can have agreat unreasonable attachment for a woman. That was why we becamefriends--and are all friends here--for always, aren't we?" he added,in a lower voice, leaning over to her, "and Pen has been a greatcomfort and companion to a lonely and unfortunate man.
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p; "I am not complaining of my lot, you see; for no man's is what hewould have it; and up in my garret, where you left the flowers, andwith my old books and my pipe for a wife, I am pretty contented, andonly occasionally envy other men, whose careers in life are morebrilliant, or who can solace their ill fortune by what Fate and my ownfault has deprived me of--the affection of a woman or a child." Herethere came a sigh from somewhere near Warrington in the dark, and ahand was held out in his direction, which, however, was instantlywithdrawn, for the prudery of our females is such, that before allexpression of feeling, or natural kindness and regard, a woman istaught to think of herself and the proprieties, and to be ready toblush at the very slightest notice; and checking, as, of course, itought, this spontaneous motion, modesty drew up again, kindlyfriendship shrank back ashamed of itself, and Warrington resumed hishistory. "My fate is such as I made it, and not lucky for me or forothers involved in it.
"I, too, had an adventure before I went to college; and there was noone to save me as Major Pendennis saved Pen. Pardon me, Miss Laura, ifI tell this story before you. It is as well that you all of you shouldhear my confession. Before I went to college, as a boy of eighteen, Iwas at a private tutor's and there, like Arthur, I became attached, orfancied I was attached, to a woman of a much lower degree and agreater age than my own. You shrink from me--"
"No I don't," Laura said, and here the hand went out resolutely, andlaid itself in Warrington's. She had divined his story from someprevious hints let fall by him, and his first words at itscommencement.
"She was a yeoman's daughter in the neighborhood," Warrington said,with rather a faltering voice, "and I fancied--what all young menfancy. Her parents knew who my father was, and encouraged me, with allsorts of coarse artifices and scoundrel flatteries, which I see now,about their house. To do her justice, I own she never cared for me butwas forced into what happened by the threats and compulsion of herfamily. Would to God that I had not been deceived: but in thesematters we are deceived because we wish to be so, and I thought Iloved that poor woman.
"What could come of such a marriage? I found, before long, that I wasmarried to a boor. She could not comprehend one subject thatinterested me. Her dullness palled upon me till I grew to loathe it.And after some time of a wretched, furtive union--I must tell you all--I found letters somewhere (and such letters they were!) which showedme that her heart, such as it was, had never been mine, but had alwaysbelonged to a person of her own degree.
"At my father's death, I paid what debts I had contracted at college,and settled every shilling which remained to me in an annuity upon--upon those who bore my name, on condition that they should hidethemselves away, and not assume it. They have kept that condition, asthey would break it, for more money. If I had earned fame orreputation, that woman would have come to claim it: if I had made aname for myself, those who had no right to it would have borne it; andI entered life at twenty, God help me--hopeless and ruined beyondremission. I was the boyish victim of vulgar cheats, and, perhaps, itis only of late I have found out how hard--ah, how hard--it is toforgive them. I told you the moral before, Pen; and now I have toldyou the fable. Beware how you marry out of your degree. I was made fora better lot than this, I think: but God has awarded me this one--andso, you see, it is for me to look on, and see others successful andothers happy, with a heart that shall be as little bitter aspossible."
"By Gad, sir," cried the major, in high good humor, "I intended you tomarry Miss Laura here."
"And, by Gad, Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pound," Warringtonsaid.
"How d'ye mean a thousand? it was only a pony, sir," replied the majorsimply, at which the other laughed.
As for Helen, she was so delighted, that she started up, and said,"God bless you--God forever bless you, Mr. Warrington;" and kissedboth his hands, and ran up to Pen, and fell into his arms.
"Yes, dearest mother," he said as he held her to him, and with a nobletenderness and emotion, embraced and forgave her. "I am innocent, andmy dear, dear mother has done me a wrong."
"Oh, yes, my child, I have wronged you, thank God, I have wrongedyou!" Helen whispered. "Come away, Arthur--not here--I want to ask mychild to forgive me--and--and my God, to forgive me; and to bless you,and love you, my son."
He led her, tottering, into her room, and closed the door, as thethree touched spectators of the reconciliation looked on in pleasedsilence. Ever after, ever after, the tender accents of that voicefaltering sweetly at his ear--the look of the sacred eyes beaming withan affection unutterable--the quiver of the fond lips smilingmournfully--were remembered by the young man. And at his best moments,and at his hours of trial and grief, and at his times of success orwell doing, the mother's face looked down upon him, and blessed himwith its gaze of pity and purity, as he saw it in that night when sheyet lingered with him; and when she seemed, ere she quite left him, anangel, transfigured and glorified with love--for which love, as forthe greatest of the bounties and wonders of God's provision for us,let us kneel and thank Our Father.
The moon had risen by this time; Arthur recollected well afterward howit lighted up his mother's sweet pale face. Their talk, or his rather,for she scarcely could speak, was more tender and confidential than ithad been for years before. He was the frank and generous boy of herearly days and love. He told her the story, the mistake regardingwhich had caused her so much pain--his struggles to fly fromtemptation, and his thankfulness that he had been able to overcome it.He never would do the girl wrong, never; or wound his own honor or hismother's pure heart. The threat that he would return was uttered in amoment of exasperation, of which he repented. He never would see heragain. But his mother said yes he should; and it was she who had beenproud and culpable--and she would like to give Fanny Boltonsomething--and she begged her dear boy's pardon for opening the letter--and she would write to the young girl, if--if she had time. Poorthing! was it not natural that she should love her Arthur? And againshe kissed him, and she blessed him.
As they were talking the clock struck nine, and Helen reminded himhow, when he was a little boy, she used to go up to his bedroom atthat hour, and hear him say Our Father. And once more, oh, once more,the young man fell down at his mother's sacred knees, and sobbed outthe prayer which the Divine Tenderness uttered for us, and which hasbeen echoed for twenty ages since by millions of sinful and humbledmen. And as he spoke the last words of the supplication, the mother'shead fell down on her boy's, and her arms closed round him, andtogether they repeated the words "for ever and ever," and "Amen."
A little time after, it might have been a quarter of an hour, Lauraheard Arthur's voice calling from within, "Laura! Laura!" She rushedinto the room instantly, and found the young man still on his kneesand holding his mother's hand. Helen's head had sunk back and wasquite pale in the moon. Pen looked round, scared with a ghastly terror"Help, Laura, help!" he said--"she's fainted--she's--"
Laura screamed, and fell by the side of Helen. The shriek broughtWarrington and Major Pendennis and the servants to the room. Thesainted woman was dead. The last emotion of her soul here was joy, tobe henceforth uncheckered and eternal. The tender heart beat no more--it was to have no more pangs, no more doubts, no more griefs andtrials. Its last throb was love; and Helen's last breath was abenediction.
The melancholy party bent their way speedily homewards, and Helen waslaid by her husband's side at Clavering, in the old church where shehad prayed so often. For a while Laura went to stay with Dr. Portman,who read the service over his dear sister departed, amidst his ownsobs and those of the little congregation which assembled roundHelen's tomb. There were not many who cared for her, or who spoke ofher when gone. Scarcely more than of a nun in a cloister did peopleknow of that pious and gentle lady. A few words among the cottagerswhom her bounty was accustomed to relieve, a little talk from house tohouse, at Clavering, where this lady, told how their neighbor died ofa complaint in the heart; while that speculated upon the amount ofproperty which the widow had left; and a third wondered whether Arthurwould le
t Fairoaks or live in it, and expected that he would not belong getting through his property--this was all, and except with oneor two who cherished her, the kind soul was forgotten by the nextmarket-day. Would you desire that grief for you should last for afew more weeks? and does after-life seem less solitary, provided thatour names, when we "go down into silence," are echoing on this side ofthe grave yet for a little while, and human voices are still talkingabout us? She was gone, the pure soul, whom only two or three lovedand knew. The great blank she left was in Laura's heart, to whom herlove had been every thing, and who had now but to worship her memory."I am glad that she gave me her blessing before she went away,"Warrington said to Pen; and as for Arthur, with a humbleacknowledgment and wonder at so much affection, he hardly dared to askof Heaven to make him worthy of it, though he felt that a saint therewas interceding for him.
All the lady's affairs were found in perfect order, and her littleproperty ready for transmission to her son, in trust for whom she heldit. Papers in her desk showed that she had long been aware of thecomplaint, one of the heart, under which she labored, and knew itwould suddenly remove her: and a prayer was found in her hand-writing,asking that her end might be, as it was, in the arms of her son.
Laura and Arthur talked over her sayings, all of which the former mostfondly remembered, to the young man's shame somewhat, who thought howmuch greater her love had been for Helen than his own. He referredhimself entirely to Laura to know what Helen would have wished shouldbe done; what poor persons she would have liked to relieve; whatlegacies or remembrances she would have wished to transmit. Theypacked up the vase which Helen in her gratitude had destined to Dr.Goodenough, and duly sent it to the kind doctor: a silver coffee-pot,which she used, was sent off to Portman: a diamond ring with her hair,was given with affectionate greeting to Warrington.
It must have been a hard day for poor Laura when she went over toFairoaks first, and to the little room which she had occupied, andwhich was hers no more, and to the widow's own blank chamber in whichthose two had passed so many beloved hours. There, of course, were theclothes in the wardrobe, the cushion on which she prayed, the chair atthe toilet: the glass that was no more to reflect her dear sad face.After she had been here awhile, Pen knocked and led her down stairs tothe parlor again, and made her drink a little wine, and said, "Godbless you," as she touched the glass. "Nothing shall ever be changedin your room," he said, "it is always your room--it is always mysister's room. Shall it not be so, Laura?" and Laura said, "Yes!"
Among the widow's papers was found a packet, marked by the widow"Letters from Laura's father," and which Arthur gave to her. They werethe letters which had passed between the cousins in the early daysbefore the marriage of, either of them. The ink was faded in whichthey were written: the tears dried out that both perhaps had shed overthem: the grief healed now whose bitterness they chronicled: thefriends doubtless united whose parting on earth had caused to bothpangs so cruel. And Laura learned fully now for the first time whatthe tie was which had bound her so tenderly to Helen: how faithfullyher more than mother had cherished her father's memory, how truly shehad loved him, how meekly resigned him.
One legacy of his mother's Pen remembered, of which Laura could haveno cognizance. It was that wish of Helen's to make some present toFanny Bolton; and Pen wrote to her, putting his letter under anenvelope to Mr. Bows, and requesting that gentleman to read it beforehe delivered it to Fanny. "Dear Fanny," Pen said, "I have toacknowledge two letters from you, one of which was delayed in myillness," (Pen found the first letter in his mother's desk after herdecease, and the reading it gave him a strange pang), "and to thankyou, my kind nurse and friend, who watched me so tenderly during myfever. And I have to tell you that the last words of my dear mother,who is no more, were words of good-will and gratitude to you fornursing me: and she said she would have written to you had she hadtime--that she would like to ask your pardon if she had harshlytreated you--and that she would beg you to show your forgiveness byaccepting some token of friendship and regard from her." Pen concludedby saying that his friend, George Warrington, Esq., of Lamb-courtTemple, was trustee of a little sum of money, of which the interestwould be paid to her until she became of age, or changed her name,which would always be affectionately remembered by her gratefulfriend, A. Pendennis. The sum was in truth but small, although enoughto make a little heiress of Fanny Bolton, whose parents were appeased,and whose father said Mr. P. had acted quite as the gentleman--thoughBows growled out that to plaster a wounded heart with a bank-note wasan easy kind of sympathy; and poor Fanny felt only too clearly thatPen's letter was one of farewell.
"Sending hundred-pound notes to porters' daughters is all dev'lishwell," old Major Pendennis said to his nephew (whom, as the proprietorof Fairoaks and the head of the family, he now treated with markeddeference and civility), "and as there was a little ready money at thebank, and your poor mother wished it, there's perhaps no harm done.But my good lad, I'd have you to remember that you've not above fivehundred a year, though, thanks to me, the world gives you credit forbeing a doosid deal better off; and, on my knees, I beg you, my boy,don't break into your capital. Stick to it, sir; don't speculate withit, sir; keep your land, and don't borrow on it. Tatham tells me thatthe Chatteris branch of the railway may--will almost certainly passthrough Chatteris, and if it can be brought on this side of the Brawl,sir, and through your fields, they'll be worth a dev'lish deal ofmoney, and your five hundred a year will jump up to eight or nine.Whatever it is, keep it, I implore you, keep it. And I say, Pen, Ithink you should give up living in those dirty chambers in the Templeand get a decent lodging. And I should have a man, sir, to wait uponme; and a horse or two in town in the season. All this will prettywell swallow up your income, and I know you must live close. Butremember you have a certain place in society, and you can't afford tocut a poor figure in the world. What are you going to do in thewinter? You don't intend to stay down here, or, I suppose, to go onwriting for that--what-d'ye-call'em--that newspaper?"
"Warrington and I are going abroad again, sir, for a little, and thenwe shall see what is to be done," Arthur replied.
"And you'll let Fairoaks, of course? Good school in the neighborhood;cheap country: dev'lish nice place for East India Colonels or familieswanting to retire. I'll speak about it at the club; there are lots offellows at the club want a place of that sort."
"I hope Laura will live in it for the winter, at least, and will makeit her home," Arthur replied: at which the major pish'd, and psha'd,and said that there ought to be convents, begad, for English ladies,and wished that Miss Bell had not been there to interfere with thearrangements of the family, and that she would mope herself to deathalone in that place.
Indeed, it would have been a very dismal abode for poor Laura, who wasnot too happy either in Doctor Portman's household, and in the townwhere too many things reminded her of the dear parent whom she hadlost. But old Lady Rockminster, who adored her young friend Laura, assoon as she read in the paper of her loss, and of her presence in thecountry, rushed over from Baymouth, where the old lady was staying,and insisted that Laura should remain six months, twelve months, allher life with her; and to her ladyship's house, Martha from Fairoaks,as _femme de chambre_, accompanied her young mistress.
Pen and Warrington saw her depart. It was difficult to say which ofthe young men seemed to regard her the most tenderly. "Your cousin ispert and rather vulgar, my dear, but he seems to have a good heart,"little Lady Rockminster said, who said her say about every body--"butI like Bluebeard best. Tell, me is he _touche au coeur?_"
"Mr. Warrington has been long--engaged," Laura said dropping her eyes.
"Nonsense, child! And good heavens, my dear! that's a pretty diamondcross. What do you mean by wearing it in the morning?"
"Arthur--my brother gave it to me just now. It was--it was--" Shecould not finish the sentence. The carriage passed over the bridge,and by the dear, dear gate of Fairoaks--home no more.