CHAPTER XXXV.
SHOWS HOW ARTHUR HAD BETTER HAVE TAKEN A RETURN-TICKET.
The train carried Arthur only too quickly to Tunbridge,though he had time to review all the circumstances of his life as hemade the brief journey, and to acknowledge to what sad conclusions hisselfishness and waywardness had led him. "Here is the end of hopes andaspirations," thought he, "of romance and ambitions! Where I yield orwhere I am obstinate, I am alike unfortunate; my mother implores me,and I refuse an angel! Say I had taken her: forced on me as she was,Laura would never have been an angel to me. I could not have given hermy heart at another's instigation; I never could have known her as sheis, had I been obliged to ask another to interpret her qualities andpoint out her virtues. I yield to my uncle's solicitations, andaccept, on his guarantee, Blanche, and a seat in Parliament, andwealth, and ambition, and a career; and see!--fortune comes and leavesme the wife without the dowry, which I had taken in compensation of aheart. Why was I not more honest, or am I not less so? It would havecost my poor old uncle no pangs to accept Blanche's fortune,whencesoever it came; he can't even understand, he is bitterlyindignant--heart-stricken, almost--at the scruples which actuate me inrefusing it. I dissatisfy every body. A maimed, weak, imperfectwretch, it seems as if I am unequal to any fortune. I neither makemyself nor any one connected with me happy. What prospect is there forthis poor little frivolous girl, who is to take my obscure name, andshare my fortune? I have not even ambition to excite me, orself-esteem enough to console myself, much more her, for my failure.If I were to write a book that should go through twenty editions, why,I should be the very first to sneer at my reputation. Say I couldsucceed at the bar, and achieve a fortune by bullying witnesses andtwisting evidence; is that a fame which would satisfy my longings, ora calling in which my life would be well spent? How I wish I could bethat priest opposite, who never has lifted his eyes from his breviary,except when we were in Reigate tunnel, when he could not see; or thatold gentleman next him, who scowls at him with eyes of hatred over hisnewspaper. The priest shuts his eyes to the world, but has histhoughts on the book, which is his directory to the world to come. Hisneighbor hates him as a monster, tyrant, persecutor; and fanciesburning martyrs, and that pale countenance looking on, and lighted upby the flame. These have no doubts; these march on trustfully, bearingtheir load of logic."
"Would you like to look at the paper, sir?" here interposed the stoutgentleman (it had a flaming article against the order of theblackcoated gentleman who was traveling with them in the carriage) andPen thanked him and took it, and pursued his reverie, without readingtwo sentences of the journal.
"And yet, would you take either of those men's creeds, with itsconsequences?" he thought. "Ah me! you must bear your own burden,fashion your own faith, think your own thoughts, and pray your ownprayer. To what mortal ear could I tell all, if I had a mind? or whocould understand all? Who can tell another's short-comings, lostopportunities, weigh the passions which overpower, the defects whichincapacitate reason?--what extent of truth and right his neighbor'smind is organized to perceive and to do?--what invisible and forgottenaccident, terror of youth, chance or mischance of fortune, may havealtered the whole current of life? A grain of sand may alter it, asthe flinging of a pebble may end it. Who can weigh circumstances,passions, temptations, that go to our good and evil account, save One,before whose awful wisdom we kneel, and at whose mercy we askabsolution? Here it ends," thought Pen; "this day or to-morrow willwind up the account of my youth; a weary retrospect, alas! a sadhistory, with many a page I would fain not look back on! But who hasnot been tired or fallen, and who has escaped without scars from thatstruggle?" And his head fell on his breast, and the young man's heartprostrated itself humbly and sadly before that Throne where sitswisdom, and love, and pity for all, and made its confession. "Whatmatters about fame or poverty!" he thought. "If I marry this woman Ihave chosen, may I have strength and will to be true to her, and tomake her happy. If I have children, pray God teach me to speak and todo the truth among them, and to leave them an honest name. There areno splendors for my marriage. Does my life deserve any? I begin a newphase of it; a better than the last may it be, I pray Heaven!"
The train stopped at Tunbridge as Pen was making these reflections;and he handed over the newspaper to his neighbor, of whom hetook leave, while the foreign clergyman in the opposite corner stillsate with his eyes on his book. Pen jumped out of the carriage then,his carpetbag in hand, and briskly determined to face his fortune.
A fly carried him rapidly to Lady Clavering's house from the station;and, as he was transported thither, Arthur composed a little speech,which he intended to address to Blanche, and which was really asvirtuous, honest, and well-minded an oration as any man of his turn ofmind, and under his circumstances, could have uttered. The purport ofit was--"Blanche, I cannot understand from your last letter what yourmeaning is, or whether my fair and frank proposal to you is acceptableor no. I think you know the reason which induces me to forego theworldly advantages which a union with you offered, and which I couldnot accept without, as I fancy, being dishonored. If you doubt of myaffection, here I am ready to prove it. Let Smirke be called in, andlet us be married out of hand; and with all my heart I purpose to keepmy vow, and to cherish you through life, and to be a true and a lovinghusband to you."
From the fly Arthur sprang out then to the hall-door, where he was metby a domestic whom he did not know. The man seemed to be surprised atthe approach of the gentleman with the carpet-bag, which he made noattempt to take from Arthur's hands. "Her ladyship's not at home,sir," the man remarked.
"I am Mr. Pendennis," Arthur said. "Where is Lightfoot?" "Lightfoot isgone," answered the man. "My lady is out, and my orders was--"
"I hear Miss Amory's voice in the drawing-room," said Arthur. "Takethe bag to a dressing-room, if you please;" and, passing by theporter, he walked straight toward that apartment, from which, as thedoor opened, a warble of melodious notes issued.
Our little siren was at her piano singing with all her might andfascinations. Master Clavering was asleep on the sofa, indifferent tothe music; but near Blanche sat a gentleman who was perfectlyenraptured with her strain, which was of a passionate andmelancholy nature.
As the door opened, the gentleman started up with a hullo! the musicstopped, with a little shriek from the singer; Frank Clavering woke upfrom the sofa, and Arthur came forward and said, "What, Foker! how doyou do, Foker?" He looked at the piano, and there, by Miss Amory'sside, was just such another purple-leather box as he had seen inHarry's hand three days before, when the heir of Logwood was comingout of a jeweler's shop in Waterloo-place. It was opened, and curledround the white-satin cushion within was, oh, such a magnificentserpentine bracelet, with such a blazing ruby head and diamond tail!
"How-de-do, Pendennis?" said Foker. Blanche made many motions of theshoulders, and gave signs of interest and agitation. And she put herhandkerchief over the bracelet, and then she advanced, with a handwhich trembled very much, to greet Pen. "How is dearest Laura?" shesaid. The face of Foker looking up from his profound mourning--thatface, so piteous and puzzled, was one which the reader's imaginationmust depict for himself; also that of Master Frank Clavering, who,looking at the three interesting individuals with an expression of theutmost knowingness, had only time to ejaculate the words, "Here's ajolly go!" and to disappear sniggering.
Pen, too, had restrained himself up to that minute; but looking stillat Foker, whose ears and cheeks tingled with blushes, Arthur burst outinto a fit of laughter, so wild and loud, that it frightened Blanchemuch more than any the most serious exhibition.
"And this was the secret, was it? Don't blush and turn away, Foker, myboy. Why, man, you are a pattern of fidelity. Could I stand betweenBlanche and such constancy--could I stand between Miss Amory andfifteen thousand a year?"
"It is not that, Mr. Pendennis," Blanche said, with great dignity. "Itis not money, it is not rank, it is not gold that moves _me_; but it_is_ constancy, it is fidelity, it is a w
hole, trustful, loving heartoffered to me that I treasure--yes, that I treasure!" And she madefor her handkerchief, but, reflecting what was underneath it, shepaused. "I do not disown, I do not disguise--my life is abovedisguise--to him on whom it is bestowed, my heart must be foreverbare--that I once thought I loved you,--yes, thought I was beloved byyou! I own. How I clung to that faith! How I strove, I prayed, Ilonged to believe it! But your conduct always--your own words so cold,so heartless, so unkind, have undeceived me. You trifled with theheart of the poor maiden! You flung me back with scorn the troth whichI had plighted! I have explained all--all to Mr. Foker."
"That you have," said Foker, with devotion, and conviction in hislooks.
"What, all?" said Pen, with a meaning look at Blanche. "It is I am infault is it? Well, well, Blanche, be it so. I won't appeal againstyour sentence, and bear it in silence. I came down here looking tovery different things, Heaven knows, and with a heart most truly andkindly disposed toward you. I hope you may be happy with another, as,on my word, it was my wish to make you so; and I hope my honest oldfriend here will have a wife worthy of his loyalty, his constancy, andaffection. Indeed they deserve the regard of any woman--even MissBlanche Amory. Shake hands, Harry; don't look askance at me. Has anybody told you that I was a false and heartless character?"
"I think you're a--" Foker was beginning, in his wrath, when Blancheinterposed.
"Henry, not a word!--I pray you let there be forgiveness!"
"You're an angel, by Jove, you're an angel!" said Foker, at whichBlanche looked seraphically up to the chandelier.
"In spite of what has passed, for the sake of what has passed, I mustalways regard Arthur as a brother," the seraph continued; "we haveknown each other years, we have trodden the same fields, and pluckedthe same flowers together. Arthur! Henry! I beseech you to take handsand to be friends! Forgive you!--_I_ forgive you, Arthur, with myheart I do. Should I not do so for making me so happy?"
"There is only one person of us three whom I pity, Blanche," Arthursaid, gravely, "and I say to you again, that I hope you will make thisgood fellow, this honest and loyal creature, happy."
"Happy! O Heavens!" said Harry. He could not speak. His happinessgushed out at his eyes. "She don't know--she can't know how fond I amof her, and--and who am I? a poor little beggar, and she takes me upand says she'll try and l-l-love me. I ain't worthy of so muchhappiness. Give us your hand, old boy, since she forgives you afteryour heartless conduct, and says she loves you. I'll make you welcome.I tell you I'll love every body who loves her. By--if she tells me tokiss the ground I'll kiss it. Tell me to kiss the ground! I say, tellme. I love you so. You see I love you so."
Blanche looked up seraphically again. Her gentle bosom heaved. Sheheld out one hand as if to bless Harry, and then royally permitted himto kiss it. She took up the pocket handkerchief and hid her own eyes,as the other fair hand was abandoned to poor Harry's tearful embrace.
"I swear that is a villain who deceives such a loving creature asthat," said Pen.
Blanche laid down the handkerchief, and put hand No. 2 softly onFoker's head, which was bent down kissing and weeping over hand No. 1."Foolish boy!" she said, "it shall be loved as it deserves: who couldhelp loving such a silly creature?"
And at this moment Frank Clavering broke in upon the sentimental trio.
"I say, Pendennis!" he said.
"Well, Frank!"
"The man wants to be paid, and go back. He's had some beer."
"I'll go back with him," cried Pen. "Good-by, Blanche. God bless you,Foker, old friend. You know, neither of you want me here." He longedto be off that instant.
"Stay--I must say one word to you. One word in private, if youplease," Blanche said. "You can trust us together, can't you--Henry?"The tone in which the word Henry was spoken, and the appeal, ravishedFoker with delight. "Trust you!" said he; "Oh, who wouldn't trust you!Come along, Franky, my boy."
"Let's have a cigar," said Frank, as they went into the hall.
"She don't like it," said Foker, gently.
"Law bless you--_she don't mind. Pendennis used to smoke regular,"said the candid youth.
"It was but a short word I had to say," said Blanche to Pen, withgreat calm, when they were alone. "You never loved me, Mr. Pendennis."
"I told you how much," said Arthur. "I never deceived you."
"I suppose you will go back and marry Laura," continued Blanche.
"Was that what you had to say?" said Pen.
"You are going to her this very night, I am sure of it. There is nodenying it. You never cared for me."
_"Et vous?"
"Et moi c'est different._ I have been spoilt early. I can not live outof the world, out of excitement. I could have done so, but it is toolate. If I can not have emotions, I must have the world. You wouldoffer me neither one nor the other. You are _blase_ in every thing,even in ambition. You had a career before you, and you would not takeit. You give it up!--for what?--for a _betise_, for an absurdscruple. Why would you not have that seat, and be such a _puritain_?Why should you refuse what is mine by right, _entendez-vous_?"
"You know all then?" said Pen.
"Only within a month. But I have suspected ever since Baymouth--_n'importe_ since when. It is not too late. He is as if he had neverbeen; and there is a position in the world before you yet. Why not sitin Parliament, exert your talent, and give a place in the world toyourself, to your wife? I take _celui-la. Il est bon. 1l est riche.Il est--vous le connaissez autant que moi enfin._ Think you that Iwould not prefer _un homme, qui fera parler de moi?_ If the secretappears I am rich _a millions._ How does it affect me? It is not myfault. It will never appear."
"You will tell Harry every thing, won't you?"
_"Je comprends. Vous refusez"_ said Blanche, savagely. "I will tellHarry at my own time, when we are married. You will not betray me,will you? You, having a defenseless girl's secret, will not turn uponher and use it? _S'il me plait de le cacher, mon secret; pourquoi ledonnerai-je? Je l'aime, mon pauvre pere, voyez-vous?_ I would ratherlive with that man than with you _fades_ intriguers of the world. Imust have emotions--_il m'en donne. Il m'ecrit. Il ecrit tres-bien,voyez-vous--comme un pirate--comme un Bohemien--comme un homme._ Butfor this I would have said to my mother--_Ma mere! quittons ce lachemari, cette lache societe--retournons a mon pere._
"The pirate would have wearied you like the rest," said Pen.
_"Eh! Il me faut des emotions"_ said Blanche. Pen had never seen heror known so much about her in all the years of their intimacy as hesaw and knew now: though he saw more than existed in reality. For thisyoung lady was not able to carry out any emotion to the full; but hada sham enthusiasm, a sham hatred, a sham love, a sham taste, a shamgrief, each of which flared and shone very vehemently for an instant,but subsided and gave place to the next sham emotion.