CHAPTER LIII. A critical Chapter
As Fanny saw the two ladies and the anxious countenance of the eider,who regarded her with a look of inscrutable alarm and terror, thepoor girl at once knew that Pen's mother was before her; there was aresemblance between the widow's haggard eyes and Arthur's as he tossedin his bed in fever. Fanny looked wistfully at Mrs. Pendennis and atLaura afterwards; there was no more expression in the latter's face thanif it had been a mass of stone. Hard-heartedness and gloom dwelt on thefigures of both the new-comers; neither showed any the faintest gleamof mercy or sympathy for Fanny. She looked desperately from them to theMajor behind them. Old Pendennis dropped his eyelids, looking up ever sostealthily from under them at Arthur's poor little nurse.
"I--I wrote to you yesterday, if you please, ma'am," Fanny said,trembling in every limb as she spoke; and as pale as Laura, whose sadmenacing face looked over Mrs. Pendennis's shoulder.
"Did you, madam?" Mrs. Pendennis said. "I suppose I may now relieve youfrom nursing my son. I am his mother, you understand."
"Yes, ma'am. I--this is the way to his--Oh, wait a minute," cried outFanny. "I must prepare you for his----"
The widow, whose face had been hopelessly cruel and ruthless, herestarted back with a gasp and a little cry, which she speedily stifled.
"He's been so since yesterday," Fanny said, trembling very much, andwith chattering teeth.
A horrid shriek of laughter came out of Pen's room, whereof the door wasopen; and, after several shouts, the poor wretch began to sing a collegedrinking-song, and then to hurray and to shout as if he was in the midstof a wine-party, and to thump with his fist against the wainscot. He wasquite delirious.
"He does not know me, ma'am," Fanny said.
"Indeed. Perhaps he will know his mother; let me pass, if you please,and go in to him." And the widow hastily pushed by little Fanny, andthrough the dark passage which led into Pen's sitting-room. Laura sailedby Fanny, too, without a word; and Major Pendennis followed them. Fannysat down on a bench in the passage, and cried, and prayed as well as shecould. She would have died for him; and they hated her. They had not aword of thanks or kindness for her, the fine ladies. She sate there inthe passage, she did not know how long. They never came out to speak toher. She sate there until Doctor Goodenough came to pay his second visitthat day; he found the poor little thing at the door.
"What, nurse? How's your patient?" asked the good-natured Doctor. "Hashe had any rest?"
"Go and ask them. They're inside," Fanny answered.
"Who? his mother?"
Fanny nodded her head and didn't speak.
"You must go to bed yourself, my poor little maid," said the Doctor."You will be ill, too, if you don't."
"Oh, mayn't I come and see him: mayn't I come and see him! I--I--lovehim so," the little girl said; and as she spoke she fell down on herknees and clasped hold of the Doctor's hand in such an agony that to seeher melted the kind physician's heart, and caused a mist to come overhis spectacles.
"Pooh, pooh! Nonsense! Nurse, has he taken his draught? Has he had anyrest? Of course you must come and see him. So must I."
"They'll let me sit here, won't they, sir? I'll never make no noise.I only ask to stop here," Fanny said. On which the Doctor called her astupid little thing; put her down upon the bench where Pen's printer'sdevil used to sit so many hours; tapped her pale cheek with his finger,and bustled into the farther room.
Mrs. Pendennis was ensconced pale and solemn in a great chair by Pen'sbedside. Her watch was on the bed-table by Pen's medicines. Her bonnetand cloaks were laid in the window. She had her Bible in her lap,without which she never travelled. Her first movement, after seeingher son, had been to take Fanny's shawl and bonnet which were on hisdrawers, and bring them out and drop them down upon his study-table.She had closed the door upon Major Pendennis, and Laura too; and takenpossession of her son.
She had had a great doubt and terror lest Arthur should not know her;but that pang was spared to her in part at least. Pen knew his motherquite well, and familiarly smiled and nodded at her. When she came in,he instantly fancied that they were at home at Fairoaks; and began totalk and chatter and laugh in a rambling wild way. Laura could hear himoutside. His laughter shot shafts of poison into her heart. It was true,then. He had been guilty--and with that creature!--an intrigue with aservant-maid, and she had loved him--and he was dying most likely ravingand unrepentant. The Major now and then hummed out a word of remark orconsolation, which Laura scarce heard.
A dismal sitting it was for all parties; and when Goodenough appeared,he came like an angel into the room.
It is not only for the sick man, it is for the sick man's friends thatthe Doctor comes. His presence is often as good for them as for thepatient, and they long for him yet more eagerly. How we have all watchedafter him! what an emotion the thrill of his carriage-wheels in thestreet, and at length at the door, has made us feel! how we hang uponhis words, and what a comfort we get from a smile or two, if he canvouchsafe that sunshine to lighten our darkness! Who hasn't seen themother prying into his face, to know if there is hope for the sickinfant that cannot speak, and that lies yonder, its little framebattling with fever? Ah how she looks into his eyes! What thanks ifthere is light there; what grief and pain if he casts them down, anddares not say "hope!" Or it is the house-father who is stricken. Theterrified wife looks on, while the Physician feels his patient's wrist,smothering her agonies, as the children have been called upon to staytheir plays and their talk. Over the patient in the fever, the wifeexpectant, the children unconscious, the Doctor stands as if he wereFate, the dispenser of life and death: he must let the patient off thistime: the woman prays so for his respite! One can fancy how awful theresponsibility must be to a conscientious man: how cruel the feelingthat he has given the wrong remedy, or that it might have been possibleto do better: how harassing the sympathy with survivors, if the case isunfortunate--how immense the delight of victory!
Having passed through a hasty ceremony of introduction to thenew-comers, of whose arrival he had been made aware by the heartbrokenlittle nurse in waiting without, the Doctor proceeded to examine thepatient, about whose condition of high fever there could be nomistake, and on whom he thought it necessary to exercise the strongestantiphlogistic remedies in his power. He consoled the unfortunate motheras best he might; and giving her the most comfortable assurances onwhich he could venture, that there was no reason to despair yet, thateverything might still be hoped from his youth, the strength of hisconstitution, and so forth; and having done his utmost to allay thehorrors of the alarmed matron, he took the elder Pendennis aside intothe vacant room (Warrington's bedroom), for the purpose of holding alittle consultation.
The case was very critical. The fever, if not stopped, might and wouldcarry off the young fellow: he must be bled forthwith: the mother mustbe informed of this necessity. Why was that other young lady broughtwith her? She was out of place in a sick-room.
"And there was another woman still, be hanged to it!" the Major said,"the--the little person who opened the door." His sister-in-law hadbrought the poor little devil's bonnet and shawl out, flung them uponthe study-table. Did Goodenough know anything about the--the littleperson? "I just caught a glimpse of her as we passed in," the Majorsaid, "and begad she was uncommonly nice-looking." The Doctor lookedqueer: the Doctor smiled--in the very gravest moments, with life anddeath pending, such strange contrasts and occasions of humour willarise, and such smiles will pass, to satirise the gloom, as it were, andto make it more gloomy!
"I have it," at last he said, re-entering the study; and he wrote acouple of notes hastily at the table there, and sealed one of them.Then, taking up poor Fanny's shawl and bonnet, and the notes, he wentout in the passage to that poor little messenger, and said, "Quick,nurse; you must carry this to the surgeon, and bid him come instantly;and then go to my house, and ask for my servant Harbottle, and tell himto get this prescription prepared, and wait until I--until it is ready.It may take a little in pre
paration."
So poor Fanny trudged away with her two notes, and found the apothecary,who lived in the Strand hard by, and who came straightway, his lancetin his pocket, to operate on his patient; and then Fanny made for theDoctor's house, in Hanover Square.
The Doctor was at home again before the prescription was made up, whichtook Harbottle, his servant, such a long time in compounding; and,during the remainder of Arthur's illness, poor Fanny never made herappearance in the quality of nurse at his chambers any more. But forthat day and the next, a little figure might be seen lurking aboutPen's staircase,--a sad, sad little face looked at and interrogated theapothecary, and the apothecary's boy, and the laundress, and the kindphysician himself, as they passed out of the chambers of the sick man.And on the third day, the kind Doctor's chariot stopped at Shepherd'sInn, and the good, and honest, and benevolent man went into the porter'slodge, and tended a little patient whom he had there, for the bestremedy he found was on the day when he was enabled to tell Fanny Boltonthat the crisis was over, and that there was at length every hope forArthur Pendennis.
J. Costigan, Esquire, late of Her Majesty's service, saw the Doctor'scarriage, and criticised its horses and appointments. "Green liveries,bedad!" the General said, "and as foin a pair of high-stepping beehorses as ever a gentleman need sit behoind, let alone a docthor.There's no ind to the proide and ar'gance of them docthors,nowadays--not but that is a good one, and a scoientific cyarkter, anda roight good fellow, bedad; and he's brought the poor little girl welltroo her faver, Bows, me boy;" and so pleased was Mr. Costigan with theDoctor's behaviour and skill, that, whenever he met Dr. Goodenough'scarriage in future, he made a point of saluting it and the physicianinside, in as courteous and magnificent a manner, as if Dr. Goodenoughhad been the Lord Liftenant himself, and Captain Costigan had been inhis glory in Phaynix Park.
The widow's gratitude to the physician knew no bounds--or scarcely anybounds, at least. The kind gentleman laughed at the idea of taking afee from a literary man, or the widow of a brother practitioner; and shedetermined when she got to Fairoaks that she would send Goodenough thesilver-gilt vase, the jewel of the house, and the glory of the late JohnPendennis, preserved in green baize, and presented to him at Bath, bythe Lady Elizabeth Firebrace, on the recovery of her son, the late SirAnthony Firebrace, from the scarlet fever. Hippocrates, Hygeia, KingBladud, and a wreath of serpents surmount the cup to this day; which wasexecuted in their finest manner by Messrs. Abednego, of Milsom Street;and the inscription was by Mr. Birch, tutor to the young baronet.
This priceless gem of art the widow determined to devote to Goodenough,the preserver of her son; and there was scarcely any other favour whichher gratitude would not have conferred upon him, except one, which hedesired most, and which was that she should think a little charitablyand kindly of poor Fanny, of whose artless, sad story he had gotsomething during his interviews with her, and of whom he was induced tothink very kindly,--not being disposed, indeed, to give much credit toPen for his conduct in the affair, or not knowing what that conducthad been. He knew enough, however, to be aware that the poor infatuatedlittle girl was without stain as yet; that while she had been in Pen'sroom it was to see the last of him, as she thought, and that Arthur wasscarcely aware of her presence; and that she suffered under the deepestand most pitiful grief, at the idea of losing him, dead or living.
But on the one or two occasions when Goodenough alluded to Fanny, thewidow's countenance, always soft and gentle, assumed an expression socruel and inexorable, that the Doctor saw it was in vain to ask her forjustice or pity, and he broke off all entreaties, and ceased makingany further allusions regarding his little client. There is a complaintwhich neither poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups ofthe East could allay, in the men in his time, as we are informed bya popular poet of the days of Elizabeth; and which, when exhibitedin women, no medical discoveries or practice subsequent--neitherhomoeopathy, nor hydropathy, nor mesmerism, nor Dr. Simpson, nor Dr.Locock can cure, and that is--we won't call it jealousy, but rathergently denominate rivalry and emulation in ladies.
Some of those mischievous and prosaic people who carp and calculate atevery detail of the romancer, and want to know, for instance, how, whenthe characters in the 'Critic' are at a dead lock with their daggersat each other's throats, they are to be got out of that murderouscomplication of circumstances, may be induced to ask how it was possiblein a set of chambers in the Temple, consisting of three rooms, twocupboards, a passage, and a coal-box, Arthur a sick gentleman, Helen hismother, Laura her adopted daughter, Martha their country attendant, Mrs.Wheezer a nurse from St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Mrs. Flanagan an Irishlaundress, Major Pendennis a retired military officer, Morgan hisvalet, Pidgeon Mr. Arthur Pendennis's boy, and others could beaccommodated--the answer is given at once, that almost everybody in theTemple was out of town, and that there was scarcely a single occupantof Pen's house in Lamb Court except those who were occupied round thesick-bed of the sick gentleman, about whose fever we have not given alengthy account, neither enlarge we very much upon the more cheerfultheme of his recovery.
Everybody we have said was out of town, and of course such a fashionableman as young Mr. Sibwright, who occupied chambers on the second floorin Pen's staircase, could not be supposed to remain in London. Mrs.Flanagan, Mr. Pendennis's laundress was acquainted with Mrs. Rouncy whodid for Mr. Sibwright; and that gentleman's bedroom was got ready forMiss Bell, or Mrs. Pendennis, when the latter should be inclinedto leave her son's sick-room, to try and seek for a little rest forherself.
If that young buck and flower of Baker Street, Percy Sibwright, couldhave known who was the occupant of his bedroom, how proud he would havebeen of that apartment:--what poems he would have written about Laura!(several of his things have appeared in the annuals, and in manuscriptin the nobility's albums)--he was a Camford man and very nearly got theEnglish Prize Poem, it was said--Sibwright, however, was absent and hisbed given up to Miss Bell. It was the prettiest little brass bed in theworld, with chintz curtains lined with pink--he had a mignonette-box inhis bedroom window, and the mere sight of his little exhibition of shinyboots, arranged in trim rows over his wardrobe, was a gratification tothe beholder. He had a museum of scent, pomatum, and bear's-grease pots,quite curious to examine, too; and a choice selection of portraitsof females, almost always in sadness and generally in disguise ordeshabille, glittered round the neat walls of his elegant little bowerof repose. Medora with dishevelled hair was consoling herself over herbanjo for the absence of her Conrad--the Princesse Fleur de Marie (ofRudolstein and the Mysteres de Paris) was sadly ogling out of the barsof her convent cage, in which, poor prisoned bird, she was moultingaway,--Dorothea of Don Quixote was washing her eternal feet:--in fine,it was such an elegant gallery as became a gallant lover of the sex.And in Sibwright's sitting-room, while there was quite an infantinelaw library clad in skins of fresh new-born calf, there was a tolerablylarge collection of classical books which he could not read, and ofEnglish and French works of poetry and fiction which he read a greatdeal too much. His invitation cards of the past season still decoratedhis looking-glass: and scarce anything told of the lawyer but thewig-box beside the Venus upon the middle shelf of the bookcase, on whichthe name of P. Sibwright, Esquire, was gilded.
With Sibwright in chambers was Mr. Bangham. Mr. Bangham was a sportingman married to a rich widow. Mr. Bangham had no practice--did notcome to chambers thrice in a term: went a circuit for those mysteriousreasons which make men go circuit,--and his room served as a greatconvenience to Sibwright when that young gentleman gave his littledinners. It must be confessed that these two gentlemen have nothingto do with our history, will never appear in it again probably, but wecannot help glancing through their doors as they happen to be open tous, and as we pass to Pen's rooms; as in the pursuit of our own businessin life through the Strand, at the Club, nay at church itself, we cannothelp peeping at the shops on the way, or at our neighbour's dinner, orat the faces under the bonnets in the next pew.
Very many years after the circumstances about which we are at presentoccupied, Laura, with a blush and a laugh showing much humour, ownedto having read a French novel once much in vogue, and when her husbandasked her, wondering where on earth she could have got such a volume,she owned that it was in the Temple, when she lived in Mr. PercySibwright's chambers.
"And, also, I never confessed," she said, "on that same occasion, whatI must now own to: that I opened the japanned box, and took out thatstrange-looking wig inside it, and put it on and looked at myself in theglass in it."
Suppose Percy Sibwright had come in at such a moment as that? Whatwould he have said,--the enraptured rogue? What would have been all thepictures of disguised beauties in his room compared to that living one?Ah, we are speaking of old times, when Sibwright was a bachelor andbefore he got a county court,--when people were young--when most peoplewere young. Other people are young now; but we no more.
When Miss Laura played this prank with the wig, you can't suppose thatPen could have been very ill upstairs; otherwise, though she had grownto care for him ever so little, common sense of feeling and decorumwould have prevented her from performing any tricks or trying anydisguises.
But all sorts of events had occurred in the course of the last fewdays which had contributed to increase or account for her gaiety, and alittle colony of the reader's old friends and acquaintances was by thistime established in Lamb Court, Temple, and round Pen's sick-bed there.First, Martha, Mrs. Pendennis's servant, had arrived from Fairoaks,being summoned thence by the Major who justly thought her presence wouldbe comfortable and useful to her mistress and her young master, forneither of whom the constant neighbourhood of Mrs. Flanagan (who duringPen's illness required more spirituous consolation than ever to supporther) could be pleasant. Martha then made her appearance in due seasonto wait upon Mr. Pendennis, nor did that lady go once to bed until thefaithful servant had reached her, when, with a heart full of maternalthankfulness she went and lay down upon Warrington's straw mattress, andamong his mathematical books as has been already described.
It is true that ere that day a great and delightful alteration in Pen'scondition had taken place. The fever, subjugated by Dr. Goodenough'sblisters, potions, and lancet, had left the young man, or only returnedat intervals of feeble intermittence; his wandering senses had settledin his weakened brain: he had had time to kiss and bless his motherfor coming to him, and calling for Laura and his uncle (who were bothaffected according to their different natures by his wan appearance, hislean shrunken hands, his hollow eyes and voice, his thin bearded face)to press their hands and thank them affectionately; and after thisgreeting, and after they had been turned out of the room by hisaffectionate nurse, he had sunk into a fine sleep which had lasted forabout sixteen hours, at the end of which period he awoke calling outthat he was very hungry. If it is hard to be ill and to loathe food, oh,how pleasant to be getting well and to be feeling hungry--how hungry!Alas, the joys of convalescence become feebler with increasing years, asother joys do--and then--and then comes that illness when one does notconvalesce at all.
On the day of this happy event, too, came another arrival in Lamb Court.This was introduced into the Pen-Warring sitting-room by large puffs oftobacco smoke--the puffs of were followed by an individual with a cigarin his mouth, and a carpet-bag under his arm--this was Warrington whohad run back from Norfolk, when Mr. Bows thoughtfully wrote to informhim of his friend's calamity. But he had been from home when Bows'sletter had reached his brother's house--the Eastern Counties did notthen boast of a railway (for we beg the reader to understand that weonly commit anachronisms when we choose and when by a daring violationof those natural laws some great ethical truth is to be advanced)--infine, Warrington only appeared with the rest of the good luck upon thelucky day after Pen's convalescence may have been said to have begun.
His surprise was, after all, not very great when he found the chambersof his sick friend occupied, and his old acquaintance the Major seateddemurely in an easy-chair (Warrington had let himself into the roomswith his own passkey), listening, or pretending to listen, to a younglady who was reading to him a play of Shakspeare in a low sweet voice.The lady stopped and started, and laid down her book, at the apparitionof the tall traveller with the cigar and the carpet-bag. He blushed, heflung the cigar into the passage: he took off his hat, and dropped thattoo, and going up to the Major, seized that old gentleman's hand, andasked questions about Arthur.
The Major answered in a tremulous, though cheery voice--it was curioushow emotion seemed to olden him--and returning Warrington's pressurewith a shaking hand, told him the news of Arthur's happy crisis, of hismother's arrival--with her young charge--with Miss----.
"You need not tell me her name," Mr. Warrington said with greatanimation, for he was affected and elated with the thought of hisfriend's recovery--"you need not tell me your name. I knew at once itwas Laura." And he held out his hand and took hers. Immense kindness andtenderness gleamed from under his rough eyebrows, and shook his voice ashe gazed at her and spoke to her. "And this is Laura!" his looks seemedto say. "And this is Warrington!" the generous girl's heart beat back."Arthur's hero--the brave and the kind--he has come hundreds of miles tosuccour him, when he heard of his friend's misfortune!"
"Thank you, Mr. Warrington," was all that Laura said, however; and asshe returned the pressure of his kind hand, she blushed so, that she wasglad the lamp was behind her to conceal her flushing face.
As these two were standing in this attitude, the door of Pen'sbedchamber was opened stealthily as his mother was wont to open it, andWarrington saw another lady, who first looked at him, and then turninground towards the bed, said, "Hsh!" and put up her hand.
It was to Pen Helen was turning, and giving caution. He called outwith a feeble, tremulous, but cheery voice, "Come in, Stunner--come in,Warrington. I knew it was you--by the--by the smoke, old boy," he said,as holding his worn hand out, and with tears at once of weakness andpleasure in his eyes, he greeted his friend.
"I--I beg pardon, ma'am, for smoking," Warrington said, who now almostfor the first time blushed for his wicked propensity.
Helen only said, "God bless you, Mr. Warrington." She was so happy, shewould have liked to kiss George. Then, and after the friends had had abrief, very brief interview, the delighted and inexorable mother, givingher hand to Warrington, sent him out of the room, too, back to Laura andthe Major, who had not resumed their play of Cymbeline where they hadleft it off at the arrival of the rightful owner of Pen's chambers.