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The History of Pendennis, Vol. 2

W >> William Makepeace Thackeray >> The History of Pendennis, Vol. 2




"Damn it, sir!" cried out Pendennis, fiercely. "Come and see if they
are in my chambers: here's the court and the door--come in and see."
And Bows, taking off his hat and bowing first, followed the young man.

They were not in Pen's chambers, as we know. But when the gardens were
closed, the two women, who had had but a melancholy evening's
amusement, walked away sadly with the children, and they entered into
Lamb-court, and stood under the lamp-post which cheerfully ornaments
the center of that quadrangle, and looked up to the third floor of the
house where Pendennis's chambers were, and where they saw a light
presently kindled. Then this couple of fools went away, the children
dragging wearily after them, and returned to Mr. Bolton, who was
immersed in rum-and-water at his lodge in Shepherd's Inn.

Mr. Bows looked round the blank room which the young man occupied, and
which had received but very few ornaments or additions since the last
time we saw them. Warrington's old book-case and battered library,
Pen's writing-table with its litter of papers presented an aspect
cheerless enough. "Will you like to look in the bedrooms, Mr. Bows,
and see if my victims are there?" he said bitterly; "or whether I have
made away with the little girls, and hid them in the coal-hole?"

"Your word is sufficient, Mr. Pendennis," the other said, in his sad
tone. "You say they are not here, and I know they are not. And I hope
they never have been here, and never will come."

"Upon my word, sir, you are very good, to choose my acquaintances for
me," Arthur said, in a haughty tone; "and to suppose that any body
would be the worse for my society. I remember you, and owe you
kindness from old times, Mr. Bows; or I should speak more angrily than
I do, about a very intolerable sort of persecution to which you seem
inclined to subject me. You followed me out of your inn yesterday, as
if you wanted to watch that I shouldn't steal something." Here Pen
stammered and turned red, directly he had said the words; he felt he
had given the other an opening, which Bows instantly took.

"I do think you came to steal something, as you say the words, sir,"
Bows said. "Do you mean to say that you came to pay a visit to poor
old Bows, the fiddler; or to Mrs. Bolton at the porter's lodge? O fie!
Such a fine gentleman as Arthur Pendennis, Esquire, doesn't condescend
to walk up to my garret, or to sit in a laundress's kitchen, but for
reasons of his own. And my belief is that you came to steal a pretty
girl's heart away, and to ruin it, and to spurn it afterward, Mr.
Arthur Pendennis. That's what the world makes of you young dandies,
you gentlemen of fashion, you high and mighty aristocrats that trample
upon the people. It's sport to you, but what is it, to the poor, think
you the toys of your pleasures, whom you play with and whom you fling
into the streets when you are tired? I know your order, sir. I know
your selfishness, and your arrogance, and your pride. What does it
matter to my lord, that the poor man's daughter is made miserable, and
her family brought to shame? You must have your pleasures, and the
people of course must pay for them. What are we made for, but for
that? It's the way with you all--the way with you all, sir."

Bows was speaking beside the question, and Pen had his advantage here,
which he was not sorry to take--not sorry to put off the debate from
the point upon which his adversary had first engaged it. Arthur broke
out with a sort of laugh, for which he asked Bows's pardon. "Yes, I am
an aristocrat," he said, "in a palace up three pair of stairs, with a
carpet nearly as handsome as yours, Mr. Bows. My life is passed in
grinding the people, is it?--in ruining virgins and robbing the poor?
My good sir, this is very well in a comedy, where Job Thornberry
slaps his breast, and asks my lord how dare he trample on an honest
man and poke out an Englishman's fire-side; but in real life, Mr.
Bows, to a man who has to work for his bread as much as you do--how
can you talk about aristocrats tyrannizing over the people? Have I
ever done you a wrong? or assumed airs of superiority over you? Did
you not have an early regard for me--in days when we were both of us
romantic young fellows, Mr. Bows? Come, don't be angry with me now,
and let us be as good friends as we were before."

"Those days were very different," Mr. Bows answered; "and Mr. Arthur
Pendennis was an honest, impetuous young fellow then; rather selfish
and conceited, perhaps, but honest. And I liked you then, because you
were ready to ruin yourself for a woman."

"And now, sir?" Arthur asked.

"And now times are changed, and you want a woman to ruin herself for
you," Bows answered. "I know this child, sir. I've always said this
lot was hanging over her. She has heated her little brain with novels
until her whole thoughts are about love and lovers, and she scarcely
sees that she treads on a kitchen floor. I have taught the little
thing. She is full of many talents and winning ways, I grant you. I am
fond of the girl, sir. I'm a lonely old man; I lead a life that I
don't like, among boon companions, who make me melancholy. I have but
this child that I care for. Have pity upon me, and don't take her away
from me, Mr. Pendennis--don't take her away."

The old man's voice broke as he spoke, its accents touched Pen, much
more than the menacing or sarcastic tone which Bows had commenced
by adopting.

"Indeed," said he, kindly; "you do me a wrong if you fancy I intend
one to poor little Fanny. I never saw her till Friday night. It was
the merest chance that our friend Costigan threw her into my way. I
have no intentions regarding her--that is--"

"That is, you know very well that she is a foolish girl, and her
mother a foolish woman--that is, you meet her in the Temple Gardens,
and of course, without previous concert, that is, that when I found
her yesterday, reading the book you've wrote, she scorned me," Bows
said. "What am I good for but to be laughed at? a deformed old fellow
like me; an old fiddler, that wears a thread-bare coat, and gets his
bread by playing tunes at an alehouse? You are a fine gentleman, you
are. You wear scent in your handkerchief, and a ring on your finger.
You go to dine with great people. Who ever gives a crust to old Bows?
And yet I might have been as good a man as the best of you. I might
have been a man of genius, if I had had the chance; ay, and have lived
with the master-spirits of the land. But every thing has failed with
me. I'd ambition once, and wrote plays, poems, music--nobody would
give me a hearing. I never loved a woman, but she laughed at me; and
here I am in my old age alone--alone! Don't take this girl from me,
Mr. Pendennis, I say again. Leave her with me a little longer. She was
like a child to me till yesterday. Why did you step in and make her
mock my deformity and old age?"





CHAPTER XII.

THE HAPPY VILLAGE AGAIN.


Early in this history, we have had occasion to speak of the little
town of Clavering, near which Pen's paternal home of Fairoaks stood,
and of some of the people who inhabited the place, and as the society
there was by no means amusing or pleasant, our reports concerning it
were not carried to any very great length. Mr. Samuel Huxter, the
gentleman whose acquaintance we lately made at Vauxhall, was one of
the choice spirits of the little town, when he visited it during his
vacations, and enlivened the tables of his friends there, by the wit
of Bartholomew's and the gossip of the fashionable London circles
which he frequented.

Mr. Hobnell, the young gentleman whom Pen had thrashed, in consequence
of the quarrel in the Fotheringay affair, was, while a pupil at the
Grammar-school at Clavering, made very welcome at the tea-table of
Mrs. Huxter, Samuel's mother, and was free of the surgery, where he
knew the way to the tamarind-pots, and could scent his pocket-handkerchief
with rose-water. And it was at this period of his life that he formed an
attachment for Miss Sophy Huxter, whom, on his father's demise, he
married, and took home to his house of the Warren, at a few miles from
Clavering.

The family had possessed and cultivated an estate there for many years
as yeomen and farmers. Mr. Hobnell's father pulled down the old
farm-house; built a flaring new white-washed mansion, with capacious
stables; and a piano in the drawing-room; kept a pack of harriers; and
assumed the title of Squire Hobnell. When he died, and his son reigned
in his stead, the family might be fairly considered to be established
as county gentry. And Sam Huxter, at London, did no great wrong in
boasting about his brother-in-law's place, his hounds, horses, and
hospitality, to his admiring comrades at Bartholomew's. Every year, at
a time commonly when Mrs. Hobnell could not leave the increasing
duties of her nursery, Hobnell came up to London for a lark, had rooms
at the Tavistock, and indulged in the pleasures of the town together.
Ascott, the theaters, Vauxhall, and the convivial taverns in the
joyous neighborhood of Covent Garden, were visited by the vivacious
squire, in company with his learned brother. When he was in London, as
he said, he liked to do as London does, and to "go it a bit," and when
he returned to the west, he took a new bonnet and shawl to Mrs.
Hobnell, and relinquished for country sports and occupations, during
the next eleven months, the elegant amusements of London life.

Sam Huxter kept up a correspondence with his relative, and supplied
him with choice news of the metropolis, in return for the baskets of
hares, partridges, and clouted cream which the squire and his
good-natured wife forwarded to Sam. A youth more brilliant and
distinguished they did not know. He was the life and soul of their
house, when he made his appearance in his native place. His songs,
jokes, and fun kept the Warren in a roar. He had saved their eldest
darling's life, by taking a fish-bone out of her throat; in fine, he
was the delight of their circle.

As ill-luck would have it, Pen again fell in with Mr. Huxter, only
three days after the rencounter at Vauxhall. Faithful to his vow, he
had not been to see little Fanny. He was trying to drive her from his
mind by occupation, or other mental excitement. He labored, though not
to much profit, incessantly in his rooms; and, in his capacity of
critic for the "Pall Mall Gazette," made woeful and savage onslaught
on a poem and a romance which came before him for judgment. These
authors slain, he went to dine alone at the lonely club of the
Polyanthus, where the vast solitudes frightened him, and made him only
the more moody. He had been to more theaters for relaxation. The whole
house was roaring with laughter and applause, and he saw only an
ignoble farce that made him sad. It would have damped the spirits of
the buffoon on the stage to have seen Pen's dismal face. He hardly
knew what was happening; the scene, and the drama passed before him
like a dream or a fever. Then he thought he would go to the
Back-Kitchen, his old haunt with Warrington--he was not a bit sleepy
yet. The day before he had walked twenty miles in search after rest,
over Hampstead Common and Hendon lanes, and had got no sleep at night.
He would go to the Back-Kitchen. It was a sort of comfort to him to
think he should see Bows. Bows was there, very calm, presiding at the
old piano. Some tremendous comic songs were sung, which made the room
crack with laughter. How strange they seemed to Pen! He could only see
Bows. In an extinct volcano, such as he boasted that his breast was,
it was wonderful how he should feel such a flame! Two days' indulgence
had kindled it; two days' abstinence had set it burning in fury. So,
musing upon this, and drinking down one glass after another, as
ill-luck would have it, Arthur's eyes lighted upon Mr. Huxter, who had
been to the theater, like himself, and, with two or three comrades,
now entered the room, Huxter whispered to his companions, greatly to
Pen's annoyance. Arthur felt that the other was talking about him.
Huxter then worked through the room, followed by his friends, and came
and took a place opposite to Pen, nodding familiarly to him, and
holding him out a dirty hand to shake.

Pen shook hands with his fellow townsman. He thought he had been
needlessly savage to him on the last night when they had met. As for
Huxter, perfectly at good humor with himself and the world, it never
entered his mind that he could be disagreeable to any body; and the
little dispute, or "chaff," as he styled it, of Vauxhall, was a trifle
which he did not in the least regard.

The disciple of Galen having called for "four stouts," with which he
and his party refreshed themselves, began to think what would be the
most amusing topic of conversation with Pen, and hit upon that precise
one which was most painful to our young gentleman.

"Jolly night at Vauxhall--wasn't it?" he said, and winked in a very
knowing way.

"I'm glad you liked it," poor Pen said, groaning in spirit.

"I was dev'lish cut--uncommon--been dining with some chaps at
Greenwich. That was a pretty bit of muslin hanging on your arm--who
was she?" asked the fascinating student.

The question was too much for Arthur. "Have I asked you any questions
about yourself, Mr. Huxter?" he said.

"I didn't mean any offense--beg pardon--hang it, you cut up quite
savage," said Pen's astonished interlocutor.

"Do you remember what took place between us the other night?" Pen
asked, with gathering wrath. "You forget? Very probably. You were
tipsy, as you observed just now, and very rude."

"Hang it, sir, I asked your pardon," Huxter said, looking red.

"You did certainly, and it was granted with all my heart, I am sure.
But if you recollect I begged that you would have the goodness to omit
me from the list of your acquaintance for the future; and when we met
in public, that you would not take the trouble to recognize me. Will
you please to remember this hereafter; and as the song is beginning,
permit me to leave you to the unrestrained enjoyment of the music."

He took his hat, and making a bow to the amazed Mr. Huxter, left the
table, as Huxter's comrades, after a pause of wonder, set up such a
roar of laughter at Huxter, as called for the intervention of the
president of the room; who bawled out, "Silence, gentlemen; do have
silence for the Body Snatcher!" which popular song began as Pen left
the Back-Kitchen. He flattered himself that he had commanded his
temper perfectly. He rather wished that Huxter had been pugnacious. He
would have liked to fight him or somebody. He went home. The day's
work, the dinner, the play, the whisky-and-water, the quarrel--
nothing soothed him. He slept no better than on the previous night.

A few days afterward, Mr. Sam Huxter wrote home a letter to Mr.
Hobnell in the country, of which Mr. Arthur Pendennis formed the
principal subject. Sam described Arthur's pursuits in London, and his
confounded insolence of behavior to his old friends from home. He
said he was an abandoned criminal, a regular Don Juan, a fellow who,
when he _did_ come into the country, ought to be kept out of _honest
people's houses_. He had seen him at Vauxhall, dancing with an
innocent girl in the lower ranks of life, of whom he was making a
victim. He had found out from an Irish gentleman (formerly in the
army), who frequented a club of which he, Huxter, was member, who the
girl was, on whom this _conceited humbug_ was practicing his infernal
arts; and he thought he should warn her father, &c., &c.,--the letter
then touched on general news, conveyed the writer's thanks for the
last parcel and the rabbits, and hinted his extreme readiness for
further favors.

About once a year, as we have stated, there was occasion for a
christening at the Warren, and it happened that this ceremony took
place a day after Hobnell had received the letter of his
brother-in-law in town. The infant (a darling little girl) was
christened Myra-Lucretia, after its two godmothers, Miss Portman and
Mrs. Pybus of Clavering, and as of course Hobnell had communicated
Sam's letter to his wife, Mrs. Hobnell imparted its horrid contents to
her two gossips. A pretty story it was, and prettily it was told
throughout Clavering in the course of that day.

Myra did not--she was too much shocked to do so--speak on the matter
to her mamma, but Mrs. Pybus had no such feelings of reserve. She
talked over the matter not only with Mrs. Portman, but with Mr. and
the Honorable Mrs. Simcoe, with Mrs. Glanders, her daughters being to
that end ordered out of the room, with Madame Fribsby, and, in a word,
with the whole of the Clavering society. Madam Fribsby looking
furtively up at her picture of the dragoon, and inwards into her own
wounded memory, said that men would be men, and as long as they were
men would be deceivers; and she pensively quoted some lines from
Marmion, requesting to know where deceiving lovers should rest? Mrs.
Pybus had no words of hatred, horror, contempt, strong enough for a
villain who could be capable of conduct so base. This was what came of
early indulgence, and insolence, and extravagance, and aristocratic
airs (it is certain that Pen had refused to drink tea with Mrs.
Pybus), and attending the corrupt and horrid parties in the dreadful
modern Babylon! Mrs. Portman was afraid that she must acknowledge that
the mother's fatal partiality had spoiled this boy, that his literary
successes had turned his head, and his horrid passions had made him
forget the principles which Dr. Portman had instilled into him in
early life. Glanders, the atrocious Captain of Dragoons, when informed
of the occurrence by Mrs. Glanders, whistled and made jocular
allusions to it at dinner time; on which Mrs. Glanders called him a
brute, and ordered the girls again out of the room, as the horrid
captain burst out laughing. Mr. Simcoe was calm under the
intelligence; but rather pleased than otherwise; it only served to
confirm the opinion which he had always had of that wretched young
man: not that he knew any thing about him--not that he had read one
line of his dangerous and poisonous works; Heaven forbid that he
should: but what could be expected from such a youth, and such
frightful, such lamentable, such deplorable want of seriousness? Pen
formed the subject for a second sermon at the Clavering chapel of
ease: where the dangers of London, and the crime of reading and
writing novels, were pointed out on a Sunday evening to a large and
warm congregation. They did not wait to hear whether he was guilty or
not. They took his wickedness for granted: and with these admirable
moralists, it was who should fling the stone at poor Pen.

The next day Mrs. Pendennis, alone and almost fainting with emotion
and fatigue, walked or rather ran to Dr. Portman's house, to consult
the good doctor. She had had an anonymous letter; some Christian had
thought it his or her duty to stab the good soul who had never done
mortal a wrong--an anonymous letter with references to Scripture,
pointing out the doom of such sinners, and a detailed account of Pen's
crime. She was in a state of terror and excitement pitiable to
witness. Two or three hours of this pain had aged her already. In her
first moment of agitation she had dropped the letter, and Laura had
read it. Laura blushed when she read it; her whole frame trembled, but
it was with anger. "The cowards," she said. "It isn't true. No,
mother, it isn't true."

"It _is_ true, and you've done it, Laura," cried out Helen fiercely.
"Why did you refuse him when he asked you? Why did you break my heart
and refuse him? It is you who led him into crime. It is you who flung
him into the arms of this--this woman. Don't speak to me. Don't answer
me. I will never forgive you, never. Martha, bring me my bonnet and
shawl. I'll go out. I won't have you come with me. Go away. Leave me,
cruel girl; why have you brought this shame on me?" And bidding her
daughter and her servants keep away from her, she ran down the road to
Clavering.

Doctor Portman, glancing over the letter, thought he knew the hand
writing, and, of course, was already acquainted with the charge made
against poor Pen. Against his own conscience, perhaps (for the worthy
doctor, like most of us, had a considerable natural aptitude for
receiving any report unfavorable to his neighbors), he strove to
console Helen; he pointed out that the slander came from an anonymous
quarter, and therefore must be the work of a rascal; that the charge
might not be true--was not true, most likely--at least, that Pen must
be heard before he was condemned; that the son of such a mother was
not likely to commit such a crime, &c., &c.

Helen at once saw through his feint of objection and denial. "You
think he has done it," she said, "you know you think he has done it,
Oh, why did I ever leave him, Doctor Portman, or suffer him away from
me? But he can't be dishonest--pray God, not dishonest--you don't
think that, do you? Remember his conduct about that other--person
--how madly he was attached to her. He was an honest boy then--he is
now. And I thank God--yes, I fall down on my knees and thank God he
paid Laura. You said he was good--you did yourself. And now--if this
woman loves him--and you know they must--if he has taken her from her
home, or she tempted him, which is most likely-why still, she must be
his wife and my daughter. And he must leave the dreadful world and
come back to me--to his mother, Doctor Portman. Let us go away and
bring him back--yes--bring him back--and there shall be joy for
the--the sinner that repenteth. Let us go now, directly, dear
friend--this very--"

Helen could say no more. She fell back and fainted. She was carried to
a bed in the house of the pitying doctor, and the surgeon was called
to attend her. She lay all night in an alarming state. Laura came to
her, or to the rectory rather; for she would not see Laura. And Doctor
Portman, still beseeching her to be tranquil, and growing bolder and
more confident of Arthur's innocence as he witnessed the terrible
grief of the poor mother, wrote a letter to Pen warning him of the
rumors that were against him, and earnestly praying that he would
break off and repent of a connection so fatal to his best interests
and his soul's welfare.

And Laura?--was her heart not wrung by the thought of Arthur's crime
and Helen's estrangement? Was it not a bitter blow for the innocent
girl to think that at one stroke she should lose _all_ the love which
she cared for in the world?





CHAPTER XIII.

WHICH HAD VERY NEARLY BEEN THE LAST OF THE STORY.


Doctor Portman's letter was sent off to its destination in London, and
the worthy clergyman endeavored to sooth down Mrs. Pendennis into some
state of composure until an answer should arrive, which the doctor
tried to think, or, at any rate, persisted in saying, would be
satisfactory as regarded the morality of Mr. Pen. At least Helen's
wish of moving upon London and appearing in person to warn her son of
his wickedness, was impracticable for a day or two. The apothecary
forbade her moving even so far as Fairoaks for the first day, and it
was not until the subsequent morning that she found herself again back
on her sofa at home, with the faithful, though silent Laura, nursing
at her side.

Unluckily for himself and all parties, Pen never read that homily
which Doctor Portman addressed to him, until many weeks after the
epistle had been composed; and day after day, the widow waited for her
son's reply to the charges against him; her own illness increasing
with every day's delay. It was a hard task for Laura to bear the
anxiety; to witness her dearest friend's suffering: worst of all, to
support Helen's estrangement, and the pain caused to her by that
averted affection. But it was the custom of this young lady to the
utmost of her power, and by means of that gracious assistance which
Heaven awarded to her pure and constant prayers, to do her duty. And,
as that duty was performed quite noiselessly--while, the
supplications, which endowed her with the requisite strength for
fulfilling it, also took place in her own chamber, away from all
mortal sight,--we, too, must be perforce silent about these virtues of
hers, which no more bear public talking about, than a flower will bear
to bloom in a ball-room. This only we will say-that a good woman is
the loveliest flower that blooms under Heaven; and that we look with
love and wonder upon its silent grace, its pure fragrance, its
delicate bloom of beauty. Sweet and beautiful!--the fairest and the
most spotless!--is it not pity to see them bowed down or devoured by
Grief or Death inexorable--wasting in disease-pining with long pain-or
cut off by sudden fate in their prime? _We_ may deserve grief--but
why should these be unhappy?--except that we know that Heaven chastens
those whom it loves best; being pleased, by repeated trials, to make
these pure spirits more pure.

So Pen never got the letter, although it was duly posted and
faithfully discharged by the postman into his letter-box in Lamb
Court, and thence carried by the laundress to his writing-table with
the rest of his lordship's correspondence; into which room, have we
not seen a picture of him, entering from his little bedroom adjoining,
as Mrs. Flanagan, his laundress, was in the act of drinking his gin?

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