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The History of Pendennis, Vol. 2

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




"Go outside the door, and wait there, policeman, if you please--Now,
Morgan, you have played one game with me, and you have not had the
best of it, my good man. No, begad, you've not had the best of it,
though you had the best hand; and you've got to pay, too, now, you
scoundrel."

"Yes, sir," said the man.

"I've only found out, within the last week, the game which you have
been driving, you villain. Young De Boots, of the Blues, recognized
you as the man who came to barracks, and did business one-third in
money, one-third in Eau-de-Cologne, and one-third in French prints,
you confounded demure old sinner! I didn't miss any thing, or care a
straw what you'd taken, you booby; but I took the shot, and it hit--hit
the bull's-eye, begad. Dammy, sir, I'm an old campaigner." "What do
you want with me, sir?"

"I'll tell you. Your bills, I suppose, you keep about you in that
dem'd great leather pocket-book, don't you? You'll burn Mrs.
Brixham's bill?"

"Sir, I ain't a-goin' to part with my property," growled the man.

"You lent her sixty pounds five years ago. She and that poor devil of
an insurance clerk, her son, have paid you fifty pounds a year ever
since; and you have got a bill of sale of her furniture, and her note
of hand for a hundred and fifty pounds. She told me so last night. By
Jove, sir, you've bled that poor woman enough."

"I won't give it up," said Morgan; "If I do I'm--"

"Policeman!" cried the major.

"You shall have the bill," said Morgan. "You're not going to take
money of me, and you a gentleman?"

"I shall want you directly," said the major to X, who here entered,
and who again withdrew.

"No, my good sir," the old gentleman continued; "I have not any desire
to have farther pecuniary transactions with you; but we will draw out
a little paper, which, you will have the kindness to sign. No,
stop!--you shall write it: you have improved immensely in writing of
late, and have now a very good hand. You shall sit down and write, if
you please--there, at that table--so--let me see--we may as well have
the date. Write 'Bury-street, St. James's, October 21, 18--.'"

And Morgan wrote as he was instructed, and as the pitiless old major
continued:

"I, James Morgan, having come in extreme poverty into the service of
Arthur Pendennis, Esquire, of Bury-street, St. James's, a major in her
Majesty's service, acknowledge that I received liberal wages and board
wages from my employer, during fifteen years. You can't object to
that, I am sure," said the major.

"During fifteen years," wrote Morgan.

"In which time, by my own care and prudence," the dictator resumed, "I
have managed to amass sufficient money to purchase the house in which
my master resides, and, besides, to effect other savings. Among other
persons from whom I have had money, I may mention my present tenant,
Mrs. Brixham, who, in consideration of sixty pounds advanced by me
five years since, has paid back to me the sum of two hundred and fifty
pounds sterling, besides giving me a note of hand for one hundred and
twenty pounds, which I restore to her at the desire of my late master,
Major Arthur Pendennis, and therewith free her furniture, of which I
had a bill of sale. Have you written?"

"I think if this pistol was loaded, I'd blow your brains out," said
Morgan.

"No, you wouldn't. You have too great a respect for your valuable
life, my good man," the major answered. "Let us go on and begin a
new sentence."

"And having, in return for my master's kindness, stolen his property
from him, which I acknowledge to be now up-stairs in my trunks;
and having uttered falsehoods regarding his and other honorable
families, I do hereby, in consideration of his clemency to me, express
my regret for uttering these falsehoods, and for stealing his
property; and declare that I am not worthy of belief, and that I
hope--yes, begad--that I hope to amend for the future. Signed,
James Morgan."

"I'm d--d if I sign it," said Morgan.

"My good man, it will happen to you, whether you sign or no, begad,"
said the old fellow, chuckling at his own wit. "There, I shall not use
this, you understand, unless--unless I am compelled to do so. Mrs.
Brixham, and our friend the policeman, will witness it, I dare say,
without reading it: and I will give the old lady back her note of
hand, and say, which you will confirm, that she and you are quits. I
see there is Frosch come back with the cab for my trunks; I shall go
to an hotel. You may come in now, policeman; Mr. Morgan and I have
arranged our little dispute. If Mrs. Brixham will sign this paper, and
you, policeman, will do so, I shall be very much obliged to you both.
Mrs. Brixham, you and your worthy landlord, Mr. Morgan, are quits. I
wish you joy of him. Let Frosch come and pack the rest of the things."

Frosch, aided by the Slavey, under the calm superintendence of Mr.
Morgan, carried Major Pendennis's boxes to the cabs in waiting; and
Mrs. Brixham, when her persecutor was not by, came and asked a
Heaven's blessing upon the major, her preserver, and the best and
quietest and kindest of lodgers. And having given her a finger to
shake, which the humble lady received with a courtesy, and over which
she was ready to make a speech full of tears, the major cut short that
valedictory oration, and walked out of the house to the hotel in
Jermyn street, which was not many steps from Morgan's door.

That individual, looking forth from the parlor-window, discharged any
thing but blessings at his parting guest; but the stout old boy could
afford not to be frightened at Mr. Morgan, and flung him a look of
great contempt and humor as he strutted away with his cane.

Major Pendennis had not quitted his house of Bury street many hours,
and Mr. Morgan was enjoying his _otium_, in a dignified manner,
surveying the evening fog, and smoking a cigar, on the doorsteps, when
Arthur Pendennis, Esq., the hero of this history, made his appearance
at the well-known door.

"My uncle out, I suppose, Morgan?" he said to the functionary; knowing
full well that to smoke was treason, in the presence of the major.

"Major Pendennis _i_s hout, sir," said Morgan, with gravity, bowing,
but not touching the elegant cap which he wore. "Major Pendennis have
left this ouse to-day, sir, and I have no longer the honor of being in
his service, sir."

"Indeed, and where is he?"

"I believe he ave taken tempory lodgings at Cox's otel, in Jummin
street," said Mr. Morgan; and added, after a pause, "Are you in
town for some time, pray, sir? Are you in Chambers? I should like to
have the honor of waiting on you there: and would be thankful if you
would favor me with a quarter of an hour."

"Do you want my uncle to take you back?" asked Arthur, insolent and
good-natured.

"I want no such thing; I'd see him--" the man glared at him for a
minute, but he stopped. "No, sir, thank you," he said in a softer
voice; "it's only with you that I wish to speak, on some business
which concerns you; and perhaps you would favor me by walking into
my house."

"If it is but for a minute or two, I will listen to you, Morgan," said
Arthur; and thought to himself, "I suppose the fellow wants me to
patronize him;" and he entered the house. A card was already in the
front windows, proclaiming that apartments were to be let, and having
introduced Mr. Pendennis into the dining-room, and offered him a
chair, Mr. Morgan took one himself, and proceeded to convey some
information to him, with which the reader has already had
cognizance.





CHAPTER XXXI.

IN WHICH PENDENNIS COUNTS HIS EGGS.


[Illustration]

Our friend had arrived in London on that day only,
though but for a brief visit, and having left some fellow-travelers at
an hotel to which he had conveyed them from the West, he hastened to
the Chambers in Lamb-court, which were basking in as much sun as chose
to visit that dreary but not altogether comfortless building. Freedom
stands in lieu of sunshine in Chambers; and Templars grumble, but take
their ease in their Inn. Pen's domestic announced to him that
Warrington was in Chambers too, and, of course, Arthur ran up to his
friend's room straightway, and found it, as of old, perfumed with the
pipe, and George once more at work at his newspapers and reviews. The
pair greeted each other with the rough cordiality which young
Englishmen use one to another: and which carries a great deal of
warmth and kindness under its rude exterior. Warrington smiled and
took his pipe out of his mouth, and said, "Well, young one!" Pen
advanced and held out his hand, and said, "How are you, old boy?" And
so this greeting passed between two friends who had not seen each
other for months. Alphonse and Frederic would have rushed into each
other's arms and shrieked _Ce bon coeur! ce cher Alphonse!_ over each
other's shoulders. Max and Wilhelm would have bestowed half a dozen
kisses, scented with Havanna, upon each other's mustaches. "Well,
young one!" "How are you, old boy?" is what two Britons say: after
saving each other's lives, possibly, the day before. To-morrow they
will leave off shaking hands, and only wag their heads at one another
as they come to breakfast. Each has for the other the very warmest
confidence and regard: each would share his purse with the other; and
hearing him attacked would break out in the loudest and most
enthusiastic praise of his friend; but they part with a mere Good-by,
they meet with a mere How-d'you-do: and they don't write to each other
in the interval. Curious modesty, strange stoical decorum of English
friendship! "Yes, we are not demonstrative like those confounded
foreigners," says Hardman; who not only shows no friendship, but
never felt any all his life long.

"Been in Switzerland?" says Pen. "Yes," says Warrington. "Couldn't
find a bit of tobacco fit to smoke till we came to Strasburg, where I
got some caporal." The man's mind is full, very likely, of the great
sights which he has seen, of the great emotions with which the vast
works of nature have inspired it. But his enthusiasm is too coy to
show itself, even to his closest friend, and he veils it with a cloud
of tobacco. He will speak more fully of confidential evenings,
however, and write ardently and frankly about that which he is shy of
saying. The thoughts and experience of his travel will come forth in
his writings; as the learning, which he never displays in talk,
enriches his style with pregnant allusion and brilliant illustration,
colors his generous eloquence, and points his wit.

The elder gives a rapid account of the places which he has visited in
his tour. He has seen Switzerland, North Italy, and the Tyrol--he has
come home by Vienna, and Dresden, and the Rhine. He speaks about these
places in a shy, sulky voice, as if he had rather not mention them at
all, and as if the sight of them had rendered him very unhappy. The
outline of the elder man's tour thus gloomily sketched out, the young
one begins to speak. He has been in the country--very much
bored--canvassing--uncommonly slow--he is here for a day or two, and
going on to--to the neighborhood of Tunbridge Wells, to some
friends--that will be uncommonly slow, too. How hard it is to make an
Englishman acknowledge that he is happy!

"And the seat in Parliament, Pen? Have you made it all right?" asks
Warrington.

"All right--as soon as Parliament meets and a new writ can be issued,
Clavering retires, and I step into his shoes," says Pen.

"And under which king does Bezonian speak or die?" asked Warrington.
"Do we come out as Liberal Conservative, or as Government man, or on
our own hook?"

"Hem! There are no politics now; every man's politics, at least, are
pretty much the same. I have not got acres enough to make me a
Protectionist; nor could I be one, I think, if I had all the land in
the county. I shall go pretty much with Government, and in advance of
them upon some social questions which I have been getting up during
the vacation; don't grin, you old Cynic, I _have_ been getting up the
Blue Books, and intend to come out rather strong on the Sanitary and
Colonization questions."

"We reserve to ourselves the liberty of voting against
Government, though, we are generally friendly. We are, however,
friends of the people _avant tout_. We give lectures at the Clavering
Institute, and shake hands with the intelligent mechanics. We think
the franchise ought to be very considerably enlarged; at the same time
we are free to accept office some day, when the House has listened to
a few crack speeches from us, and the Administration perceives
our merit."

"I am not Moses," said Pen, with, as usual, somewhat of melancholy in
his voice. "I have no laws from Heaven to bring down to the people
from the mountain. I don't belong to the mountain at all, or set up to
be a leader and reformer of mankind. My faith is not strong enough for
that; nor my vanity, nor my hypocrisy, great enough. I will tell no
lies, George, that I promise you: and do no more than coincide in
those which are necessary and pass current, and can't be got in
without recalling the whole circulation. Give a man at least the
advantage of his skeptical turn. If I find a good thing to say in the
House, I will say it; a good measure, I will support it; a fair place,
I will take it, and be glad of my luck. But I would no more flatter a
great man than a mob; and now you know as much about my politics as I
do. What call have I to be a Whig? Whiggism is not a divine
institution. Why not vote with the Liberal Conservatives? They have
done for the nation what the Whigs would never have done without them.
Who converted both?--the Radicals and the country outside. I think the
_Morning Post_ is often right, and _Punch_ is often wrong. I don't
profess a call, but take advantage of a chance. _Parlons
d'autre chose_."

"The next thing at your heart, after ambition, is love, I suppose?"
Warrington said. "How have our young loves prospered? Are we going to
change our condition, and give up our chambers? Are you going to
divorce me, Arthur, and take unto yourself a wife?"

"I suppose so. She is very good-natured and lively. She sings, and she
don't mind smoking. She'll have a fair fortune--I don't know how
much--but my uncle augurs every thing from the Begum's generosity, and
says that she will come down very handsomely. And I think Blanche is
devilish fond of me," said Arthur, with a sigh.

"That means that we accept her caresses and her money."

"Haven't we said before that life was a transaction?" Pendennis said.
"I don't pretend to break my heart about her. I have told her pretty
fairly what my feelings are--and--and have engaged myself to her. And
since I saw her last, and for the last two months especially, while I
have been in the country, I think she has been growing fonder and
fonder of me; and her letters to me, and especially to Laura, seem to
show it. Mine have been simple enough--no raptures nor vows, you
understand--but looking upon the thing as an _affaire faite_; and not
desirous to hasten or defer the completion."

"And Laura? how is she?" Warrington asked frankly.

"Laura, George," said Pen, looking his friend hard in the face; "by
Heaven, Laura is the best, and noblest, and dearest girl the sun ever
shone upon." His own voice fell as he spoke: it seemed as if he
could hardly utter the words: he stretched out his hand to his
comrade, who took it and nodded his head.

"Have you only found out that now, young un?" Warrington said after a
pause.

"Who has not learned things too late, George?" cried Arthur, in his
impetuous way, gathering words and emotion as he went on. "Whose life
is not a disappointment? Who carries his heart entire to the grave
without a mutilation? I never knew any body who was happy quite: or
who has not had to ransom himself out of the hands of Fate with the
payment of some dearest treasure or other. Lucky if we are left alone
afterward, when we have paid our fine, and if the tyrant visits us no
more. Suppose I have found out that I have lost the greatest prize in
the world, now that it can't be mine--that for years I had an angel
under my tent, and let her go?--am I the only one--ah, dear old boy,
am I the only one? And do you think my lot is easier to bear because I
own that I deserve if? She's gone from us. God's blessing be with her!
She might have staid, and I lost her; it's like Undine: isn't
it, George?"

"She was in this room once," said George.

He saw her there--he heard the sweet low voice--he saw the sweet smile
and eyes shining so kindly--the face remembered so fondly--thought of
in what night-watches--blest and loved always--gone now! A glass that
had held a nosegay--a Bible with Helen's hand-writing--were all that
were left him of that brief flower of his life. Say it is a dream: say
it passes: better the recollection of a dream than an aimless waking
from a blank stupor.

The two friends sate in silence awhile, each occupied with his own
thoughts and aware of the other's. Pen broke it presently, by saying
that he must go and seek for his uncle, and report progress to the old
gentleman. The major had written in a very bad humor; the major was
getting old. "I should like to see you in Parliament, and snugly
settled with a comfortable house and an heir to the name before I make
my bow. Show me these," the major wrote, "and then, let old Arthur
Pendennis make room for the younger fellows: he has walked the Pall
Mall _pavé_ long enough."

"There is a kindness about the old heathen," said Warrington. "He
cares for somebody besides himself, at least for some other part of
himself besides that which is buttoned into his own coat;--for you and
your race. He would like to see the progeny of the Pendennises
multiplying and increasing, and hopes that they may inherit the land.
The old patriarch blesses you from the Club window of Bays's, and is
carried off and buried under the flags of St. James's Church, in sight
of Piccadilly, and the cab-stand, and the carriages going to the
levee. It is an edifying ending."

"The new blood I bring into the family," mused Pen, "is rather
tainted. If I had chosen, I think my father-in-law, Amory, would not
have been the progenitor I should have desired for my race; nor my
grandfather-in-law Snell; nor our Oriental ancestors. By the way, who
was Amory? Amory was lieutenant of an Indiaman. Blanche wrote some
verses about him, about the storm, the mountain wave, the seaman's
grave, the gallant father, and that sort of thing. Amory was drowned
commanding a country ship between Calcutta and Sydney; Amory and the
Begum weren't happy together. She has been unlucky in her selection of
husbands, the good old lady, for, between ourselves, a more despicable
creature than Sir Francis Clavering, of Clavering Park, Baronet,
never--" "Never legislated for his country," broke in Warrington; at
which Pen blushed rather.

"By the way, at Baden," said Warrington, "I found our friend the
Chevalier Strong in great state, and wearing his orders. He told me
that he had quarreled with Clavering, of whom he seemed to have almost
as bad an opinion as you have, and in fact, I think, though I will not
be certain, confided to me his opinion, that Clavering was an utter
scoundrel. That fellow Bloundell, who taught you card-playing at
Oxbridge, was with Strong; and time, I think, has brought out his
valuable qualities, and rendered him a more accomplished rascal than
he was during your undergraduateship. But the king of the place was
the famous Colonel Altamont, who was carrying all before him, giving
fetes to the whole society, and breaking the bank, it was said."

"My uncle knows something about that fellow--Clavering knows something
about him. There's something _louche_ regarding him. But come! I must
go to Bury-street, like a dutiful nephew." And, taking his hat, Pen
prepared to go.

"I will walk, too," said Warrington. And they descended the stairs,
stopping, however, at Pen's chambers, which, as the reader has been
informed, were now on the lower story.

Here Pen began sprinkling himself with Eau-de-Cologne, and carefully
scenting his hair and whiskers with that odoriferous water.

"What is the matter? You've not been smoking. Is it my pipe that has
poisoned you?" growled Warrington.

"I am going to call upon some women," said Pen. "I'm--I'm going to
dine with 'em. They are passing through town, and are at an hotel in
Jermyn-street."

Warrington looked with good-natured interest at the young fellow
dandifying himself up to a pitch of completeness; and appearing at
length in a gorgeous shirt-front and neckcloth, fresh gloves, and
glistening boots. George had a pair of thick high-lows, and his old
shirt was torn about the breast, and ragged at the collar, where his
blue beard had worn it.

"Well, young un," said he, simply, "I like you to be a buck, somehow.
When I walk about with you, it is as if I had a rose in my
button-hole. And you are still affable. I don't think there is any
young fellow in the Temple turns out like you; and I don't believe you
were ever ashamed of walking with me yet."

"Don't laugh at me, George," said Pen.

"I say, Pen," continued the other, sadly, "if you write--if you write
to Laura, I wish you would say 'God bless her' for me." Pen blushed;
and then looked at Warrington; and then--and then burst into an
uncontrollable fit of laughing.

"I'm going to dine with her," he said. "I brought her and Lady
Rockminster up from the country to-day--made two days of it--slept
last night at Bath--I say, George, come and dine, too. I may ask any
one I please, and the old lady is constantly talking about you."

George refused. George had an article to write. George hesitated; and
oh, strange to say! at last he agreed to go. It was agreed that they
should go and call upon the ladies; and they marched away in high
spirits to the hotel in Jermyn-street. Once more the dear face shone
upon him; once more the sweet voice spoke to him, and the tender hand
pressed a welcome.

There still wanted half-an-hour to dinner, "You will go and see your
uncle now, Mr. Pendennis," old Lady Rockminster said. "You will not
bring him to dinner--no--his old stories are intolerable; and I want
to talk to Mr. Warrington; I daresay he will amuse us. I think we have
heard all your stories. We have been together for two whole days, and
I think we are getting tired of each other."

So obeying her ladyship's orders, Arthur went down stairs and walked
to his uncle's lodgings.





CHAPTER XXXII

FIAT JUSTITIA.


[Illustration]

The dinner was served when Arthur returned, and Lady
Rockminster began to scold him for arriving late. But Laura, looking
at her cousin, saw that his face was so pale and scared, that she
interrupted her imperious patroness; and asked, with tender alarm,
what had happened? Was Arthur ill?

Arthur drank a large bumper of sherry. "I have heard the most
extraordinary news; I will tell you afterward," he said, looking at
the servants. He was very nervous and agitated during the dinner.
"Don't tramp and beat so with your feet under the table," Lady
Rockminster said. "You have trodden on Fido, and upset his saucer. You
see Mr. Warrington keeps his boots quiet."

At the dessert--it seemed as if the unlucky dinner would never be
over--Lady Rockminster said, "This dinner has been exceedingly stupid.
I suppose something has happened, and that you want to speak to Laura.
I will go and have my nap. I am not sure that I shall have any
tea--no. Good night, Mr. Warrington. You must come again, and when
there is no business to talk about." And the old lady, tossing up her
head, walked away from the room with great dignity.

George and the others had risen with her, and Warrington was about to
go away, and was saying "Good-night" to Laura, who, of course was
looking much alarmed about her cousin, when Arthur said, "Pray, stay,
George. You should hear my news too, and give me your counsel in this
case. I hardly know how to act in it."

"It's something about Blanche, Arthur," said Laura, her heart beating,
and her cheek blushing, as she thought it had never blushed in
her life.

"Yes--and the most extraordinary story," said Pen. "When I left you to
go to my uncle's lodgings, I found his servant, Morgan, who has been
with him so long, at the door, and he said that he and his master had
parted that morning; that my uncle had quitted the house, and had gone
to an hotel--this hotel. I asked for him when I came in; but he was
gone out to dinner. Morgan then said that he had something of a most
important nature to communicate to me, and begged me to step into the
house; his house it is now. It appears the scoundrel has saved a great
deal of money while in my uncle's service, and is now a capitalist and
a millionaire, for what I know. Well, I went into the house, and what
do you think he told me? This must be a secret between us all--at
least if we can keep it, now that it is in possession of that villain.
Blanche's father is not dead. He has come to life again. The marriage
between Clavering and the Begum is no marriage."

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