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The History of Pendennis, Vol. 2

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




"And Blanche, I suppose, is her grandfather's heir," said Warrington.

"Perhaps: but the child of what a father! Amory is an escaped
convict--Clavering knows it; my uncle knows it--and it was with this
piece of information held over Clavering _in terrorem_ that the
wretched old man got him to give up his borough to me."

"Blanche doesn't know it," said Laura, "nor poor Lady Clavering."

"No," said Pen; "Blanche does not even know the history of her father.
She knew that he and her mother had separated, and had heard, as a
child, from Bonner, her nurse, that Mr. Amory was drowned in New South
Wales. He was there as a convict, not as a ship's captain, as the poor
girl thought. Lady Clavering has told me that they were not happy, and
that her husband was a bad character. She would tell me all, she said,
some day: and I remember her saying to me, with tears in her eyes,
that it was hard for a woman to be forced to own that she was glad to
hear her husband was dead: and that twice in her life she should have
chosen so badly. What is to be done now? The man can't show and claim
his wife: death is probably over him if he discovers himself: return
to transportation certainly. But the rascal has held the threat of
discovery over Clavering for some time past, and has extorted money
from him time after time."

"It is our friend, Colonel Altamont, of course," said Warrington: "I
see all now."

"If the rascal comes back," continued Arthur, "Morgan, who knows his
secret, will use it over him--and having it in his possession,
proposes to extort money from us all. The d--d rascal supposed I was
cognizant of it," said Pen, white with anger; "asked me if I would
give him an annuity to keep it quiet; threatened me, _me_, as if I was
trafficking with this wretched old Begum's misfortune; and would
extort a seat in Parliament out of that miserable Clavering. Good
heavens! was my uncle mad, to tamper in such a conspiracy? Fancy our
mother's son, Laura, trading on such a treason!"

"I can't fancy it, dear Arthur," said Laura; seizing Arthur's hand,
and kissing it.

"No!" broke out Warrington's deep voice, with a tremor; he surveyed
the two generous and loving young people with a pang of indescribable
love and pain. "No. Our boy can't meddle with such a wretched intrigue
as that. Arthur Pendennis can't marry a convict's daughter; and sit in
Parliament as member for the hulks. You must wash your hands of the
whole affair, Pen. You must break off. You must give no explanations
of why and wherefore, but state that family reasons render a match
impossible. It is better that those poor women should fancy you false
to your word than that they should know the truth. Besides, you can
get from that dog Clavering--I can fetch that for you easily
enough--an acknowledgement that the reasons which you have given to
him as the head of the family are amply sufficient for breaking off
the union. Don't you think with me, Laura?" He scarcely dared to look
her in the face as he spoke. Any lingering hope that he might
have--any feeble hold that he might feel upon the last spar of his
wrecked fortune, he knew he was casting away; and he let the wave of
his calamity close over him. Pen had started up while he was speaking,
looking eagerly at him. He turned his head away. He saw Laura rise up
also and go to Pen, and once more take his hand and kiss it. "She
thinks so too--God bless her!" said George.

"Her father's shame is not Blanche's fault, dear Arthur, is it?" Laura
said, very pale, and speaking very quickly. "Suppose you had been
married, would you desert her because she had done no wrong? Are you
not pledged to her? Would you leave her because she is in misfortune?
And if she is unhappy, wouldn't you console her? Our mother would, had
she been here." And, as she spoke, the kind girl folded her arms round
him, and buried her face upon his heart.

"Our mother is an angel with God," Pen sobbed out. "And you are the
dearest and best of women--the dearest, the dearest and the best.
Teach me my duty. Pray for me that I may do it--pure heart. God bless
you--God bless you, my sister."

"Amen," groaned out Warrington, with his head in his hands. "She is
right," he murmured to himself. "She can't do any wrong, I think
--that girl." Indeed, she looked and smiled like an angel. Many a day
after he saw that smile--saw her radiant face as she looked up at
Pen--saw her putting back her curls, blushing and smiling, and still
looking fondly toward him.

She leaned for a moment her little fair hand on the table, playing on
it. "And now, and now," she said, looking at the two gentlemen--

"And what now?" asked George.

"And now we will have some tea," said Miss Laura, with her smile.

But before this unromantic conclusion to a rather sentimental scene
could be suffered to take place, a servant brought word that Major
Pendennis had returned to the hotel, and was waiting to see his
nephew. Upon this announcement, Laura, not without some alarm, and an
appealing look to Pen, which said "Behave yourself well--hold to the
right, and do your duty--be gentle, but firm with your uncle"--Laura,
we say, with these warnings written in her face, took leave of the
two gentlemen, and retreated to her dormitory. Warrington, who was not
generally fond of tea, yet grudged that expected cup very much. Why
could not old Pendennis have come in an hour later? Well, an hour
sooner or later, what matter? The hour strikes at last? The inevitable
moment comes to say Farewell. The hand is shaken, the door closed,
and the friend gone; and, the brief joy over, you are alone. "In which
of those many windows of the hotel does _her_ light beam?" perhaps he
asks himself as he passes down the street. He strides away to the
smoking-room of a neighboring club, and there applies himself to his
usual solace of a cigar. Men are brawling and talking loud about
politics, opera-girls, horse-racing, the atrocious tyranny of the
committee; bearing this sacred secret about him, he enters into this
brawl. Talk away, each louder than the other. Rattle and crack jokes.
Laugh and tell your wild stories. It is strange to take one's place
and part in the midst of the smoke and din, and think every man here
has his secret _ego_, most likely, which is sitting lonely and apart,
away in the private chamber, from the loud game in which the rest of
us is joining!

Arthur, as he traversed the passages of the hotel, felt his anger
rousing up within him. He was indignant to think that yonder old
gentleman whom he was about to meet, should have made him such a tool
and puppet, and so compromised his honor and good name. The old
fellow's hand was very cold and shaky when Arthur took it. He was
coughing; he was grumbling over the fire; Frosch could not bring his
dressing-gown or arrange his papers as that d--d, confounded,
impudent scoundrel of a Morgan. The old gentleman bemoaned himself,
and cursed Morgan's ingratitude with peevish pathos.

"The confounded impudent scoundrel! He was drunk last night, and
challenged me to fight him, Pen; and, bedad, at one time I was so
excited that I thought I should have driven a knife into him; and the
infernal rascal has made ten thousand pound, I believe--and deserves
to be hanged, and will be; but, curse him, I wish he could have lasted
out my time. He knew all my ways, and, dammy, when I rang the bell,
the confounded thief brought the thing I wanted--not like that stupid
German lout. And what sort of time have you had in the country? Been a
good deal with Lady Rockminster? You can't do better. She is one of
the old school--_vieille école, bonne école_, hey? Dammy, they don't
make gentlemen and ladies now; and in fifty years you'll hardly know
one man from another. But they'll last my time. I ain't long for this
business: I am getting very old, Pen, my boy; and, gad, I was thinking
to-day, as I was packing up my little library, there's a Bible among
the books that belonged to my poor mother; I would like you to keep
that, Pen. I was thinking, sir, that you would most likely open the
box when it was your property, and the old fellow was laid under the
sod, sir," and the major coughed and wagged his old head over
the fire.

His age--his kindness, disarmed Pen's anger somewhat, and made Arthur
feel no little compunction for the deed which he was about to do. He
knew that the announcement which he was about to make would destroy
the darling hope of the old gentleman's life, and create in his breast
a woeful anger and commotion.

"Hey--hey--I'm off, sir," nodded the Elder; "but I'd like to read a
speech of yours in the _Times_ before I go--'Mr. Pendennis said,
Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking'--hey, sir? hey, Arthur?
Begad, you look dev'lish well and healthy, sir. I always said my
brother Jack would bring the family right. You must go down into the
west, and buy the old estate, sir. _Nec tenui pennâ_, hey? We'll rise
again, sir--rise again on the wing--and, begad, I shouldn't be
surprised that you will be a baronet before you die."

His words smote Pen. "And it is I," he thought, "that am going to
fling down the poor old fellow's air-castle. Well, it must be. Here
goes. I--I went into your lodgings at Bury-street, though I did not
find you," Pen slowly began--"and I talked with Morgan, uncle."

"Indeed!" The old gentleman's cheek began to flush involuntarily, and
he muttered, "The cat's out of the bag now, begad!"

"He told me a story, sir, which gave me the deepest surprise and
pain," said Pen.

The major tried to look unconcerned. "What--that story about--
about--What-do-you-call-'em, hey?"

"About Miss Amory's father--about Lady Clavering's first husband, and
who he is, and what."

"Hem--a devilish awkward affair!" said the old man, rubbing his nose.
"I--I've been aware of that--eh--confounded circumstance, for
some time."

"I wish I had known it sooner, or not at all," said Arthur, gloomily.

"He is all safe," thought the senior, greatly relieved. "Gad! I should
have liked to keep it from you altogether--and from those two poor
women, who are as innocent as unborn babes in the transaction."

"You are right. There is no reason why the two women should hear it;
and I shall never tell them--though that villain, Morgan, perhaps
may," Arthur said, gloomily. "He seems disposed to trade upon his
secret, and has already proposed terms of ransom to me. I wish I had
known of the matter earlier, sir. It is not a very pleasant thought to
me that I am engaged to a convict's daughter."

"The very reason why I kept it from you--my dear boy. But Miss Amory
is not a convict's daughter, don't you see? Miss Amory is the daughter
of Lady Clavering, with fifty or sixty thousand pounds for a fortune;
and her father-in-law, a baronet and country gentleman, of high
reputation, approves of the match, and gives up his seat in Parliament
to his son-in-law. What can be more simple?"

"Is it true, sir?"

"Begad, yes, it is true, of course it's true. Amory's dead. I tell you
he _is_ dead. The first sign of life he shows, he is dead. He can't
appear. We have him at a dead-lock like the fellow in the play--the
Critic, hey?--devilish amusing play, that Critic. Monstrous witty man
Sheridan; and so was his son. By gad, sir, when I was at the Cape, I
remember--" The old gentleman's garrulity, and wish, to conduct Arthur
to the Cape, perhaps arose from a desire to avoid the subject which
was near est his nephew's heart; but Arthur broke out, interrupting
him, "If you had told me this tale sooner, I believe you would have
spared me and yourself a great deal of pain and disappointment; and I
should not have found myself tied to an engagement from which I can't,
in honor, recede."

"No, begad, we've fixed you--and a man who's fixed to a seat in
Parliament, and a pretty girl, with a couple of thousand a year, is
fixed to no bad thing, let me tell you," said the old man.

"Great Heavens, sir!" said Arthur; "are you blind? Can't you see?"

"See what, young gentleman?" asked the other.

"See, that rather than trade upon this secret of Amory's," Arthur
cried out, "I would go and join my father-in-law at the hulks! See,
that rather than take a seat in Parliament as a bribe from Clavering
for silence, I would take the spoons off the table! See, that you have
given me a felon's daughter for a wife; doomed me to poverty and
shame; cursed my career when it might have been--when it might have
been so different but for you! Don't you see that we have been playing
a guilty game, and have been over-reached; that in offering to marry
this poor girl, for the sake of her money, and the advancement she
would bring, I was degrading myself, and prostituting my honor?"

"What in Heaven's name do you mean, sir?" cried the old man.

"I mean to say that there is a measure of baseness which I can't
pass," Arthur said. "I have no other words for it, and am sorry if
they hurt you. I have felt, for months past, that my conduct in this
affair has been wicked, sordid, and worldly. I am rightly punished by
the event, and having sold myself for money and a seat in Parliament,
by losing both."

"How do you mean that you lose either?" shrieked the old gentleman.
"Who the devil's to take your fortune or your seat away from you. By
G--, Clavering _shall_ give 'em to you. You shall have every shilling
of eighty thousand pounds."

"I'll keep my promise to Miss Amory, sir," said Arthur.

"And, begad, her parents shall keep theirs to you."

"Not so, please God," Arthur answered. "I have sinned, but, Heaven
help me, I will sin no more. I will let Clavering off from that
bargain which was made without my knowledge. I will take no money with
Blanche but that which was originally settled upon her; and I will try
to make her happy. You have done it. You have brought this on me, sir.
But you knew no better: and I forgive--"

"Arthur--in God's name--in your father's, who, by Heavens, was the
proudest man alive, and had the honor of the family always at
heart--in mine--for the sake of a poor broken down old fellow, who has
always been dev'lish fond of you--don't fling this chance away--I pray
you, I beg you, I implore you, my dear, dear boy, don't fling this
chance away. It's the making of you. You're sure to get on. You'll be
a baronet; it's three thousand a year: dammy, on my knees, there, I
beg of you, don't do this."

And the old man actually sank down on his knees, and seizing one of
Arthur's hands, looked up piteously at him. It was cruel to remark the
shaking hands, the wrinkled and quivering face, the old eyes weeping
and winking, the broken voice. "Ah, sir," said Arthur, with a groan.
"You have brought pain enough on me, spare me this. You have wished me
to marry Blanche. I marry her. For God's sake, sir, rise, I can't
bear it."

"You--you mean to say that you will take her as a beggar, and be one
yourself?" said the old gentleman, rising up and coughing violently.

"I look at her as a person to whom a great calamity has befallen, and
to whom I am promised. She can not help the misfortune; and as she had
my word when she was prosperous, I shall not withdraw it now she is
poor. I will not take Clavering's seat, unless afterward it should be
given of his free will. I will not have a shilling more than her
original fortune."

"Have the kindness to ring the bell," said the old gentleman. "I have
done my best, and said my say; and I'm a dev'lish old fellow.
And--and--it don't matter. And--and Shakspeare was right--and Cardinal
Wolsey--begad--'and had I but served my God as I've served you'--yes,
on my knees, by Jove, to my own nephew--I mightn't have
been--Good-night, sir, you needn't trouble yourself to call again."

Arthur took his hand, which the old man left to him; it was quite
passive and clammy. He looked very much oldened; and it seemed as if
the contest and defeat had quite broken him.

On the next day he kept his bed, and refused to see his
nephew.





CHAPTER XXXIII.

IN WHICH THE DECK BEGINS TO CLEAR.


When, arrayed in his dressing-gown, Pen walked up, according to
custom, to Warrington's chambers next morning, to inform his friend of
the issue of the last night's interview with his uncle, and to ask, as
usual, for George's advice and opinion, Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress,
was the only person whom Arthur found in the dear old chambers. George
had taken a carpet-hag, and was gone. His address was to his brother's
house, in Suffolk. Packages addressed to the newspaper and review for
which he wrote lay on the table, awaiting delivery.

"I found him at the table, when I came, the dear gentleman!" Mrs.
Flanagan said, "writing at his papers, and one of the candles was
burned out; and hard as his bed is, he wasn't in it all night, sir."

Indeed, having sat at the Club until the brawl there became
intolerable to him, George had walked home, and had passed the night
finishing some work on which he was employed, and to the completion of
which he bent himself with all his might. The labor was done, and the
night was worn away somehow, and the tardy November dawn came and
looked in on the young man as he sate over his desk. In the next day's
paper, or quarter's review, many of us very likely admired the work of
his genius, the variety of his illustration, the fierce vigor of his
satire, the depth of his reason. There was no hint in his writing of
the other thoughts which occupied him, and always accompanied him in
his work--a tone more melancholy than was customary, a satire more
bitter and impatient than that which he afterward showed, may have
marked the writings of this period of his life to the very few persons
who knew his style or his name. We have said before, could we know the
man's feelings as well as the author's thoughts--how interesting most
books would be! more interesting than merry. I suppose harlequin's
face behind his mask is always grave, if not melancholy--certainly
each man who lives by the pen, and happens to read this, must
remember, if he will, his own experiences, and recall many solemn
hours of solitude and labor. What a constant care sate at the side of
the desk and accompanied him! Fever or sickness were lying possibly in
the next room: a sick child might be there, with a wife watching over
it terrified and in prayer: or grief might be bearing him down, and
the cruel mist before the eyes rendering the paper scarce visible as
he wrote on it, and the inexorable necessity drove on the pen. What
man among us has not had nights and hours like these? But to the manly
heart--severe as these pangs are, they are endurable: long as the
night seems, the dawn comes at last, and the wounds heal, and the
fever abates, and rest comes, and you can afford to look back on the
past misery with feelings that are any thing but bitter.

Two or three books for reference, fragments of torn up manuscript,
drawers open, pens and inkstand, lines half visible on the blotting
paper, a bit of sealing wax twisted and bitten and broken into sundry
pieces--such relics as these were about the table, and Pen flung
himself down in George's empty chair--noting things according to his
wont, or in spite of himself. There was a gap in the book-case (next
to the old College Plato, with the Boniface Arms), where Helen's Bible
used to be. He has taken that with him, thought Pen. He knew why his
friend was gone. Dear, dear old George!

Pen rubbed his hand over his eyes. O, how much wiser, how much better,
how much nobler he is than I, he thought. Where was such a friend, or
such a brave heart? Where shall I ever hear such a frank voice, and
kind laughter? Where shall I ever see such a true gentleman? No wonder
she loved him. God bless him. What was I compared to him? What could
she do else but love him? To the end of our days we will be her
brothers, as fate wills that we can be no more. We'll be her knights,
and wait on her: and when we're old, we'll say how we loved her. Dear,
dear old George!

When Pen descended to his own chambers, his eye fell on the letter-box
of his outer door, which he had previously overlooked, and there was a
little note to A. P., Esq., in George's well-known handwriting, George
had put into Pen's box probably as he was going away.

"Dr. Pen--I shall be half way home when you breakfast, and intend to
stay over Christmas, in Norfolk, or elsewhere.

"I have my own opinion of the issue of matters about which we talked
in J----street yesterday; and think my presence _de trop_." Vale.
G.W.

"Give my very best regards and adieux to your cousin." And so George
was gone, and Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, ruled over his
empty chambers.

[Illustration]

Pen of course had to go and see his uncle on the day after their
colloquy, and not being admitted, he naturally went to Lady
Rockminister's apartments, where the old lady instantly asked for
Bluebeard, and insisted that he should come to dinner.

"Bluebeard is gone," Pen said, and he took out poor George's scrap of
paper, and handed it to Laura, who looked at it--did not look at Pen
in return, but passed the paper back to him, and walked away. Pen
rushed into an eloquent eulogium upon his dear old George to Lady
Rockminister, who was astonished at his enthusiasm. She had never
heard him so warm in praise of any body; and told him with her usual
frankness, that she didn't think it had been in his nature to care so
much about any other person.

As Mr. Pendennis was passing in Waterloo-place, in one of his many
walks to the hotel where Laura lived, and whither duty to his uncle
carried Arthur every day, Arthur saw issuing from Messrs. Gimcrack's
celebrated shop an old friend, who was followed to his Brougham by an
obsequious shopman bearing parcels. The gentleman was in the deepest
mourning: the Brougham, the driver, and the horse, were in mourning.
Grief in easy circumstances, and supported by the comfortablest
springs and cushions, was typified in the equipage and the little
gentleman, its proprietor.

"What, Foker! Hail, Foker!" cried out Pen--the reader, no doubt, has
likewise recognized Arthur's old schoolfellow--and he held out his
hand to the heir of the late lamented John Henry Foker, Esq., the
master of Logwood and other houses, the principal partner in the great
brewery of Foker & Co.: the greater portion of Foker's Entire.

A little hand, covered with a glove of the deepest ebony, and set off
by three inches of a snowy wristband, was put forth to meet Arthur's
salutation. The other little hand held a little morocco case,
containing, no doubt, something precious, of which Mr. Foker had just
become proprietor in Messrs. Gimcrack's shop. Pen's keen eyes and
satiric turn showed him at once upon what errand Mr. Foker had been
employed; and he thought of the heir in Horace pouring forth the
gathered wine of his father's vats; and that human nature is pretty
much the same in Regent-street as in the Via Sacra.

"Le roi est mort. Vive le roi!" said Arthur.

"Ah!" said the other. "Yes. Thank you--very much obliged. How do you
do, Pen? very busy--good-by!" and he jumped into the black Brougham,
and sate like a little black Care behind the black coachman. He had
blushed on seeing Pen, and showed other signs of guilt and
perturbation, which Pen attributed to the novelty of his situation;
and on which he began to speculate in his usual sardonic manner.

"Yes: so wags the world," thought Pen. "The stone closes over Harry
the Fourth, and Harry the Fifth reigns in his stead. The old ministers
at the brewery come and kneel before him with their books; the
draymen, his subjects, fling up their red caps, and shout for him.
What a grave deference and sympathy the bankers and the lawyers show!
There was too great a stake at issue between those two that they
should ever love each other very cordially. As long as one man keeps
another out of twenty thousand a year, the younger must be always
hankering after the crown, and the wish must be the father to the
thought of possession. Thank Heaven, there was no thought of money
between me and our dear mother, Laura."

"There never could have been. You would have spurned it!" cried Laura.
"Why make yourself more selfish than you are, Pen; and allow your mind
to own for an instant that it would have entertained such--such
dreadful meanness? You make me blush for you, Arthur; you make me--"
her eyes finished this sentence, and she passed her handkerchief
across them.

"There are some truths which women will never acknowledge," Pen said,
"and from which your modesty always turns away. I do not say that I
ever knew the feeling, only that I am glad I had not the temptation.
Is there any harm in that confession of weakness?"

"We are all taught to ask to be delivered from evil, Arthur," said
Laura, in a low voice. "I am glad if you were spared from that great
crime; and only sorry to think that you could by any possibility have
been led into it. But you never could; and you don't think you
could. Your acts are generous and kind: you disdain mean actions. You
take Blanche without money, and without a bribe. Yes, thanks be to
Heaven, dear brother. You could not have sold yourself away; I knew
you could not when it came to the day, and you did not. Praise be--be
where praise is due. Why does this horrid skepticism pursue you, my
Arthur? Why doubt and sneer at your own heart--at every one's? Oh, if
you knew the pain you give me--how I lie awake and think of those hard
sentences, dear brother, and wish them unspoken, unthought!"

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