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The History of Pendennis, Vol. 2

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




As the two gentlemen were in the midst of this colloquy, another knock
came to Pen's door, and his servant presently announced Mr. Bows. The
old man followed slowly, his pale face blushing, and his hand
trembling somewhat as he took Pen's. He coughed, and wiped his face in
his checked cotton pocket-handkerchief, and sat down, with his hands
on his knees, the sun shining on his bald head. Pen looked at the
homely figure with no small sympathy and kindness. This man, too, has
had his griefs, and his wounds, Arthur thought. This man, too, has
brought his genius and his heart, and laid them at a woman's feet;
where she spurned them. The chance of life has gone against him, and
the prize is with that creature yonder. Fanny's bridegroom, thus
mutely apostrophized, had winked meanwhile with one eye at old Bows,
and was driving holes in the floor with the cane which he loved.

"So we have lost, Mr. Bows, and here is the lucky winner," Pen said,
looking hard at the old man.

"Here is the lucky winner, sir, as you say."

"I suppose you have come from my place?" asked Huxter, who, having
winked at Bows with one eye, now favored Pen with a wink of the
other--a wink which seemed to say, "Infatuated old boy--you
understand--over head and ears in love with her--poor old fool."

"Yes, I have been there ever since you went away. It was Mrs. Sam who
sent me after you: who said that she thought you might be doing
something stupid--something like yourself, Huxter."

"There's as big fools as I am," growled the young surgeon.

"A few, p'raps," said the old man; "not many, let us trust. Yes, she
sent me after you, for fear you should offend Mr. Pendennis; and I
daresay because she thought you wouldn't give her message to him, and
beg him to go and see her; and she knew _I_ would take her errand. Did
he tell you that, sir?"

Huxter blushed scarlet, and covered his confusion with an imprecation.
Pen laughed; the scene suited his bitter humor more and more.

"I have no doubt Mr. Huxter was going to tell me," Arthur said, "and
very much flattered I am sure I shall be to pay my respects to
his wife."

"It's in Charterhouse-lane, over the baker's, on the right hand side
as you go from St. John's-street," continued Bows, without any pity.
"You know Smithfield, Mr. Pendennis? St. John's-street leads into
Smithfield. Dr. Johnson has been down the street many a time with
ragged shoes, and a bundle of penny-a-lining for the 'Gent's
Magazine.' You literary gents are better off now--eh? You ride in your
cabs, and wear yellow kid gloves now."

"I have known so many brave and good men fail, and so many quacks and
impostors succeed, that you mistake me if you think I am puffed up by
my own personal good luck, old friend," Arthur said, sadly. "Do _you_
think the prizes of life are carried by the most deserving? and set up
that mean test of prosperity for merit? You must feel that you are as
good as I. I have never questioned it. It is you that are peevish
against the freaks of fortune, and grudge the good luck that befalls
others. It's not the first time you have unjustly accused me, Bows."

"Perhaps you are not far wrong, sir," said the old fellow, wiping his
bald forehead. "I am thinking about myself and grumbling; most men do
when they get on that subject. Here's the fellow that's got the prize
in the lottery; here's the fortunate youth."

"I don't know what you are driving at," Huxter said, who had been much
puzzled as the above remarks passed between his two companions.

"Perhaps not," said Bows, drily. "Mrs. H. sent me here to look after
you, and to see that you brought that little message to Mr. Pendennis,
which you didn't, you see, and so she was right. Women always are;
they have always a reason for every thing. Why, sir," he said, turning
round to Pen with a sneer, "she had a reason even for giving me that
message. I was sitting with her after you left us, very quiet and
comfortable; I was talking away, and she was mending your shirts, when
your two young friends, Jack Linton and Bob Blades, looked in from
Bartholomew's; and then it was she found out that she had this message
to send. You needn't hurry yourself, she don't want you back again;
they'll stay these two hours, I daresay."

Huxter rose with great perturbation at this news, and plunged his
stick into the pocket of his paletot, and seized his hat.

"You'll come and see us, sir, won't you?" he said to Pen. "You'll talk
over the governor, won't you, sir, if I can get out of this place and
down to Clavering?"

"You will promise to attend me gratis if ever I fall ill at Fairoaks,
will you, Huxter?" Pen said, good-naturedly. "I will do any thing I
can for you. I will come and see Mrs. Huxter immediately, and we will
conspire together about what is to be done."

"I thought that would send him out, sir," Bows said, dropping into his
chair again as soon as the young surgeon had quitted the room. "And
it's all true, sir--every word of it. She wants you back again, and
sends her husband after you. She cajoles every body, the little devil.
She tries it on you, on me, on poor Costigan, on the young chaps from
Bartholomew's. She's got a little court of 'em already. And if there's
nobody there, she practices on the old German baker in the shop, or
coaxes the black sweeper at the crossing."

"Is she fond of that fellow?" asked Pen.

"There is no accounting for likes and dislikes," Bows answered. "Yes,
she is fond of him; and having taken the thing into her head, she
would not rest until she married him. They had their bans published at
St. Clement's, and nobody heard it or knew any just cause or
impediment. And one day she slips out of the porter's lodge, and has
the business done, and goes off to Gravesend with Lothario; and leaves
a note for me to go and explain all things to her ma. Bless you! the
old woman knew it as well as I did, though she pretended ignorance.
And so she goes, and I'm alone again. I miss her, sir, tripping along
that court, and coming for her singing lesson; and I've no heart to
look into the porter's lodge now, which looks very empty without her,
the little flirting thing. And I go and sit and dangle about her
lodgings, like an old fool. She makes 'em very trim and nice, though;
gets up all Huxter's shirts and clothes: cooks his little dinner, and
sings at her business like a little lark. What's the use of being
angry? I lent 'em three pound to go on with: for they haven't got a
shilling till the reconciliation, and pa comes down."

When Bows had taken his leave, Pen carried his letter from Blanche,
and the news which he had just received, to his usual adviser, Laura.
It was wonderful upon how many points Mr. Arthur, who generally
followed his own opinion, now wanted another person's counsel. He
could hardly so much as choose a waistcoat without referring to Miss
Bell: if he wanted to buy a horse he must have Miss Bell's opinion;
all which marks of deference tended greatly to the amusement of the
shrewd old lady with whom Miss Bell lived, and whose plans regarding
her _protégée_ we have indicated.

Arthur produced Blanche's letter then to Laura, and asked her to
interpret it. Laura was very much agitated, and puzzled by the
contents of the note.

"It seems to me," she said, "as if Blanche is acting very artfully."

"And wishes so to place matters that she may take me or leave me? Is
it not so?"

"It is, I am afraid, a kind of duplicity which does not augur well for
your future happiness; and is a bad reply to your own candor and
honesty, Arthur. Do you know I think, I think--I scarcely like to say
what I think," said Laura, with a deep blush; but of course the
blushing young lady yielded to her cousin's persuasion, and expressed
what her thoughts were. "It looks to me, Arthur, as if there might
be--there might be somebody else," said Laura, with a repetition of
the blush.

"And if there is," broke in Arthur, "and if I am free once again, will
the best and dearest of all women--"

"You are not free, dear brother," Laura said, calmly. "You belong to
another; of whom I own it grieves me to think ill. But I can't do
otherwise. It is very odd that in this letter she does not urge you to
tell her the reason why you have broken arrangements which would have
been so advantageous to you; and avoids speaking on the subject. She
somehow seems to write as if she knows her father's secret."

Pen said, "Yes, she must know it;" and told the story, which he had
just heard from Huxter, of the interview at Shepherd's Inn. "It was
not so that she described the meeting," said Laura; and, going to her
desk, produced from it that letter of Blanche's which mentioned her
visit to Shepherd's Inn. "Another disappointment--only the Chevalier
Strong and a friend of his in the room." This was all that Blanche had
said. "But she was bound to keep her father's secret, Pen," Laura
added. "And yet, and yet--it is very puzzling."

The puzzle was this, that for three weeks after this eventful
discovery Blanche had been, only too eager about her dearest Arthur;
was urging, as strongly as so much modesty could urge, the completion
of the happy arrangements which were to make her Arthur's forever; and
now it seemed as if something had interfered to mar these happy
arrangements--as if Arthur poor was not quite so agreeable to Blanche
as Arthur rich and a member of Parliament--as if there was some
mystery. At last she said--

"Tunbridge Wells is not very far off, is it, Arthur? Hadn't you better
go and see her?"

They had been in town a week and neither had thought of that simple
plan before!





CHAPTER XXXV.

SHOWS HOW ARTHUR HAD BETTER HAVE TAKEN A RETURN-TICKET.


[Illustration]

The train carried Arthur only too quickly to Tunbridge,
though he had time to review all the circumstances of his life as he
made the brief journey, and to acknowledge to what sad conclusions his
selfishness and waywardness had led him. "Here is the end of hopes and
aspirations," thought he, "of romance and ambitions! Where I yield or
where I am obstinate, I am alike unfortunate; my mother implores me,
and I refuse an angel! Say I had taken her: forced on me as she was,
Laura would never have been an angel to me. I could not have given her
my heart at another's instigation; I never could have known her as she
is, had I been obliged to ask another to interpret her qualities and
point out her virtues. I yield to my uncle's solicitations, and
accept, on his guarantee, Blanche, and a seat in Parliament, and
wealth, and ambition, and a career; and see!--fortune comes and leaves
me the wife without the dowry, which I had taken in compensation of a
heart. Why was I not more honest, or am I not less so? It would have
cost my poor old uncle no pangs to accept Blanche's fortune,
whencesoever it came; he can't even understand, he is bitterly
indignant--heart-stricken, almost--at the scruples which actuate me in
refusing it. I dissatisfy every body. A maimed, weak, imperfect
wretch, it seems as if I am unequal to any fortune. I neither make
myself nor any one connected with me happy. What prospect is there for
this poor little frivolous girl, who is to take my obscure name, and
share my fortune? I have not even ambition to excite me, or
self-esteem enough to console myself, much more her, for my failure.
If I were to write a book that should go through twenty editions, why,
I should be the very first to sneer at my reputation. Say I could
succeed at the bar, and achieve a fortune by bullying witnesses and
twisting evidence; is that a fame which would satisfy my longings, or
a calling in which my life would be well spent? How I wish I could be
that priest opposite, who never has lifted his eyes from his breviary,
except when we were in Reigate tunnel, when he could not see; or that
old gentleman next him, who scowls at him with eyes of hatred over his
newspaper. The priest shuts his eyes to the world, but has his
thoughts on the book, which is his directory to the world to come. His
neighbor hates him as a monster, tyrant, persecutor; and fancies
burning martyrs, and that pale countenance looking on, and lighted up
by the flame. These have no doubts; these march on trustfully, bearing
their load of logic."

"Would you like to look at the paper, sir?" here interposed the stout
gentleman (it had a flaming article against the order of the
blackcoated gentleman who was traveling with them in the carriage) and
Pen thanked him and took it, and pursued his reverie, without reading
two sentences of the journal.

"And yet, would you take either of those men's creeds, with its
consequences?" he thought. "Ah me! you must bear your own burden,
fashion your own faith, think your own thoughts, and pray your own
prayer. To what mortal ear could I tell all, if I had a mind? or who
could understand all? Who can tell another's short-comings, lost
opportunities, weigh the passions which overpower, the defects which
incapacitate reason?--what extent of truth and right his neighbor's
mind is organized to perceive and to do?--what invisible and forgotten
accident, terror of youth, chance or mischance of fortune, may have
altered the whole current of life? A grain of sand may alter it, as
the flinging of a pebble may end it. Who can weigh circumstances,
passions, temptations, that go to our good and evil account, save One,
before whose awful wisdom we kneel, and at whose mercy we ask
absolution? Here it ends," thought Pen; "this day or to-morrow will
wind up the account of my youth; a weary retrospect, alas! a sad
history, with many a page I would fain not look back on! But who has
not been tired or fallen, and who has escaped without scars from that
struggle?" And his head fell on his breast, and the young man's heart
prostrated itself humbly and sadly before that Throne where sits
wisdom, and love, and pity for all, and made its confession. "What
matters about fame or poverty!" he thought. "If I marry this woman I
have chosen, may I have strength and will to be true to her, and to
make her happy. If I have children, pray God teach me to speak and to
do the truth among them, and to leave them an honest name. There are
no splendors for my marriage. Does my life deserve any? I begin a new
phase of it; a better than the last may it be, I pray Heaven!"

The train stopped at Tunbridge as Pen was making these reflections;
and he handed over the newspaper to his neighbor, of whom he
took leave, while the foreign clergyman in the opposite corner still
sate with his eyes on his book. Pen jumped out of the carriage then,
his carpetbag in hand, and briskly determined to face his fortune.

A fly carried him rapidly to Lady Clavering's house from the station;
and, as he was transported thither, Arthur composed a little speech,
which he intended to address to Blanche, and which was really as
virtuous, honest, and well-minded an oration as any man of his turn of
mind, and under his circumstances, could have uttered. The purport of
it was--"Blanche, I cannot understand from your last letter what your
meaning is, or whether my fair and frank proposal to you is acceptable
or no. I think you know the reason which induces me to forego the
worldly advantages which a union with you offered, and which I could
not accept without, as I fancy, being dishonored. If you doubt of my
affection, here I am ready to prove it. Let Smirke be called in, and
let us be married out of hand; and with all my heart I purpose to keep
my vow, and to cherish you through life, and to be a true and a loving
husband to you."

From the fly Arthur sprang out then to the hall-door, where he was met
by a domestic whom he did not know. The man seemed to be surprised at
the approach of the gentleman with the carpet-bag, which he made no
attempt to take from Arthur's hands. "Her ladyship's not at home,
sir," the man remarked.

"I am Mr. Pendennis," Arthur said. "Where is Lightfoot?" "Lightfoot is
gone," answered the man. "My lady is out, and my orders was--"

"I hear Miss Amory's voice in the drawing-room," said Arthur. "Take
the bag to a dressing-room, if you please;" and, passing by the
porter, he walked straight toward that apartment, from which, as the
door opened, a warble of melodious notes issued.

Our little siren was at her piano singing with all her might and
fascinations. Master Clavering was asleep on the sofa, indifferent to
the music; but near Blanche sat a gentleman who was perfectly
enraptured with her strain, which was of a passionate and
melancholy nature.

As the door opened, the gentleman started up with a hullo! the music
stopped, with a little shriek from the singer; Frank Clavering woke up
from the sofa, and Arthur came forward and said, "What, Foker! how do
you do, Foker?" He looked at the piano, and there, by Miss Amory's
side, was just such another purple-leather box as he had seen in
Harry's hand three days before, when the heir of Logwood was coming
out of a jeweler's shop in Waterloo-place. It was opened, and curled
round the white-satin cushion within was, oh, such a magnificent
serpentine bracelet, with such a blazing ruby head and diamond tail!

"How-de-do, Pendennis?" said Foker. Blanche made many motions of the
shoulders, and gave signs of interest and agitation. And she put her
handkerchief over the bracelet, and then she advanced, with a hand
which trembled very much, to greet Pen. "How is dearest Laura?" she
said. The face of Foker looking up from his profound mourning--that
face, so piteous and puzzled, was one which the reader's imagination
must depict for himself; also that of Master Frank Clavering, who,
looking at the three interesting individuals with an expression of the
utmost knowingness, had only time to ejaculate the words, "Here's a
jolly go!" and to disappear sniggering.

[Illustration]

Pen, too, had restrained himself up to that minute; but looking still
at Foker, whose ears and cheeks tingled with blushes, Arthur burst out
into a fit of laughter, so wild and loud, that it frightened Blanche
much more than any the most serious exhibition.

"And this was the secret, was it? Don't blush and turn away, Foker, my
boy. Why, man, you are a pattern of fidelity. Could I stand between
Blanche and such constancy--could I stand between Miss Amory and
fifteen thousand a year?"

"It is not that, Mr. Pendennis," Blanche said, with great dignity. "It
is not money, it is not rank, it is not gold that moves _me_; but it
_is_ constancy, it is fidelity, it is a whole, trustful, loving heart
offered to me that I treasure--yes, that I treasure!" And she made
for her handkerchief, but, reflecting what was underneath it, she
paused. "I do not disown, I do not disguise--my life is above
disguise--to him on whom it is bestowed, my heart must be forever
bare--that I once thought I loved you,--yes, thought I was beloved by
you! I own. How I clung to that faith! How I strove, I prayed, I
longed to believe it! But your conduct always--your own words so cold,
so heartless, so unkind, have undeceived me. You trifled with the
heart of the poor maiden! You flung me back with scorn the troth which
I had plighted! I have explained all--all to Mr. Foker."

"That you have," said Foker, with devotion, and conviction in his
looks.

"What, all?" said Pen, with a meaning look at Blanche. "It is I am in
fault is it? Well, well, Blanche, be it so. I won't appeal against
your sentence, and bear it in silence. I came down here looking to
very different things, Heaven knows, and with a heart most truly and
kindly disposed toward you. I hope you may be happy with another, as,
on my word, it was my wish to make you so; and I hope my honest old
friend here will have a wife worthy of his loyalty, his constancy, and
affection. Indeed they deserve the regard of any woman--even Miss
Blanche Amory. Shake hands, Harry; don't look askance at me. Has any
body told you that I was a false and heartless character?"

"I think you're a--" Foker was beginning, in his wrath, when Blanche
interposed.

"Henry, not a word!--I pray you let there be forgiveness!"

"You're an angel, by Jove, you're an angel!" said Foker, at which
Blanche looked seraphically up to the chandelier.

"In spite of what has passed, for the sake of what has passed, I must
always regard Arthur as a brother," the seraph continued; "we have
known each other years, we have trodden the same fields, and plucked
the same flowers together. Arthur! Henry! I beseech you to take hands
and to be friends! Forgive you!--_I_ forgive you, Arthur, with my
heart I do. Should I not do so for making me so happy?"

"There is only one person of us three whom I pity, Blanche," Arthur
said, gravely, "and I say to you again, that I hope you will make this
good fellow, this honest and loyal creature, happy."

"Happy! O Heavens!" said Harry. He could not speak. His happiness
gushed out at his eyes. "She don't know--she can't know how fond I am
of her, and--and who am I? a poor little beggar, and she takes me up
and says she'll try and l-l-love me. I ain't worthy of so much
happiness. Give us your hand, old boy, since she forgives you after
your heartless conduct, and says she loves you. I'll make you welcome.
I tell you I'll love every body who loves her. By--if she tells me to
kiss the ground I'll kiss it. Tell me to kiss the ground! I say, tell
me. I love you so. You see I love you so."

Blanche looked up seraphically again. Her gentle bosom heaved. She
held out one hand as if to bless Harry, and then royally permitted him
to kiss it. She took up the pocket handkerchief and hid her own eyes,
as the other fair hand was abandoned to poor Harry's tearful embrace.

"I swear that is a villain who deceives such a loving creature as
that," said Pen.

Blanche laid down the handkerchief, and put hand No. 2 softly on
Foker's head, which was bent down kissing and weeping over hand No. 1.
"Foolish boy!" she said, "it shall be loved as it deserves: who could
help loving such a silly creature?"

And at this moment Frank Clavering broke in upon the sentimental trio.

"I say, Pendennis!" he said.

"Well, Frank!"

"The man wants to be paid, and go back. He's had some beer."

"I'll go back with him," cried Pen. "Good-by, Blanche. God bless you,
Foker, old friend. You know, neither of you want me here." He longed
to be off that instant.

"Stay--I must say one word to you. One word in private, if you
please," Blanche said. "You can trust us together, can't you--Henry?"
The tone in which the word Henry was spoken, and the appeal, ravished
Foker with delight. "Trust you!" said he; "Oh, who wouldn't trust you!
Come along, Franky, my boy."

"Let's have a cigar," said Frank, as they went into the hall.

"She don't like it," said Foker, gently.

"Law bless you--_she don't mind. Pendennis used to smoke regular,"
said the candid youth.

"It was but a short word I had to say," said Blanche to Pen, with
great calm, when they were alone. "You never loved me, Mr. Pendennis."

"I told you how much," said Arthur. "I never deceived you."

"I suppose you will go back and marry Laura," continued Blanche.

"Was that what you had to say?" said Pen.

"You are going to her this very night, I am sure of it. There is no
denying it. You never cared for me."

_"Et vous?"

"Et moi c'est différent._ I have been spoilt early. I can not live out
of the world, out of excitement. I could have done so, but it is too
late. If I can not have emotions, I must have the world. You would
offer me neither one nor the other. You are _blasé_ in every thing,
even in ambition. You had a career before you, and you would not take
it. You give it up!--for what?--for a _bétise_, for an absurd
scruple. Why would you not have that seat, and be such a _puritain_?
Why should you refuse what is mine by right, _entendez-vous_?"

"You know all then?" said Pen.

"Only within a month. But I have suspected ever since Baymouth
--_n'importe_ since when. It is not too late. He is as if he had never
been; and there is a position in the world before you yet. Why not sit
in Parliament, exert your talent, and give a place in the world to
yourself, to your wife? I take _celui-là. Il est bon. 1l est riche.
Il est--vous le connaissez autant que moi enfin._ Think you that I
would not prefer _un homme, qui fera parler de moi?_ If the secret
appears I am rich _à millions._ How does it affect me? It is not my
fault. It will never appear."

"You will tell Harry every thing, won't you?"

_"Je comprends. Vous refusez"_ said Blanche, savagely. "I will tell
Harry at my own time, when we are married. You will not betray me,
will you? You, having a defenseless girl's secret, will not turn upon
her and use it? _S'il me plait de le cacher, mon secret; pourquoi le
donnerai-je? Je l'aime, mon pauvre père, voyez-vous?_ I would rather
live with that man than with you _fades_ intriguers of the world. I
must have emotions--_il m'en donne. Il m'écrit. Il écrit tres-bien,
voyez-vous--comme un pirate--comme un Bohémien--comme un homme._ But
for this I would have said to my mother--_Ma mère! quittons ce lâche
mari, cette lâche société--retournons à mon père._

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