CHAPTER XIV.
A CRITICAL CHAPTER.
As Fanny saw the two ladies and the anxious countenance of the elder,who regarded her with a look of inscrutable alarm and terror, the poorgirl at once knew that Pen's mother was before her; there was aresemblance between the widow's haggard eyes and Arthur's as he tossedin his bed in fever. Fanny looked wistfully at Mrs. Pendennis and atLaura afterward; there was no more expression in the latter's facethan if it had been a mass of stone. Hard-heartedness and gloom dwelton the figures of both the new comers; neither showed any the faintestgleam of mercy or sympathy for Fanny. She looked desperately from themto the major behind them. Old Pendennis dropped his eyelids, lookingup ever so stealthily from under them at Arthur's poor little nurse.
"I--I wrote to you yesterday, if you please, ma'am," Fanny said,trembling in every limb as she spoke; and as pale as Laura, whose sadmenacing face looked over Mrs. Pendennis's shoulder.
"Did you, madam?" Mrs. Pendennis said, "I suppose I may now relieveyou from nursing my son. I am his mother, you understand."
"Yes, ma'am. I--this is the way to his--O, wait a minute," cried outFanny. "I must prepare you for his--"
The widow, whose face had been hopelessly cruel and ruthless, herestarted back with a gasp and a little cry, which she speedilystifled. "He's been so since yesterday," Fanny said, trembling verymuch, and with chattering teeth.
A horrid shriek of laughter came out of Pen's room, whereof the doorwas open; and, after several shouts, the poor wretch began to sing acollege drinking song, and then to hurra and to shout as if he was inthe midst of a wine party, and to thump with his fist against thewainscot. He was quite delirious.
"He does not know me, ma'am," Fanny said.
"Indeed. Perhaps he will know his mother; let me pass, if you please,and go into him." And the widow hastily pushed by little Fanny, andthrough the dark passage which led into Pen's sitting-room.
Laura sailed by Fanny, too, without a word; and Major Pendennisfollowed them. Fanny sat down on a bench in the passage, and cried,and prayed as well as she could. She would have died for him; and theyhated her. They had not a word of thanks or kindness for her, the fineladies. She sate there in the passage, she did not know how long. Theynever came out to speak to her. She sate there until doctor Goodenoughcame to pay his second visit that day; he found the poor little thingat the door.
"What, nurse? How's your patient?" asked the good-natured doctor. "Hashe had any rest?"
"Go and ask them. They're inside," Fanny answered.
"Who? his mother?"
Fanny nodded her head and didn't speak.
"You must go to bed yourself, my poor little maid," said the doctor."You will be ill too, if you don't."
"O, mayn't I come and see him: mayn't I come and see him! I--I--lovehim so," the little girl said; and as she spoke she fell down on herknees and clasped hold of the doctor's hand in such an agony that tosee her melted the kind physician's heart, and caused a mist to comeover his spectacles.
"Pooh, pooh! Nonsense! Nurse, has he taken his draught? Has he had anyrest? Of course you must come and see him. So must I."
"They'll let me sit here, won't they, sir? I'll never make no noise. Ionly ask to stop here," Fanny said. On which the doctor called her astupid little thing; put her down upon the bench where Pen's printer'sdevil used to sit so many hours; tapped her pale cheek with hisfinger, and bustled into the further room.
Mrs. Pendennis was ensconced, pale and solemn, in a great chair byPen's bed-side. Her watch was on the bed-table by Pen's medicines. Herbonnet and cloaks were laid in the window. She had her Bible in herlap, without which she never traveled. Her first movement, afterseeing her son, had been to take Fanny's shawl and bonnet which wereon his drawers, and bring them out and drop them down upon hisstudy-table. She had closed the door upon Major Pendennis, and Lauratoo; and taken possession of her son.
She had had a great doubt and terror lest Arthur should not know her;but that pang was spared to her, in part at least. Pen knew his motherquite well, and familiarly smiled and nodded at her. When she came in,he instantly fancied that they were at home at Fairoaks; and began totalk and chatter and laugh in a rambling wild way. Laura could hearhim outside. His laughter shot shafts of poison into her heart. It wastrue then. He had been guilty--and with _that_ creature!--an intriguewith a servant maid; and she had loved him--and he was dying mostlikely--raving and unrepentant. The major now and then hummed out aword of remark or consolation, which Laura scarce heard. A dismalsitting it was for all parties; and when Goodenough appeared, he camelike an angel into the room.
It is not only for the sick man, it is for the sick man's friends thatthe doctor comes. His presence is often as good for them as for thepatient, and they long for him yet more eagerly. How we have allwatched after him! what an emotion the thrill of his carriage-wheelsin the street, and at length at the door, has made us feel! how wehang upon his words, and what a comfort we get from a smile or two, ifhe can vouchsafe that sunshine to lighten our darkness! Who hasn'tseen the mother praying into his face, to know if there is hope forthe sick infant that can not speak, and that lies yonder, its littleframe battling with fever? Ah, how she looks into his eyes! Whatthanks if there is light there; what grief and pain if he casts themdown, and dares not say "hope!" Or it is the house-father who isstricken. The terrified wife looks on, while the physician feels hispatient's wrist, smothering her agonies, as the children have beencalled upon to stay their plays and their talk. Over the patient inthe fever, the wife expectant, the children unconscious, the doctorstands as if he were Fate, the dispenser of life and death: he _must_let the patient off this time; the woman prays so for his respite! Onecan fancy how awful the responsibility must be to a conscientious man:how cruel the feeling that he has given the wrong remedy, or that itmight have been possible to do better: how harassing the sympathy withsurvivors, if the case is unfortunate--how immense the delightof victory!
Having passed through a hasty ceremony of introduction to the newcomers, of whose arrival he had been made aware by the heart-brokenlittle nurse in waiting without, the doctor proceeded to examine thepatient, about whose condition of high fever there could be nomistake, and on whom he thought it necessary to exercise the strongestantiphlogistic remedies in his power. He consoled the unfortunatemother as best he might; and giving her the most comfortableassurances on which he could venture, that there was no reason todespair yet, that every thing might still be hoped from his youth, thestrength of his constitution, and so forth, and having done his utmostto allay the horrors of the alarmed matron, he took the elderPendennis aside into the vacant room (Warrington's bed-room), for thepurpose of holding a little consultation.
The case was very critical. The fever, if not stopped, might and wouldcarry off the young fellow: he must be bled forthwith: the mothermust be informed of this necessity. Why was that other young ladybrought with her? She was out of place in a sick room.
"And there was another woman still, be hanged to it!" the major said,"the--the little person who opened the door." His sister-in-law hadbrought the poor little devil's bonnet and shawl out, and flung themupon the study-table. Did Goodenough know any thing about the--thelittle person? "I just caught a glimpse of her as we passed in," themajor said, "and begad she was uncommonly nice-looking." The doctorlooked queer: the doctor smiled--in the very gravest moments, withlife and death pending, such strange contrasts and occasions of humorwill arise, and such smiles will pass, to satirize the gloom, as itwere, and to make it more gloomy!
"I have it," at last he said, re-entering the study;and he wrote a couple of notes hastily at the table there, and sealedone of them. Then, taking up poor Fanny's shawl and bonnet, and thenotes, he went out in the passage to that poor little messenger, andsaid, "Quick, nurse; you must carry this to the surgeon, and bid himcome instantly: and then go to my house, and ask for my servant,Harbottle, and tell him to get this prescription prepared; and waituntil I--until it is ready. It may take a little
time in preparation."
So poor Fanny trudged away with her two notes, and found theapothecary, who lived in the Strand hard by, and who came straightway,his lancet in his pocket, to operate on his patient; and then Fannymade for the doctor's house, in Hanover-square.
The doctor was at home again before the prescription was made up,which took Harbottle, his servant, such a long time in compounding:and, during the remainder of Arthur's illness, poor Fanny never madeher appearance in the quality of nurse at his chambers any more. Butfor that day and the next, a little figure might be seen lurking aboutPen's staircase--a sad, sad little face looked at and interrogated theapothecary and the apothecary's boy, and the laundress, and the kindphysician himself, as they passed out of the chambers of the sick man.And on the third day, the kind doctor's chariot stopped at Shepherd'sInn, and the good, and honest, and benevolent man went into thePorter's Lodge, and tended a little patient he had there, for whom thebest remedy he found was on the day when he was enabled to tell FannyBolton that the crisis was over, and that there was at length everyhope for Arthur Pendennis.
J. Costigan, Esquire, late of her Majesty's service, saw the doctor'scarriage, and criticised its horses and appointments. "Green liveries,bedad!" the general said, "and as foin a pair of high-stepping beehorses as ever a gentleman need sit behoind, let alone a docthor.There's no ind to the proide and ar'gance of them docthorsnowadays--not but that is a good one, and a scoientific cyarkter, anda roight good fellow, bedad; and he's brought the poor little girlwell troo her faver, Bows, me boy;" and so pleased was Mr. Costiganwith the doctor's behavior and skill, that, whenever he met Dr.Goodenough's carriage in future, he made a point of saluting it andthe physician inside, in as courteous and magnificent a manner, as ifDr. Goodenough had been the Lord Liftenant himself, and CaptainCostigan had been in his glory in Phaynix Park.
The widow's gratitude to the physician knew no bounds--or scarcely anybounds, at least. The kind gentleman laughed at the idea of taking afee from a literary man, or the widow of a brother practitioner; and shedetermined when she got back to Fairoaks that she would sendGoodenough the silver-gilt vase, the jewel of the house, and the gloryof the late John Pendennis, preserved in green baize, and presented tohim at Bath, by the Lady Elizabeth Firebrace, on the recovery of herson, the late Sir Anthony Firebrace, from the scarlet fever.Hippocrates, Hygeia, King Bladud, and a wreath of serpents surmountthe cup to this day; which was executed in their finest manner, byMessrs. Abednego, of Milsom-street; and the inscription was by Mr.Birch tutor to the young baronet.
This priceless gem of art the widow determined to devote to Goodenough,the preserver of her son; and there was scarcely any otherfavor which her gratitude would not have conferred upon him, exceptone, which he desired most, and which was that she should think alittle charitably and kindly of poor Fanny, of whose artless, sadstory, he had got something during his interviews with her, and ofwhom he was induced to think very kindly--not being disposed, indeed,to give much credit to Pen for his conduct in the affair, or notknowing what that conduct had been. He knew, enough, however, to beaware that the poor infatuated little girl was without stain as yet;that while she had been in Pen's room it was to see the last of him,as she thought, and that Arthur was scarcely aware of her presence; andthat she suffered under the deepest and most pitiful grief, at theidea of losing him, dead or living.
But on the one or two occasions when Goodenough alluded to Fanny, thewidow's countenance, always soft and gentle, assumed an expression socruel and inexorable, that the doctor saw it was in vain to ask herfor justice or pity, and he broke off all entreaties, and ceasedmaking any further allusions regarding his little client. There is acomplaint which neither poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsysyrups of the East could allay, in the men in his time, as we areinformed by a popular poet of the days of Elizabeth; and which, whenexhibited in women, no medical discoveries or practice subsequent--neither homoeopathy, nor hydropathy, nor mesmerism, nor Dr.Simpson, nor Dr. Locock can cure, and that is--we won't call itjealousy, but rather gently denominate rivalry and emulation,in ladies.
Some of those mischievious and prosaic people who carp and calculateat every detail of the romancer, and want to know, for instance, howwhen the characters "in the Critic" are at a dead lock with theirdaggers at each other's throats, they are to be got out of thatmurderous complication of circumstances, may be induced to ask how itwas possible in a set of chambers in the Temple, consisting of threerooms, two cupboards, a passage, and a coal-box, Arthur a sickgentleman, Helen his mother, Laura her adopted daughter, Martha theircountry attendant, Mrs. Wheezer a nurse from St. Bartholomew'sHospital, Mrs. Flanagan an Irish laundress, Major Pendennis a retiredmilitary officer, Morgan his valet, Pidgeon Mr. Arthur Pendennis'sboy, and others could be accommodated--the answer is given at once,that almost every body in the Temple was out of town, and that therewas scarcely a single occupant of Pen's house in Lamb Court exceptthose who were occupied round the sick bed of the sick gentleman,about whose fever we have not given a lengthy account, neither shallwe enlarge very much upon the more cheerful theme of his recovery.
Every body we have said was out of town, and of course such afashionable man as young Mr. Sibwright, who occupied chambers on thesecond floor in Pen's staircase, could not be supposed to remain inLondon. Mrs. Flanagan, Mr. Pendennis's laundress, was acquainted withMrs. Rouncy who did for Mr. Sibwright, and that gentleman's bedroomwas got ready for Miss Bell, or Mrs. Pendennis, when the latter shouldbe inclined to leave her son's sick room, to try and seek for a littlerest for herself.
If that young buck and flower of Baker-street, Percy Sibwright couldhave known who was the occupant of his bedroom, how proud he wouldhave been of that apartment: what poems he would have written aboutLaura! (several of his things have appeared in the annuals, and inmanuscript in the nobility's albums)--he was a Camford man and verynearly got the English Prize Poem, it was said--Sibwright, however,was absent and his bed given up to Miss Bell. It was the prettiestlittle brass bed in the world, with chintz curtains lined withpink--he had a mignonette box in his bedroom window, and the meresight of his little exhibition of shiny boots, arranged in trim rowsover his wardrobe, was a gratification to the beholder. He had amuseum of scent, pomatum, and bears' grease pots, quite curious toexamine, too; and a choice selection of portraits of females almostalways in sadness and generally in disguise or dishabille, glitteredround the neat walls of his elegant little bower of repose. Medorawith disheveled hair was consoling herself over her banjo for theabsence of her Conrad--the Princesse Fleur de Marie (of Rudolstein andthe Mysteres de Paris) was sadly ogling out of the bars of her conventcage, in which, poor prisoned bird, she was moulting away--Dorothea ofDon Quixote was washing her eternal feet:--in fine, it was such anelegant gallery as became a gallant lover of the sex. And inSibwright's sitting-room, while there was quite an infantine lawlibrary clad in skins of fresh new born calf, there was a tolerablylarge collection of classical books which he could not read, and ofEnglish and French works of poetry and fiction which he read a greatdeal too much. His invitation cards of the past season still decoratedhis looking glass: and scarce any thing told of the lawyer but thewig-box beside the Venus upon the middle shelf of the bookcase, onwhich the name of P. Sibwright, Esquire, was gilded.
With Sibwright in chambers was Mr. Bangham. Mr. Bangham was a sportingman married to a rich widow. Mr. Bangham had no practice--did not cometo chambers thrice in a term: went a circuit for those mysteriousreasons which make men go circuit--and his room served as a greatconvenience to Sibwright when that young gentleman gave his littledinners. It must be confessed that these two gentlemen have nothing todo with our history, will never appear in it again probably, but wecan not help glancing through their doors as they happen to be open tous, and as we pass to Pen's rooms; as in the pursuit of our ownbusiness in life through the Strand, at the Club, nay at Churchitself, we can not help peeping at the shops on the way, or at ourneighbor's dinner, or at the faces under the bonnets
in the next pew.
Very many years after the circumstances about which we are at presentoccupied, Laura with a blush and a laugh showing much humor owned tohaving read a French novel once much in vogue, and when her husbandasked her, wondering where on earth she could have got such a volume,she owned that it was in the Temple, when she lived in Mr. PercySibwright's chambers.
"And, also, I never confessed," she said, "on that same occasion, whatI must now own to; that I opened the japanned box, and took out thatstrange-looking wig inside it, and put it on and looked at myself inthe glass in it."
Suppose Percy Sibwright had come in at such a moment as that? Whatwould he have said--the enraptured rogue? What would have been all thepictures of disguised beauties in his room compared to that livingone? Ah, we are speaking of old times, when Sibwright was a bachelorand before he got a county court--when people were young--when _most_people were young. Other people are young now; but we no more.
When Miss Laura played this prank with the wig, you can't suppose thatPen could have been very ill up-stairs; otherwise, though she hadgrown to care for him ever so little, common sense of feeling anddecorum would have prevented her from performing any tricks or tryingany disguises.
But all sorts of events had occurred in the course of the last fewdays which had contributed to increase or account for her gayety, anda little colony of the reader's old friends and acquaintances was bythis time established in Lamb Court, Temple, and round Pen's sick bedthere. First, Martha, Mrs. Pendennis's servant, had arrived fromFairoaks, being summoned thence by the major, who justly thought herpresence would be comfortable and useful to her mistress and her youngmaster, for neither of whom the constant neighborhood of Mrs. Flanagan(who during Pen's illness required more spirituous consolation thanever to support her) could be pleasant. Martha then made herappearance in due season to wait upon Mrs. Pendennis, nor did thatlady go once to bed until the faithful servant had reached her, when,with a heart full of maternal thankfulness, she went and lay down uponWarrington's straw mattress, and among his mathematical books as hasbeen already described.
It is true ere that day a great and delightful alteration in Pen'scondition had taken place. The fever, subjugated by Dr. Goodenough'sblisters, potions, and lancet, had left the young man, or onlyreturned at intervals of feeble intermittance; his wandering senseshad settled in his weakened brain: he had had time to kiss and blesshis mother for coming to him, and calling for Laura and his uncle (whowere both affected according to their different natures by his wanappearance, his lean shrunken hands, his hollow eyes and voice, histhin bearded face) to press their hands and thank them affectionately;and after this greeting, and after they had been turned out of theroom by his affectionate nurse, he had sunk into a fine sleep whichhad lasted for about sixteen hours, at the end of which period heawoke calling out that he was very hungry. If it is hard to be ill andto loathe food, oh, how pleasant to be getting well and to befeeling hungry--_how_ hungry! Alas, the joys of convalescence becomefeebler with increasing years, as other joys do--and then--and thencomes that illness when one does not convalesce at all.
On the day of this happy event, too, came another arrival inLambcourt. This was introduced into the Pen-Warrington sitting-room bylarge puffs of tobacco smoke--the puffs of smoke were followed by anindividual with a cigar in his mouth, and a carpet bag under his arm--this was Warrington, who had run back from Norfolk, when Mr. Bowsthoughtfully wrote to inform him of his friend's calamity. But he hadbeen from home when Bows's letter had reached his brother's house--the Eastern Counties did not then boast of a railway (for we beg thereader to understand that we only commit anachronisms when we choose,and when by a daring violation of those natural laws some greatethical truth is to be advanced)--in fine, Warrington only appearedwith the rest of the good luck upon the lucky day after Pen'sconvalescence may have been said to have begun.
His surprise was, after all, not very great when he found the chambersof his sick friend occupied, and his old acquaintance the major seateddemurely in an easy chair, (Warrington had let himself into the roomswith his own pass-key), listening, or pretending to listen, to a younglady who was reading to him a play of Shakspeare in a low sweet voice.The lady stopped and started, and laid down her book, at theapparition of the tall traveler with the cigar and the carpet-bag. Heblushed, he flung the cigar into the passage: he took off his hat, anddropped that too, and going up to the major, seized that oldgentleman's hand, and asked questions about Arthur.
The major answered in a tremulous, though cheery voice--it was curioushow emotion seemed to olden him--and returning Warrington's pressurewith a shaking hand, told him the news--of Arthur's happy crisis, ofhis mother's arrival--with her young charge--with Miss--
"You need not tell me her name," Mr. Warrington said with greatanimation, for he was affected and elated with the thought of hisfriend's recovery--"you need not tell me your name. I knew at once itwas Laura." And he held out his hand and took hers. Immense kindnessand tenderness gleamed from under his rough eyebrows, and shook hisvoice as he gazed at her and spoke to her. "And this is Laura !" hislooks seemed to say. "And this is Warrington," the generous girl'sheart beat back. "Arthur's hero--the brave and the kind--he has comehundreds of miles to succor him, when he heard of his friend'smisfortune!"
"Thank you, Mr. Warrington," was all that Laura said, however; and asshe returned the pressure of his kind hand, she blushed so, that shewas glad the lamp was behind her to conceal her flushing face.
As these two were standing in this attitude, the door of Pen'sbed-chamber was opened stealthily as his mother was wont to open it,and Warrington saw another lady, who first looked at him, and thenturning round toward the bed, said, "Hsh!" and put up her hand. Itwas to Pen Helen was turning, and giving caution. He called out with afeeble, tremulous, but cheery voice, "Come in, Stunner--come in,Warrington. I knew it was you--by the--by the smoke, old boy," hesaid, as holding his worn hand out, and with tears at once of weaknessand pleasure in his eyes, he greeted his friend.
"I--I beg pardon, ma'am, for smoking," Warrington said, who now almostfor the first time blushed for his wicked propensity.
Helen only said, "God bless you, Mr. Warrington." She was so happy,she would have liked to kiss George. Then, and after the friends hadhad a brief, very brief interview, the delighted and inexorablemother, giving her hand to Warrington, sent him out of the room too,back to Laura and the major, who had not resumed their play ofCymbeline where they had left it off at the arrival of the rightfulowner of Pen's chambers.
The History of Pendennis, Volume 2 Page 14