The History of Pendennis, Volume 2

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER XV.

  CONVALESCENCE.

  Our duty now is to record a fact concerning Pendennis, which, howevershameful and disgraceful, when told regarding the chief personage andGodfather of a novel, must, nevertheless, be made known to the publicwho reads his veritable memoirs. Having gone to bed ill with fever,and suffering to a certain degree under the passion of love, after hehad gone through his physical malady, and had been bled and had beenblistered, and had had his head shaved, and had been treated andmedicamented as the doctor ordained: it is a fact, that, when herallied up from his bodily ailment, his mental malady had likewisequitted him, and he was no more in love with Fanny Bolton than you orI, who are much too wise, or too moral, to allow our hearts to gogadding after porters' daughters.

  He laughed at himself as he lay on his pillow, thinking of this secondcure which had been effected upon him. He did not care the least aboutFanny now; he wondered how he ever should have cared: and according tohis custom made an autopsy of that dead passion, and anatomized hisown defunct sensation for his poor little nurse. What could have madehim so hot and eager about her but a few weeks back: Not her wit, nother breeding, not her beauty--there were hundreds of women betterlooking than she. It was out of himself that the passion had gone: itdid not reside in her. She was the same; but the eyes which saw herwere changed; and, alas, that it should be so! were not particularlyeager to see her any more. He felt very well disposed toward thelittle thing, and so forth, but as for violent personal regard, suchas he had but a few weeks ago, it had fled under the influence of thepill and lancet, which had destroyed the fever in his frame. And animmense source of comfort and gratitude it was to Pendennis (thoughthere was something selfish in that feeling, as in most others of ouryoung man), that he had been enabled to resist temptation at the timewhen the danger was greatest, and had no particular cause ofself-reproach as he remembered his conduct toward the young girl. Asfrom a precipice down which he might have fallen, so from the feverfrom which he had recovered, he reviewed the Fanny Bolton snare, nowthat he had escaped out of it, but I'm not sure that he was notashamed of the very satisfaction which he experienced. It is pleasant,perhaps, but it is humiliating to own that you love no more.

  Meanwhile the kind smiles and tender watchfulness of the mother at hisbed-side, filled the young man with peace and security. To see thathealth was returning, was all the unwearied nurse demanded: to executeany caprice or order of her patient's, her chiefest joy and reward. Hefelt himself environed by her love, and thought himself almost asgrateful for it as he had been when weak and helpless in childhood.

  Some misty notions regarding the first part of his illness, and thatFanny had nursed him, Pen may have had, but they were so dim that hecould not realize them with accuracy, or distinguish them from what heknew to be delusions which had occurred and were remembered during thedelirium of his fever. So as he had not thought proper on formeroccasions to make any allusions about Fanny Bolton to his mother, ofcourse he could not now confide to her his sentiments regarding Fanny,or make this worthy lady a confidante. It was on both sides an unluckyprecaution and want of confidence; and a word or two in time mighthave spared the good lady and those connected with her, a deal of painand anguish.

  Seeing Miss Bolton installed as nurse and tender to Pen, I am sorry tosay Mrs. Pendennis had put the worst construction on the fact of theintimacy of these two unlucky young persons, and had settled in herown mind that the accusations against Arthur were true. Why not havestopped to inquire?--There are stories to a man's disadvantage thatthe women who are fondest of him are always the most eager to believe.Isn't a man's wife often the first to be jealous of him? Poor Pen gota good stock of this suspicious kind of love from the nurse who wasnow watching over him; and the kind and pure creature thought that herboy had gone through a malady much more awful and debasing than themere physical fever, and was stained by crime as well as weakened byillness. The consciousness of this she had to bear perforce silently,and to try to put a mask of cheerfulness and confidence over herinward doubt and despair and horror.

  When Captain Shandon, at Boulogne, read the next number of the"Pall-Mall Gazette," it was to remark to Mrs. Shandon that JackFinucane's hand was no longer visible in the leading articles, andthat Mr. Warrington must be at work there again. "I know the crack ofhis whip in a hundred, and the cut which the fellow's thong leaves.There's Jack Bludyer, goes to work like a butcher, and mangles asubject. Mr. Warrington finishes a man, and lays his cuts neat andregular, straight down the back, and drawing blood every line;" atwhich dreadful metaphor, Mrs. Shandon said, "Law, Charles, how can youtalk so! I always thought Mr. Warrington very high, but a kindgentleman; and I'm sure he was most kind to the children." Upon whichShandon said, "Yes; he's kind to the children; but he's savage to themen; and to be sure, my dear, you don't understand a word about whatI'm saying; and it's best you shouldn't; for it's little good comesout of writing for newspapers; and it's better here, living easy atBoulogne, where the wine's plenty, and the brandy costs but two francsa bottle. Mix us another tumbler, Mary, my dear; we'll go back intoharness soon. 'Cras ingens iterabimus aequor'--bad luck to it."

  In a word, Warrington went to work with all his might, in place of hisprostrate friend, and did Pen's portion of the "Pall-Mall Gazette""with a vengeance," as the saying is. He wrote occasional articles andliterary criticisms; he attended theatres and musical performances,and discoursed about them with his usual savage energy. His hand wastoo strong for such small subjects, and it pleased him to tellArthur's mother, and uncle, and Laura, that there was no hand in allthe band of penmen more graceful and light, more pleasant and moreelegant, than Arthur's. "The people in this country, ma'am, don'tunderstand what style is, or they would see the merits of our youngone," he said to Mrs. Pendennis. "I call him ours, ma'am, for I bredhim; and I am as proud of him as you are; and, bating a littlewillfulness, and a little selfishness, and a little dandyfication, Idon't know a more honest, or loyal, or gentle creature. His pen iswicked sometimes, but he is as kind as a young lady--as Miss Laurahere--and I believe he would not do any living mortal harm."

  At this, Helen, though she heaved a deep, deep sigh, and Laura, thoughshe, too, was sadly wounded, nevertheless were most thankful forWarrington's good opinion of Arthur, and loved him for being soattached to their Pen. And Major Pendennis was loud in his praises ofMr. Warrington--more loud and enthusiastic than it was the major'swont to be. "He is a gentleman, my dear creature," he said to Helen,"every inch a gentleman, my good madam--the Suffolk Warringtons--Charles the First's baronets: what could he be but a gentleman,come out of that family?--father--Sir Miles Warrington; ranaway with--beg your pardon, Miss Bell. Sir Miles was a very well-knownman in London, and a friend of the Prince of Wales. This gentlemanis a man of the greatest talents, the very highest accomplishments--sure to get on, if he had a motive to put his energies to work."

  Laura blushed for herself while the major was talking and praisingArthur's hero. As she looked at Warrington's manly face and dark,melancholy eyes, this young person had been speculating about him, andhad settled in her mind that he must have been the victim of anunhappy attachment; and as she caught herself so speculating, why,Miss Bell blushed.

  Warrington got chambers hard by--Grenier's chambers in Flagcourt; andhaving executed Pen's task with great energy in the morning, hisdelight and pleasure of an afternoon was to come and sit with the sickman's company in the sunny autumn evenings; and he had the honor morethan once of giving Miss Bell his arm for a walk in the TempleGardens; to take which pastime, when the frank Laura asked of Helenpermission, the major eagerly said, "Yes, yes, begad--of course you goout with him--it's like the country, you know; everybody goes out withevery body in the gardens, and there are beadles, you know, and thatsort of thing--every body walks in the Temple Gardens." If the greatarbiter of morals did not object, why should simple Helen? She wasglad that her girl should have such fresh air as the river could give,and to see her return with heightened color and spirits
from theseharmless excursions.

  Laura and Helen had come, you must know, to a little explanation. Whenthe news arrived of Pen's alarming illness, Laura insisted uponaccompanying the terrified mother to London, would not hear of therefusal which the still angry Helen gave her, and, when refused asecond time yet more sternly, and when it seemed that the poor lostlad's life was despaired of, and when it was known that his conductwas such as to render all thoughts of union hopeless, Laura had, withmany tears told her mother a secret with which every observant personwho reads this story is acquainted already. Now she never could marryhim, was she to be denied the consolation of owning how fondly, howtruly, how entirely she had loved him? The mingling tears of the womenappeased the agony of their grief somewhat, and the sorrows andterrors of their journey were at least in so far mitigated that theyshared them together.

  What could Fanny expect when suddenly brought up for sentence before acouple of such judges? Nothing but swift condemnation, awfulpunishment, merciless dismissal! Women are cruel critics in cases suchas that in which poor Fanny was implicated; and we like them to be so:for, besides the guard which a man places round his own harem, and thedefenses which a woman has in her heart, her faith, and honor, hasn'tshe all her own friends of her own sex to keep watch that she does notgo astray, and to tear her to pieces if she is found erring? When ourMahmouds or Selims of Baker-street or Belgrave-square visit theirFatimas with condign punishment, their mothers sew up Fatima's sackfor her, and her sisters and sisters-in-law see her well underwater. And this present writer does not say nay. He protests mostsolemnly he is a Turk, too. He wears a turban and a beard likeanother, and is all for the sack practice, Bismillah! But O youspotless, who have the right of capital punishment vested in you, atleast be very cautious that you make away with the proper (if so shemay be called) person. Be very sure of the fact before you order thebarge out: and don't pop your subject into the Bosphorus, until youare quite certain that she deserves it. This is all I would urge inPoor Fatima's behalf--absolutely all--not a word more, by the beard ofthe Prophet. If she's guilty, down with her--heave over the sack, awaywith it into the Golden Horn bubble and squeak, and justice beingdone, give away, men, and let us pull back to supper.

  So the major did not in any way object to Warrington's continuedpromenades with Miss Laura, but, like a benevolent old gentleman,encouraged in every way the intimacy of that couple. Were there anyexhibitions in town? he was for Warrington conducting her to them. IfWarrington had proposed to take her to Vauxhall itself, this mostcomplaisant of men would have seen no harm--nor would Helen, ifPendennis the elder had so ruled it--nor would there have been anyharm between two persons whose honor was entirely spotless--betweenWarrington, who saw in intimacy a pure, and high-minded, and artlesswoman for the first time in his life--and Laura, who too for the firsttime was thrown into the constant society of a gentleman of greatnatural parts and powers of pleasing; who possessed variedacquirements, enthusiasm, simplicity, humor, and that freshness ofmind which his simple life and habits gave him, and which contrastedso much with Pen's dandy indifference of manner and faded sneer. InWarrington's very uncouthness there was a refinement, which theother's finery lacked. In his energy, his respect, his desire toplease, his hearty laughter, or simple confiding pathos, what adifference to Sultan Pen's yawning sovereignty and languid acceptanceof homage! What had made Pen at home such a dandy and such a despot?The women had spoiled him, as we like them and as they like to do.They had cloyed him with obedience, and surfeited him with sweetrespect and submission, until he grew weary of the slaves who waitedupon him, and their caresses and cajoleries excited him no more.Abroad, he was brisk and lively, and eager and impassionedenough--most men are so constituted and so nurtured. Does this, likethe former sentence, run a chance of being misinterpreted, and doesany one dare to suppose that the writer would incite the women torevolt? Never, by the whiskers of the Prophet, again he says. He wearsa beard, and he likes his women to be slaves. What man doesn't? Whatman would be henpecked, I say?--We will cut off all the heads inChristendom or Turkeydom rather than that.

  Well, then, Arthur being so languid, and indifferent, and carelessabout the favors bestowed upon him, how came it that Laura should havesuch a love and rapturous regard for him, that a mere inadequateexpression of it should have kept the girl talking all the way fromFairoaks to London, as she and Helen traveled in the post-chaise? Assoon as Helen had finished one story about the dear fellow, andnarrated, with a hundred sobs and ejaculations, and looks up toheaven, some thrilling incidents which occurred about the period whenthe hero was breeched, Laura began another equally interesting, andequally ornamented with tears, and told how heroically he had a toothout or wouldn't have it out, or how daringly he robbed a bird's nest,or how magnanimously he spared it; or how he gave a shilling to theold woman on the common, or went without his bread and butter for thebeggar-boy who came into the yard--and so on. One to another thesobbing women sang laments upon their hero, who, my worthy reader haslong since perceived, is no more a hero than either one of us. Beingas he was, why should a sensible girl be so fond of him?

  This point has been argued before in a previous unfortunate sentence(which lately drew down all the wrath of Ireland upon the writer'shead), and which said that the greatest rascal-cutthroats have hadsomebody to be fond of them, and if those monsters, why not ordinarymortals? And with whom shall a young lady fall in love but with theperson she sees? She is not supposed to lose her heart in a dream,like a Princess in the Arabian Nights; or to plight her youngaffections to the portrait of a gentleman in the Exhibition, or asketch in the Illustrated London News. You have an instinct within youwhich inclines you to attach yourself to some one: you meet Somebody:you hear Somebody constantly praised: you walk, or ride, or waltz, ortalk, or sit in the same pew at church with Somebody: you meet again,and again, and--"Marriages are made in Heaven," your dear mamma says,pinning your orange flowers wreath on, with her blessed eyes dimmedwith tears--and there is a wedding breakfast, and you take off yourwhite satin and retire to your coach and four, and you and he are ahappy pair. Or, the affair is broken off and then, poor dear woundedheart! why then you meet Somebody Else and twine your young affectionsround number two. It is your nature so to do. Do you suppose it is allfor the man's sake that you love, and not a bit for your own? Do yousuppose you would drink if you were not thirsty, or eat if you werenot hungry?

  So then Laura liked Pen because she saw scarcely any body else atFairoaks except Doctor Portman and Captain Glanders, and because hismother constantly praised her Arthur, and because he wasgentleman-like, tolerably good-looking and witty, and because, aboveall, it was of her nature to like somebody. And having once receivedthis image into her heart, she there tenderly nursed it and claspedit--she there, in his long absences and her constant solitudes,silently brooded over it and fondled it--and when after this she cameto London, and had an opportunity of becoming rather intimate with Mr.George Warrington, what on earth was to prevent her from thinking hima most odd, original, agreeable, and pleasing person?

  A long time afterward, when these days were over, and Fate in itsown way had disposed of the various persons now assembled in the dingybuilding in Lamb-court, perhaps some of them looked back and thoughthow happy the time was, and how pleasant had been their evening talksand little walks and simple recreations round the sofa of Pen theconvalescent. The major had a favorable opinion of September in Londonfrom that time forward, and declared at his clubs and in society thatthe dead season in town was often pleasant, doosid pleasant, begad. Heused to go home to his lodgings in Bury-street of a night, wonderingthat it was already so late, and that the evening had passed away soquietly. He made his appearance at the Temple pretty constantly in theafternoon, and tugged up the long, black staircase with quite abenevolent activity and perseverance. And he made interest with thechef at Bays's (that renowned cook, the superintendence of whose workupon Gastronomy compelled the gifted author to stay in themetropolis), to prepare little jellies, delicat
e clear soups, aspics,and other trifles good for invalids, which Morgan the valet constantlybrought down to the little Lamb-court colony. And the permission todrink a glass or two of pure sherry being accorded to Pen by DoctorGoodenough, the major told with almost tears in his eyes how his noblefriend the Marquis of Steyne, passing through London on his way to theContinent, had ordered any quantity of his precious, his pricelessAmontillado, that had been a present from King Ferdinand to the noblemarquis, to be placed at the disposal of Mr. Arthur Pendennis. Thewidow and Laura tasted it with respect (though they didn't in theleast like the bitter flavor), but the invalid was greatly invigoratedby it, and Warrington pronounced it superlatively good, and proposedthe major's health in a mock speech after dinner on the first day whenthe wine was served, and that of Lord Steyne and the aristocracyin general.

  Major Pendennis returned thanks with the utmost gravity and in aspeech in which he used the words "the present occasion," at least theproper number of times. Pen cheered with his feeble voice from hisarm-chair. Warrington taught Miss Laura to cry "Hear! hear!" andtapped the table with his knuckles. Pidgeon the attendant grinned, andhonest Doctor Goodenough found the party so merrily engaged, when hecame in to pay his faithful, gratuitous visit.

  Warrington knew Sibwright, who lived below, and that gallantgentleman, in reply to a letter informing him of the use to which hisapartments had been put, wrote back the most polite and flowery letterof acquiescence. He placed his chambers at the service of their fairoccupants, his bed at their disposal, his carpets at their feet.Everybody was kindly disposed toward the sick man and his family. Hisheart (and his mother's too, as we may fancy) melted within him at thethought of so much good feeling and good nature. Let Pen's biographerbe pardoned for alluding to a time, not far distant, when a somewhatsimilar mishap brought him a providential friend, a kind physician,and a thousand proofs of a most touching and surprising kindness andsympathy There was a piano in Mr. Sibwright's chamber (indeed thisgentleman, a lover of all the arts, performed himself--and exceedinglyill too--upon the instrument); and had had a song dedicated to him(the words by himself, the air by his devoted friend LeopoldoTwankidillo), and at this music-box, as Mr. Warrington called it,Laura, at first with a great deal of tremor and blushing (which becameher very much), played and sang, sometimes of an evening, simple airs,and old songs of home. Her voice was a rich contralto, and Warrington,who scarcely knew one tune from another, and who had but one time orbray in his _repertoire_--a most discordant imitation of God save theKing--sat rapt in delight listening to these songs. He could followtheir rhythm if not their harmony; and he could watch, with a constantand daily growing enthusiasm, the pure, and tender, and generouscreature who made the music.

  I wonder how that poor pale little girl in the black bonnet, who usedto stand at the lamp-post in Lamb-court sometimes of an eveninglooking up to the open windows from which the music came, liked tohear it? When Pen's bed-time came the songs were hushed. Lightsappeared in the upper room: _his_ room, whither the widow used toconduct him; and then the major and Mr. Warrington, and sometimes MissLaura, would have a game at _ecarte_ or backgammon; or she would sitby working a pair of slippers in worsted--a pair of gentleman'sslippers--they might have been for Arthur, or for George, or for MajorPendennis: one of those three would have given any thing forthe slippers.

  While such business as this was going on within, a rather shabby oldgentleman would come and lead away the pale girl in the black bonnet;who had no right to be abroad in the night air, and the Templeporters, the few laundresses, and other amateurs who had beenlistening to the concert, would also disappear.

  Just before ten o'clock there was another musical performance, namely,that of the chimes of St. Clement's clock in the Strand, which playedthe clear, cheerful notes of a psalm, before it proceeded to ring itsten fatal strokes. As they were ringing, Laura began to fold up theslippers; Martha from Fairoaks appeared with a bed-candle, and aconstant smile on her face; the major said, "God bless my soul, is itso late?" Warrington and he left their unfinished game, and got up andshook hands with Miss Bell. Martha from Fairoaks lighted them out ofthe passage and down the stair, and, as they descended, they couldhear, her bolting and locking "the sporting door" after them, upon heryoung mistress and herself. If there had been any danger, grinningMartha said she would have got down "that thar hooky soord which hungup in gantleman's room,"--meaning the Damascus scimitar with the namesof the Prophet engraved on the blade and the red-velvet scabbard,which Percy Sibwright, Esquire, brought back from his tour in theLevant, along with an Albanian dress, and which he wore with suchelegant effect at Lady Mullinger's fancy ball, Gloucester-square, HydePark. It entangled itself in Miss Kewsey's train, who appeared in thedress in which she, with her mamma, had been presented to theirsovereign (the latter by the L--d Ch-nc-ll-r's lady), and led toevents which have nothing to do with this history. Is not Miss Kewseynow Mrs. Sibwright? Has Sibwright not got a county court?--Good night,Laura and Fairoaks Martha. Sleep well and wake happy, pure andgentle lady.

  Sometimes after these evenings Warrington would walk a little way withMajor Pendennis--just a little way--just as far as the Temple gate--asthe Strand--as Charing Cross--as the Club--he was not going into theClub? Well, as far as Bury-street where he would laughingly shakehands on the major's own door-step. They had been talking about Lauraall the way. It was wonderful how enthusiastic the major, who, as weknow, used to dislike her, had grown to be regarding the young lady."Dev'lish fine girl, begad. Dev'lish well-mannered girl--mysister-in-law has the manners of a duchess and would bring up any girlwell. Miss Bell's a _little_ countryfied. But the smell of thehawthorn is pleasant, demmy. How she blushes! Your London girls wouldgive many a guinea for a bouquet like that--natural flowers, begad!And she's a little money too--nothing to speak of--but a pooty littlebit of money." In all which opinions no doubt Mr. Warrington agreed;and though he laughed as he shook hands with the major, his face fellas he left his veteran companion; and he strode back to chambers, andsmoked pipe after pipe long into the night, and wrote article uponarticle, more and more savage, in lieu of friend Pen disabled.

  Well, it was a happy time for almost all parties concerned. Pen mendeddaily. Sleeping and eating were his constant occupations. His appetitewas something frightful. He was ashamed of exhibiting it before Laura,and almost before his mother, who laughed and applauded him. As theroast chicken of his dinner went away he eyed the departing friendwith sad longing, and began to long for jelly, or tea, or what not. Hewas like an ogre in devouring. The doctor cried stop, but Pen wouldnot. Nature called out to him more loudly than the doctor, and thatkind and friendly physician handed him over with a very good grace tothe other healer.

  And here let us speak very tenderly and in the strictest confidence ofan event which befell him, and to which he never liked an allusion.During his delirium the ruthless Goodenough ordered ice to be put tohis head, and all his lovely hair to be cut. It was done in the timeof--of the other nurse, who left every single hair of course in apaper for the widow to count and treasure up. She never believed butthat the girl had taken away some of it, but then women are sosuspicious upon these matters.

  When this direful loss was made visible to Major Pendennis, as ofcourse it was the first time the elder saw the poor young man's shornpate, and when Pen was quite out of danger, and gaining daily vigor,the major, with something like blushes and a queer wink of his eyes,said he knew of a--a person--a coiffeur, in fact--a good man, whom he would send down to the Temple, and who would--a--apply--a--atemporary remedy to that misfortune.

  Laura looked at Warrington with the archest sparkle in her eyes--Warrington fairly burst out into a boohoo of laughter: even the widowwas obliged to laugh: and the major erubescent confounded theimpudence of the young folks, and said when he had his hair cut hewould keep a lock of it for Miss Laura.

  Warrington voted that Pen should wear a barrister's wig. There wasSibwright's down below, which would become him hugely. Pen said"Stuff," and seemed as confus
ed as his uncle; and the end was that agentleman from Burlington Arcade waited next day upon Mr. Pendennis,and had a private interview with him in his bedroom; and a weekafterward the same individual appeared with a box under his arm, andan ineffable grin of politeness on his face, and announced that he hadbrought 'ome Mr. Pendennis's 'ead of 'air.

  It must have been a grand but melancholy sight to see Pen in therecesses of his apartment, sadly contemplating his ravaged beauty, andthe artificial means of hiding its ruin. He appeared at length in the'ead of 'air; but Warrington laughed so that Pen grew sulky, and wentback for his velvet cap, a neat turban which the fondest of mammas hadworked for him. Then Mr. Warrington and Miss Bell got some flowers offthe ladies' bonnets and made a wreath, with which they decorated thewig and brought it out in procession, and did homage before it. Infact they indulged in a hundred sports, jocularities, waggeries, and_petits jeux innocens_: so that the second and third floors ofnumber 6, Lambcourt, Temple, rang with more cheerfulness and laughterthan had been known in those precincts for many a long day.

  At last, after about ten days of this life, one evening when thelittle spy of the court came out to take her usual post of observationat the lamp, there was no music from the second floor window, therewere no lights in the third story chambers, the windows of each wereopen, and the occupants were gone. Mrs. Flanagan the laundress, toldFanny what had happened. The ladies and all the party had gone toRichmond for change of air. The antique traveling chariot was broughtout again and cushioned with many pillows for Pen and his mother; andMiss Laura went in the most affable manner in the omnibus under theguardianship of Mr. George Warrington. He came back and tookpossession of his old bed that night in the vacant and cheerlesschambers, and to his old books and his old pipes, but not perhaps tohis old sleep.

  The widow had left a jar full of flowers upon his table, prettilyarranged, and when he entered they filled the solitary room with odor.They were memorials of the kind, gentle souls who had gone away, andwho had decorated for a little while that lonely, cheerless place. Hehad had the happiest days of his whole life, George felt--he knew itnow they were just gone: he went and took up the flowers and put hisface to them, smelt them--perhaps kissed them. As he put them down, herubbed his rough hand across his eyes with a bitter word and laugh. Hewould have given his whole life and soul to win that prize whichArthur rejected. Did she want fame? he would have won it for her:devotion?--a great heart full of pent-up tenderness and manly loveand gentleness was there for her, if she might take it. But it mightnot be. Fate had ruled otherwise. "Even if I could, she would not haveme," George thought. "What has an ugly, rough old fellow like me, tomake any woman like him? I'm getting old, and I've made no mark inlife. I've neither good looks, nor youth, nor money, nor reputation. Aman must be able to do something besides stare at her and offer on hisknees his uncouth devotion, to make a woman like him. What can I do?Lots of young fellows have passed me in the race--what they call theprizes of life didn't seem to me worth the trouble of the struggle.But for _her_. If she had been mine and liked a diamond--ah!shouldn't she have worn it! Psha, what a fool I am to brag of what Iwould have done! We are the slaves of destiny. Our lots are shaped forus, and mine is ordained long ago. Come, let us have a pipe, and putthe smell of these flowers out of court. Poor little silent flowers!you'll be dead to-morrow. What business had you to show your redcheeks in this dingy place?"

  By his bed-side George found a new Bible which the widow had placedthere, with a note inside saying that she had not seen the book amonghis collection in a room where she had spent a number of hours, andwhere God had vouchsafed to her prayers the life of her son, and thatshe gave to Arthur's friend the best thing she could, and besoughthim to read in the volume sometimes, and to keep it as a token of agrateful mother's regard and affection. Poor George mournfully kissedthe book as he had done the flowers; and the morning found him stillreading in its awful pages, in which so many stricken hearts, in whichso many tender and faithful souls, have found comfort under calamityand refuge and hope in affliction.