CHAPTER XXXIII.
IN WHICH THE DECK BEGINS TO CLEAR.
When, arrayed in his dressing-gown, Pen walked up, according tocustom, to Warrington's chambers next morning, to inform his friend ofthe issue of the last night's interview with his uncle, and to ask, asusual, for George's advice and opinion, Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress,was the only person whom Arthur found in the dear old chambers. Georgehad taken a carpet-hag, and was gone. His address was to his brother'shouse, in Suffolk. Packages addressed to the newspaper and review forwhich 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 wasburned 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 becameintolerable to him, George had walked home, and had passed the nightfinishing some work on which he was employed, and to the completion ofwhich he bent himself with all his might. The labor was done, and thenight was worn away somehow, and the tardy November dawn came andlooked in on the young man as he sate over his desk. In the next day'spaper, or quarter's review, many of us very likely admired the work ofhis genius, the variety of his illustration, the fierce vigor of hissatire, the depth of his reason. There was no hint in his writing ofthe other thoughts which occupied him, and always accompanied him inhis work--a tone more melancholy than was customary, a satire morebitter and impatient than that which he afterward showed, may havemarked the writings of this period of his life to the very few personswho knew his style or his name. We have said before, could we know theman's feelings as well as the author's thoughts--how interesting mostbooks would be! more interesting than merry. I suppose harlequin'sface behind his mask is always grave, if not melancholy--certainlyeach man who lives by the pen, and happens to read this, mustremember, if he will, his own experiences, and recall many solemnhours of solitude and labor. What a constant care sate at the side ofthe desk and accompanied him! Fever or sickness were lying possibly inthe next room: a sick child might be there, with a wife watching overit terrified and in prayer: or grief might be bearing him down, andthe cruel mist before the eyes rendering the paper scarce visible ashe wrote on it, and the inexorable necessity drove on the pen. Whatman among us has not had nights and hours like these? But to the manlyheart--severe as these pangs are, they are endurable: long as thenight seems, the dawn comes at last, and the wounds heal, and thefever abates, and rest comes, and you can afford to look back on thepast 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 blottingpaper, a bit of sealing wax twisted and bitten and broken into sundrypieces--such relics as these were about the table, and Pen flunghimself down in George's empty chair--noting things according to hiswont, or in spite of himself. There was a gap in the book-case (nextto the old College Plato, with the Boniface Arms), where Helen's Bibleused to be. He has taken that with him, thought Pen. He knew why hisfriend 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, orsuch a brave heart? Where shall I ever hear such a frank voice, andkind laughter? Where shall I ever see such a true gentleman? No wondershe loved him. God bless him. What was I compared to him? What couldshe do else but love him? To the end of our days we will be herbrothers, 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-boxof his outer door, which he had previously overlooked, and there was alittle note to A. P., Esq., in George's well-known handwriting, Georgehad put into Pen's box probably as he was going away.
"Dr. Pen--I shall be half way home when you breakfast, and intend tostay over Christmas, in Norfolk, or elsewhere.
"I have my own opinion of the issue of matters about which we talkedin J----street yesterday; and think my presence _de trop_." Vale.G.W.
"Give my very best regards and adieux to your cousin." And so Georgewas gone, and Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, ruled over hisempty chambers.
Pen of course had to go and see his uncle on the day after theircolloquy, and not being admitted, he naturally went to LadyRockminister's apartments, where the old lady instantly asked forBluebeard, and insisted that he should come to dinner.
"Bluebeard is gone," Pen said, and he took out poor George's scrap ofpaper, and handed it to Laura, who looked at it--did not look at Penin return, but passed the paper back to him, and walked away. Penrushed into an eloquent eulogium upon his dear old George to LadyRockminister, who was astonished at his enthusiasm. She had neverheard him so warm in praise of any body; and told him with her usualfrankness, that she didn't think it had been in his nature to care somuch about any other person.
As Mr. Pendennis was passing in Waterloo-place, in one of his manywalks to the hotel where Laura lived, and whither duty to his unclecarried Arthur every day, Arthur saw issuing from Messrs. Gimcrack'scelebrated shop an old friend, who was followed to his Brougham by anobsequious shopman bearing parcels. The gentleman was in the deepestmourning: the Brougham, the driver, and the horse, were in mourning.Grief in easy circumstances, and supported by the comfortablestsprings and cushions, was typified in the equipage and the littlegentleman, its proprietor.
"What, Foker! Hail, Foker!" cried out Pen--the reader, no doubt, haslikewise recognized Arthur's old schoolfellow--and he held out hishand to the heir of the late lamented John Henry Foker, Esq., themaster of Logwood and other houses, the principal partner in the greatbrewery of Foker & Co.: the greater portion of Foker's Entire.
A little hand, covered with a glove of the deepest ebony, and set offby three inches of a snowy wristband, was put forth to meet Arthur'ssalutation. The other little hand held a little morocco case,containing, no doubt, something precious, of which Mr. Foker had justbecome proprietor in Messrs. Gimcrack's shop. Pen's keen eyes andsatiric turn showed him at once upon what errand Mr. Foker had beenemployed; and he thought of the heir in Horace pouring forth thegathered wine of his father's vats; and that human nature is prettymuch 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 youdo, Pen? very busy--good-by!" and he jumped into the black Brougham,and sate like a little black Care behind the black coachman. He hadblushed on seeing Pen, and showed other signs of guilt andperturbation, 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 Harrythe Fourth, and Harry the Fifth reigns in his stead. The old ministersat the brewery come and kneel before him with their books; thedraymen, 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 theyshould ever love each other very cordially. As long as one man keepsanother out of twenty thousand a year, the younger must be alwayshankering after the crown, and the wish must be the father to thethought of possession. Thank Heaven, there was no thought of moneybetween 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 mindto own for an instant that it would have entertained such--suchdreadful meanness? You make me blush for you, Arthur; you make me--"her eyes finished this sentence, and she passed her handkerchiefacross 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 Iever 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," saidLaura, in a low voice. "I am glad if you were spared from that greatcrime; 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 youcould. Your acts are generous and kind: you disdain mean actions. Youtake Blanche without money, and without a bribe. Yes, thanks be toHeaven, dear brother. You could not have sold yourself away; I knewyou could not when it came to the day, and you did not. Praise be--bewhere praise is due. Why does this horrid skepticism pursue you, myArthur? Why doubt and sneer at your own heart--at every one's? Oh, ifyou knew the pain you give me--how I lie awake and think of those hardsentences, dear brother, and wish them unspoken, unthought!"
"Do I cause you many thoughts and many tears, Laura?" asked Arthur.The fullness of innocent love beamed from her in reply. A smileheavenly pure, a glance of unutterable tenderness, sympathy, pity,shone in her face--all which indications of love and purity Arthurbeheld and worshiped in her, as you would watch them in a child, asone fancies one might regard them in an angel.
"I--I don't know what I have done," he said, simply, "to have meritedsuch regard from two such women. It is like undeserved praise,Laura--or too much good fortune, which frightens one--or a great post,when a man feels that he is not fit for it. Ah, sister, how weak andwicked we are; how spotless, and full of love and truth, Heaven madeyou! I think for some of you there has been no fall," he said, lookingat the charming girl with an almost paternal glance of admiration."You can't help having sweet thoughts, and doing good actions. Dearcreature! they are the flowers which you bear."
"And what else, sir?" asked Laura. "I see a sneer coming over yourface. What is it? Why does it come to drive all the goodthoughts away?"
"A sneer, is there? I was thinking, my dear, that nature in making youso good and loving did very well: but--"
"But what? What is that wicked but? and why are you always calling itup?"
"But will come in spite of us. But is reflection. But is the skeptic'sfamiliar, with whom he has made a compact; and if he forgets it, andindulges in happy day-dreams, or building of air castles, or listensto sweet music, let us say, or to the bells ringing to church, Buttaps at the door, and says, 'Master, I am here. You are my master; butI am yours. Go where you will you can't travel without me. I willwhisper to you when you are on your knees at church. I will be at yourmarriage pillow. I will sit down at your table with your children. Iwill be behind your death-bed curtain.' That is what But is,"Pen said.
"Pen, you frighten me," cried Laura.
"Do you know what But came and said to me just now, when I was lookingat you? But said, 'If that girl had reason as well as love, she wouldlove you no more. If she knew you as you are--the sullied, selfishbeing which _you_ know--she must part from you, and could give you nolove and no sympathy.' Didn't I say," he added fondly, "that some ofyou seem exempt from the fall? Love you know; but the knowledge ofevil is kept from you."
"What is this you young folks are talking about?" asked LadyRockminster, who at this moment made her appearance in the room,having performed in the mystic retirement of her own apartments, andunder the hands of her attendant, those elaborate toilet-rites withoutwhich the worthy old lady never presented herself to public view "Mr.Pendennis, you are always coming here."
"It is very pleasant to be here," Arthur said; "and we were talkingwhen you came in, about my friend Foker, whom I met just now; and who,as your ladyship knows, has succeeded to his father's kingdom."
"He has a very fine property, he has fifteen thousand a year. He is mycousin. He is a very worthy young man. He must come and see me," saidLady Rockminster, with a look at Laura.
"He has been engaged for many years past to his cousin, Lady--"
"Lady Ann is a foolish little chit," Lady Rockminster said, with muchdignity; "and I have no patience with her. She has outraged everyfeeling of society. She has broken her father's heart, and thrown awayfifteen thousand a year."
"Thrown away? What has happened?" asked Pen.
"It will be the talk of the town in a day or two; and there is no needwhy I should keep the secret any longer," said Lady Rockminster, whohad written and received a dozen letters on the subject. "I had aletter yesterday from my daughter, who was staying at Drummingtonuntil all the world was obliged to go away on account of the frightfulcatastrophe which happened there. When Mr. Foker came home from Nice,and after the funeral, Lady Ann went down on her knees to her father,said that she never could marry her cousin, that she had contractedanother attachment, and that she must die rather than fulfill hercontract. Poor Lord Rosherville, who is dreadfully embarrassed, showedhis daughter what the state of his affairs was, and that it wasnecessary that the arrangements should take place; and in fine, we allsupposed that she had listened to reason, and intended to comply withthe desires of her family. But what has happened--last Thursday shewent out after breakfast with her maid, and was married in the verychurch in Drummington Park to Mr. Hobson, her father's own chaplainand her brother's tutor; a red-haired widower with two children. Poordear Rosherville is in a dreadful way: he wishes Henry Foker shouldmarry Alice or Barbara; but Alice is marked with the small-pox, andBarbara is ten years older than he is. And, of course, now the youngman is his own master, he will think of choosing for himself. The blowon Lady Agnes is very cruel. She is inconsolable. She has the house inGrosvenor-street for her life, and her settlement, which was veryhandsome. Have you not met her? Yes, she dined one day at LadyClavering's--the first day I saw you, and a very disagreeable youngman I thought you were. But I have formed you. We have formed him,haven't we, Laura? Where is Bluebeard? let him come. That horridGrindley, the dentist, will keep me in town another week." To thelatter part of her ladyship's speech Arthur gave no ear. He wasthinking for whom could Foker be purchasing those trinkets which hewas carrying away from the jeweler's. Why did Harry seem anxious toavoid him? Could he be still faithful to the attachment which hadagitated him so much, and sent him abroad eighteen months back? Psha!The bracelets and presents were for some of Harry's old friends of theOpera or the French theatre. Rumors from Naples and Paris, rumors,such as are borne to club smoking-rooms, had announced that the youngman had found distractions; or, precluded from his virtuousattachment, the poor fellow had flung himself back upon his oldcompanions and amusements--not the only man or woman whom societyforces into evil, or debars from good; not the only victim of theworld's selfish and wicked laws.
As a good thing when it is to be done can not be done too quickly,Laura was anxious that Pen's marriage intentions should be put intoexecution as speedily as possible, and pressed on his arrangementswith rather a feverish anxiety. Why could she not wait? Pen couldafford to do so with perfect equanimity, but Laura would hear of nodelay. She wrote to Pen: she implored Pen: she used every means tourge expedition. It seemed as if she could have no rest until Arthur'shappiness was complete.
She offered herself to dearest Blanche to come and stay at Tunbridgewith her, when Lady Rockminster should go on her intended visit to thereigning house of Rockminster; and although the old dowager scolded,and ordered, and commanded, Laura was deaf and disobedient: she mustgo to Tunbridge, she would go to Tunbridge: she who ordinarily had nowill of her own, and complied, smilingly, with any body's whim andcaprices, showed the most selfish and obstinate determination in thisinstance. The dowager lady must nurse herself in her rheumatism, shemust read herself to sleep; if she would not hear her maid, whosevoice croaked, and who made sad work of the sentimental passages inthe novels--Laura must go, and be with her new sister. In anotherweek, she proposed, with many loves and regards to dear LadyClavering, to pass some time with dearest Blanche.
Dearest Blanche wrote instantly in reply to dearest Laura's No. 1, tosay with what extreme delight she should welcome her sister: howcharming it would be to practice their old duets together, to wandero'er the grassy sward, and amidst the yellowing woods of Penshurst andSouthborough! Blanche counted the hours till she should embrace herdearest friend.
Laura, No. 2, expressed her delight at dearest Blanche's affectionatereply. She hoped that their friendship would never diminish; that theconfidence between them would grow in after years; that they shouldhave no secrets from each other; that the aim of the life of eachwould be to make one person happy.
Blanche, No. 2 followed in two days. "How provoking! Their house wasvery small, the two spare bedrooms were occupied by that horrid Mrs.Planter and her daughter, who had thought proper to fall ill (shealways fell ill in country houses), and she could not, or would not bemoved for some days."
Laura, No. 3. "It was indeed very provoking. L. had hoped to hear oneof dearest B.'s dear songs on Friday; but she was the more consoled towait, because Lady R. was not very well, and liked to be nursed byher. Poor Major Pendennis was very unwell, too, in the same hotel--toounwell even to see Arthur, who was constant in his calls on his uncle.Arthur's heart was full of tenderness and affection. She had knownArthur all her life. She would answer--yes, even in italics she wouldanswer--for his kindness, his goodness, and his gentleness."
Blanche, No. 3. "What is this most surprising, most extraordinaryletter from A.P.? What does dearest Laura know about it? What hashappened? What, what mystery is enveloped under his frightful reserve?"
Blanche, No. 3, requires an explanation; and it can not be bettergiven than in the surprising and mysterious letter of ArthurPendennis.
The History of Pendennis, Volume 2 Page 33