CHAPTER LXIV. Phyllis and Corydon
On a picturesque common in the neighbourhood of Tunbridge Wells, LadyClavering had found a pretty villa, whither she retired after herconjugal disputes at the end of that unlucky London season. Miss Amory,of course, accompanied her mother, and Master Clavering came home forthe holidays, with whom Blanche's chief occupation was to fight andquarrel. But this was only a home pastime, and the young schoolboy wasnot fond of home sports. He found cricket, and horses, and plenty offriends at Tunbridge. The good-natured Begum's house was filled with aconstant society of young gentlemen of thirteen, who ate and drank muchtoo copiously of tarts and champagne, who rode races on the lawn, andfrightened the fond mother, who smoked and made themselves sick, and thedining-room unbearable to Miss Blanche. She did not like the society ofyoung gentlemen of thirteen.
As for that fair young creature, any change as long as it was change waspleasant to her; and for a week or two she would have liked poverty anda cottage, and bread-and-cheese; and, for a night, perhaps, a dungeonand bread-and-water, and so the move to Tunbridge was by no meansunwelcome to her. She wandered in the woods, and sketched trees andfarmhouses; she read French novels habitually; she drove into TunbridgeWells pretty often, and to any play, or ball, or conjurer, or musicianwho might happen to appear in the place; she slept a great deal; shequarrelled with Mamma and Frank during the morning; she found the littlevillage school and attended it, and first fondled the girls and thwartedthe mistress, then scolded the girls and laughed at the teacher; she wasconstant at church, of course. It was a pretty little church, of immenseantiquity--a little Anglo-Norman bijou, built the day before yesterday,and decorated with all sorts of painted windows, carved saints' heads,gilt scripture texts, and open pews. Blanche began forthwith to work amost correct high-church altar-cover for the church. She passed for asaint with the clergyman for a while, whom she quite took in, andwhom she coaxed, and wheedled, and fondled so artfully, that poor Mrs.Smirke, who at first was charmed with her, then bore with her, thenwould hardly speak to her, was almost mad with jealousy. Mrs. Smirke wasthe wife of our old friend Smirke, Pen's tutor and poor Helen's suitor.He had consoled himself for her refusal with a young lady from Claphamwhom his mamma provided. When the latter died, our friend's views becameevery day more and more pronounced. He cut off his coat collar, and lethis hair grow over his back. He rigorously gave up the curl which heused to sport on his forehead, and the tie of his neckcloth, of which hewas rather proud. He went without any tie at all. He went without dinneron Fridays. He read the Roman Hours, and intimated that he was readyto receive confessions in the vestry. The most harmless creature in theworld, he was denounced as a black and most dangerous Jesuit and Papist,by Muffin of the Dissenting chapel, and Mr. Simeon Knight at the oldchurch. Mr. Smirke had built his chapel-of-ease with the money left himby his mother at Clapham. Lord! lord! what would she have said to hear atable called an altar! to see candlesticks on it! to get letterssigned on the Feast of Saint So-and-so, or the Vigil of SaintWhat-do-you-call-'em! All these things did the boy of Clapham practise;his faithful wife following him. But when Blanche had a conference ofnear two hours in the vestry with Mr. Smirke, Belinda paced up and downon the grass, where there were only two little grave-stones as yet; shewished that she had a third there: only, only he would offer very likelyto that creature, who had infatuated him in a fortnight. No, she wouldretire; she would go into a convent, and profess and leave him. Suchbad thoughts had Smirke's wife and his neighbours regarding him; these,thinking him in direct correspondence with the Bishop of Rome; that,bewailing errors to her even more odious and fatal; and yet our friendmeant no earthly harm. The post-office never brought him any lettersfrom the Pope; he thought Blanche, to be sure, at first, the most pious,gifted, right-thinking, fascinating person he had ever met; and hermanner of singing the Chants delighted him--but after a while he beganto grow rather tired of Miss Amory, her ways and graces grew stalesomehow; then he was doubtful about Miss Amory; then she made adisturbance in his school, lost her temper, and rapped the children'sfingers. Blanche inspired this admiration and satiety, somehow, in manymen. She tried to please them, and flung out all her graces atonce; came down to them with all her jewels on, all her smiles, andcajoleries, and coaxings, and ogles. Then she grew tired of them and oftrying to please them, and never having cared about them, dropped them:and the men grew tired of her, and dropped her too. It was a happy nightfor Belinda when Blanche went away; and her husband, with rather ablush and a sigh, said "he had been deceived in her; he had thought herendowed with many precious gifts, he feared they were mere tinsel; hethought she had been a right-thinking person, he feared she had merelymade religion an amusement--she certainly had quite lost her temper tothe schoolmistress, and beat Polly Rucker's knuckles cruelly." Belindaflew to his arms, there was no question about the grave or the veilany more. He tenderly embraced her on the forehead. "There is none likethee, my Belinda," he said, throwing his fine eyes up to the ceiling,"precious among women!" As for Blanche, from the instant she lost sightof him and Belinda, she never thought or cared about either any more.
But when Arthur went down to pass a few days at Tunbridge Wells with theBegum, this stage of indifference had not arrived on Miss Blanche's partor on that of the simple clergyman. Smirke believed her to be an angeland wonder of a woman. Such a perfection he had never seen, and satelistening to her music in the summer evenings, open-mouthed, rapt inwonder, tea-less, and bread-and-butter-less. Fascinating as he hadheard the music of the opera to be--he had never but once attendedan exhibition of that nature (which he mentioned with a blush and asigh--it was on that day when he had accompanied Helen and her son tothe play at Chatteris)--he could not conceive anything more delicious,more celestial, he had almost said, than Miss Amory's music. She was amost gifted being: she had a precious soul: she had the most remarkabletalents--to all outward seeming, the most heavenly disposition, etc.etc. It was in this way that, being then at the height of his own feverand bewitchment for Blanche, Smirke discoursed to Arthur about her.
The meeting between the two old acquaintances had been very cordial.Arthur loved anybody who loved his mother; Smirke could speak on thattheme with genuine feeling and emotion. They had a hundred things totell each other of what had occurred in their lives. "Arthur wouldperceive," Smirke said, "that his--his views on Church matters haddeveloped themselves since their acquaintance." Mrs. Smirke, a mostexemplary person, seconded them with all her endeavours. He had builtthis little church on his mother's demise, who had left him providedwith a sufficiency of worldly means. Though in the cloister himself,he had heard of Arthur's reputation. He spoke in the kindest and mostsaddened tone; he held his eyelids down, and bowed his fair head onone side. Arthur was immensely amused with him; with his airs; with hisfollies and simplicity; with his blank stock and long hair; with hisreal goodness, kindness, friendliness of feeling. And his praises ofBlanche pleased and surprised our friend not a little, and made himregard her with eyes of particular favour.
The truth is, Blanche was very glad to see Arthur; as one is glad tosee an agreeable man in the country, who brings down the last newsand stories from the great city; who can talk better than mostcountry-folks, at least can talk that darling London jargon, so dear andindispensable to London people, so little understood by persons out ofthe world. The first day Pen came down, he kept Blanche laughing forhours after dinner. She sang her songs with redoubled spirit. She didnot scold her mother; she fondled and kissed her, to the honest Begum'ssurprise. When it came to be bedtime, she said, "Deja!" with theprettiest air of regret possible; and was really quite sorry to go tobed, and squeezed Arthur's hand quite fondly. He on his side gave herpretty palm a very cordial pressure. Our young gentleman was of thatturn, that eyes very moderately bright dazzled him.
"She is very much improved," thought Pen, looking out into the night,"very much. I suppose the Begum won't mind my smoking with the windowopen. She's a jolly good old woman, and Blanche is immensely improved. Ilik
ed her manner with her mother tonight. I liked her laughing waywith that stupid young cub of a boy, whom they oughtn't to allow to gettipsy. She sang those little verses very prettily; they were devilishpretty verses too, though I say it who shouldn't say it." And he hummeda tune which Blanche had put to some verses of his own. "Ah! what afine night! How jolly a cigar is at night! How pretty that little Saxonchurch looks in the moonlight! I wonder what old Warrington's doing?Yes, she's a dayvlish nice little thing, as my uncle says."
"Oh, heavenly!" Here broke out a voice from a clematis-covered casementnear--a girl's voice: it was the voice of the author of 'Mes Larmes.'
Pen burst into a laugh. "Don't tell about my smoking," he said, leaningout of his own window.
"Oh! go on! I adore it," cried the lady of 'Mes Larmes.' "Heavenlynight! heavenly, heavenly moon! but I must shut my window, and not talkto you on account of les moeurs. How droll they are, les moeurs! Adieu."And Pen began to sing the Goodnight to Don Basilio.
The next day they were walking in the fields together, laughing andchattering--the gayest pair of friends. They talked about the days oftheir youth, and Blanche was prettily sentimental. They talked aboutLaura, dearest Laura--Blanche had loved her as a sister: was she happywith that odd Lady Rockminster? Wouldn't she come and stay with themat Tunbridge? Oh, what walks they would take together! What songsthey would sing--the old, old songs! Laura's voice was splendid. DidArthur--she must call him Arthur--remember the songs they sang inthe happy old days, now he was grown such a great man, and had such asucces? etc. etc.
And the day after, which was enlivened with a happy ramble through thewoods to Penshurst, and a sight of that pleasant park and hall, camethat conversation with the curate which we have narrated, and which madeour young friend think more and more.
"Is she all this perfection?" he asked himself. "Has she become seriousand religious? Does she tend schools, and visit the poor? Is she kindto her mother and brother? Yes, I am sure of that, I have seen her." Andwalking with his old tutor over his little parish, and going to visithis school, it was with inexpressible delight that Pen found Blancheseated instructing the children, and fancied to himself how patientshe must be, how good-natured, how ingenuous, how really simple in hertastes, and unspoiled by the world.
"And do you really like the country?" he asked her, as they walkedtogether.
"I should like never to see that odious city again. O Arthur--that is,Mr.--well, Arthur, then--one's good thoughts grow up in these sweetwoods and calm solitudes, like those flowers which won't bloom inLondon, you know. The gardener comes and changes our balconies once aweek. I don't think I shall bear to look London in the face again--itsodious, smoky, brazen face! But, heigho!"
"Why that sigh, Blanche?"
"Never mind why."
"Yes, I do mind why. Tell me, tell me everything."
"I wish you hadn't come down;" and a second edition of 'Mes Soupirs'came out.
"You don't want me, Blanche?"
"I don't want you to go away. I don't think this house will be veryhappy without you, and that's why I wish that you never had come."
'Mes Soupirs' were here laid aside, and 'Mes Larmes' had begun.
Ah! What answer is given to those in the eyes of a young woman? What isthe method employed for drying them? What took place? O ringdoves androses, O dews and wildflowers, O waving greenwoods and balmy airs ofsummer! Here were two battered London rakes, taking themselves in fora moment, and fancying that they were in love with each other, likePhillis and Corydon!
When one thinks of country houses and country walks, one wonders thatany man is left unmarried.
The History of Pendennis Page 66