The History of Pendennis

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER LXXIV. Shows how Arthur had better have taken a Return-ticket

  The train carried Arthur only too quickly to Tunbridge, though he hadtime to review all the circumstances of his life as he made the briefjourney; and to acknowledge to what sad conclusions his selfishness andwaywardness had led him. "Here is the end of hopes and aspirations,"thought he, "of romance and ambitions! Where I yield or where I amobstinate, I am alike unfortunate; my mother implores me, and I refusean angel! Say I had taken her; forced on me as she was, Laura wouldnever have been an angel to me. I could not have given her my heart atanother's instigation; I never could have known her as she is had Ibeen obliged to ask another to interpret her qualities and point outher virtues. I yield to my uncle's solicitations, and accept on hisguarantee Blanche, and a seat in Parliament, and wealth, and ambition,and a career; and see!--fortune comes and leaves me the wife without thedowry, which I had taken in compensation of a heart. Why was I not morehonest, or am I not less so? It would have cost my poor old uncle nopangs to accept Blanche's fortune whencesoever it came; he can't evenunderstand, he is bitterly indignant, heart-stricken, almost, at thescruples which actuate me in refusing it. I dissatisfy everybody. Amaimed, weak, imperfect wretch, it seems as if I am unequal to anyfortune. I neither make myself nor any one connected with me happy. Whatprospect is there for this poor little frivolous girl, who is to takemy obscure name and share my fortune? I have not even ambition to exciteme, or self-esteem enough to console myself, much more her, for myfailure. If I were to write a book that should go through twentyeditions, why, I should be the very first to sneer at my reputation. SayI could succeed at the Bar, and achieve a fortune by bullying witnessesand 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 bethat priest opposite, who never has lifted his eyes from his breviary,except when we were in Reigate tunnel, when he could not see; or thatold gentleman next him, who scowls at him with eyes of hatred over hisnewspaper. The priest shuts his eyes to the world, but has his thoughtson the book, which is his directory to the world to come. His neighbourhates him as a monster, tyrant, persecutor, and fancies burning martyrs,and that pale countenance looking on, and lighted up by the flame. Thesehave no doubts; these march on trustfully, bearing their load of logic."

  "Would you like to look at the paper, sir?" here interposed thestout gentleman (it had a flaming article against the order of theblack-coated gentleman who was travelling with them in the carriage),and Pen thanked him and took it, and pursued his reverie, withoutreading two sentences of the journal.

  "And yet, would you take either of those men's creeds, with itsconsequences?" he thought. "Ah me! you must bear your own burthen,fashion your own faith, think your own thoughts, and pray your ownprayer. To what mortal ear could I tell all, if I had a mind? orwho could understand all? Who can tell another's shortcomings, lostopportunities, weigh the passions which overpower, the defects whichincapacitate reason?--what extent of truth and right his neighbour'smind is organised to perceive and to do?--what invisible and forgottenaccident, terror of youth, chance or mischance of fortune, may havealtered the whole current of life? A grain of sand may alter it, as theflinging of a pebble may end it. Who can weigh circumstances, passions,temptations, that go to our good and evil account, save One, beforewhose awful wisdom we kneel, and at whose mercy we ask absolution? Hereit ends," thought Pen; "this day or to-morrow will wind up the accountof my youth; a weary retrospect, alas! a sad history, with many a pageI would fain not look back on! But who has not been tired or fallen, andwho has escaped without scars from that struggle?" And his head fell onhis breast, and the young man's heart prostrated itself humbly and sadlybefore that Throne where sits wisdom, and love, and pity for all, andmade 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 betrue to her, and to make her happy. If I have children, pray God teachme to speak and to do the truth among them, and to leave them an honestname. There are no splendours for my marriage. Does my life deserveany? I begin a new phase of it; a better than the last may it be, I prayHeaven!"

  The train stopped at Tunbridge as Pen was making these reflections; andhe handed over the newspaper to his neighbour, of whom he took leave,while the foreign clergyman in the opposite corner still sate with hiseyes on his book. Pen jumped out of the carriage then, his carpet-bag inhand, 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 asvirtuous, honest, and well-minded an oration as any man of his turn ofmind, and under his circumstances, could have uttered. The purport ofit was--"Blanche, I cannot understand from your last letter what yourmeaning is, or whether my fair and frank proposal to you is acceptableor no. I think you know the reason which induces me to forgo the worldlyadvantages which a union with you offered, and which I could not acceptwithout, as I fancy, being dishonoured. If you doubt of my affection,here I am ready to prove it. Let Smirke be called in, and let us bemarried out of hand; and with all my heart I purpose to keep my vow, andto cherish you through life, and to be a true and a loving husband toyou."

  From the fly Arthur sprang out then to the hall-door, where he was metby a domestic whom he did not know. The man seemed to be surprised atthe approach of the gentleman with the carpet-bag, which he made noattempt 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 orderswas----"

  "I hear Miss Amory's voice in the drawing-room," said Arthur. "Take thebag to a dressing-room, if you please;" and, passing by the porter, hewalked straight towards 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 andfascinations. Master Clavering was asleep on the sofa, indifferent tothe music; but near Blanche sat a gentleman who was perfectly enrapturedwith her strain, which was of a passionate and melancholy nature.

  As the door opened, the gentleman started up with Hullo! the musicstopped, with a little shriek from the singer; Frank Clavering woke upfrom the sofa, and Arthur came forward and said, "What, Foker! how doyou 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'shand three days before, when the heir of Logwood was coming out of ajeweller's shop in Waterloo Place. It was opened, and curled roundthe white satin cushion within was, oh, such a magnificent serpentinebracelet, with such a blazing ruby head and diamond tail!

  "How de-do, Pendennis?" said Foker. Blanche made many motions of theshoulders, and gave signs of unrest and agitation. And she put herhandkerchief over the bracelet, and then she advanced, with a hand whichtrembled very much, to greet Pen.

  "How is dearest Laura?" she said. The face of Foker looking up from hisprofound mourning--that face, so piteous and puzzled, was one which thereader's imagination must depict for himself; also that of Master FrankClavering, who, looking at the three interesting individuals with anexpression of the utmost knowingness, had only time to ejaculate thewords, "Here's a jolly go!" and to disappear sniggering.

  Pen, too, had restrained himself up to that minute; but looking still atFoker, whose ears and cheeks tingled with blushes, Arthur burst out intoa fit of laughter, so wild and loud, that it frightened Blanche muchmore 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 betweenBlanche and such constancy--could I stand between Miss Amory and fifteenthousand a year?"

  "It is not that, Mr. Pendennis," Blanche said, with great dignity. "Itis not money, it is not rank, it is not gold that moves me; but it isconstancy, it i
s fidelity, it is a whole trustful loving heart offeredto me, that I treasure--yes, that I treasure!" And she made for herhandkerchief, but, reflecting what was underneath it, she paused. "I donot disown, I do not disguise--my life is above disguise--to him on whomit is bestowed, my heart must be for ever bare--that I once thought Iloved you,--yes, thought I was beloved by you, I own! How I clung tothat faith! How I strove, I prayed, I longed to believe it! But yourconduct always--your own words so cold, so heartless, so unkind, haveundeceived me. You trifled with the heart of the poor maiden! You flungme back with scorn the troth which I had plighted! I have explainedall--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 infault, is it? Well, well, Blanche, be it so. I won't appeal againstyour sentence, and bear it in silence. I came down here looking to verydifferent things, Heaven knows, and with a heart most truly and kindlydisposed towards you. I hope you may be happy with another, as, on myword, it was my wish to make you so; and I hope my honest old friendhere will have a wife worthy of his loyalty, his constancy, andaffection. Indeed they deserve the regard of any woman--even MissBlanche Amory. Shake hands, Harry; don't look askance at me. Has anybodytold you that I was a false and heartless character?"

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

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

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

  "In spite of what has passed, for the sake of what has passed, I mustalways regard Arthur as a brother," the seraph continued; "we have knowneach other years, we have trodden the same fields, and plucked the sameflowers together. Arthur! Henry! I beseech you to take hands and to befriends! Forgive you!--I forgive you, Arthur, with my heart I do. ShouldI not do so for making me so happy?"

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

  "Happy! O Heavens!" said Harry. He could not speak. His happiness gushedout 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 saysshe'll try and I--I--love me. I ain't worthy of so much happiness.Give us your hand, old boy, since she forgives you after your heartlessconduct, and says she loves you. I'll make you welcome. I tell you I'lllove everybody who loves her. By---, if she tells me to kiss the groundI'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 heldout one hand as if to bless Harry, and then royally permitted him tokiss it. She took up the pocket-handkerchief and hid her own eyes, asthe 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'shead, which was bent down kissing and weeping over hand No. 1. "Foolishboy?" she said, "it shall be loved as it deserves: who could help lovingsuch 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-bye, Blanche. God bless you,Foker, old friend. You know, neither of you want me here." He longed tobe 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 tonein which the word Henry was spoken, and the appeal, ravished Foker withdelight. "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," saidthe candid youth.

  "It was but a short word I had to say," said Blanche to Pen, with greatcalm, 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 nodenying it. You never cared for me."

  "Et vous?"

  "Et moi, c'est different. I have been spoilt early. I cannot live out ofthe world, out of excitement. I could have done so, but it is too late.If I cannot have emotions, I must have the world. You would offerme neither one nor the other. You are blase in everything, even inambition. You had a career before you, and you would not take it. Yougive it up!--for what?--for a betise, for an absurd scruple. Why wouldyou not have that seat, and be such a puritain? Why should you refusewhat is mine by right, by right, entendez-vous?"

  "You know all, then?" said Pen.

  "Only within a month. But I have suspected ever sinceBaymouth--n'importe since when. It is not too late. He is as if he hadnever been; and there is a position in the world before you yet. Why notsit in Parliament, exert your talent, and give a place in the world toyourself, to your wife? I take celui-la. Il est bon. Il est riche. Ilest--vous le connaissez autant que moi enfin. Think you that I would notprefer un homme qui fera parler de moi? If the secret appears I am richa millions. How does it affect me? It is not my fault. It will neverappear."

  "You will tell Harry everything, won't you?"

  "Je comprends. Vous refusez," said Blanche, savagely. "I will tell Harryat my own time, when we are married. You will not betray me, will you?You, having a defenceless girl's secret, will not turn upon her and useit? S'il me plait de le cacher, mon secret; pourquoi le donnerai je? Jel'aime, mon pauvre pere, voyez-vous? I would rather live with that manthan with you fades intriguers of the world. I must have emotions--ilm'en donne. Il m'ecrit. Il ecrit tres-bien, voyez-vous--comme unpirate--comme un Bohemien--comme un homme. But for this I wouldhave said to my mother--Ma mere! quittons ce lache mari, cette lachesociete--retournons a mon pere."

  "The pirate would have wearied you like the rest," said Pen.

  "Eh! Il me faut des emotions," said Blanche. Pen had never seen her orknown so much about her in all the years of their intimacy as he sawand knew now: though he saw more than existed in reality. For this younglady was not able to carry out any emotion to the full; but had a shamenthusiasm, a sham hatred, a sham love, a sham taste, a sham grief, eachof which flared and shone very vehemently for an instant, but subsidedand gave place to the next sham emotion.