Doctor Portman's letter was sent off to its destination in London, and
the worthy clergyman endeavoured to soothe down Mrs. Pendennis into some
state of composure until an answer should arrive, which the Doctor tried
to think, or at any rate persisted in saying, would be satisfactory as
regarded the morality of Mr. Pen. At least Helen's wisdom of moving upon
London and appearing in person to warn her son of his wickedness, was
impracticable for a day or two. The apothecary forbade her moving even so
far as Fairoaks for the first day, and it was not until the subsequent
morning that she found herself again back on her sofa at home, with the
faithful, though silent, Laura nursing at her side.
Unluckily for himself and all parties, Pen never read that homily which
Doctor Portman addressed to him, until many weeks after the epistle had
been composed; and day after day the widow waited for her son's reply to
the charges against him; her own illness increasing with every day's
delay. It was a hard task for Laura to bear the anxiety; to witness her
dearest friend's suffering; worst of all, to support Helen's
estrangement, and the pain caused to her by that averted affection. But
it was the custom of this young lady to the utmost of her power, and by
means of that gracious assistance which Heaven awarded to her pure and
constant prayers, to do her duty. And; as that duty was performed quite
noiselessly,--while the supplications, which endowed her with the
requisite strength for fulfilling it, also took place in her own chamber,
away from all mortal sight,--we, too, must be perforce silent about these
virtues of hers, which no more bear public talking about, than a flower
will bear to bloom in a ballroom. This only we will say--that a good
woman is the loveliest flower that blooms under heaven; and that we look
with love and wonder upon its silent grace, its pure fragrance, its
delicate bloom of beauty. Sweet and beautiful!--the fairest and the most
spotless!--is it not pity to see them bowed down or devoured by Grief or
Death inexorable--wasting in disease--pining with long pain--or cut off
by sudden fate in their prime? We may deserve grief--but why should these
be unhappy?--except that we know that Heaven chastens those whom it loves
best; being pleased, by repeated trials, to make these pure spirits more
pure.
So Pen never got the letter, although it was duly posted and faithfully
discharged by the postman into his letter-box in Lamb Court, and thence
carried by the laundress to his writing-table with the rest of his
lordship's correspondence; into which room, have we not seen a picture of
him, entering from his little bedroom adjoining, as Mrs. Flanagan, his
laundress, was in the act of drinking his gin?
Those kind readers who have watched Mr. Arthur's career hitherto, and
have made, as they naturally would do, observations upon the moral
character and peculiarities of their acquaintance, have probably
discovered by this time what was the prevailing fault in Mr. Pen's
disposition, and who was that greatest enemy, artfully indicated in the
title-page, with whom he had to contend. Not a few of us, my beloved
public, have the very same rascal to contend with: a scoundrel who takes
every opportunity of bringing us into mischief, of plunging us into
quarrels, of leading us into idleness and unprofitable company, and what
not. In a word, Pen's greatest enemy was himself: and as he had been
pampering, and coaxing, and indulging that individual all his life, the
rogue grew insolent, as all spoiled servants will be; and at the
slightest attempt to coerce him, or make him do that which was unpleasant
to him, became frantically rude and unruly. A person who is used to
making sacrifices--Laura, for instance, who had got such a habit of
giving up her own pleasure for others--can do the business quite easily;
but Pen, unaccustomed as he was to any sort of self-denial, suffered
woundily when called on to pay his share, and savagely grumbled at being
obliged to forgo anything he liked.
He had resolved in his mighty mind then that he would not see Fanny; and
he wouldn't. He tried to drive the thoughts of that fascinating little
person out of his head, by constant occupation, by exercise, by
dissipation and society. He worked then too much; he walked and rode too
much; he ate, drank, and smoked too much: nor could all the cigars and
the punch of which he partook drive little Fanny's image out of his
inflamed brain, and at the end of a week of this discipline and
self-denial our young gentleman was in bed with a fever. Let the reader
who has never had a fever in chambers pity the wretch who is bound to
undergo that calamity.
A committee of marriageable ladies, or of any Christian persons
interested in the propagation of the domestic virtues, should employ a
Cruikshank or a Leech, or some other kindly expositor of the follies of
the day, to make a series of designs representing the horrors of a
bachelor's life in chambers, and leading the beholder to think of better
things, and a more wholesome condition. What can be more uncomfortable
than the bachelor's lonely breakfast?--with the black kettle in the
dreary fire in midsummer; or, worse still, with the fire gone out at
Christmas, half an hour after the laundress has quitted the sitting-room?
Into this solitude the owner enters shivering, and has to commence his
day by hunting for coals and wood; and before he begins the work of a
student, has to discharge the duties of a housemaid, vice Mrs. Flanagan,
who is absent without leave. Or, again, what can form a finer subject for
the classical designer than the bachelor's shirt--that garment which he
wants to assume just at dinner-time, and which he finds without any
buttons to fasten it? Then there is the bachelor's return to chambers,
after a merry Christmas holiday, spent in a cosy country-house, full of
pretty faces, and kind welcomes and regrets. He leaves his portmanteau at
the barber's in the Court: he lights his dismal old candle at the
sputtering little lamp on the stair: he enters the blank familiar room,
where the only tokens to greet him, that show any interest in his
personal welfare, are the Christmas bills, which are lying in wait for
him, amiably spread out on his reading-table. Add to these scenes an
appalling picture of bachelor's illness, and the rents in the Temple will
begin to fall from the day of the publication of the dismal diorama. To
be well in chambers is melancholy, and lonely and selfish enough; but to
be ill in chambers--to pass long nights of pain and watchfulness--to long
for the morning and the laundress--to serve yourself your own medicine by
your own watch--to have no other companion for long hours but your own
sickening fancies and fevered thoughts: no kind hand to give you drink if
you are thirsty, or to smooth the hot pillow that crumples under you,--
this, indeed, is a fate so dismal and tragic, that we shall not enlarge
upon its horrors, and shall only heartily pity those bachelors in the
Temple, who brave it every day.
This lot befell Arthur Pendennis after the various excesses which we have
mentioned, and to which he had subjected his unfortunate brains. One
night he went to bed ill, and the next day awoke worse. His only visitor
that day, besides the laundress, was the Printer's Devil, from the Pall
Mall Gazette office, whom the writer endeavoured, as best he could, to
satisfy. His exertions to complete his work rendered his fever the
greater: he could only furnish a part of the quantity of "copy" usually
supplied by him; and Shandon being absent, and Warrington not in London
to give a help, the political and editorial columns of the Gazette looked
very blank indeed; nor did the sub-editor know how to fill them.
Mr. Finucane rushed up to Pen's chambers, and found that gentleman so
exceedingly unwell, that the good-natured Irishman set to work to supply
his place, if possible, and produced a series of political and critical
compositions, such as no doubt greatly edified the readers of the
periodical in which he and Pen were concerned. Allusions to the greatness
of Ireland, and the genius and virtue of the inhabitants of that injured
country, flowed magnificently from Finucane's pen; and Shandon, the Chief
of the paper, who was enjoying himself placidly at Boulogne-sur-Mer,
looking over the columns of the journal, which was forwarded to him,
instantly recognised the hand of the great Sub-editor, and said,
laughing, as he flung over the paper to his wife, "Look here, Mary, my
dear, here is Jack at work again." Indeed, Jack was a warm friend, and a
gallant partisan, and when he had the pen in hand, seldom let slip an
opportunity of letting the world know that Rafferty was the greatest
painter in Europe, and wondering at the petty jealousy of the Academy,
which refused to make him an R.A.: of stating that it was generally
reported at the West End, that Mr. Rooney, M.P., was appointed Governor
of Barataria; or of introducing into the subject in hand, whatever it
might be, a compliment to the Round Towers, or the Giant's Causeway. And
besides doing Pen's work for him, to the best of his ability, his
kind-hearted comrade offered to forgo his Saturday's and Sunday's
holiday, and pass those days of holiday and rest as nurse-tender to
Arthur, who, however, insisted, that the other should not forgo his
pleasure, and thankfully assured him that he could bear best his malady
alone.
Taking his supper at the Back Kitchen on the Friday night, after having
achieved the work of the paper, Finucane informed Captain Costigan of the
illness of their young friend in the Temple; and remembering the fact two
days afterwards, the Captain went to Lamb Court and paid a visit to the
invalid on Sunday afternoon.
He found Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, in tears in the sitting-room, and
got a bad report of the poor dear young gentleman within. Pen's condition
had so much alarmed her, that she was obliged to have recourse to the
stimulus of brandy to enable her to support the grief which his illness
occasioned. As she hung about his bed, and endeavoured to minister to
him, her attentions became intolerable to the invalid, and he begged her
peevishly not to come near him. Hence the laundress's tears and redoubled
grief, and renewed application to the bottle, which she was accustomed to
use as an anodyne. The Captain rated the woman soundly for her
intemperance, and pointed out to her the fatal consequences which must
ensue if she persisted in her imprudent courses.
Pen, who was by this time in a very fevered state, yet was greatly
pleased to receive Costigan's visit. He heard the ell-known voice in his
sitting-room, as he lay in the bedroom within, and called the Captain
eagerly to him, and thanked him for coming, and begged him to take a
chair and talk to him. The Captain felt the young man's pulse with great
gravity--(his own tremulous and clammy hand growing steady for the
instant while his finger pressed Arthur's throbbing vein)--the pulse was
beating very fiercely--Pen's face was haggard and hot--his eyes were
bloodshot and gloomy; his "bird," as the Captain pronounced the word,
afterwards giving a description of his condition, had not been shaved for
nearly a week. Pen made his visitor sit down, and, tossing and turning in
his comfortless bed, began to try and talk to the Captain in a lively
manner, about the Back Kitchen, about Vauxhall and when they should go
again, and about Fanny--how was little Fanny?
Indeed how was she? We know how she went home very sadly on the previous
Sunday evening, after she had seen Arthur light his lamp in his chambers,
whilst he was having his interview with Bows. Bows came back to his own
rooms presently, passing by the lodge door, and looking into Mrs.
Bolton's, according to his wont, as he passed, but with a very melancholy
face. She had another weary night that night. Her restlessness wakened
her little bedfellows more than once. She daren't read more of 'Walter
Lorraine:' Father was at home, and would suffer no light. She kept the
book under her pillow, and felt for it in the night. She had only just
got to sleep, when the children began to stir with the morning, almost as
early as the birds. Though she was very angry with Bows, she went to his
room at her accustomed hour in the day, and there the good-hearted
musician began to talk to her.
"I saw Mr. Pendennis last night, Fanny," he said.
"Did you? I thought you did," Fanny answered, looking fiercely at the
melancholy old gentleman.
"I've been fond of you ever since we came to live in this place," he
continued. "You were a child when I came; and you used to like me, Fanny,
until three or four days ago: until you saw this gentleman."
"And now, I suppose, you are going to say ill of him," said Fanny. "Do,
Mr. Bows--that will make me like you better."
"Indeed I shall do no such thing," Bows answered; "I think he is a very
good and honest young man."
"Indeed! you know that if you said a word against him, I would never
speak a word to you again--never!" cried Miss Fanny; and clenched her
little hand, and paced up and down the room. Bows noted, watched, and
followed the ardent little creature with admiration and gloomy sympathy.
Her cheeks flushed, her frame trembled; her eyes beamed love, anger,
defiance. "You would like to speak ill of him," she said; "but you
daren't--you know you daren't!"
"I knew him many years since," Bows continued, "when he was almost as
young as you are, and he had a romantic attachment for our friend the
Captain's daughter--Lady Mirabel that is now."
Fanny laughed. "I suppose there was other people, too, that had romantic
attachments for Miss Costigan," she said: "I don't want to hear about
'em."
"He wanted to marry her; but their ages were quite disproportionate: and
their rank in life. She would not have him because he had no money. She
acted very wisely in refusing him; for the two would have been very
unhappy, and she wasn't a fit person to go and live with his family, or
to make his home comfortable. Mr. Pendennis has his way to make in the
world, and must marry a lady of his own rank. A woman who loves a man
will not ruin his prospects, cause him to quarrel with his family, and
lead him into poverty and misery for her gratification. An honest girl
won't do that, for her own sake, or for the man's."
Fanny's emotion, which but now had been that of defiance and anger, here
turned to dismay and supplication. "What do I know about marrying, Bows?"
she said. "When was there any talk of it? What has there been between
this young gentleman and me that's to make people speak so cruel? It was
not my doing; nor Arthur's--Mr. Pendennis's--that I met him at Vauxhall.
It was the Captain took me and Ma there. We never thought of nothing
wrong, I'm sure. He came and rescued us, and he was so very kind. Then he
came to call and ask after us: and very, very good it was of a such grand
gentleman to be so polite to humble folks like us! And yesterday Ma and
me just went to walk in the Temple Gardens, and--and"--here she broke out
with that usual, unanswerable female argument of tears--and cried, "Oh! I
wish I was dead! I wish I was laid in my grave; and had never, never seen
him!"
"He said as much himself, Fanny," Bows said; and Fanny asked through her
sobs, Why, why should he wish he had never seen her? Had she ever done
him any harm? Oh, she would perish rather than do him any harm. Whereupon
the musician informed her of the conversation of the day previous, showed
her that Pen could not and must not think of her as a wife fitting for
him, and that she, as she valued her honest reputation, must strive too
to forget him. And Fanny, leaving the musician, convinced, but still of
the same mind, and promising that she would avoid the danger which
menaced her, went back to the porter's lodge, and told her mother all.
She talked of her love for Arthur, and bewailed, in her artless manner,
the inequality of their condition, that set barriers between them.
"There's the 'Lady of Lyons,'" Fanny said; "Oh, Ma! how I did love Mr.
Macready when I saw him do it; and Pauline, for being faithful to poor
Claude, and always thinking of him; and he coming back to her, an
officer, through all his dangers! And if everybody admires Pauline--and
I'm sure everybody does, for being so true to a poor man--why should a
gentleman be ashamed of loving a poor girl? Not that Mr. Arthur loves me
--Oh no, no! I ain't worthy of him; only a princess is worthy of such a
gentleman as him. Such a poet!--writing so beautifully, and looking so
grand! I am sure he's a nobleman, and of ancient family, and kep' out of
his estate. Perhaps his uncle has it. Ah, if I might, oh, how I'd serve
him, and work for him, and slave for him, that I would. I wouldn't ask
for more than that, Ma, just to be allowed to see him of a morning; and
sometimes he'd say 'How d'you, Fanny?' or 'God bless you, Fanny!' as he
said on Sunday. And I'd work, and work; and I'd sit up all night, and
read, and learn, and make myself worthy of him. The Captain says his
mother lives in the country, and is a grand lady there. Oh, how I wish I
might go and be her servant, Ma! I can do plenty of things, and work very
neat; and--and sometimes he'd come home, and I should see him!"
The girl's head fell on her mother's shoulder, as she spoke, and she gave
way to a plentiful outpouring of girlish tears, to which the matron, of
course, joined her own. "You mustn't think no more of him, Fanny," she
said. "If he don't come to you, he's a horrid, wicked man."
"Don't call him so, Mother," Fanny replied. "He's the best of men, the
best and the kindest. Bows says he thinks he is unhappy at leaving poor
little Fanny. It wasn't his fault, was it, that we met?--and it ain't his
that I mustn't see him again. He says I mustn't--and I mustn't, Mother.
He'll forget me, but I shall never forget him. No! I'll pray for him, and
love him always--until I die--and I shall die, I know I shall--and then
my spirit will always go and be with him."
"You forget your poor mother, Fanny, and you'll break my heart by goin on
so," Mrs. Bolton said. "Perhaps you will see him. I'm sure you'll see
him. I'm sure he'll come to-day. If ever I saw a man in love, that man is
him. When Emily Budd's young man first came about her, he was sent away
by old Budd, a most respectable man, and violoncello in the orchestra at
the Wells; and his own family wouldn't hear of it neither. But he came
back. We all knew he would. Emily always said so; and he married her; and
this one will come back too; and you mark a mother's words, and see if he
don't, dear."
At this point of the conversation Mr. Bolton entered the lodge for his
evening meal. At the father's appearance, the talk between mother and
daughter ceased instantly. Mrs. Bolton caressed and cajoled the surly
undertaker's aide-de-camp, and said, "Lor, Mr. B. who'd have thought to
see you away from the Club of a Saturday night. Fanny, dear, get your pa
some supper. What will you have, B.? The poor gurl's got a gathering in
her eye, or somethink in it--I was lookin at it just now as you came in."
And she squeezed her daughter's hand as a signal of prudence and secrecy;
and Fanny's tears were dried up likewise; and by that wondrous hypocrisy
and power of disguise which women practise, and with which weapons of
defence nature endows them, the traces of her emotion disappeared; and
she went and took her work, and sate in the corner so demure and quiet,
that the careless male parent never suspected that anything ailed her.
Thus, as if fate seemed determined to inflame and increase the poor
child's malady and passion, all circumstances and all parties round about
her urged it on. Her mother encouraged and applauded it; and the very
words which Bows used in endeavouring to repress her flame only augmented
this unlucky fever. Pen was not wicked and a seducer: Pen was high-minded
in wishing to avoid her. Pen loved her: the good and the great, the
magnificent youth, with the chains of gold and the scented auburn hair!
And so he did: or so he would have loved her five years back perhaps,
before the world had hardened the ardent and reckless boy--before he was
ashamed of a foolish and imprudent passion, and strangled it as poor
women do their illicit children, not on account of the crime, but of the
shame, and from dread that the finger of the world should point to them.
What respectable person in the world will not say he was quite right to
avoid a marriage with an ill-educated person of low degree, whose
relations a gentleman could not well acknowledge, and whose manners would
not become her new station?--and what philosopher would not tell him that
the best thing to do with these little passions if they spring up, is to
get rid of them, and let them pass over and cure them: that no man dies
about a woman or vice versa: and that one or the other having found the
impossibility of gratifying his or her desire in the particular instance,
must make the best of matters, forget each other, look out elsewhere, and
choose again? And yet, perhaps, there may be something said on the other
side. Perhaps Bows was right in admiring that passion of Pen's, blind and
unreasoning as it was, that made him ready to stake his all for his love;
perhaps if self-sacrifice is a laudable virtue, mere worldly
self-sacrifice is not very much to be praised;--in fine, let this be a
reserved point to be settled by the individual moralist who chooses to
debate it.
So much is certain, that with the experience of the world which Mr. Pen
now had, he would have laughed at and scouted the idea of marrying a
penniless girl out of a kitchen. And this point being fixed in his mind,
he was but doing his duty as an honest man, in crushing any unlucky
fondness which he might feel towards poor little Fanny.
So she waited and waited in hopes that Arthur would come. She waited for
a whole week, and it was at the end of that time that the poor little
creature heard from Costigan of the illness under which Arthur was
suffering.
It chanced on that very evening after Costigan had visited Pen, that
Arthur's uncle the excellent Major arrived in town from Buxton, where his
health had been mended, and sent his valet Morgan to make inquiries for
Arthur, and to request that gentleman to breakfast with the Major the
next morning. The Major was merely passing through London on his way to
the Marquis of Steyne's house of Stillbrook, where he was engaged to
shoot partridges.
Morgan came back to his master with a very long face. He had seen Mr.
Arthur; Mr. Arthur was very bad indeed; Mr. Arthur was in bed with a
fever. A doctor ought to be sent to him; and Morgan thought his case most
alarming.
Gracious goodness! this was sad news indeed. He had hoped that Arthur
could come down to Stillbrook: he had arranged that he should go, and
procured an invitation for his nephew from Lord Steyne. He must go
himself; he couldn't throw Lord Steyne over: the fever might be catching:
it might be measles: he had never himself had the measles; they were
dangerous when contracted at his age. Was anybody with Mr. Arthur?
Morgan said there was somebody a-nussing of Mr. Arthur.
The Major then asked, had his nephew taken any advice? Morgan said he had
asked that question, and had been told that Mr. Pendennis had had no
doctor.
Morgan's master was sincerely vexed at hearing of Arthur's calamity. He
would have gone to him, but what good could it do Arthur that he, the
Major, should catch a fever? His own ailments rendered it absolutely
impossible that he should attend to anybody but himself. But the young
man must have advice--the best advice; and Morgan was straightway
despatched with a note from Major Pendennis to his friend Doctor
Goodenough, who by good luck happened to be in London and at home, and
who quitted his dinner instantly, and whose carriage was in half an hour
in Upper Temple Lane, near Pen's chambers.
The Major had asked the kind-hearted physician to bring him news of his
nephew at the Club where he himself was dining, and in the course of the
night the Doctor made his appearance. The affair was very serious: the
patient was in a high fever: he had had Pen bled instantly: and would see
him the first thing in the morning. The Major went disconsolate to bed
with this unfortunate news. When Goodenough came to see him according to
his promise the next day, the Doctor had to listen for a quarter of an
hour to an account of the Major's own maladies, before the latter had
leisure to hear about Arthur.
He had had a very bad night--his--his nurse said: at one hour he had been
delirious. It might end badly: his mother had better be sent for
immediately. The Major wrote the letter to Mrs. Pendennis with the
greatest alacrity, and at the same time with the most polite precautions.
As for going himself to the lad, in his state it was impossible. "Could I
be of any use to him, my dear Doctor?" he asked.
The Doctor, with a peculiar laugh, said, No: he didn't think the Major
could be of any use: that his own precious health required the most
delicate treatment, and that he had best go into the country and stay:
that he himself would take care to see the patient twice a day, and do
all in his power for him.
The Major declared upon his honour, that if he could be of any use he
would rush to Pen's chambers. As it was, Morgan should go and see that
everything was right. The Doctor must write to him by every post to
Stillbrook: it was but forty miles distant from London, and if anything
happened he would come up at any sacrifice.
Major Pendennis transacted his benevolence by deputy and by post. "What
else could he do," as he said? "Gad, you know, in these cases, it's best
not disturbing a fellow. If a poor fellow goes to the bad, why, Gad, you
know he's disposed of. But in order to get well (and in this, my dear
Doctor, I'm sure that you will agree with me), the best way is to keep
him quiet--perfectly quiet."
Thus it was the old gentleman tried to satisfy his conscience and he went
his way that day to Stillbrook by railway (for railways have sprung up in
the course of this narrative, though they have not quite penetrated into
Pen's country yet), and made his appearance in his usual trim order and
curly wig, at the dinner-table of the Marquis of Steyne. But we must do
the Major the justice to say, that he was very unhappy and gloomy in
demeanour. Wagg and Wenham rallied him about his low spirits; asked
whether he was crossed in love? and otherwise diverted themselves at his
expense. He lost his money at whist after dinner, and actually trumped
his partner's highest spade. And the thoughts of the suffering boy, of
whom he was proud, and whom he loved after his manner, kept the old
fellow awake half through the night, and made him feverish and uneasy.
On the morrow he received a note in a handwriting which he did not know:
it was that of Mr. Bows, indeed, saying that Mr. Arthur Pendennis had had
a tolerable night; and that as Dr. Goodenough had stated that the Major
desired to be informed of his nephew's health, he, R. B., had sent him
the news per rail.
The next day he was going out shooting, about noon, with some of the
gentlemen staying at Lord Steyne's house; and the company, waiting for
the carriages, were assembled on the terrace in front of the house, when
a fly drove up from the neighbouring station, and a grey-headed, rather
shabby old gentleman jumped out, and asked for Major Pendennis. It was
Mr. Bows. He took the Major aside and spoke to him; most of the gentlemen
round about saw that something serious had happened, from the alarmed
look of the Major's face.
Wagg said, "It's a bailiff come down to nab the Major," but nobody
laughed at the pleasantry.
"Hullo! What's the matter, Pendennis?" cried Lord Steyne, with his
strident voice;--"anything wrong?"
"It's--it's--my boy that's dead," said the Major, and burst into a sob--
the old man was quite overcome.
"Not dead, my Lord; but very ill when I left London," Mr. Bows said, in a
low voice.
A britzka came up at this moment as the three men were speaking. The Peer
looked at his watch. "You've twenty minutes to catch the mail-train. Jump
in, Pendennis; and drive like h---, sir, do you hear?"
The carriage drove off swiftly with Pendennis and his companions, and let
us trust that the oath will be pardoned to the Marquis of Steyne.
The Major drove rapidly from the station to the Temple, and found a
travelling carriage already before him, and blocking up the narrow Temple
Lane. Two ladies got out of it, and were asking their way of the porters;
the Major looked by chance at the panel of the carriage, and saw the
worn-out crest of the Eagle looking at the Sun, and the motto, "Nec tenui
penna," painted beneath. It was his brother's old carriage, built many,
many years ago. It was Helen and Laura that were asking their way to
Pen's room.
He ran up to them; hastily clasped his sister's arm and kissed her hand;
and the three entered into Lamb Court, and mounted the long gloomy stair.
They knocked very gently at the door, on which Arthur's name was written,
and it was opened by Fanny Bolton.
