mil M UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES / UNIVERSITY of CAUFOJmU William Makepeace Thackeray -^ ;• > ARTHUR MEETS WITH AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE Froniis, Thackeray — Pendtnnit, I COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY IN TWENTY VOLUMES THE HISTORY OF PENDENNIS VOLUME ONE WITH DRAWINGS BY RICHARD DOYLE, FREDERICK WALKER, CHARLES GREEN, GEORGE DU MAURIER, R. A. WALLACE, AND W. M. THACKERAY mm NEW YORK P. F. COLLIER & SON M C M I I D b i^ J . • • • • • 4 TO DR. JOHN ELLIOTSON. Mr DEAR Doctor, Thirteen months ago, when it seemed likely that this stoj^ had come to a close, a kind friend brought you to my bedside, whence, in all probability, I never should have risen but for 30ur constant watchfulness and skill. I like to recall your great goodness and kindness (as well as many acts of others, showing quite a surprising friendship and sympathy) at that time, when kindness and friendship were most needed and welcome. And as you would take no other fee but thanks, let me record them here in behalf of me and mine, and subscribe myself, Yours most sincerely and gratefully, W. M. THACKERAl kJ CONTENTS OF VOLUME I. Chapter Pagb I. SL'Jws how First Love may interrupt Breakfast ... 1 n. A Pedigree and other Family Matters ...... 5 ill. In which Pendennis appears as a very young Man indeed 21 IV. Mrs. Haller 34 V. Mrs. Haller at Home 42 VI. Contains both Love and War 55 VII. In which the Major makes his Appearance .... 67 VIII. In which Pen is kept waiting at the Door, while the Reader is informed who Little Laura was .... 75 IX. In which the ^Nlajor opens the Campaign 87 X. Facing the Enemy 94 XL Negotiation 100 XII. In which a Shooting Match is proposed ..... 109 XIII. A Crisis 117 XIV. In which Miss Fotheringay makes a New Engagement 125 XV. The Happy Village 133 XVI. "WTiich concludes the First Part of this History . . . 143 XVII. Alma Mater 160 XVIII. Pendennis of Boniface 169 XIX. Rake's Progr(^ss 183 XX. Flight after Defeat 191 XXI. Prodigal's Return 198 XXII. New Faces 207 XXIII. A Little Innocent 224 XXIV. Contains both Love and Jealousy 234 CONTENTS. Chapter Paob XXV. A House full of Visitors 243 XXVI. Contains some Ball-practising 257 XXVn. Which is both Quarrelsome and Sentimental . . 266 XXVIII. Babylon 280 XXIX. The Knights of the Temple 292 XXX. Old and New Acquaintances 301 XXXI. In which the Printer's Devil comes to the Door , 313 XXXII. Which is passed in the Neighborhood of Ludgate Hill 326 XXXni. In which the History still hovers about Fleet Street 336 XXXIV. A Dinner in the Row 342 XXXV. The "Pall Mall Gazette" 353 XXXVI. Where Pen appears in Town and Country . . . 359 XXXVII. In which the Sylph reappears 374 XXXVHI. In which Colonel Altamont appears and disappears 382 PREFACE. If this kind of composition, of which the two years' product is now laid before the public, fail in art, as it constantly- does and must, it at least has the advantage of a certain truth and honesty, which a work more elaborate might lose. In his con- stant communication with the reader, the writer is forced into frankness of expression, and to speak out his own mind and feeUngs as they urge him. Many a slip of the pen and the printer, many a word spoken in haste, he sees and would recall as he looks over his volume. It is a sort of confidential talk between writer and reader, which must often be dull, must often flag. In the course of his volubility, the perpetual speaker must of necessit}- lay bare his own weaknesses, vanities, pe- culiarities. And as we judge of a man's character, after long frequenting his society, not b}'^ one speech, or by one mood or opinion, or by one day's talk, but by the tenor of his general bearing and conversation ; so of a writer, who delivers himself up to you perforce unreservedly, you say. Is he honest? Does he tell the truth in the main? Does he seem actuated bj' a desire to find out and speak it? Is he a quack, who shams sentiment, or mouths for eflfect ? Does he seek popularity by claptraps or other arts? I can no more ignore good fortune than an}- other chance which has befallen me. I have found man}' thousands more readers than I ever looked for. I have no right to say to these. You shall not find fault with my art, or fall asleep over my pages ; but I ask 3'ou to believe that this person writing strives to tell the truth. If there is not that, there is nothing. viii PREFACE. Perhaps the lovers of " excitement" maj^ care to know, that this book began with a very precise plan, which was entirely put aside. Ladies and gentlemen, you were to have been treated, and the writer's and the publisher's pocket benefited, by the recital of the most active horrors. What more exciting than a ruffian (with many admirable virtues) in St. Giles's, visited constantly by a young lady from Belgravia? What more stirring than the contrasts of societ}'? the mixture of slang and fashionable language? the escapes, the battles, the murders? Nay, up to nine o'clock this very morning, my poor friend. Colonel Altamont, was doomed to execution, and the author only relented when his victim was actually' at the window. The " exciting" plan was laid aside (with a \evy honorable forbearance on the part of the publishers), because, on attempt- ing it, I found that I failed from want of experience of my subject ; and never having been intimate with an}' convict in m}^ life, and the manners of ruffians and gaol-birds being quite unfamiliar to me, the idea of entering into competition with M. Eugene Sue was abandoned. To describe a real rascal, you must make him so horrible that he would be too hideous to show ; and unless the painter paints him fairly, I hold he has no right to show him at all. Even the gentlemen of our age — this is an attempt to describe one of them, no better nor worse than most educated men — even these we cannot show as the}' are, with the no-, torious foibles and selfishness of their lives and their education. Since the author of Tom Jones was buried, no writer of fiction among us has been permitted to depict to his utmost power a Man. We must drape him, and give him a certain conven- tional simper. Society will not tolerate the Natural in our Art. Many ladies have remonstrated and subscribers left me, because in the course of the story, I described a young man resisting and affected by temptation. My object was to say, PREFACE. ix that he had the passions to feel, and the manliness and gen- erosit}' to overcome them. You will not hear — it is best to know it — what moves in the real world, what passes in society, in the clubs, colleges, mess-rooms, — what is the life and talk of your sons. A little more frankness than is customary has been attempted in this story ; with no bad desire on the writer's part, it is hoped, and with no iU consequence to any reader. If truth is not always pleasant ; at any rate truth is best, from whatever chair — from those whence graver writers or thinkers argue, as from that at which the stor3--telIer sits as he concludee his labor, and bids his kind reader farewell. Kensington, Not. 26, 1860. PENDENNIS. CHAPTER I. SHOWS HOW FIRST LOVE MAY INTERRUPT BREAKFAST. One fine morning in the full London season, Major Arthur Pendennis came over from his lodgings, according to his cus- tom, to breakfast at a certain Club in Pall Mall, of which he was a chief ornament. At a quarter past ten the Major inva- riably made his appearance in the best blacked Ijoots in all London, with a checked morning cravat that never was rumpled until dinner time, a buff waistcoat which bore the crown of his sovereign on the buttons, and linen so spotless that Mr. Brum- mel himself asked the name of his laundress, and would proba- bly have employed her had not misfortunes compelled that great man to tly the countr3\ Pendennis's coat, his white gloves, his whiskers, his very cane, were perfect of their kind as specimens of the costume of a military man en retraite. At a distance, or seeing his back merel}', you would have taken liim to be not more than thirt}^ 3'ears old : it was only by a nearer inspection that you saw the factitious nature of his rich 'brown hair, and that there were a few crows-feet round about the somewhat faded e3'es of his handsome mottled face. His nose was of the Wellington pattern. His hands and wristbands were beautifullj^ long and white. On the latter he wore hand- some gold buttons given to him by his Royal Highness the Duke of York, and on the others more than one elegant ring, the chief and largest of them being emblazoned with the famous arms of Pendennis. He always took possession of the same table in the same corner of the room, from which nobody ever now thought of ousting him. One or two mad wags and wild fellows had. in 1 2 PENDENNTS. former days, endeavored to deprive him of this place ; but there was a quiet dignity in the Major's manner as he took his seat at the next table, and surveyed the interlopers, which rendered it impossible for any man to sit and breakfast under his e^-e ; and that table — by the fire, and yet near the window — became his own. His letters were laid out there in expectation of his arrival, and man}' was the young fellow about town who looked with wonder at the number of those notes, and at the seals and franks which they bore. If there was any question about eti- quette, societj', who was married to whom, of what age such and such a duke was, Pendennis was the man to whom ever}' one appealed. Marchionesses used to drive up to the Club, and leave notes for him, or fetch him out. He was perfectly affable. The young men liked to walk with him in the Park or down Pall Mall ; for he touched his hat to everybody, and every other man he met was a lord. The Major sat down at his accustomed table then, and while the waiters went to bring him his toast and his hot newspaper, he surveyed his letters through his gold double eye-glass, and examined one pretty note after another, and laid them by in order. There were large solemn dinner cards, suggestive of three courses and heavy conversation ; there were neat little confidential notes, conveying female entreaties ; there was a note on thick official paper from the Marquis of Steyne, telling him to come to Richmond to a little party at the Star and Garter ; and another from the Bishop of Ealing and Mrs. Trail, requesting the honor of Major Pendennis's company at Ealing House, all of which letters Pendennis read gracefully, and with the more satisfaction, because Glowry, the Scotch surgeon, breakfasting opposite to him, was looking on, and hating him for having so many invitations, which nobody ever sent to Glowry. These perused, the Major took out his pocket-book to see on what days he was disengaged, and which of these many hospitable calls he could aflTord to accept or decline. He threw over Cutler, the East India Director, in Baker Street, in order to dine with Lord Steyne and the little French party at the Star and Garter — the Bishop he accepted, because, though the dinner was slow, he liked to dine with bishops — and so went through his list and disposed of them according to his fancy or interest. Then he took his breakfast and looked over the paper, the gazette, the births and deaths, and the fashionable intelhgence, to see that his name was down among the guests at my Lord So-aud-so's fete, and in the intervals of PENDENNIS. 3 these ©ceupations carried on cheerful conversation -with his acquaintances about the room. Among the letters which formed Major Pendennis's budget for that morning there was only one unread, and which lay solitary' and apart from all the fashionable London lettei's, with a country postmark and a homel}- seal. The superscription was in a pretty delicate female hand, marked "immediate" by the fair writer ; yet the Major had, for reasons of his own, neglected up to the present moment his humble rural petitioner, who to be sure could hardl}' hope to get a hearing among so manj' grand folks who attended his levee. The fact was, this was a letter from a female relative of Pendennis, and while the grandees of her brother's acquaintance were received and got their interview, and drove off, as it were, the patient countrj' letter remained for a long time waiting for an audience in the ante-chamber, under the slop-basin. At last it came to be this letter's turn, and the Major broke a seal with ' ' Fairoaks " engraved upon it, and ' ' Clavering St. Mary's" for a post-mark. It was a double letter, and the Major commenced perusing the envelope before he attacked the inner epistle. "Is it a letter from another Jook" growled Mr. Glowry, inwardly. " Pendennis would not be leaving that to the last, I'm thinking." "My dear Major Pendennis," the letter ran, "I beg and implore you to come to me immediately " — very likely, thought Pendennis, and Steyne's dinner to-day — "I am in the great- est grief and perplexity. My dearest boy, who has been hitherto everything the fondest mother could wish, is grieving me dreadfully. He has formed — I can hardly write it — a pas- sion, an infatuation," — the Major grinned — "for an actress who has been performing here. She is at least twelve 3'ears older than Arthur — who will not be eighteen till next February — and the wretched boy insists upon marrying her." ^ "Hay! What's making Pendennis swear now?" — Mr. Glowry asked of himself, for rage and wonder were concen- trated in the Major's open mouth, as he read this astounding announcement. "Do, my dear friend," the grief-stricken lady went on, " come to me instantl}- on the receipt of this ; and, as Arthur's guardian, entreat, command, the wretched child to give up this most deplorable resolution." And, after more entreaties to the above effect, the writer concluded b}' signing herself the Major's ' ' unhappy affectionate sister, Helen Pendennis." 4 PENDENNIS " Fairoaks, Tuesday" — the Major concluded, reading the last words of the letter — "Ad — d pretty business at Fair- oaks, Tuesda}' ; now let us see what the boy has to say ; " and he took the other letter, which was written in a great flounder- ing boy's hand, and sealed with the large signet of the Penden- nises, even larger than the Major's own, and with supplementary wax sputtered all round the seal, in token of the writer's tremu- lousness and agitation. The epistle ran thus — " Fairoaks, Monday, Midnight. "My dear Uncle, — In informing you of my engagement with Miss Costigan, daughter of J. Cliesterfield Costigan, Esq., of Costiganstown, but, perhaps, better known to you under her professional name of Miss Fother- ingay, of the Theatres Royal Drury Lane and Crow Street, and of the Nor- wich and Welsli Circuit, I am aware that I make an announcement which cannot, according to the present prejudices of society at least, be welcome to my family. My dearest mother, on whom, God knows, I would wish to inflict no needless pain, is deeply moved and grieved, I am sorry to say, by the intelligence wliich I have this night conveyed to her. I beseech you, my dear Sir, to come down and reason with her and console her. Although obliged by poverty to earn an honorable maintenance by the exercise of her splendid talents, Miss Costigan's family is as ancient and noble as our own. When our ancestor, Ralph Pendennis, landed with Richard II. in Ireland, my Emily's forefathers were kings of that country. I have the information from Mr. Costigan, who, like yourself, is a military man. " It is in vain I have attempted to argue with my dear mother, and prove to her that a young lady of irreproachable character and lineage, endowed with the most splendid gifts of beauty and genius, who devotes herself to the exercise of one of the noblest professions, for the sacred pur- pose of maintaining her family, is a being whom we should all love and reverence, rather than avoid; — my poor mother has prejudices which it is impossible for my logic to overcome, and refuses to welcome to her arms one who is disposed to be her most affectionate daughter through life. " Although Miss Costigan is some years older than myself, that circum- stance does not operate as a barrier to my affection, and I am sure will not influence its duration. A love like mine. Sir, I feel, is contracted once and forever. As I never had dreamed of love until I saw her — I feel now that I shall die without ever knowing another passion. It is the fate of my life ; and having loved once, I should despise myself, and be unworthy of my name as a gentleman, if I hesitated to abide by my passion : if I did not give all where I felt all, and endow the woman who loves me fondly with my whole heart and my whole fortune. " I press for a speedy marriage with my Emily — for why, in truth, should it be delayed ? A delay implies a doubt, which I cast from me as unworthy. It is impossible that my sentiments can change towards Emily — that at any age she can be anything but the sole object of my lov«. Why, then, wait ? I entreat you, my dear Uncle, to come down and recon- cile my dear mother to our union, and I address you as a man of the world, qui mores hominum multwum vidil el urbes, who wiU not feel an^ of the weak scruples and fears which agitate a lady who has scarcely •»« Jeft her Tillage. PENDENNIS. 6 " Pray, come down to us immediately. I am quite confident that — apart from considerations of fortune — you will admire and approve of mj Emily. " Your affectionate Nephew, "Arthur Pendennis, Jr." When the Major had concluded the perusal of this letter, his countenance assumed an expression of such rage and horroi that Glowr}', the surgeon, felt in his pocket for his lancet, which he always carried in his card-case, and thought his respected friend was going into a fit. The intelligence was indeed suffi- cient to agitate Pendennis. The head of the Pendennises going to marry an actress ten years his senior, — the head-strong bo3' about to plunge into matrimony. " The motlier has spoiled the 3'oung rascal," groaned the Major inwardly, " with her cursed sentimentality and romantic rubbish. My nephew marry a tragedy queen ! Gracious mercy, people will laugh at me so that I shall not dare show m}' head ! " And he thought with an inexpressible pang that he must give up Lord Steyne's dinner at Richmond, and must lose his rest and pass the night in an abominable tight mail-coacli, instead of taking pleasure, as he had promised himself, in some of the most agreeable and select societ}' in England. He quitted his breakfast-table for the adjoining writing- room, and there ruefully wrote off refusals to the Marquis, the Earl, the Bishop, and all his entertainers ; and he ordered his servant to take places in the mail-coach for that evening, of course charging the sum which he disbursed for the seats to the account of the widow and the j'oung scapegrace of wkom he was guardian. CHAPTER II. A PEDIGREE AND OTHER FAMILY MATTERS. Early in the Regency of George the Magnificent, there lived in a small town in the west of England, called Clavering, a gentleman whose name was Pendennis. There were those alive who remembered having seen his name painted on a board, which was surmounted by a gilt pestle and mortar over the door of a very humble little shop in the city of Bath, where Mr, Pendennis exercised the profession of apothecary and surgeon ; and where he not onl^ attended gentlemen in their sick-rooms, 6 PENDENNIS. • and ladies at the most interesting periods of their lives, but would condescend to sell a brown-paper plaster to a farmer's wife across the counter, — or to vend tooth-brushes, hair-pow- der, and London perfumer}'. And yet that little apothecary who sold a straj^ customer a pennyworth of salts, or a more fragrant cake of Windsor soap, was a gentleman of good education, and of as old a famil}- ag any in the whole county of Somerset. He had a Cornish pedi- gree which carried the Pendennises up to the time of the Druids, — and who knows how much farther back? Thej^ had inter- married with the Normans at a very late period of their famity existence, and they were related to all the great families of Wales and Brittany. Pendennis had had a piece of Universit}'' education too, and might have pursued that career with honor, but in his second year at Oxbridge his father died insolvent, and poor Pen was obliged to betake himself to the pestle and apron. He always detested the trade, and it was only neces- sity, and the offer of his mother's brother, a London apothecary of low family, into which Pendennis's father had demeaned him- self by marr^ang, that forced John Pendennis into so odious a calling. He quickl}' after his apprenticeship parted from the coarse- minded practitioner his relative, and set up for himself at Bath with his modest medical ensign. He had for some time a hard struggle with poverty' : and it was all he could do to keep the shop in decent repair, and his bed-ridden mother in comfort : but Lady Ribstone happening to be passing to the Rooms with an intoxicated Irish chairman who bumped her lad^-ship up against Pen's ver^^ doorpost, and drove his chair-pole through the handsomest pink bottle in the surgeon's window, alighted screaming frojn her vehicle, and was accommodated with a chair in Mr. Pendennis's shop, where she was brought round with cinnamon and sal- volatile. Mr. Pendennis's manners were so uncommonlv gentleman- like and soothing, that her ladyship, the wife of Sir Pepin Ribstone, of Codlingbury, in the county of Somerset, Bart., appointed her preserver, as she called him, apothecary to her person and family, which was very large. Master Ribstone coming home for the Christmas holiday's from Eton, over-ate himself and had a fever, in which Mr. Pendennis treated him with the greatest skill and tenderness. In a word, he got the good graces of the Codlingbury family, and from that day began to prosper. The good company of Bath patronized him, and amongst the ladies espedally he was beloved and admired. iPENDEXNIS. 7 First his humble little shop became a smart one : then he dis- carded the selling of tooth-brushes and perfumer}^ : then he shut up the shop altogether, and only had a little surgery at- tended by a genteel young man : then he had a gig with a mai\ to drive him ; and, before her exit from this world, his pooi old mother had the happiness of seeing from her bedroom win« dow, to which her chair was rolled, her beloved John step into a close carriage of his own, a one-horse carriage it is true, but with the arms of the family of Pendennis handsomelj^ emblazoned on the panels. "What would Arthur say now?" she asked, speaking of a younger son of hers — ' ' who never so much as once came to see my dearest Johnny through all the time of his poverty and struggles ! " " Captain Pendennis is with his regiment in India, mother," Mr. Pendennis remarked, " and, if you please, I wish you would not call me Johnny before the young man — before Mr. Par- kins." Presently the day came when she ceased to call her son by an}'^ title of endearment or affection ; and his house was very lonel}' without that kind though querulous voice. He had his night-bell altered and placed in the room in which the good old lady had grumbled for man}^ a long 3'ear, and he slept in the great large bed there. He was upwards of forty 3'ears old when these events befell ; before the war was over ; before George the Magnificent came to the throne ; before this history indeed : but what is a gentleman without his pedigree ? Pen- dennis, b}^ this time, had his handsomely framed and glazed, and hanging up in his drawing-room between the pictures of Codlingbury House in Somersetshire, and St. Boniface's Col- lege, Oxbridge, where he had passed the brief and happy da3's of his early manhood. As for the pedigree he had taken it out of a trunk, as Sterne's officer called for his sword, now that he was a gentleman and could show it. About the time of Mrs. Pendennis's demise, another of her son's patients likewise died at Bath ; that virtuous old woman, old Lady Pontj-pool, daughter of Reginald twelfth Earl of Bare- acres, and by consequence great-grand-aunt to the present Earl, and widow of John second Lord Pont3T^)ool, and Ukewise of the Reverend Jonas Wales, of the Armageddon Chapel, Clifton. For the last five 3'ears of her life her ladyshij) had been attended b}' Miss Helen Thistlewood, a very distant relative of the noble house of Bareacres, before mentioned, and daughter of Lieu- tenaut R. Thistlewood, R. N., killed at the battle of Copen- hagen. Under Lady Poutypool's roof Miss Thistlewood found 8 PENDENNIS. a shelter : the Doctor, who paid his visits to my Lady Ponty« pool at least twice a da}- , could not but remark the angelical sweetness and kindness with which the young lady bore her elderly relative's ill-temper ; and it was as they were going in the fourth mourning coach to attend her ladyship's venerated remains to Bath Abbey, where the}^ now repose, that he looked at her sweet pale face and resolved upon putting a certain question to her, the very nature of which made his pulse beat ninet}^ at least. He was older than she by more than twenty years, and at no time the most ardent of men. Perhaps he had had a love affair in early life which he had to strangle — perhaps all early love affairs ought to be strangled or drowned, like so many blind kittens : well, at three-and-forty he was a collected quiet little gentleman in black stockings with a bald head, and a few da3'S after the ceremony he called to see her, and, as he felt her pulse, he kept hold of her hand in his, and asked her where she was going to live now that the Pontj^pool family had come down upon the property, which was being nailed into boxes, and packed into hampers, and swaddled up with haybands, and buried in straw, and locked under three keys in green-baize plate-chests, and carted away under the eyes of poor Miss Helen, — he asked her where she was going to live finally. Her eyes filled with tears, and she said she did not know She had a little money. The old lady had left her a thousand pounds, indeed ; and she would go into a boarding-house or into a school : in fine, she did not know where. Then Pendennis, looking into her pale face, and keeping hold of her cold little hand, asked her if she would come and live with him ? He was old compared to — to so blooming a young lad}' as Miss Thistle wood (Pendennis was of the grave old complimentar}' school of gentlemen and apothecaries), but he was of good birth, and, he flattered himself, of good princi- ples and temper. His prospects were good, and daily mending. He was alone in the world, and had need of a kind and constant companion, whom it would be the study of his life to make happy ; in a word, he recited to her a little speech, which he had composed that morning in bed, and rehearsed and per- fected in his carriage, as he was coming to wait upon the young lady. Perhaps if he had had an early love-passage, she too had one day hoped for a different lot than to be wedded to a little gentleman who rapped his teeth and smiled artificially, who was laboriously polite to the butler as he slid up stairs into the PENDENNJS. 9 drawing-room, and profusely civil to the lady's-maid, who \vaited at the bedroom door ; for whom her old patroness used to ring as for a servant, and who came with even more eager- ness ; perhaps she would have chosen a diflerent man — but she knew, on the other hand, how worth}' Pendennis was, how prudent, how honorable ; how good he had been to his mother, and constant in his care of her ; and the upshot of this inter- ,view was, that she, blushing very much, made Pendennis an extremel}' low curtsj' , and asked leave to — to consider liis very kind proposal. The}' were married in the dull Bath season, which was the height of the season in London. And Pendennis having pre- viously, through a professional friend, M.R.C.S., secured lodg- ings in Holies Street, Cavendish Square, took his wife thither in a chaise and pair ; conducted her to the theatres, the Parks, and the Chapel Royal ; showed her the follis going to a Draw- ing-room, and, in a word, gave her all the pleasures of the town. He likewise left cards upon Lord Pontypool, upon the Right Honorable the Earl of Bareacres, and upon Sir Pepin and Lad}' Ribstone, his earliest and kindest patrons. Bare- acres took no notice of the cards. Pont3^pool called, admired Mrs. Pendennis, and said Lady Pontypool would come and see her, which her ladyship did, per proxy of John her footman, who brought her card, and an invitation to a concert five weeks off. Pendennis was back in his little one-horse carriage, dis- pensing draughts and pills at that time : but the Ribstones asked him and Mrs. Pendennis to an entertainment, of which Mr. Pendennis talked to the last day of his life. "^^ The secret ambition of Mr. Pendennis had always been to be a gentleman. It takes much time and careful saving for a provincial doctor, whose gains are not very large, to la}' by enough money wherewith to purchase a house and land : but besides our friend's own frugality and prudence, fortune aided him considerably in his endeavor, and brought him to the point which he so panted to attain. He laid out some money very advantageously in the purchase of a house and small estate close upon the village of Clavering before mentioned. A lucky purchase which he had made of shares in a coj^per-mine added very considerably to his wealth, and he realized with great prudence while this mine was still at its full vogue. Finally, he sold his business, at Bath, to Mr. Parkins, for a handsome sum of ready money, and for an annuity to be paid to him during a certain number of years after he had for ever retired from the handling of the mortar and pestle. 10 PENDENNIS. Arthur Pendennis, his son, was eight years old at the tim« of this event, so that it is no wonder that the lad, who left Bath and the surgery so young, should forget the existence of such a place almost entirel}^ and that his father's hands had ever been dirtied by the compounding of odious pills, or the prepara- tion of filthy plasters. The old man never spoke about the shop himself, never alluded to it ; called in the medical practi- tioner of Clavering to attend his family ; sunk the black breeches and stockings altogether ; attended market and sessions, and wore a bottle-green coat and brass buttons with drab gaiters, just as if he had been an English gentleman all his life. He used to stand at his lodge-gate, and see the coaches come in, and bow gravely to the guards and coachmen as they touched theu' hats and drove b3^ It was he who founded the Clavering Book Club : and set up the Samaritan Soup and Blanket Society. It was he who brought the mail, which used to run through Cacklefield before, away from that village and through Clavering. At church he was equally active as a vestryman and a worshipper. At market every Thursday, he went from pen to stall ; looked at samples of oats, and munched corn ; felt beasts, punched geese in the breast, and weighed them with a knowing air ; and did business with the farmers at the Clavering Arms, as well as the oldest frequenter of that house of call. It was now his shame, as it formerly' was his pride, to be called Doctor, and those who wished to please him always gave him the title of Squire. Heaven knows where they came from, but a whole range of Pendennis portraits presently hung round the Doctor's oak dining-room ; Lelys and Vandycks he vowed all the portraits to be, and when questioned as to the history' of the originals, would vaguely saj^ they were " ancestors of his." His little boy believed in them to their fullest extent, and Roger Penden- nis of Agincourt, Arthur Pendennis of Cre9y, General Pen- dennis of Blenheim and Oudenarde, were as real and actual beings for this 3'oung gentleman as — whom shall we say ? — as Robinson Crusoe, or Peter Wilkins, or the Seven Champions of Christendom, whose histories were in his library. Pendennis's fortune, which was not above eight hundred pounds a year, did not, with the best economy and management, permit of his Uving with the gi'eat folks of the count}' ; but he had a decent comfortable society of the second sort. If they were not the roses, they lived near the roses, as it were, and had a good deal of the odor of genteel life. The>' had out their plate, and dined each other round in the moonlight nights twice PENDENNIS. 11 a year, coming a dozen miles to these festivals ; and besides the county, the Pendenaises had the societ}' of the town of Clavering, as much as, nay, more than they liked : for Mi-s. Pybus was alwaj's poking about Helen's conservatories, and intercepting the operation of her soup-tickets and coal-clubs Captain Glanders (H. P., 50th Dragoon Guards), was for evei swaggering about the Squire's stables and gardens, and endeav- oring to enlist him in his quarrels with the Vicar, with the Post- master, with the Reverend F. Wapshot of Clavering Grammar School, for over-flogging his son, Anglesea Glanders, — with all the village in fine. And Pendennis and his wife often blessed themselves, that their house of Fairoaks was nearl}' a mile out of Clavering, or their pi'emises would never have been free from the prying eyes and prattle of one or other of the male and female inhabitants there. Fairoaks lawn comes down to the little river Brawl, and on the other side were the plantations and woods (as much as were left of them) of Clavering Park, Sir Francis Clavering, Bart. The park was let out in pasture and fed down by sheep and cattle when the Pendennises came first to live at Fairoaks. Shutters were up in the house ; a splendid freestone palace, with great stall's, statues, and porticos, whereof 3'ou may see a picture in the " Beauties of England and Wales." Sir Richard Clavering, Sir Francis's grandfather, had commenced the ruin of the family by the building of this palace : his successor had achieved the ruin by living in it. The present Sir Francis was abroad somewhere ; nor could anybody be found rich enough to rent that enormous mansion, through the deserted rooms, mouldy clanking halls, and dismal galleries of which, Arthur Pendennis man}' a time Avalked trembling when he was a boy. At sunset, from the lawn of Fairoaks, there was a pretty sight : it and the opposite park of Clavering were in the habit of put- ting on a rich golden tinge, which became them both wonder- fully. The upper windows of the great house flamed so as to make your e3'es wink ; the little river ran ofl:' noisil}' westward, and was lost in a sombre wood, behind which the towers of the old abbey churcdi of Clavering (whereby that town is called Clavering St. Mary's to the present day) rose up in purple splendor. Little Arthur's figure and his mother's cast long "blue shadows over the grass : and he would rei^eat in a low voice (for a scene of great natural beauty always moved the boy, who inherited this sensibility' from his mother) certain lines beginning, " Tliese are thy glorious works, Parent of Good ; Almighty ! thine this universjil frame," greatly to Mrs. 12 PENDENNIS. Peodeiinis's delight. Such walks and conversation generally ended in a profusion of filial and maternal embraces ; for to love and to pray were the main occupations of this dear woman's life ; and I have often heard Pendennis say in his wUd way, that he felt that he was sure of going to heaven, for his mother never could be happy there without him. As for John Pendennis, as the father of the family, and that sort of thing, ever}' bod}' had the greatest respect for him : and his orders were obeyed lUve those of the Medes and Persians. His hat was as well brushed, perhaps, as that of an}' man in this empire. His meals were served at the same minute every day, and woe to those who came late, as little Pen, a disorderly httle rascal, sometimes did. Prayers were recited, his letters were read, his business despatched, his stables and garden inspected, his hen-houses and kennel, his barn and pigsty visited, always at regular hours. After dinner he always had a nap with the Globe newspaper on his knee, and his yellow bandanna handkerchief on his face (Major Pendennis sent the yellow handlverchiefs from India, and his brother had helped in the purchase of his majority, so that they were good friends now). And so, as his dinner took place at six o'clock to a minute, and the sunset business alluded to may be supposed to have occurred at about half-past seven, it is probable that he did not much care for the view in front of his lawn windows, or take any share in the poetry and caresses which were taking place there. They seldom occurred in his presence. However frisky they were before, mother and child were hushed and quiet when Mr. Pendennis walked into the- drawing-room, his newspaper under his arm. . . . And here, while little Pen, buried in a great chair, read all the books of which he could lay hold, the Squire perused his own articles in the " Gardener's Gazette," or took a solemn hand at piquet with Mrs. Pendennis, or an occasional friend from the village. Pendennis usually took care that at least one of his grand dinners should take place when his brother, the Major, who, on the return of his regiment from India and New South Wales, had sold out and gone upon half-pay, came to pay his biennial visit to Fairoaks. " My brother, Major Pendennis," was a constant theme of the retired Doctor's conversation. All the family delighted in my brother the Major. He was the link which bound them to the great world of London, and the fashion. He always brought down the last news of the nobility, and PENDENNIS. IS spoke of such with soldier-like respect and decorum. He would saj, " M}' Lord Bareacres has been good enough to invite nie to Bareacres for the pheasant shooting," or, '' My Lord JSteyne is so kind as to wish for my presence at Stillbrook for the Easter holidays ; " and you ma^- be sure the whereabouts of ni}- brother the Major was carefully made known by worthy Mr. Pendennis to his friends at the Clavering Reading-room, at Justice-meetings, or at the County-town. Their carriages would come from ten miles round to call upon Major Pendennis in his\'isits to Fairoaks ; the fame of his fashion as a man about town was established throughout the count}'. There was a talk of his marrying Miss Hunkle, of Lilybank, old Hunkle the Attorney's daughter, with at least fifteen hundred a j-ear to her fortune ; but my brother the Major declined. ' ■ As a bachelor." he said, " nobody cares how poor I am. I have the happiness to live with people who are so highh' placed in the world, that a few hundreds or thousands a year more or less can make no difference in the estimation in which the}' are pleased to hold me. Miss Hunkle, though a most respectable lad\-, is not in possession of either the birth or the manners which would entitle her to be received into the sphere in which I have the honor to move. I shall live and die an old bachelor, John : and your worthy friend, Miss Hunkle, I have no doubt, will find some more worth}- object of her affection, than a worn-out old soldier on half-pay." Time showed the correctness of the surmise ; Miss Hunkle married a young French nobleman, and is now at this moment living at Lilybank, under the title of Baroness de Carambole, having been separated from her wild young scape- grace of a Baron very shortly after their union. The Major had a sincere liking and regard for his sister-in- law, whom he j^ronounced, and with perfect truth, to be as fine a lady as any in England. Indeed, Mrs. Pendennis's tranquil beauty, her natural sweetness and kindness, and that simplicity and dignity which a perfect purity and innocence are sure to bestow upon a handsome woman, rendered her quite worthy of her brother's praises. I think it is not national prejudice which y makes me believe that a high-bred English lady is the most ^ complete of all Heaven's subjects in this world. In whom else do you see so much grace, and so much virtue ; so much faith, and so much tenderness ; with such a perfect refinement and chastitv? And bv high-bred ladies I don't mean duchesses and countesses. Be they ever so high in station, they can be but ladies, and no more. But almost every man who lives in the world has the happiness, let us hope, of counting a few such 14 PENDENNIS. persons amongst his circle of acquaintance — women in whose singeUcal natures there is something awful, as well as beau- tiful, to contemplate ; at whose feet the wildest and fiercest of us must fall down and humble ourselves, in admiration of that adorable purity which never seems to do or to think wrong. Arthur Pendennis had the good fortune to have such a mother. During his childhood and youth, the boy thought of her as little less than an angel — a supernatural being, all wisdom, love, and beauty. When her husband drove her into the count^'-town, to the assize balls or concerts, he would step into the assembly with his wife on his arm, and look the great folks in the face, as much as to say, "■ Look at that, my lord ; can any of you show me a woman like that f " She enraged some countr}' ladies with three times her money, by a sort of desperate perfection which the}- found in her. Miss Pybus said she was cold and haughty ; Miss Pierce, that she was too proud for her station ; Mrs. Wapshot, as a doctor of divinitj^'s lady, would have the pas of her, who was onl}^ the wife of a medical prac- titioner. In the meanwhile, this lady moved through the world quite regardless of all the comments that were made in her praise or disfavor. She did not seem to know that she was admired or hated for being so perfect ; but carried on calmly through life, sa3dng her prayers, loving her famil}', helping her neighbors, and doing her duty. That even a woman should be faultless, however, is an arrangement not permitted by nature, which assigns to us mental defects, as it awards to us headaches, illnesses, or death : without which the scheme of the world could not be carried on, — nay, some of the best qualities of mankind could not be brought into exercise. As pain produces or elicits fortitude and en- durance ; difficult}', perseverance ; poverty, industry and inge- nuity ; danger, courage and what not; so the very virtues, on the other hand, will generate some vices; and, in fine, Mrs. Pendennis had that vice which Miss Pybus and Miss Pierce discovered in her, namely-, that of pride ; which did not vest itself so much in her own person, as in that of her famil}-. She spoke about Mr. Pendennis (a worthy little gentleman enough, but there are others as good as he) with an awful reverence, as if he had been the Pope of Rome on his throne, and she a car- dinal kneeling at iiis feet, and giving him incense. The Major she held to be a sort of Bayard among Majors : and as for her son Arthur she worshipped that 3'outh with an ardor which the young scapegrace accepted almost as coolly as the statue of PENDENNIS. 15 the Saint in Saint Peter's receives the rapturous osculations which the faithful deliver on his toe. This unfortunate superstition and idol -worship of this good woman was the cause of a great deal of the misfortune which befell the young gentleman who is the hero of this history, and deserves therefore to be mentioned at the outset of his story. Arthur Pendennis's schoolfellows at the Gre\' Friars School state that, as a boj', he was in no ways remarkable either as a dunce or as a scholar. He never read to improve himself out of school-hours, but, on the contrary, devoured all the novels, plays, and poetry, on which he could lay his hands. He never was flogged, but it was a wonder how he escaped the whipping- post. When he had money he spent it royally in tarts for him- self and his friends ; he has been known to disburse nine and sixpence out of ten shillings awarded to him in a single day. When he had no funds he went on tick. When he conld get no credit he went without, and was almost as happy. He has been known to take a thrashing for a crony without saying a word ; but a blow, ever so slight from a friend, would make him roar. To fighting he was averse from his earliest youth, as indeed to physic, the Greek Grammar, or any other exei-tion, and would engage in none of them, except at the last extremity. He seldom if ever told lies, and never bullied little boys. Those masters or seniors who were kind to him, he loved with boyish ardor. And though the Doctor, when he did not know his Horace, or could not construe his Greek play, said that that boy Pendennis was a disgrace to the school, a candidate for ruin in this world, and perdition in the next; a profligate who would most likely bring his venerable father to ruin and his mother to a dishonored grave, and the like — yet as the Doctor made use of these compliments to most of the boys in the place (which has not turned out an unusual number of felons and pickpockets), little Pen, at first uneasy and terrified l)y these charges, became graduallj' accustomed to hear them ; and he has not, in fact, either murdered his parents, or committed any act worthy of transportation or hanging up to the present day. There were many of the upper boys, among the Cistercians with whom Pendennis was educated, who assumed all the privi- leges of men long before they quitted that seminary. Many of them, for example, smoked cigars — and some had already be- gun the practice of inebriation. One had fought a duel with an Ensign in a marching regiment in consequence of a row at tlie theatre — another actually kept a buggy and horse at a livery stable in Covent Gardeii, and might be seen driving any 16 PENDENNIS. Sunday in Hyde Park with a groom with squared arms and armorial buttons bj^ his side. Many of the seniors were in love, and showed each other in confidence poems addressed to, or letters and locks of hair received from, 3'oang ladies — but Pen, a modest and timid youth, rather envied these than imitated them as yet. He had not got beyond the theory as yet — the practice of life was all to come. And by the way, ye tender mothers and sober fathers of Christian families, a prodigious thing that theor}' of life is as orall}^ learned at a great public school. Why, if you could hear those boys of fourteen who blush before mothers and sneak off in silence in the presence of their daughters, tallying among each other — it would be the woman's turn to blush then. Before he was twelve 3'ears old little Pen had heard talk enough to make him quite awfullj' wise upon certain points — and so. Madam, has your prett}^ little rosj'-cheeked son, who is coming home from school for the ensuing holidays. I don't say that the boy is lost, or that the innocence has left him which he had from " Heaven, which is our home," but that the shades of the prison-house are closing verj' fast over him, and that we are helping as much as possible to corrupt him. Well — Pen had just made his public appearance in a coat with a tail, or cauda-A'irilis, and was looking most anxiousl}' in his httle stud3'-glass to see if his whiskers were growing, like those of more fortunate vouths his companions ; and, instead of the treble voice with which he used to speak and sing (for his singing voice was a very sweet one, and he used when little to be made to perform " Home, sweet Home," " M3' pretty Page," and a French song or two which his mother had taught him, and other ballads for the delectation of the senior boys), had suddenly' plunged into a deep bass diversified by a squeak, which set master and scholars laughing — he was about sixteen 3'ears old in a word, when he was suddenl3' called away from his academic studies. It was at the close of the forenoon school, and Pen had been unnoticed all the previous part of the morning till now, when the Doctor put him on to construe in a Greek play. He did not know a word of it, though little Timmins, his form fellow, was prompting him with all his might. Pen had made a sad blunder or two — when the awful chief broke out upon him. " Pendennis, sir," he said, "your idleness is incorrigible and 3'our stupidit3' beyond example. You are a disgr-ace to your school, and to 30ur famil3-, and I have no doubt will PENDENNIS. 17 prove so in after-life to your country. If that vice, sir, which is described to us as the root of all evil, be really what moral- ists have represented (and I have no doubt of the correctness of their opinion), for what a prodigious quantity of future crime and wickedness are 30U, unhappy boy, laying the seed ! Miserable trifler ! A boj' who construes 8 e and, instead of 8 € but, at sixteen years of age, is guilt}- not merely of foil}', and ignorance, and dulness inconceivable, but of crime, of deadly crime, of filial ingratitude, which I tremble to contemplate. A boj% sir, who does not learn his Greek play cheats the par- ent who spends mone}' for his education. A boy who cheajts his parent is not \exy far from robbing or forging upon his neighbor. A man who forges on his neighbor pays the pen- alty of his crime at the gallows. And it is not such a one that I pit}' (for he will be deservedly cut off) ; but his mad- dened and heart-broken parents, who are driven to a prema- ture grave by his crimes, or, if thej' live, drag on a wretched and dishonored old age. Go on, sir, and I warn you that the ver}' next mistake that 3-ou make shall subject you to the pun- ishment of the rod. Who's that laughing? What ill-condi- tioned bo}- is there that dares to laugh ? " shouted the Doctor. Indeed, while the master was making this oration, there was a general titter behind him in the school-room. The orator had his back to the door of this ancient apartment, which was open, and a gentleman who was quite familiar with the place, for both Major Arthur and Mr. John Pendennis had been at the school, was asking the fifth-form boy who sat by the door for Pendennis. The lad grinning pointed to the culprit against whom the Doctor was pouring out the thunders of his just wrath — Major Pendennis could not help laughing. He re- membered having stood under that very pillar where Pen the 3-ounger now stood, and having been assaulted by the Doctor's predecessor years and years ago. The intelligence was '' passed round " that" it was Peiidennis's uncle in an instant, and a hun- dred young faces wondering and gigghng, between terror and laughter, turned now to the new comer and then to the awful Doctor. The Major asked the fifth-form boy to carry his card up to the Doctor, which the lad did with an arch look. Major Pen- dennis had written on the card, "I must take A. P. home ; his father is very ill." As the Doctor received the card, and stopped his harangue with rather a scared look, the laughter of the boys, half con- strained until then, burst out ni a general shout. " Silence ! " 18 PENDENNIS. roared out the Doctor stamping with his foot. Pen looked up and saw who was his deliverer ; the Major beckoned to him gravely, and tumbling down his books, Pen went across. The Doctor took out his watch. It was two minutes to one. " We will take the Juvenal at afternoon school," he said, nod- ding to the Captain, and all the boys understanding the signal gathered up their books and poured out of the hall. Young Pen saw by his uncle's face that something had hap- pened at home. "Is there anything the matter with — my mother?" he said. He could hardl}- speak, though, for emo- tion, and the tears which were ready to start. "No," said the Major, "but your father's very ill. Go and pack your trunk directly ; I have got a post-chaise at the gate." Pen went off quickly to his boarding-house to do as his uncle bade him ; and the Doctor, now left alone in the school-room, came out to shake hands with his eld schoolfellow. You would not have thought it was the same man. As Cinderella, at a par- ticular hour became, from a blazing and magnificent princess, quite an ordinary little maid in a gray petticoat, so, as the clock struck one, all the thundering majesty and awful wrath of the schoolmaster disappeared. " There is nothing serious, I hope," said the Doctor. " It is a pity to take the boy otherwise. He is a good boy, rather idle and unenergetic, but an honest gentlemanlike little fellow, though I can't get him to construe as I wish. Won't j^ou come in and have some luncheon ? M}^ wife will be very happy to see you." But Major Pendennis declined the luncheon. He said his brother was very ill, had had a fit the day before, and it was a great question if the}' should see him alive. "There's no other son, is there?" said the Doctor. The Major answered " No." " And there's a good eh — a good eh — propert}' I believe ? " asked the other in an off-hand way. " H'm — so so," said the Major. Whereupon this colloquy came to an end. And Arthur Pendennis got into a post-chaise with his uncle, never to come back to school any more. As the chaise drove through Clavering, the ostler standing whistling under the archwa}' of the Clavering Arras, winked to the postilion ominousl}', as much as to say all was over. The gardener's wife came and opened the lodge-gates, and let the travellers through with a silent shake of the head. All the blinds were down at Fairoaks — the face of the old footmae PENDENNIS. 19 was as blank when he let them in. Arthur's face was white too, with terror more than with grief. Whatever of warmth and love the deceased man might have had, and he adored his wife and lovt-d and admired liis son with all his heart, he had shut them up within himself; nor had the boy been ever able to penetrate that frigid outward barrier. But Arthur had been his father's pride and glory through life, and his name the last which John Pendennis had tried to articulate whilst he lay with his wife's hand clasping his own cold and clamin}' palm, as the flickering spirit went out into the darkness of death, and life and the world passed away from him. The little girl, whose face had peered for a moment under the blinds as the chaise came up, opened the door from the stairs into the hall, and taking Arthur's hand silentl}- as he stooped down to kiss her, led him up stairs to his mother. Old John opened the dining-room for the Major. The room was darkened with the blinds down, and surrounded b}^ all the gloomy i)ictures of the Pendennises. He drank a glass of wine. The l)()ttle had been opened for the Squire four days before. His hat was brushed, and laid on the hall table : his news- papers, and his letter bag, with John Pendennis, Esquire, Fair- oaks, engraved upon the brass plate, were there in waiting. The doctor and the lawyer from Clavering, who had seen the chaise pass through, came up in a gig half an hour after the Major's arrival, and entered by the back door. The former gave a detailed account of the seizure and demise of Mr. Pen- dennis, enlarged on his virtues and the estimation in which the neighborhood held him ; on what a loss he would be to the magistrates' bench, the County Hospital, &c. Mrs. Pen- dennis bore up wonderfully, he said, especially since Master Arthur's arrival. The lawyer staged and dined with IVIajor Pendennis, and they talked business all the evening. The Major was his brothei-'s executor, and joint guardian to the boy with Mr?, Pendennis. Everything was left unreservedly to her, except in case of a second marriage, — an occasion which might offer itself in the case of so ^'oung and handsome a woman, Mr. Tatliam gallantly said, when different provisions were enacted by the deceased. I'he Major would of course take entire superintendence of everytliing upon this most im- pressive and melancholy' occasion. Aware of this autliorit}', old John the footman, when he brought JNIajor Pendennis the candle to go to bed. followed afterwards with tlie plate-basket; and the next morning brought him the kc}' of the hall clock — the Squire always used to wind it up of a Thursda}^ John said. 20 PENDENNIS. Mrs. Pendennis's maid brought him messages from her mis- tress. She confirmed the doctor's report, of the comfort which Master Arthur's arrival had caused to his mother. What passed between that lad}^ and the boy is not of im- port. A veil should be thrown over those sacred emotions of love and grief. The maternal passion is a sacred m3^ster3' to me. What one sees s^^mbolized in the Roman churches in the image of the Virgin Mother with a bosom bleeding with love, I think one ma}^ witness (and admire the Almighty bount}' for) ever}' daj*. I saw a Jewish lady, onl}- yesterda}-, with a child at her knee, and from whose face towards the child there shone a sweetness so angelical, that it seemed to form a sort of glory round both. I protest I could have knelt before her too, and adored in her the Divine beneficence in endowing us with the maternal storge^ which began with our race and sanctifies the history of mankind. As for Arthur Pendennis, after that awful shock which the sight of his dead father must have produced on him, and the pity and feeling which such an event no doubt occasioned, I am not sure that in the very moment of the grief, and as he em- braced his mother, and tenderly consoled her, and promised to love her for ever, there was not springing up in his breast a sort of secret triumph and exultation. He was the chief now and lord. He was Pendennis ; and all round about him were his servants and handmaids. "You'll never send me awa3s" little Laura said, tripping by him, and holding his hand. " You won't send me to school, will ^-ou, Arthur?" Arthur kissed her and patted her head. No, she shouldn't go to school. As for going himself, that was quite out of the question. He had determined that that part of his life should not be renewed. In the midst of the general grief, and the corpse still lying above, he had leisure to conclude that he would have it all holidays for the future, that he wouldn't get up till he liked, or stand the bullying of the Doctor an 3^ more, and had made a hundred of such da}^ dreams and resolves for the future. How one's thoughts will travel ! and how quickly our wishes beget them ! When he with Laura in his hand went into the kitchen on his way to the dog-kennel, the fowl-houses, and other his favorite haunts, all the servants there assembled In great silence with their friends, and the laboring men and their wives, and Sally Potter who went with the post-bag to Clavering, and the baker's man from Clavering — all there as- sembled and drinking beer on the melancholj^ occasion — rose up on his entrance and bowed or curtsied to him. They never PENDENNIS. 21 ased to do so last holida^-s, he felt at once and with indescribable pleasure. The cook cried out, '' O Lord," and whispered " How Master Arthur do grow ! " Thomas, the groom, in the act of drinking, put down the jug alarmed before his master. Thomas's master felt the honor keenly. He went through and looked at the pointers. As Flora put her nose up to his waistcoat, and Ponto, 3'elling with pleasm-e, hurtled at his chain, Pen patron- ized the dogs, and said "Poo Ponto, poo Flora," in his most condescending manner. And then he went and looked at Laura's hens, and at the pigs, and at the orchard, and at the dairy ; perhaps he blushed to think that it was only last holidays he had in a manner robbed the great apple-tree, and been scolded b}- the dair^-maid for taking cream. The}' buried John Pendennis, Esquire, " formerly an eminent medical practitioner at Bath, and subsequenth' an able magis- ti'ate, a benevolent landlord, and a benefactor to many charities and public institutions in this neighborhood and countr}'," with one of the most handsome funerals that had been seen since Sir' Roger Clavering was buried here, the clerk said, in the abbey church of Clavering St. Mary's. A fair marble slab, from which the above inscription is copied, was erected over the Fairoaks' pew in the church. On it 3'ou may see the Pendennis coat of arms and crest, an eagle looking towards the sun, with the motto " nee tenui pennd" to the present day. Doctor Portman alluded to the deceased most handsomel}' and affectingly, as '• our dear departed friend," in his sermon next Sunday; and Arthur Pendennis reigned in his stead. CHAPTER in. 4 IN WHICH PENDENNIS APPEARS AS A VERT YOUNG MAN INDEED' Arthur was about sixteen years old, we have said, when he began to reign ; in person, he had what his friends woukl call a dumpy, but his mamma st3ded a neat little figure. His hair was of a healthy brown color, which looks like gold in the sunshine, his face was round, rosy, fi'eckled, and good-humored, his whiskers were decidedly of a reddish hue ; in fact, without being a beaut}', he had such a frank, good-natured kind face, and laughed so merrily at 3'ou out of liis honest blue eyes, that no wonder Mrs. Pendennis thought him the pride of the whole 22 PENDENNIS. country. Between the ages of sixteen and eighteen he rose from five feet six to five feet eight inches in height, at which altitude he paused. But his mother wondered at it. He was three inches taller than his father. AVas it possible that any man could grow to be three inches taller than Mr. Pendennis ? You may be certain he never went back to school ; the dis- cipline of the establishment did not suit him, and he liked being at home much better. The question of his return was debated, and his uncle was for his going back. The Doctor wrote his opinion that it was most important for Arthur's success in after-life that he should know a Greek play thoroughl}-, but Pen adroitly managed to hint to his mother what a dangerous place Grey Friars was, and what sad wild fellows some of th» chaps there were, and the timid soul, taking alarm at once, acceded to his desire to stay at home. Then Pen's uncle offered to use his influence with His Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief, who was pleased to be very kind to him, and proposed to get Pen a commission in the Foot Guards. Pen's heart leaped at this : he had been to hear the band at St. James's play on a Sunda}' , when he went out to his uncle. He had seen Tom Ricketts, of the fourth form, who used to wear a jacket and trowsers so ludicrously tight, that the elder bo^^s could not forbear using him in the qualit}' of a butt or ' ' cocksh}' " — he had seen this very Ricketts arrayed in crimson and gold, with an immense bearskin cap on his head, staggering under the colors of the regiment. Tom had recognized him and gave him a patronizing nod. Tom, a little wretch whom he had cut over the back with a hocke^'-stick last quarter — and there he was in the centre of the square, racing round the flag of his country, surrounded by bayonets, cross- belts, and scarlet, the band blowing trumpets and banging cymbals — talking familiarly to immense warriors with tufts to their chins and Waterloo medals. What would not Pen have given to enter such a service ? But Helen Pendennis, when this point was proposed to her by her son, put on a face full of terror and alarm. She said " she did not quarrel with others who thought differently, but that in her opinion a Christian had no right to make the army a profession. Mr. Pendennis never, never would have per- mitted his son to be a soldier. Finally, she should be very unhapp}- if he thought of it." Now Pen would have as soon cut off his nose and ears as deliberately, and of aforethought maUce, made his mother unhapp}^ ; and, as he was of such a generous disposition that he would give away anything to any one, be ia- PENDENNIS. 23 stanth' made a present of his visionary red coat and epaulettes to his mother. She thought hira the noblest creature in the world. But Major Pendennis, when the offer of the commission was ac- knowledged and refused, wrote back a curt and somewhat angry letter to the widow, and thought his nephew was rather a spooney. He was contented, however, when he saw the boy's per- formances out hunting at Christmas, when the Major came down as usual to Fairoaks. Pen had a verj' good mare, and rode her with uncommon pluck and grace. He took his fences with gi-eat coolness and judgment. He wrote to the chaps at school about his top-boots, and his feats across country. He began to think seriously of a scarlet coat : and his mother must own that she thought it would become him remarkably well ; though, of course, she passed hours of anguish during his absence, and dail}' expected to see him brought home on a shutter. With these amusements, in rather too great plenty, it must not be assumed that Pen neglected his studies altogether. He had a natural taste for reading every possible kind of book which did not fall into his school-course. It was only when they forced his head into the waters of knowledge that he re- fused to drink. He devoured all the books at home, from Inchbald's Theatre to White's Farriery ; he ransacked the neighboring book-cases. He found at Clavering an old cargo of French novels, which he read with all his might ; and he would sit for hours perched up on the topmost bar of Doctor Portman's librarj^ steps with a folio on his knees, whether it were Hakluyt's Travels, Hobbes's Leviathan, Augustini Opera, or Chaucer's Poems. He and the Vicar were very good friends, and from his Reverence, Pen learned that honest taste for port wine which distinguished him through life. And as for Mrs. Portman, who was not in the least jealous, though her Doctor avowed himself in love with Mrs. Pendennis, whom he pro- nounced to be by far the finest lady in the countr}' — all her grief was, as she looked up fondl}' at Pen perched on the book- ladder, that her daughter, Minny, was too old for him — as indeed she was — Miss Maria Portman being at that period only two years younger than Pen's mother, and weighing as much as Pen and Mrs. Pendennis together. Are these details insipid ? Look back, good friend, at your own youth, and ask how was that? I like to think of a well- nurtured boy, brave and gentle, warm-heartod and loving, aud 24 PENDENNIS. looking the world in the face with kind honest eyes. What bright colors it wore then, and how you enjo^^ed it ! A man has not many years of such time. He does not know them whUst they are with him. It is onl}^ when they are passed long away that he remembers how dear and happy they were. Mr. Smirke, Dr. Portman's curate, was engaged, at a liberai salar}', to walk or ride over from Clavering and pass several hours daily with the young gentleman. Smirke was a man perfectly faultless at a tea-table, wore a curl on his fair fore- nead, and tied his neck-cloth with a melancholj^ grace. He was a decent scholar and mathematician, and taught Pen as much as the lad was ever disposed to learn, which was not much. For Pen had soon taken the measure of his tutor, who, when he came riding into the court-3'ard at Fairoaks on his pony, turned out his toes so absurdly, and left such a gap between his knees and the saddle, that it was impossible for an}'^ lad endowed with a sense of humor to respect such an equesti'ian. He nearly killed Smirke with terror by putting him on his mare, and taking him a ride over a common, where the county fox-hounds (then hunted by that staunch old sports- man, Mr. Hardhead, of Dumplingbeare) happened to meet. Mr. Smirke, on Pen's mare, Rebecca (she was named after Pen's favorite heroine, the daughter of Isaac of York), as- tounded the hounds as much as he disgusted the huntsman, laming one of the former by persisting in riding amongst the pack, and receiving a speech from the latter, more remarkable for energ3' of language, than any oration he had ever heard since he left the bargemen on the banks of Isis. Smirke and his pupil read the ancient poets together, and rattled through them at a pleasant rate, very different from that steady grubbing pace with which the Cistercians used to go over the classic ground, scenting out each word as the}' went, and digging up ever}^ root in the way. Pen never liked to halt, but made his tutor construe when he was at fault, and thus galloped through the Iliad and the Od^-sse}^ the tragic plaj' -writers, and the charming wicked Aristophanes (whom he vowed to be the greatest poet of all). But he went so fast that, though he certainly' galloped through a considerable ex- tent of the ancient country, he clean forgot it in after-life, and had only such a vague remembrance of his earl}^ classic course as a man has in the House of Commons, let us say, who still keeps up two or three quotations ; or a reviewer who, just for decency's sake, hints at a little Greek. Besides the ancient poets, you may be sure Pen read the PENDENNIS. 25 English with great gusto. Smirke sighed and shook his head sadl}' both about Byron and Moore. But Pen was a sworn fire-worshipper and a Corsair ; he had them by heart, and used to take little Laura into the window and say, " Zuleika, I am not thy brother," in tones so tragic, that the}' caused the solemn Httle maid to open her great eyes still wider. She sat, until the proper hour for retirement, sewing at Mrs. Pendennis's knee, and listening to Pen reading out to her of nights without comprehending one word of what he said. He read Shakspeare to his mother (which sb.e said she liked, but didn't) , and Bjtou, and Pope, and his favorite Lalla Rookh, which pleased her indifferently. But as for Bishop Heber, and Mrs. Hemans above all, this lady used to melt right away, and be absorbed into her pocket-handkerchief, when Pen read those authors to her in his kind boyish voice. The ' ' Chi'istian Year " was a book which appeared about that time. The son and the mother whispered it to each other with awe — Faint, very faint, and seldom in after-life Pendennis heard that solemn church-music : but he alwaj's loved the re- membrance of it, and of the times when it struck on his heart, and he walked over the fields full of hope and void of doubt, as the church-bells rang on Sunday morning. It was at this period of his existence, that Pen broke out in the Poet's Corner of the County Chronicle, with some verses with which he was perfectly well satisfied. His are the verses signed " NEP.," addi-essed " To a Tear ; " "On the Anniver- sar}- of the Battle of Waterloo ; " " To Madame Caradori sing- ing at the Assize Meetings ; " " On Saint Bartholomew's Day" (a tremendous denunciation of Popery, and a solemn warning to the people of England to ralh' against emancipating the Roman Catholics), &c., &c. — all which masterpieces, poor Mrs. Pendennis kept along with his first socks, the first cutting of his hair, his bottle, and other interesting relics of his infanc}-. He used to gallop Rebecca over the neighboring Dumpling Downs, or into the county town, which, if you please, we shall call Chatteris, spouting his own poems, and filled with quite a B3Tonic afflatus as he thought. His genius at this time was of a decided!}^ gloomy cast. He brought his mother a tragedy, at which, though he killed six- teen people before the second act, Helen laughed so, that he thrust the masterpiece into tlie fire in a pet. He projected an epic poem in blank verse, " Cortez, or the Conqueror of Mex- ico, and the Inca's Daughter." He wrote part of " Seneca, or the Fatal Bath," and "•Ariadne in Naxos ;" classical pieces. 9 26 PENDENNIS. with choruses and strophes and antistrophes, which sadly puz- zled Mrs. Pendennis ; and began a " Histor}- of the Jesuits," in which he lashed that Order with tremendous severit}-. His loyalty did his mother's heart good to witness. He was a staunch, unflinching Church-and-King man in those da3-s ; and at the election, when Sir Giles Beanfield stood on the Blue interest, against Lord Trehawk, Lord E^Tie's son, a Whig and a friend of Popery, Arthur Pendennis, with an immense bow for himself, which his mother made, and with a blue ribbon for Rebecca, rode alongside of the Reverend Doctor Portman, on his gray mare Dowd^', and at the head of the Clavering voters, whom the Doctor brought up to plump for the Protestant Champion. On that da}' Pen made his first speech at the Blue Hotel : and also, it appeax's, for the first time in his life — took a little more wine than was good for him. Mercj' ! what a scene it was at Fairoaks, when he rode back at ever so much o'clock at night. What moving about of lanterns in the court-yard and stables, though the moon was shining out ; what a gathering of servants, as Pen came home, clattering over the bridge and up the stable-yard, with half a score of the Clavering voters 3'elling after him the Blue song of the election. He wanted them all to come in and have some wine — some ver}' good Madeira — some capital Madeira — John, go and get some Madeira — and there is no knowing what the farmers would have done, had not Madam Pendennis made her appear- ance in a white wrapper, with a candle — and scared those zealous Blues so by the sight of her pale handsome face, that they touched their hats and rode off. Besides these amusements and occupations in which Mr. Pen indulged, there was one which forms the main business and pleasure of youth, if the poets tell us aright, whom Pen was always studj'ing ; and which, ladies, you have rightly guessed to be that of Love. Pen sighed for it first in secret, and, like the love-sick swain in Ovid, opened his breast and said, " Aura, veni." What generous 3'outh is there that has not courted some such windy mistress in his time ? Yes, Pen began to feel the necessity- of a first love — of a con- suming passion — of an object on which he could concentrate all those vague floating fancies under which he sweetl}' suffered — of a j^oung lady to whom he could really make verses, and whom he could set up and adore, in place of those unsubstan- tial lanthes and Zuleikas to whom he addressed the outpour- ings of his gushing muse. He read his favorite poems over PENDENNIS. 27 and over again, he called upon Alma Venus the delight of gods and men, he translated Anacreon's odes, and picked out pas- sages suitable to his complaint from Waller, Dry den. Prior, and the lilie. Smirke and he were never weary, in their interviews, of discoursing about love. The faithless tutor entertained him with sentimental conversations in place of lectures on algebra and Greek ; for Smirke was in love too. Who could help it, being in dail}- intercourse with such a woman? Smirke was madly in love (as far as such a mild flame as Mr. Smirke's may be called madness) with Mrs. Pendennis. That honest lady, sitting down below stairs teaching little Laura to play the piano, or devising flannel petticoats for the poor round about her, or otherwise busied with the calm routine of her modest and spotless Christian life, was little aware what storms were brewing in two bosoms up stairs in the studj^ — in Pen's as he sat in his shooting-jacket, with his elbows on the green study- table, and his hands clutching his curly brown hair. Homer under his nose, — and in worthy Mr. Smirke's, with whom he was reading. Here they would talk about Helen and Andro- mache. " Andromache's like my mother," Pen used to avouch ; '' but I sa}-, Smirke, by Jove I'd cut off m}- nose to see Helen ; " and he would spout certain favorite lines which the reader will find in their proper place in the third book. He drew portraits of her — they are extant still — with straight noses and enor- mous eyes, and '• Arthur Pendennis delineavit et pinxit " gal- lantly written underneath. As for Mr. Smirke he naturall}" preferred Andromache. And in consequence he w^as uncommonly kind to Pen. He gave him his Elzevir Horace, of which the boy was fond, and his little Gi'eek Testament which his ow^n mamma at Clapham had purchased and presented to him. He bouglit him a silver pencil case ; and in the matter of learning let him do just as much or as little as ever he pleased. He ahvays seemed to be on the point of unbosoming himself to Pen : nay, he confessed to the latter that he had a — an attachment, an ardently cher- ished attachment, about which Pendennis longed to hear, and said, "Tell us, old chap, is she handsome? has she got blue eyes or black ? " But Doctor Portman's curate, heaving a gentle sigh, cast up his eyes to the ceiling, and begged Pen faintly to change the conversation. Poor Smirke ! He invited Pen to dine at his lodgings over Madame Frisby's, the milliner's, in Clavering, and once when it was raining, and Mrs. Pendennis, who had driven in her pon3-chaise into Clavering with respect to some arrangements, about leaving off mourning probabl}', 28 PENDENNIS. was prevailed upon to enter the curate's apartments, he sen* for pound-cakes instantly. The sofa on which she sat became sacred to him from that day : and he kept flowers in the glass which she drank from exQv after. As Mrs. Pendennis was never tired of hearing the praises of her son, we may be certain that this rogue of a tutor neg- lected no opportunity of conversing with her upon the subject. It might be a little tedious to him to hear the stories about Pen's generosity, about his bravery in fighting the big naught}' bo3', about his fun and jokes, about his prodigious skill in Latin, music, riding, &c. — but what price would he not pa}^ to be in her compan}^? and the widow, after these conversations, thought Mr. Smirke a ver}- pleasing and well-informed man. As for her son, she had not settled in her mind, whether he was to be Senior Wrangler and Archbishop of Canterbur}', or Double First Class at Oxford, and Lord Chancellor. That all England did not possess his peer, was a fact about which there was, in her mind, no manner of question. A simple person, of inexpensive habits, she began forthwith to save, and, perhaps, to be a little parsimonious, in favor of her boy. There were no entertainments, of course, at Fairoaks, during the year of her weeds. Nor, indeed, did the Doctor's silver dish-covers, of which he was so proud, and which were flourished all over with the arms of the Pendennises, and sur- mounted with theii' crest, come out of the plate-chest again for long, long years. The household was diminished, and its ex- penses curtailed. There was a very blank anchorite repast when Pen dined from home : and he himself headed the remon- strance from the kitchen regarding the deteriorated qualit}' of the Fairoaks beer. She was becoming miserl}' for Pen. In- deed, who ever accused women of being just? The}- are always sacrificing themselves or somebod}- for somebody else's sake. There happened to be no young woman in the small circle of friends who were in the widow's intimacy whom Pendennis could by any possibility gratif}' b}- endowing her with the inesti- mable treasure of a heart which he was longing to give awa}'. Some 3'oung fellows in this predicament bestow their young affections upon Dolly, the dair3'maid, or cast the eyes of ten- derness upon Molly, the l)lacksmith's daughter. Pen thought a Pendennis much too grand a personage to stoop so low. He was too high-minded for a vulgar intrigue, and at the idea of a seduction, had he ever entertained it, his heart would have re- volted as from the notion of any act of baseness or dislionor. Miss Mira Portman was too old, too large, and too fond of PENDENNIS. 29 reading '' Rollin's Ancient History." The Miss Boardbacks, Admiral Boardback's daughters of St. Vincent's, or Fourth of June House, as it was called), disgusted Pen with the London airs which they brought into the country. Captain Glanders's (H". P., oOth Dragoon Guards) three girls were in brown-hoUand pinafores as yet, with the ends of their hair- plaits tied up in diity pink ribbon. Not having acquired the art of dancing, the youth avoided such chances as he might have had o^ meeting with the fair sex at the Chatteris Assem- l)lies ; in fine, he was not in love, because there was nobody at hand to fall in love with. And the young monkej' used to ride out, day after day, in quest of Dulcinea ; and peep into the pony-chaises and gentlefolks' carriages, as they drove along the broad turnpike roads, with a heart beating within him, and a secret tremor and hope that she might be in that 3'ellow post- chaise coming swinging up the hill, or one of those three girls in beaver bonnets in the back seat of the double gig, which the fat old gentleman in black was driving, at four miles an hour. The post-chaise contained a snuffj' old dowager of seventy-, with a maid, her coutemporar}". The three girls in the beaver bon- nets were no handsomer than the turnips that skirted the road- side. Do as he might, and ride where he would, the fairy princess whom he was to rescue and win, had not yet appeared to honest Pen. Upon these points he did not discourse to his mother. He had a world of his own. What ardent, imaginative soul has not a secret pleasure-place in which it disports ? Let no clumsy l)rying or dull meddling of ours tiy to disturb it in our children. Actaeon was a brute for wanting to push in whore Diana was bathing. Leave him occasionally alone, m}' good madam, if you have a poet for a child. Even your admirable advice may be a bore sometimes. Yonder little child may have thoughts too deep even for your great mind, and fancies so coy and timid that they will not bare themselves when your ladyship sits b}'. Helen Pendennis by the force of sheer love divined a great number of her son's secrets. But she kept these things in her heart (if we may so speak), and did not speak of them. Be- sides, she had made up her mind that he was to marr^^ little Laura : she would be eighteen when Pen was six-and-twenty ; and had finished his college career ; and had made his grand tour ; and was settled either in London, astonishing all the metropolis by his learning and eloquence at the bar, or better still in a sweet country parsonage surrounded with hollyhocks 30 PENDENNIS. and roses, close to a delightful romantic ivj'-covered church, from the pulpit of which Pen would utter the most beautiful sermons ever preached. While these natural sentiments were waging war and trouble in honest Pen's bosom, it chanced one day that he rode into Chatteris for the purpose of carrying to the County Chronicle a tremendous and thrilling poem for the next week's paper ; and putting up his horse according to custom, at the stables of the George Hotel there, he fell in with an old acquaintance. A grand black tandem, with scarlet wheels, came rattling into the inn 3'ard, as Pen stood there in converse with the ostler about Rebecca; and the voice of the driver called out, ''Halloo, Pendennis, is that you?" in a loud patronizing manner. Pen had some difficulty in recognizing, under the broad-brimmed hat and the vast great-coats and neck-cloths, with which the new comer was habited, the person and figure of his quondam schoolfellow, Mr. Foker. A 3'ear's absence had made no small difference in that gen- tleman. A youth who had been deservedl}- whipped a few months previousl}-, and who spent his pocket-money on tarts and hardbake, now appeared before Pen in one of those cos- tumes to which the public consent, which I take to be quite as influential in this respect as "Johnson's Dictionary'," has awarded the title of " Swell." He had a bull-dog between his legs, and in his scarlet shawl neck-cloth, was a pin representing another bull-dog in gold : he wore a fur waistcoat laced over with gold chains ; a green cut-away coat with basket buttons, and a white upper-coat ornamented with cheese-plate buttons, on each of which was engraved some stirring incident of the road or the chase ; all of which ornaments set off this young fellow's figure to such advantage, that 3'ou would hesitate to say which character in life he most resembled, and whether he was a boxer en gogiiette, or a coachman in his gala suit. "Left that place for good, Pendennis?" Mr. Foker said, descending from his landau and giving Pendennis a finger. " Yes, this year or more," Pen said. " Beastly old hole," Mr. Foker remarked. " Hate it. Hate the Doctor : hate. Towzer, the second master ; hate everybody there. Not a fit place for a gentleman." "Not at all," said Pen, with an air of the utmost conse* quence. "By gad, sir, I sometimes dream, now, that the Doctor's walking into me," Foker continued (and Pen smiled as he PENDENNIS. 31 thought that he himself had likewise fearful dreams of this nature). "When I think of the diet there, by gad, sir, I wonder how I stood it. Mangy mutton, brutal beefs pudding on Thursdays and Sundays, and that fit to poison you. Just look at m^- leader — did you ever see a prettier animal? Drove over from Baymouth. Came the nine mile in two-and- *!orty minutes. Not bad going, sir." " Are you stoping at Baymouth, Foker?" Pendennis asked. " I'm coaching there," said the other with a nod. " Wlmt?" asked Pen, and in a tone of such wonder, that Foker burst out laughing, and said, "He was blowed if he didn't think Pen was such a flat as not to know what coaching meant." "I'm come down with a coach from Oxbridge. A tutor, don't you see, old boy? He's coaching me, and some other men, for the little go. Me and Spavin have the drag between us. And I thought I'd just tool over, and go to the play. Did you ever see Rowkins do the hornpipe ? " and Mr. Foker began to perform some steps of that popular dance in the inn yard, looking round for the sympathy of his groom, and the stable men. Pen thought he would like to go to the play too : and could ride home afterwards, as there was a moonlight. So he ac- cepted Foker's invitation to dinner, and the young men en- tered the inn together, where Mr. Foker stopped at the bar, and called upon Miss Rummer, the landlady's fair daughter, who presided there, to give him a glass of "• his mixture." Pen and his family had been known at the George ever since they came into the county ; and Mr. Pendennis's carriage and horses always put up there when he paid a visit to the county town. The landlady dropped the heir of Fairoaks a ver}' respectful curtsv, and complimented him upon his growth and manly appearance, and asked news of the family at Fair- oaks, and of Dr. Portman and the Clavering people, to all of which questions the ^oung gentleman answered with much affability. But he spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Rummer with that sort of good nature with which a 3'oung Prince addresses his father's subjects; never dreaming that those "bonnes gens" were his equals in life. Mr. Foker's behavior was quite different. He inquired for Rummer and the cold in his nose, told Mrs. Rummer a riddle, asked Miss Rummer when she would be ready to marry him, and paid his compliments to Miss Brett, the other 3'Oung lady in the bar, all in a minute of time, and with a liveliness and 32 PENDENNIS. facetiousness which set all these ladies in a giggle ; and he gave a cluck, expressive of great satisfaction as he tossed oflC his mixture which Miss Rummer prepared and handed to him. " Have a drop," said he to Pen. " Give the young one a glass, R., and score it up to yours trul}'." Poor Pen took a glass, and everybody laughed at the face which he made as he put it down — Gin, bitters, and some other cordial, was the compound with which Mr. Foker was so 'delighted as to call it by the name of Foker's own. As Pen choked, sputtered, and made faces, the other took occasion to remark to Mr. Rummer that the 3'oung fellow was green, very green, but that he would soon form him ; and then they pro- ceeded to order dinner — which Mr. Foker determined should consist of turtle and venison ; cautioning the landlady to be very particular about icing the wine. Then Messrs. Foker and Pen strolled down the High Street together — the former having a cigar in his mouth, which he had drawn out of a case almost as big as a portmanteau. He went in to replenish it at Mr. Lewis's, and talked to that gentleman for a while, sitting down on the counter : he then looked in at the fruiterer's, to see the prett}- girl there : then they passed the County Chronicle office, for which Pen had his packet read3% in the shape of "Lines to Thyrza,-" but poor Pen did not like to put the letter into the editor's box while walking in compan}- with such a fine gentleman as Mr. Foker. The}' met heavy dragoons of the regiment always quartered at Chatteris ; and stopped and talked about the Baymouth balls, and what a pretty girl was Miss Brown, and what a dem fine woman Mrs. Jones was. It was in vain that Pen recalled to his own mind how stupid Foker used to be at school — how he could scarcely read, how he was not cleanl}' in his person, and notorious for his blunders and dulness. Mr. Foker was not much more refined now than in his school days : and yet Pen felt a secret pride in strutting down High Street with a young fellow who owned tandems, talked to officers, and ordered turtle and champagne for dinner. He listened, and with re- spect too, to Mr. Foker's accounts of what the men did at the Universit}' of which Mr. F. was an ornament, and encountered a long series of stories about boat-racing, bumping, College grass-plats, and milk-punch — and began to wish to go up himself to College to a \Asxce where there were such manly pleasures and enjoyments. Farmer Gurnett, who lives close by Fairoaks, riding by at tliis minute and touching his hat to Pen, the latter stopped him, and sent a message to his mother PENDENNIS. 33 to say that h«5 had met with an old schoolfellow, and should dine in Chatteris. The two young gentlemen continued their walk, and were passing round the Cathedral Yard, where they could hear the music of the afternoon service (a music which always exceed- ingly affected Pen), but whither Mr. Foker came for the pur- pose of inspecting the nursery- maids who frequent the Elms Walk there, and here they strolled until with a final burst of music the small congTegation was played out. Old Doctor Portman was one of the few who came from the venerable gate. Spring Pen, he came and shook him by the hand, and eyed with wonder Pen's friend, from whose mouth and cigar clouds of fragrance issued, which curled round the Doctor's honest face and shovel hat. " An old schoolfellow of mine, Mr. Foker," said Pen. The Doctor said "H'm": and scowled at the cigar. He did not mind a pipe in his study, but the cigar was an abomination to the worthy gentleman. '• I came up on Bishop's business," the Doctor said. " We'll ride home, Arthur, if 3-ou like?" •* I — I'm engaged to ni}- friend here," Pen answered, " You had better come home with me," said the Doctor. "His mother knows he's out, sir," Mr. Foker remarked: "don't she, Pendennis?" "But that does not prove that he had not better come home with me," the Doctor growled, and he walked off with gi-eat dignit}'. " Old bo}' don't like the weed, I suppose," Foker said. "Ha! who's here? — here's the General, and Bingley, the manager. How do, Cos ? How do, Bingley ? " " How does my worth}' and gallant young Foker?" said the gentleman addressed as the General ; and who wore a shabb}' military cape with a mangy collar, and a hat cocked very much over one eye. " Trust j'ou are very well, m}' ver}' dear sir," said the other gentleman, "and that the Theatre Roj-al will have the honor of your patronage to-night. We perforai ' The Stranger,' in which your humble servant will — " " Can't stand 3-ou in tights and Hessians, Bingley," young Mr. Foker said. On which the General, with the Irish accent, said, " But I think ye'll like Miss Fotheringay, in Mrs. Haller, or me name's not Jack Costigan." Pen looked at these individuals with the greatest interest. He had never seen an actor before ; and he saw Dr. Portman's 3 34 PEN DENNIS. red face looking over the Doctor's shoulder, as he retreated from the Cathedral Yard, evidently quite dissatisfied with the acquaintances into whose hands Pen had fallen. Perhaps it would have been much better for him had he taken the parson's advice and company home. But which of us knows his fate? CHAPTER rV. MRS. HALLER. Having returned to the George, Mr. Foker and his guest sat down to a handsome repast in the coffee-room ; where Mr. Rummer brought in the first dish, and bowed as gravel}- as if he was waiting upon the Lord-Lieutenant of the count}'. Pen could not but respect Foker's connoisseurship as he pronounced the champagne to be condemned gooseberr}', and winked at the port with one e^-e. The latter he declared to be of the right sort ; and told the waiters, there was no way of humbuggiiig him. All these attendants he knew by therr Christian names, and showed a great interest in their families ; and as the Lon- don coaches drove up, which in those eai'ly da3'S used to set otf from the George, Mr. Foker flung the coflfee-room window open, and called the guards and coachmen by their Christian names, too, asking about their respective families, and imitating with great liveliness and accuracy the tooting of the horns as Jem the ostler whipped the horses' cloths off, and the carriages drove ga3ly away. " A bottle of sherry, a bottle of sham, a bottle of port and a shass caflT}', it ain't so bad, ha}'. Pen? " Foker said, and pro- nounced, after all these delicacies and a quantity of nuts and fruit had been despatched, that it was time to "• toddle." Pen sprang up with very bright e3'es, and a flushed face ; and they moved off towards the theatre, where they paid their money to the wheez}' old lady slumbering in the mone3'-taker's box. " Mrs. Dropsicum, Bingley's mother-in-law, great in Lady Macbeth," Foker said to his companion, Foker knew her, too. They had almost their choice of places in the boxes of the thea- tre, which was no better filled than country theatres usuall}' are in spite of the " universal burst of attraction and galvanic thrills PENDENNIS. 35 of delight " advertised by Bingley in the pla3--bills. A score or so of people dotted the pit-benches, a few more kept a kicking and whistUng in the galleries, and a dozen others, who came in with free admissions, were in the boxes where our youno' gentle- men sat. Lieutenant Rodgers and Podgers, and 3'oung Cornet Tidmus, of the Dragoons, occupied a private box. The per- formers acted to them, and these gentlemen seemed to hold conversations with the players w'hen not engaged in the dialogue, and applauded them b}- name loudl3'. Bingley the manager, who assumed all the chief tragic and comic parts except when he modestly retreated to make wa}- for the London stars, who came down occasionally to Chatteris ; was great in the character of the "■ Stranger." He was attired in the tight pantaloons and Hessian boots which the stage legend has given to that injured man, with a large cloak and beaver and a hearse-feather in it drooping over his raddled old face, and only partially concealing his great buckled brown wig. He had the stage-jewellery on too, of which he selected the largest and most shiny rings for himself, and allowed his little finger to quiver out of his cloak with a sham diamond ring coa'- ering the first joint of the finger and twiddling in the faces of the pit. Bingley made it a favor to the 3'oung men of his com- pany to go on in light comedy parts with that ring. They flattered him by asking its history. The stage has its tradi- tional jewels, as the Crown and all great families have. This had belonged to George Frederick Cooke, who had had it from Mr. Quin, who may have bought it for a shilling. Bingley fancied the world was fascinated with its glitter. He was reading out of the stage-book — that wonderful stage-book — which is not bound like any other book in the world, but is rouged and tawdry like the hero or heroine who holds it ; and who holds it as people never do hold books : and points with his finger to a passage, and wags his head ominously at the audience, and then lifts up eyes and finger to the ceiling,, professing to derive some intense consolation from the work between which and heaven there is a strong affinit}'. As soon as the Stranger saw the .young men, he acted at them ; eying them solemnly over his gilt volume as he lay on the stage-bank showing his hand, his ring, and his Hessians. He calculated the eflTect that every one of these ornaments would produce upon his victims : he was detei-mined to fasci- nate them, for he knew they had paid their money ; and he snw their families coming in from the country and filling the cane chairs in his boxes. 36 PENDENNIS. As he lay on the bank reading, his servant, Francis, made remarks upon his master. "Again reading," said Francis, "thus it is, from morn to night. To him nature has no beaut}^ — life no charm. For three years I have never seen him smile " (the gloom of Bing- ley's face was fearful to witness during these comments of the faithful domestic). "Nothing diverts him. Oh, if he would but attach himself to any living thing, were it an animal — for something man must love." [Enter Tobias {Goll) from the hut']. He cries, " Oh, how refreshing, after seven long weeks, to feel these warm sunbeams once again. Thanks, bounteous heaven, for the jo}' I taste ! " He presses his cap between his hands, looks up and prays. The Stranger ej-es liim attentively. Francis to the Stranger. ' ' This old man's share of earthlj' happiness can be but little. Yet mark how grateful he is for his portion of it." Bingley. " Because though old, he is but a child in the leading-string of hope." (He looks steadily at Foker, who, however, continues to suck the top of his stick in an uncon- cerned manner.) Francis. " Hope is the nurse of life." Bingley. " And her cradle — is the grave." The Stranger uttered this with the moan of a bassoon in agony, and fixed his glance on Fendennis so steadily, that the poor lad was quite put out of countenance. He thought the whole house must be looking at him ; and cast his eyes down. As soon as ever he raised them Binglej's were at him again. All through the scene the manager played at him. How relieved the lad was when the scene ended, and Foker, tapping with his cane, cried out "Bravo, Bingley ! " " Give him a hand, Fendennis ; 3'ou know ever}^ chap likes a hand," Mr. Foker said ; and the good-natured 3'oung gentle- man, and Fendennis laughing, and the dragoons in the opposite box, began clapping hands to the best of their power. A chamber in Wintersen Castle closed over Tobii.''' hut and the Stranger and his boots ; and servants appeared bus- tling about with chairs and tables — " That's Hicks and Miss Thackthwaite," whispered Foker. " Protty girl, ain't she, Fendennis? But stop — hurraj' — bravo! here's the P^otherin- gay." The pit thrilled and thumped its umlirellas ; a volley of applause was fired from the gallery : the Dragoon ofl^cers and Foker clapped their hands furiously : you would have thought PENDENNIS. 3T the house was full, so loud were their plaudits. The red face and ragged whiskers of Mr. Costigan were seen peering from the side-scene. Pen's eyes opened wide and bright, as Mrs. Haller entered with a downcast look, then rallying at the sound of the applause, swept the house with a grateful glance, and, folding her hands across her breast, sank down in a magnifi- cent curtsy. More applause, more umbrellas ; Pen this time, flaming with wine and enthusiasm, clapped hands and sang '•Bravo" louder than all. Mrs. Haller saw him, and every- body else, and old Mr. Bows, the little first fiddler of the orchesti-a (which was this night increased by a detachment of the baud of the Dragoons, b}- the kind permission of Colonel Swallowtail), looked up from the desk where he was perched, with his crutch beside him, and smiled at the enthusiasm of the lad. Those who have only seen Miss Fotheringay in later da3-s, since her marriage and introduction into London life, have little idea how beautiful a creature she was at the time when our friend Pen fij'st set e3-es ou her.- She was of the tallest of women, and at her then age of six-and-twenty — for six-and- twenty she was, though she vows she was only nineteen — in the prime and fulness of her beauty. Her forehead was vast, and her black hair waved over it with a natural ripple, and was confined in shining and voluminous braids at the back of a neck such as you see on the shoulders of the Louvre Venus — that delight of gods and men. Her eyes, when she lifted them up to gaze on j'ou, and ere she dropped their purple deep- fringed lids, shone with tenderness and m3'stery unfathomable. Love and Genius seemed to look out from them and then retire coyly, as if ashamed to have lieen seen at the lattice. Who could have had such a commanding brow but a woman of high intellect? She never laughed (indeed her teeth were not good), but a smile of endless tenderness and sweetness played round her beautiful lips, and in the dimples of her cheeks and her loveh' chin. Her nose defied description in those days. Her ears were like two little pearl sheUs, which the earrings she wore (though the handsomest properties in the theatre) only insulted. She was dressed in long flowing robes of black, which she man- aged and swept to and fro with wonderful grace, and out of the folds of which you onl}' saw her sandals occasionally ; they were of rather a large size ; but Pen thought them as ravishing as the .slippers of Cinderella. But it was her band and arm that this magnificent creature most excelled in and somehow you could never see her but through then: . They surrounded her. 5805 38 PEN DENNIS. When she folded them over her bosom in resignation , when she dropped thera in mute agon^-, or raised them in superb command ; when in sportive gayety her hands fluttered and waved before her, like, — what shall we sa}-? — like the snowy doves before the chariot of Venus — it was with these arms and hands that she beckoned, repelled, entreated, embraced her admirers — no single one, for she was armed with her own virtue, and with her father's valor, whose sword would have leapt from its scabbard at an}' insult offered to his child — but the whole house ; which rose to her, as the phrase was, as she curtsied and bowed, and charmed it. Thus she stood for a minute — complete and beautiful — as Pen stared at her. " I say, Pen, isn't she a stunner?" asked Mr. Foker. " Hush ! " Pen said. " She's speaking." She began her business in a deep sweet voice. Those who know the play of the " Stranger," are aware that the remark? aiade b}^ the various characters are not valuable in themselves, either for their sound sense, their novelty of observation, or their poetic fancy. Nobody ever talked so. If we meet idiots in life, as will happen, it is a great mercy that they do not use such absurdly fine words. The Stranger's talk is sham, like the book he reads r and the hair he wears, and the bank he sits on, and the diamond ring he makes pla}' with — but, in the midst of the balderdash, there runs that reality of love, children, and forgiveness of wrong, which will be listened to wherever it is preached, and sets al! the world s^'mpathizing. With what smothered sorrow, with what gushing nathosy Mrs. Haller delivered her part ! At first, w^hen as Count Win- tersen's housekeeper, and preparing for his Excellency's arrival, she has to give orders about the beds and furniture, and the dinner, &c., to be got ready, she did so with the calm agonv of despair. But when she could get rid of the stupid servants, and give vent to her feelings to the pit and the house, she overflowed to each indivielual as if he were her particular confidant, and she was crying out her griefs on his shoulder : the little fiddler in the orchestra (whom she did not seem to watch, though he fol- lowed her ceaselessly) twitched, twisted, nodded, pointed about, and when she came to the favorite passage " I have a William, too. if he be still alive — Ah, yes, if he be still alive. His little sisters, too! Why, Fancy, does thou rack me so? "Why dost thou image ray poor children fainting in sickness, and crj'ing to — to — their rnum-um-o?iost heaatlful presents. They will always be kept carefully ; and Miss F. and Captain C. will never forget the delightful evening which they passed on Tuesday last. No. 2, said — Dear Sir, we shall have a small quiet party of social friends at our humble boards next Tuesday evening, at an S6 PENDENNlb. i;ar/y tea, when I shall wear the heaufiful scarf which, with its accompanying ddightfid verses^ I shall ever, ever cherish : and papa bids me say how happy he will be if you will join ''the feast of reason and the JiuiV of soul" in our festive liUle party ^ as i am sure will be your truly grateful Ebhly Fotheringay. No. 3 was somewhat more confidential, and showed that matters had proceeded rather far. You were odious yesterday iiij^ht, the letter said. Why did you not come to the stage- door? Papa could not escort me on account of his eje; he had an accident, and fell down over a loose carpet on the stair on Sunday night. I saw you looking at Miss Diggle all night ; and 3"ou were so enchanted with Lydia Languish you scarcely once looked at Julia. I could have crushed Bingle^y, I was so angry. I ))lay Ella Rosenberg on Friday: will you come then? . Miss Diggle performs — ever jour E. F. These three letters Mr. Pen used to read at intervals, dur- i ng the day and night, and embrace with that delight and fervor n^hich such beautiful compositions surely warranted. A thou- jand times at least he had kissed fondly the musky satin paper, made sacred to him by the hand of Emily Fotheringay. This )vas all he had in return for his passion and flames, his vows »aid protests, his rhymes and similes, his wakeful nights and endless thoughts, his fondness, fears and folly. The young uiseacre had pledged away his all for this: signed his name 1o endless promissory notes, conferring his heart upon the liearer: bound himself for life, and got back twopence as an equivalent. For Miss Costigan was a young lad_y of such per- fect good conduct and self-command, that she never would have thought of giving more, and reserved the treasures of her affec- tion until she could transfer them lawfully at church. Howbeit, Mr. Pen was content with what tokens of regard he had got, and mumbled over his three letters in a rapture of I igh spirits, and went to sleep delighted with his kind old uncle from Loudon, who must evidently yield to his wishes in time ; and, in a word, in a preposterous state of contentment with i imself and all the world. PEN DENNIS. 8'| CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH THE MAJOR OPENS THE CAjrPAIGN. Let those who have the blessed privilege of an entree intlj/ th .most select circles, admit that Major Pendennis was a mail of no ordinary' generosit}' and affection, in the sacrifice whic'l he now made. He gave up London in Maj', — his newspaper » and his mornings — his afternoons from club to club, his littll confidential visits to mv Ladies, his rides in Rotten Row, hi* dinners, and his stall at the Opera, his rapid escapades to Ful* ham or Richmond on Saturdays and Sundays, his bow from m;; Lord Duke or my Lord Marquis at the great London entertain ' ments, and his name in the " Morning Post" of the succeeding 5 day, — his quieter little festivals, more select, secret, au' I delightful — all these he resigned to lock himself into a Ion I little country house, with a simple widow and a greenhorn c f a son, a mawkish curate, and a little girl of twelve years cf age. He made the sacrifice, and it was the gi-eater that few knei r the extent of it. His letters came down franked from towr , and he showed the invitations to Helen with a sigh. It wa» beautiful and tragical to see him refuse one party after another — at least to those who could understand, as Llelen didn't, the melancholv gi'andeur of his self-denial. Helen did not, or onl}- smiled at the awful pathos with which the Major spoke of the Court Guide in general : but young Pen looked with great re- spect at the great names upon the superscriptions of his uncle's letters, and listened to the Major's stories about the fashionable world with constant interest and sympath}'. The elder Pendennis's rich memory' was stored with thoi- sands of these delightful tales, and he poured them into Pen s willing ear. He knew the name and pedigree of everybody' iw the Peerage, and everybody's relations. "My dear boy," he would say, witli a mournful earnestness and veracity, "3'on cannot begin your genealogical studies too early; I wish Ifc Heavens you would read in Debrett every day. Not so muck the historical part (for the pedigrees, between ourselves, aic many of them very fabulous, and there are few families ths t can show such a clear descent as our own) as the account c f family alliances, and who is related to whom. I have knowu t 88 PENDENNIS. man's career in life blasted, by ignorance on this all-important subject. Why, only last month, at dinner at my Lord Hoba- nob's, a young man, wlio has lately been received amongst us, young Mr. Suckling (author ol'a work 1 believe), began to speak lightly of Admiral Bowser's conduct for ratting to Minis- ters, in what 1 must own is the most audacious manner. But who do 3'ou tliink sat next and opposite to this Mr. Suckling? Whv — wh}-, next to him was Lady Grampound Bowser's daughter, and opposite to him was Lord Grampound Bowser's son-in-law. The infatuated young man went on cutting his jokes at the Admiral's expense, fanc3'ing that all the world was laughing with him, and I leave you to imagine Lady Hobanob's feelings — Hobanob's ! — those of ever}- well-bred man, as the wretched intrus was so exposing himself. He will never dine again in South Street. I promise you that." With such discourses the Major entertainer ^is nephew, as he paced the terrace in front of the house for his two hours' constitutional walk, or as the}- sat together after dinner over their wine. He grieved that Sir Francis Clavezing had not come down to the Park, to live in it since his marriage, and to make a societ}' for the neighborhood. He mourned that Lord Eyrie was not in the country, tliat ne might take Pen and present him to his lordship. "He has daughters," the Major said. '• Who knows? you might have married Lady Emih' or Lady Barbara Trehawk ; but all those dreams are over ; xny poor fellow, vou must lie on the bed which you have made for your- self." These things to hear did young Pendennis seriousl}' incline. They are not so interesting in print as when delivered orally ; but the Major's anecdotes of the great George, of the Royal Dukes, of the statesmen, beauties, and fashionable ladies of the day, filled 3'oung Pen's soul with longing and wonder ; and he found the conversations with his guardian, which sadly bored and perplexed poor Mrs. Pendennis, for his own part never tedious. It can't be said that Mr. Pen's new guide, philosopher and friend, discoursed him on the most elevated subjects, or treated the subjects which he chose in the most elevated manner. But his morality, such as it was, was consistent. It might not, perhaps, tend to a man's progress in another world, but it was pretty well calculated to advance his interests in this ; and then it must be remembered, that the Major never for one instant doubted that his views were the onl}' views practicable, and that his conduct was perfectly virtuous and respectable. He PENDENXIS. 89 was a man of honor, in a word : and had his ej'^es, what he called, open. He took pity on this young greenhorn of a nephew, and wanted to open his eyes too. jS'o man, for instance, went more regularly to church when ih the country than the old bachelor. "• It don't matter so much in town, Pen," he said, " for there the women go and the men are not missed. But when a gentleman is sur ses te7-res, he must give an example to the countr}- people : and if 1 could turn a tune, I even think I should sing. The Duke of St. Da^•id's, whom I have the honor of knowing, always sings in the country, and li't me tell you, it has a doosed fine etiect from the family pew. And you are somebody down here. As long as the Claverings are away you are the first man in the parish : or as good as any. You might represent the town if yon played 3'our cards well. Your poor dear father woukl have done so had he lived ; so might 3-ou. — Not if you marry a lady, how ever amiable, whom the countiy people won't meet. — Well, well : it's a painful subject. Let us change it, my boy." But if Major Pendennis changed the subject once he recurred to it a score of times in the day : and the moral of his discourse alwa^'s was, that Pen was throwing himself away. Now it does not i-equire much coaxing or wheedling to make a simple bo3 believe that he is a veiy fine fellow. Pen was alad enoii2:h. Ave have said, to listen to his elder's talk. Tlie couAcrsation of Captain Costigan became by no means pleasant to him, and the idea of that tipsy old father- in-law haunted him with terror. He couldn't bring that man, unshaven and reeking of punch, to associate with his mother. Even about Emily — he faltered when the pitiless guardian began to question him. "Was she accomplished?" He was oblicred to own, no. "Was she clevei?" Well, she had a very good average intellect: but he could not absolutely say she was clever. " Come, let us see some of her letters." So Pen confessed that he had but those three of which we have made mention — and that they were but trivial invitations or answers. " She is cautious enough." the Major said, dryly. " She is older than 3'ou, my poor boy ; " and then he apologized with the utmost frankness and humility-, and fiung himself upon Pen's good feelings, begging the lad to excuse a fond old uncle, who had only his family's honor in view — for Arthur was ready to flame up in indignation whenever Miss Costigan's honesty was doubted, and swore that he would never have her name mentioned lightly-, and never, never would part from her. 4 90 PENDENXIS. lie repeated this to his uncle and his friends at home, and also, it must be confessed, to Miss Fotheringay and the amiable family at Chatteris, with whom he still continued to spend some portion of his time. Miss Emil}- was alarmed when she heard of the arrival of Pen's guardian, and rightly conceived that the Major came down with hostile intentions to herself. " I sup- pose ye intend to leave me, now your grand relation has come down from town. He'll carry ye off, and you'll forget your poor Emily, Mr. Arthur ! " Forget her ! In her presence, in that of Miss Rouncy, the Columbine and Milly's confidential friend of the Company, in the presence of the Captain himself. Pen swore he never could think of any other woman but his beloved Miss Fotheringay ; and tlie Captain, looking up at his foils, which were hung as a trophy on the wall of the room where Pen and he used to fence, grimly said, he would not advoise any man to meddle rashly with tlie affections of Ms dai'ling child ; and would never believe his gallant 3"oung Arthur, whom he treated as his son, whom he called his son, would ever be guilty of conduct so revolting to every ida3'a of honor and humanitee. Pie went up and embraced Pen after speaking. He cried, and wiped his eye with one large dirty hand as he clasped Pen with the other. Arthur shuddered in that grasp, and thought of his uncle at home. His father-in-law looked unusually dirt}' and shabby ; the odor of whiskey-and-water was even more de- cided than in common. How was he to bring that man and his mother together? He trembled when he thought that he had absolutel}' written to Costigan (enclosing to him a sovereign, the loan of which the worth}' gentleman needed), and saying, that one da}' he hoped to sign himself his affectionate son, Arthur Pendennis. He was glad to get away from Chatteris that day ; from Miss Rouncy the confidante ; from the old toping fatker-in-law ; from the divine Emily herself. "O Emily, Emily," he cried inwardly, as he rattled homewards on Re- becca, " you little know what sacrifices I am making for you ! — for you who are always so cold, so cautious, so mistrustful ! " Pen never rode over to Chatteris, but the Major found out on what errand the boy had been. Faithful to his plan. Major Pendennis gave his nephew no let or hindrance ; but somehow the constant feeling that the senior's eye was upon him, an uneasy shame attendant upon that inevitable confession which the evening's conversation would be sure to elicit in the most natural simple manner, made Pen go less frequently to sigh away his soul at the feet of his cbarnjer than he had beep \voi)t PENDENNIS. 91 to do previous to his uncle's arrival. There was no use trying to deceive hiyn ; there was no pretext of dining with Smirke, or reading Greek plays with Foker ; Pen felt, when he returned from one of his flying visits, that everybody knew whence he came, and appeared quite guilt}' before his mother and guardian, over their books or their game at piquet. Once having walked out half a mile, to the Fairoaks' Inn, be3"ond the Lodge gates, to be in readiness for the Competitor coach, which changed horses there, to take a run for Chatteris, a man on the roof touched his hat to the 3"Oung gentleman : it was his uncle's man, Mr. Morgan, who was going on a mes- sage for his master, and had been took up at the Lodge, as he said. And Mr. Morgan came back hy the Rival, too ; so that Pen had the pleasure of that domestic's company both wajs. Nothing w^as said at home. The lad seemed to have every decent liberty ; and 3"et he felt himself dimly watched and guarded, and that there were e3es upon him even in the pres- ence of his Dulcinea. In fact. Pen's suspicions were not unfounded, and his guar- dian had sent forth to gather all possible information regarding the lad and his interesting young friend. The discreet and in- genious Mr. Morgan, a London confidential valet whose fidelity could be trusted, had been to Chatteris more than once, and made every inquiry regarding the past history and present habits of the Captain and his daughter. He delicately cross- examined the waiters, the ostlers, and all the inmates of the bar at the George, and got from them what little they knew respecting the worth}- Captain. He was not held in very great regard there, as it appeared. The waiters never saw the color of his mone}', and were warned not to furnish the poor gentle- man with an}' liquor for which some other party was not re- sponsible. He swaggered sadly about the coffee-room there, consumed a tooth-pick, and looked over the paper, and if any friend asked him to dinner he stayed. From the servants of the officers at the barracks Mr. Morgan found that the Captain had so frequently and outrageously in- ebriated himself there, that Colonel Swallowtail had forbidden him the mess-room. The indefatigable Morgan then put him- self in communication with some of the inferior actors at the theatre, and pumped them over their cigars and punch, and all agreed that Costigan was i)oor, sliflbby, and given to debt and to drink. But there was not a breath upon the reputation of Miss Fotheringay : her father's courage was reported to have displayed itself on more than one occasion towards persons o 92 PENDENNIS. disposed to treat his daughter with freedom. She never came to the theatre but with her father : in his most inebriated moments, that gentleman kept a watch over her ; finally Mr. Morgan, from his own experience, added that he had been to see her hact, and was uncommon delighted with the perform- ance, besides thinking her a most splendid woman. Mrs. Creed, the pew-opener, confirmed these statements to Doctor Portman, who examined her personally. Mrs. Creed had nothing unfavorable to her lodger to divulge. She saw nobody ; only one or two ladies of the theatre. The Captain did intoxicate himself sometimes, and did not alwa3-s pay his rent regularly-, but he did when he had money, or rather Miss Fotheringay did. Since the 3'oung gentleman from Clavering had been and took lessons in fencing, one or two more had come from the barracks ; Sir Derb}- Oaks, and his j'oung friend, Mr. Foker, w^hich was often together ; and which was alwa3'S driving over from Barmouth in the tandem. But on the occasions of the lessons, Miss F. was ver}' seldom present, and geuerall}' came down stairs to Mrs. Creed's own room. The Doctor and the Major consulting together as they often did, groaned in spirit over that information. Major Pendennis openly expressed his disappointment ; and, I believe, the Divine himself was ill-pleased at not being able to pick a hole in poor Miss Fotheringay's reputation. Even about Pen himself, Mrs. Creed's reports were desper- atel}' favorable. "Whenever he come," Mrs. Creed said, "she always have me or one of the children with her. And Mrs. Creed, marm, sa^'s she, if you please marm, 3'ou'll on no account leave the room when that young gentleman's here. And man3's the time I've seen him a lookin' as if he wished I was away, poor 3'oung man : and he took to coming in service time, when I wasn't at home, of course : but she always had one of the boys up if her Pa wasn't at home, or old Mr. Bows with her a teaching of her her lesson, or one of the young ladies of the thea3'ter." It was all true : whatever encouragements might have been given him befoi'e he avowed his passion, the prudence of Miss Emily was prodigious after Pen had declared himself: and the poor fellow chafed against her hopeless reserve. The Major surveyed the state of things with a sigh. " If it were but a temporary liaison," the excellent man said, "one could bear it. A 3'Oung fellow must sow his wild oats, and that sort of thing. But a virtuous attachment is the deuce PENDENNIS. 93 It comes of the d — d romantic notions boj's get from being brought up b}- women." ' ' Allow me to sa}-, Major, that you speak a little too like a man of the world," rephed the Doctor. '' Nothing can be more desirable for Pen than a virtuous attachment for a vouns: lady of his own rank and with a corresponding fortune — this present infatuation, of course, I must deplore as sincerely' as you do. If I were his guardian I should command him to give it up," " The very means, I tell you, to make him marry to-morrow. We have got time from him, that is all, and we must do our best with that." " I say, Major," said the Doctor, at the end of the conver- sation in which the above subject was discussed — "I am not, of course, a play-going man — but suppose, I sa}', we go and see her." The Major laughed — he had been a fortnight at Fairoaks, and, strange to say, had not thought of that. "Well," he said, " wh}' not? After all, it is not m}^ niece, but Miss Foth- eringay the actress, and we have as good a right as any other of the public to see her if we pay our money." So upon a day when it was aiTanged that Pen was to dine at home, and pass the evening with his mother, the two elderly gentlemen drove ov Acres. It's my belief 3'e're no better than a coward," said Captain Costigan, quoting Sir Lucius O'Trigger, which character he had performed with credit, both otf and on the stage, and after some more PKNDENNIS. Ill parle}' between the couple the}- separated in not very good humor. Their colloquj' has been here condensed, as the reader knows the main point upon which it turned. But tlae latter will now see how it is impossible to give a correct account of the letter which the Captain wrote to Major Pendennis, as it was never opened at all bj' that gentleman. A\''hen Miss Costigan came home from rehearsal, which she did in the compan\' of the faithful Mr. Bows, she found her father pacing up and down their apartment in a great state of agitation, and in the midst of a powerful odor of spirits-and- water, which, as it appeared, had not succeeded in pacifying his disordered mind. The Pendennis papers were on the table surrounding the empty goblets and now useless teasjjoon, which had serA'cd to hold and mix the Captain's liquor and liis friend's. As Emily entered he seized her in his arms, and cried out, "Prepare yourself, me child, me blessed child," in a voice of agon}', and with eyes brimful of tears. "- Ye're tipsy again, Papa," Miss Fotheringay said, pushing back her sire. "Ye promised me ye wouldn't take spirits before dinner." "It's to forget me sorrows, me poor girl, that I've taken just a drop," cried the bereaved father — "it's to drown me care that I drain the bowl." "Your care takes a deal of drowning, Captain dear," said Bows, mimicking his friend's accent; "what has hap- pened? Has that soft-spoken gentleman in the wig been vex- ing 3'ou?" "The oil}' miscreant! I'll have his blood!" roared Cos. Miss Mill}', it must be premised, had tied to her room out of his embrace, and was taking off her bonnet and shawl there, "I thought he meant mischief. He was so uncommon civil," the other said. "What has he come to say?" "O Bows! He has overwhellum'd me," the Captain said. " There's a hellish conspiracy on foot against me poor girl; and it's me opinion that both them Pendennises, nephew and uncle, is two infernal thrators and scoundthrels, who should be conshumed from off the face of the earth." "What is it? What has happened?" said Mr. Bows, growing rather excited. Costigan then told him the Major's statement that the young Pendennis had not two thousand, nor two hundred pounds a-ycar ; and expressed his fury that he should liave permitted such rn impostor to coax and wheedle his innocent girl, and 112 PENDENNIS. that he should have nourished such a viper in his own personal bosom. " 1 have shaken the reptile from me, however," said Costigan ; " and as for his uncle, I'll have such a revenge on that old man, as shall make 'um rue the day he ever insulted a Costigan." " What do you mean, General?" said Bows. "I mean to have his life, Bows — his vdllanous, skulking iife, my boy ; " and he rapped upon the battered old pistol-case in an ominous and savage manner. Bows had often heard him appeal to that box of death, with which he proposed to sacri- fice his enemies ; but the Captain did not tell him that he had actually written and sent a challenge to Major Pendennis, and Mr. Bows therefore rather disregarded the pistols in the pres- ent instance. At this juncture Miss Fotheringay returned to the common sitting-room from her private apartment, looking perfectly- healthy, happ3', and unconcerned, a striking and wholesome contrast to her father, who was in a delirious tremor of grief, auger, and other agitation. She brought in a pair of ex-white satin shoes with her, which she proposed to rub as clean as might be with bread-crumb ; intending to go mad with them upon next Tuesday evening in Ophelia, in which character she was to reappear on that night. She looked at the papers on the table ; stopped as if she was going to ask a question, but thought better of it, and going to the cupboard, selected an eligible piece of bread wherewith she might operate on the satin slippers : and afterwards coming back to the table, seated herself there commodiously with the shoes, and then asked her father, in her honest Irish brogue, "What have ye got them letthers, and pothr}', and stuff, of Master Arthur's out for. Pa? Sure ye don't want to be reading over that nonsense." " O Emilee ! " cried the Captain, " that bo}' whom I loved as the boy of mee bosom is onl^' a scoundthrel, and a deceiver, mee poor girl : " and he looked in the most tragical wa}' at Mr. Bows, opposite, who, in his turn, gazed somewhat anxiousl}' at Miss Costigan. " He ! pooh ! Sure the poor lad's as simple as a schoolboy," she said. " All them children write verses and nonsense." " He's been acting the part of a viper to this fireside, and a traitor in this familee," cried the Captain. " I tell ye he's no better than an impostor." " What has the poor fellow done, Papa?" asked Emily. "Done? He has deceived us in the most athrocious man- PENDENNIS. 113 ner," Miss Emil3''s papa said. " He has thrifled with Aour affections, and outraged m}' own fine feelings. He has repre- sented liimself as a man of property, and it turi-uns out that he is no betther than a beggar. Haven't I often told ye he had two thousand a-^-ear? He's a pauper, I tell 3-e, Miss Costigan ; a depindent upon the bountee of his mother ; a good woman, who may many again, who's likely to live for ever, and who has but five hundred a-3'ear. How dar he ask ye to marry into a family which has not the means of providing for ye? Ye've been grossh' deceived and put upon, Milly, and it's m}' belief his old ruffian of an uncle in a wig is in the plot against us." ' • That soft old gentleman ? AVhat has he been doing, Papa ? " continued Emil}', still imperturbable. Costigan informed Mill}- that when she was gone, Major Pendennis told him in his double-faced Pall Mall polite manner, that young Arthur had no fortune at all, that the Major had asked him (Costigan) to go to the lawyers ("• wherein he knew the scoundthrels have a bill of mine, and I can't meet them," the Captain parenthetically remarked), and see the lad's father's will : and finall}', that an infernal swindle had been practised upon him hy the pair, and that he was resolved either on a marriage, or on the blood of both of them. Milly looked very grave and thoughtful, rubbing the white satin shoe. " Sure if he's no money, there's no use marrying him. Papa," she said, sententiousl}'. " Why did the villain say he was a man of prawpertee?" asked Costigan. "The poor fellow alwaj'S said he was poor," answered the girl. " 'Twas you who would have it he was rich, Papa — and made me agree to take him." " He should have been explicit and told us his income, Milly," answered the father. "A young fellow who rides a blood mare, and makes presents of shawls and bracelets, is an impostor if he has no mone}' ; — and as for his uncle, bedad I'll pull off his wig whenever I see 'um. Bows, here, shall take a message to him and tell him so. Either it's a marriage, or he meets me in the field like a man, or I tweak 'um on the nose in front of his hotel or in the gravel walks of Fairoaks Park before all the county, bedad." " Bedad, you may send somebody else with the message," said Bows, laughing. "I'm a fiddler, not a fighting man, Captain." *' Pooh, you've no spirit, sir," roared the General. " I'll be 8 114 PENDENNIS. ra^' own second, if no one will stand by and see me injured And I'll take my case of pistols and slioot 'um in the Coffee Room of the George." "And so poor Arthur has no mone}-?" sighed out Miss Costigan, rather plaintively. " Poor lad, he was a good lad too : wild and talking nonsense, with his verses and pothr^' and that, but a brave, generous bo}', and indeed I liked him — and he liked me too," she added, rather softl^', and rubbing away at the shoe. '• Why don't you marry him if you like him so? " Mr. Bows said, rather savagel}'. "■ He is not more tha.^ ten years younger than you are. His mother may relent, and you might go and live and have enough at Fairoaks Park. Wh}' not go and be a lady ? I could go on with the fiddle, and the General live on his half- pay. Why don't you marr3- him? You know he likes you." "There's others that likes me as well, Bows, that has na mone}' and that's old enough," Miss Milly said, sententiousl}'. "Yes, d — it," said Bows, with a bitter curse — "that are old enough and poor enough and fools enough for any- thing." " There's old fools, and young fools too. You've often said so, you silly man," the imperious beauty said, with a conscious glance at the old gentleman. " If Pendennis has not enough money to live upon, it's folly to talk about marrying him : and that's the long and short of it." "And the boy?" said Mr. Bows. "By Jove! you thro\\ a man away like an old glove, Miss Costigan." " I don't know what you mean, Bows,''' said Miss Fotherin- gay, placidly, rubbing the second shoe. " If he had had halt of the two thousand a-year that Papa gave him. or the half oi that, I would marry him. But what is the good of taking on with a beggar? W^e're poor enough already. There's no use in my going to live with an old lady that's testy and cross, maybe, and would grudge me every' morsel of meat. (Sure, it's near dinner time, and Suky not laid the cloth yet), and then," added Miss Costigan, quite simply, " suppose there was a family? — why. Papa, we shouldn't be as well off as we are now." "'Deed then, you would not, Milly dear," answered the father. " And there's an end to all the fine talk about Mrs. Arthur Pendennis of Fairoaks Park — the member of Parliament's lady," said Milly, with a laugh. " Pretty carriages and horses we should have to ride ! — that you were always talking about? PENDENNIS. 115 Papa. Bui it's alwaj's the same. If a inau looked at me, you faucied he was going to many me ; and if he had a good coat, you fancied he was as rich as Crazes." " As Crossus," said Mr. Bows. "Well, call 'um what ye like. But it's a fact now that Papa has married me these eight years a score of times. Wasn't I to be my Lady Poldood}' of Oystherstown Castle ? Then there was the Xav}' Captain at Portsmouth, and the old surgeon at Norwich, and the Methodist preacher here last year, and who knows how many more ? Well, I bet a penn}-, with all 3'our scheming, I shall die Milly Costigan at last. So poor little Arthur has no money ? Stop and take dinner, Bows : we've a beautiful beef-steak pudding." " I wonder whether she is on with Sir Derby Oaks," thought Bows, whose eyes and thoughts were always watching her. "The dodges of women beat all comprehension; and I am sure she wouldn't let the lad off so easil}', if she had not some other scheme on hand." It will have been perceived that Miss Fotheringay, though silent in general, and b}' no means brilliant as a conversationist where poetr^', literature, or the fine arts were concerned, could talk freely and with good sense, too, in her own famil}' circle. She cannot justlj' be called a romantic person : nor were her literary acquirements great : she never opened a Shakspeare from the day she left the stage, nor, indeed, imderstood it dur- ing all the time she adorned the boards : but about a pudding, a piece of needle-work, or her own domestic affairs, she was as good a judge as could be found ; and not being misled by a strong imagination or a passionate temper, was better enabled tiD keep her judgment cool. When, over their dinner, Costigan tried to convince himself and the company, that the Major's statement regarding Pen's finances was unworthy of credit, and a mere ruse upon the old hypocrite's part so as to induce them, on their side, to break off the match. Miss Milh' would not, for a moment, admit the possibility of deceit on the side of the adversary : and pointed out clearly that it was her father who had deceived himself, and not poor little Pen, who had tried to take them in. As for that poor lad, she said she pitied him with all her heart. And she ate an exceedingly- good dinner ; to the admiration of Mr. Bows, who had a remarkable regard and contempt for this woman, during and after which repast, the party devised upon the ])est means of bringing this love- matter to a close. As for Costigan, his idea of tweaking the Major's nose vanished with his supply of after-dinner whiskey- 116 TENDENNIS. and-water ; and he was submissive to his daughter, and roadv for any plan on which she might decide, in order to meet the crisis which she saw was at hand. The Captain, who, as long as he had a notion that he was wronged, was eager to face and demolish both Pen and his uncle, perhaps shrank from the idea of meeting the former, and asked " what the juice they were to say to the lad if he remained steady to his engagement, and they broke from theirs ! " " AVhat? don't you know how to throw a man over ? " said Bows ; " ask a woman to tell you ; " and Miss Fotherin- gay showed how this feat was to be done simply enough notliing was more easy. "Papa writes to Arthur to know what settlements he proposes to make in event of a marriao-e ; and asks what his means are. Arthur writes back and says what he's got, and you'll find it's as the Major savs, I'll go bail. Then Papa writes, and says it's not enough, and'^the match had best be at an end." " And, of course, you enclose a parting line, in which you say you will always regard him as a brother ; " said Mr. Bows, eying her in his scornful way. "Of course, and so I shall," answered Miss Fotheringay. " He's a most worthy young man, I'm sure. I'll thank ye hand me the salt. Them filberts is beautiful." "And there will be no noses pulled, Cos, my boy? I'm sorry you're balked," said Mr. Bows. " 'Dad, I suppose not," said Cos, rubbing his own. — "What'U ye do about them letters, and verses, and pomes. Milly, darling? — Ye must send 'em back." " Wigsby would give a hundred pound for 'era," Bows said, with a sneer. "'Deed, then, he would," said Captain Costigan, who was easil}' led. " Papa ! " said Miss Milly. — " Ye wouldn't be for not send- ing the poor boy his letters back ? Them letters and pomes is mine. They were very long, and full of all sorts of nonsense, and Latin, and things "l couldn't understand the half of ; indeed I've not read 'em all ; but we'll send 'em back to him when the proper time comes." And going to a drawer, Miss Fotheringay took out from it a number of the County Chronicle and Chat- teris Champion, in which Pen had written a copy of flaming verses celebrating her appearance in the character"^of Imogen, and putting by the leaf upon which the poem appeared (for, like ladies of her profession, she kept the favorable printed notices of her performances), she wrapped up Pen's letters, PENDENNIS. 117 poems, passions, and fancies, and tied them with a piece ol' string neatl}-, as she would a parcel of sugar. Nor was she in the least moved while performing this act. What hours the bo}' had passed over those papers ! What love and longing : what generous faith and manly devotion — what watchful nights and lonely fevers might they tell of ! She tied them up like so much grocery, and sat down and made tea afterwards with a perfectly placid and contented heart : while Pen was yearning after her ten miles off: and hugging her image to his soul. CHAPTER XIIL A CRISIS. Major Pendexxis came awaj- from his interview with Captain Costigan in a state of such concentrated fury as rendered him terrible to approach. " The impudent bog- trotting scamp," he thought, " dare to threaten me ! Dare to talk of permitting his damned Costigans to marry with the Pendennises ! Send me a challenge ! If the fellow can get an3'thing in the shape of a gentleman to carry it, I have the greatest mind in life not to balk him. — Psha ! what would people say if I were to go out with a tipsy mountebank, about a row with an actress in a barn ! " So when the Major saw Dr. Portman, who asked anxiously regarding the issue of his battle with the dragon, Mr. Pendennis did not care to inform the divine of the General's insolent behavior, but stated that the affair was a very ugly and disagreeable one, and that it was b}^ no means over 3'et. He enjoined Doctor and Mrs. Portman to say nothing about the business at Fairoaks ; and then he returned to his hotel, where he vented his wrath upon Mr. Morgan his valet, " dam- min and cussin up stairs and down stairs," as that gentleman observed to Mr. Foker's man, in whose company he partook of dinner in the servants' room of the George. The sei-vant carried the news to his master ; and Mr. Foker having finished his breakfast about this time, it being two o'clock in the afternoon, remembered that he was anxious to know the result of the interview between his two friends, and having inquired the number of the Major's sitting-room, went over in his brocade dressing-gown, and knocked for admission. The Major had some business, as he had stated, respecting 118 PENDENNIS. a lease of the widovr's, about which he was desirous of consult- ing old Mr. Talham, the lawj'cr, who had been his brother's man of business, and who had a branch-office at Claveriug, where he and his son attended market and other daj's three or four in the week. This gentleman and his client were now in consultation when Mr. Foker showed his grand dressing-gown and embroidered skull-cap at Major Pendennis's door. Seeing the Major engaged with papers and red-tape, and an old man with a white head, the modest youth was for drawing back — and said, " Oh, you're busy — call again another time." But Mr. Pendennis wanted to see him, and begged him, with a smile, to enter : whereupon Mr. Foker took oft" the embroidered tarboosh or fez (it had been worked by the fondest of mothers) and advanced, bowing to the gentlemen and smiling on them graciousl}-. Mr. Tathara had never seen so splendid an appari- tion before as this brocaded youth, who seated himself in an arm-chair, spreading out his crimson skirts, and looking with exceeding kindness and frankness on the other two tenants of the room. "You seem to like m^- dressing-gown, sir," he said to Mr. Tatham. "A pretty thing, isn't it? Neat, but not in the least gaudy. And how do you do ? Major Pendennis, sir, and how does the world treat you ? " There was that in Foker's manner and appearance which would have put an Inquisitor into good-humor, and it smoothed the wrinkles under Pendennis's head of hair. " I have had an interview with that Irishman, (3'ou ma}^ speak before my friend, Mr. Tatham here, who knows all the aftairs of the family,) and it has not, I own, been very satisfac- tory. He won't believe that m}- nephew is poor : he saj's we are both liars : he did me the honor to hint that I was a cow- ard, as I took leave. And I thought when 3'ou knocked at the door, that you might be the gentleman whom I expect with a challenge from Mr. Costigan — that is how the world treats me. Mr. Foker." " You don't mean that Irishman, the actress's father? " cried Mr. Tatham, who was a dissenter himself, and did not patronize the drama. " That Irishman, the actress's father — the very man. Have not you heard what a fool my nephew has made of himself about the girl ? " — and Major Pendennis had to recount the story of his nephew's loves to the lawj'er, Mr. Foker coming in with appropriate comments in his usual familiar language. Tatham was lost in wonder at the narrative. Wh}' had not Mrs. Pendennis married a serious man, he thought — Mr. PENDENXIS. 119 Tathnm was a -n-idoAVcr — and kept this unfortunnte boy from perdition? As for 31iss Costigan, he would say nothing: her profession was sufficient to characterize her. ]\Ir. Foker here interposed to sa}' he had known some uncommon good people in the booths, as he called the Temple of the Muses. AVell it might be so, Mr. Tatham hoped so — but the father, Tatham knew personall}' — a man of the worst character, a wine-bibber and an idler in taverns and billiard-rooms, and a notorious insolvent. "I can understand the reason. Major," he said, •• why the fellow would not come to my office to ascer- tain the truth of the statements which 3'ou made him. We have a writ out against him and another disrei)utable fellow, one of the play-actors, for a bill given to Mr. Skinner of this city, a most respectable Grocer and Wine and Spirit Merchant, and a Member of the Society of Friends. This Costigan came cr^'ing to Mr. Skinner, — crying in the shop, sir, — and we have not proceeded against him or the other, as neither were worth pow- der and shot." It was whilst Mr. Tatham was engaged in telling his story that a third knock came to the door, and there entered an athletic gentleman in a shabby braided frock, bearing in his hand a letter with a large blotched red seal. "Can I have the honor of speaking with Major Pendennis in private? "he began — "I have a few words for your ear, sir. I am the bearer of a mission from m}' friend Captain Costigan." — but here the man with the bass voice paused, faltered, and turned pale — he caught sight of the red and well- remembei-ed fsice of Mr. Tatham. " Hullo, Garbetts, speak up ! " cried ]\Ir. Foker, delighted. " Why, bless my soul, it is the other party to the bill ! " said Mr. Tatham. "I say, sir; stop I say." But Garbetts, with a face as blank as Macbeth's when lianquo's ghost appears upon him, gasped some inarticulate words, and fled out of the room. The Major's graWty was entirely upset, and he burst out laughing. So did Mr. Foker, who said, "By Jove, it was a good 'un." So did the attorney, although by profession a seri- ous man. "I don't think there'll be any fight, Major," young Foker said; and began mimicking the tragedian. " If there is, the old gentleman — your name Tatham? — very happy to make your acquaintance, IMr. Tatham — may send the bailiffs to separate the men ; " ajid Mr. Tatham promised to do so. The Major wa9 by no means sorry at the ludicrous issue of the 120 PENDENNIS. quarrel. " It seems to me, sir," he said to Mr. Foker, " that you alwa3-s arrive to put me into good-humor." Nor was this the onl}" occasion on wliich Mr. Foker this day was destined to be of service to the Pendennis family. We have said that he had the entree of Captain Costigan's lodgings, and in the course of the afternoon he thought he would pa}- the General a visit, and hear from his own lips what had occurred in the conversation, in the morning, with Mr. Pendennis. Cap- tain Costigan was not at home. He had received permission, nay, encouragement from his daughter, to go to the convivial club at the Magpie Hotel, where no doubt he was bragging at that moment of his desire to murder a certain ruffian ; for he was not only brave, but he kn^w it too, antl liked to take out his courage, and, as it were, give it an airing in company. Costigan then was absent, but INIiss Fotheringa}- was at home washing the tea-cups whilst Mr. Bows sat opposite to her. ' ' Just done breakfast I see — how do ? " said Mr. Foker, popping in his little funnj' head. "• Get out, you funn}' little man," cried Miss Fotheringay. ''You mean come in," answered the other. — " Here we are ! " and entering the room he folded his arms and began twirling his head round and round with immense rapidit}', like Harlequin in the Pantomime when he first issues from his cocoon or envelope. Miss Fotheringay laughed with all her heart : a wink of Foker's would set her off laughing, when the bitterest joke Bows ever made could not get a smile from her, or the finest of poor Pen's speeches would only puzzle her. At the end of the harlequinade he sank down on one knee and kissed her hand. "You're the drollest little man," she said, and gave him a great good-humored slap. Pen used to tremble as he kissed her hand. Pen would have died of a slap. These preliminaries OAer, the three began to talk ; Mr. Foker amused his companions b^' recounting to them the scene which he had just witnessed of the discomfiture of Mr. Gar- betts, b}- which they learned, for the first time, how far the General had carried his wrath against Major Pendennis. Foker spoke strongl}- in favor of the Major's character for veracity- and honor, and described him as a tip-top swell, moving in the upper circle of society, who would never submit to any deceit — much more to deceive such a charming 3'oung woman as Miss Foth. He touched delicatel}' upon the delicate marriage question, fENDENNlS. 121 though he couldn't help showing that he held Pen rather cheap. In fact, he had a perhaps just contempt for Mr. Pen's high-flown sentimentality ; his own weakness, as he thought, not lying that way. '' I knew it wouldn't do. Miss Foth," said he, nod- ding his little liead. " Couldn't do. Didn't like to put my luind into the bag, but knew it couldn't do. He's too .young for you : too green : a deal too green : and he turns out to be poor as Job. Can't have him at no price, can she, Mr. Bo?" " Indeed he's a nice poor boy," said the Fotheringay rather sadlj-. "Poor little beggar," said Bows, with his hands in his pockets, and stealing up a queer look at Miss Fotheringa}'. Perhaps he thought and wondered at the w^a}- in which women play with men, and coax them and win them and drop them. But Mr. Bows had not the least objection to acknowledge that he thought ]\Iiss Fotheringa}' was perfectly' right in giving up Mr. Arthur Pendennis, and that in his idea the match was always an absurd one : and Miss Costigan owned that she thought so herself, onlj' she couldn't send awa}' two thousand a-year. " It all comes of believing Papa's silly stories," she said ; " faith, I'll choose for meself another time " — and very likeh' the large image of Lieutenant Sir Derb}' Oaks entered into her mind at that instant. After praising Major Pendennis, whom Miss Costigan de- clared to be a proper gentleman entirely, smelling of lavender, and as neat as a pin, — and who was pronounced b}" Mr. Bows to be the right sort of fellow, though rather too much of an old buck, Mr. Foker suddenly bethought him to ask the pair to come and meet the Major that ver^' evening at dinner at his apartment at the George. " He agreed to dine with me, and I think after the — after the little shind}' this morning, in which I must say the General was wrong, it would look kind, you know. — I know the Major fell in love with you. Miss Foth : he said so." " So she xn&y be Mrs. Pendennis still," Bows said with a sneer — " No thank you, Mr. F. — I've dined." " Sure, that was at three o'clock," said Miss Costigan, who had an honest appetite, " and I can't go without you." "We'll have lobster-salad and Champagne," said the little monster, who could not construe a line of Latin, or do a sum be^'ond the Rule of Three. Now, for lobster-salad and Cham- pagne in an honorable manner. Miss Costigan would have gone anywhere — and Major Pendennis actually found himself at 5 122 PJrIsDENNIS. seven o'clock, seatecJ at a dinncr-tab'ie in coiiipaTi}' with Mr. Bows, a proiessional fiddler, and Miss £osiigan, whose father had wanted tr> blow iiis brains out a few hours before. To make tue happy meeting complete, Mr. Foker, who knew Costigan's haunts, despatched Stoopid to the club at the Magpie, where the Geufcral was hi the act of singing a pathetic song, and brought him jff to supper. To find his daughter and Bows seated at the board was a surprise indeed — Major Pendennis laughed, and coraially held out his hand, which the General Officer grasped arec effusion as the French sa^'. in iact he was considerably inebriated, and had already been crv^hg; over his own song before he joined the little party at the George. He burst into tears more tnan once, dunng; tne entertainment, and called the Major his dearest friend. Sxoopid and Mr. Foker walked home with him : the blajor gallantl}- giving his arm to Miss Costigan. He was lecetved with great friendliness when he called the next day, when Aiany civilities passed Detween the gentlemen. On taking leave ie expressed his anxious desire to serve Miss Costigan on any occasion in which he could be use- ful to her, and he i?iiook hands with Mr. Foker most cordially and gratefully, and said that gent.sman had done nim the very greatest service. " All right," esaid Mr. Foker: and the}- parted with mutual esteem. On his return to Fairoaks the next day. Major Pendennis did not say what had happened to him on the previous night, or allude to the company' in which he hac. passed it. But he engaged Mr. Smirke to stop to dinner ; and an}' person accus- tomed to watch his manner might have remained that there was something constrained in his hilarity and talkativeness, and that he was unusuall}- gracious and watchful in his communica- tions with his nephew. He gave Pen an emphatic God-bless- you when the lad went to bed ; and as they were about to part for the night, he seemed as if he were going to sa}- some- thing to Mrs. Pendennis, but he bethought him that if he spoke he might spoil her night's rest, and allowed her to sleep in peace. The next morning he was down in the breakfast-room earlier than was his custom, and saluted every bod}' there with great cordiality. The post used to arrive commonly about the end of this meal. When John, the old servant, entered, and dis- charged the bag of its letters and papers, the Major looked hard at Pen as the lad got his — Arthur blushed, and put hifi letter down. He knew the hand, it w-as that of old Costigan, PENDENNIS. 123 and he did not care to read it in public. Major ?c?ndennis knew the letter, too. He had put it into the post himself in Chatteris the day before. He told little Laura to go away, which the child did, having a thorough dishke to him ; and as the door closed on her, hf took Mrs. Peudennis's hand, and giving her a look full of mean- ing, pointed to the letter under the newspaper wh?.ch Pen wa? pretending to read. " Will 3'ou come into the drawing-room?' he said. " I want to speak to 3'OU." And she followed him, wondering, into the hall. "What is it?" she said nervously. " The affair is at an end," Major Pendennis said. " He has a letter there giving him his dismissal. 1 dictated it mvself .yesterday. There are a few lines from the lady, too, bidding him farewell. It is all over." Helen ran back into the dining-room, her brother following. Pen had jumped at his letter the instant they were gone. He was reading it with a stupefied face. It stated what the Major had said, that Mr. Costigan was most gratified for the kindnesfi with which Arthur had treated his daughter, but that he wa^ only now made aware of Mr. Pendennis's pecuniary circum- stances. They were such that marriage was at present out o^ the question, and considering the great disparity in the age Oi* the two, a future union was impossible. Under these circum- stances, and with the deepest regret and esteem for him, Mr. Costigan bade Arthur farewell, and suggested that he should Cftase visiting, for some time at least, at his house. A few lines from Miss Costigan were enclosed. She ac- quiesced in the decision of her Papa. She pointed out that she was many years older than Arthur, and that an engage- ment was not to be thought of. She would always be grateful for his kindness to her, and hoped to keep his friendship. But at present, and until the pain of the separation should be over, she entreated they should not meet. Pen read Costigan's letter and its enclosure mechanically-, hardly knowing what was before his ej-es. He looked up wildly, and saw his mother and uncle regarding him with sad faces. Helen's, indeed, was full of tender maternal anxiet.y . " What — what is this?" Pen said. '' It's some joke. This is not her writing. This is some servant's writing. Who's playing these tricks upon me?" " It comes under her father's envelope," the Major said. "Those letters you had before were not in her hand : that is hers." 124 PENDENNIS. " How do you know? " said Pen very fiercely. " I saw her write it," the uncle answered, as the boy started up ; and his mother, coming forward, took his hand. He put her awa}'. " How came you to see her? How came you between me and her? What have I ever done to you that you should — Oh, it's not true ; it's not true ! " — Pen broke out with a wild execration. " She can't have done it of her own accord. She can't mean it. She's pledged to me. Who has told her lies to break her from me ? " " Lies are not told in the famil}-, Arthur," Major Pendennis replied. " I told her the truth, which was, that you had no money to maintain her, for her foolish father had represented 3'ou to be rich. And when she knew how poor you were, she withdrew at once, and without any persuasion of mine. She was quite right. She is ten 3'ears older than 3'OU are. She is perfectly unfitted to be your wife, and knows it. Look at that handwriting, and ask yourself, is such a woman fitted to be the companion of your mother ? " " I will know from herself if it is true," Arthur said, crump- ling up the paper. "Won't you take my word of honor? Her letters were written by a confidante of hers, who writes better than she can — look here. Here's one from the lady to 3'our friend, Mr. Foker. You have seen her with Miss Costigan, as whose amanuensis she acted" — the Major said, with ever so little of a sneer, and laid down a certain billet which Mr. Foker had given to him. "It's not that," said Pen, burning with shame and rage. " I suppose what you sa}' is true, sir, but I'll hear it from herself." " Arthur ! " appealed his mother. " I will see her," said Arthur. " I'll ask her to marry me, once more. I will. No one shall prevent me." "What, a woman who spells affection with one f ? Non- sense, sir. Be a man, and remember that 3'our mother is a lady. She was never made to associate with that tips3'' old swindler or his daughter. Be a man and forget her, as she does you." " Be a man and comfort your mother, my Arthur," Helen said, going and embracing him : and seeing that the pair were greatly moved. Major Pendennis went out of the room and shut the door upon them, wisel3' judging that th.ey were best alone. PENDENNIS. 125 He had won a complete victoiy. He actually had brought away Pen's letters in his portmanteau from Chatteris : having complimented Mr. Costigan, when he returned them, b}' giving him the little promissory note which had disquieted himself and Mr. Garbetts : and for which the Major settled with Mr. Tatham. Pen rushed wildly off to Chatteris that day, but in vain attempted to see Miss Fotheringay, for whom he left a letter, enclosed to her father. The enclosure was returned by Mr. Costigan, who begged that all correspondence might end ; and after one or two further attempts of the lad's, the indignant General desired that their acquaintance might cease. He cut Pen in the street. As Arthur and Foker were pacing the Castle walk, one da}^ the}' came upon Emily on her father's arm. She passed without any nod of recognition. Foker felt poor Pen trembUng on his arm. His uncle wanted him to travel, to quit the countrj' for a while, and his mother urged him too : for he was growing very ill, and suffered severely. But he refused, and said point- blank he would not go. He would not obey in this instance : and his mother was too fond, and his uncle too wise to force him. Whenever Miss Fotheiingay acted, he rode over to the Chatteris Theatre and saw her. One night there were so few people in the house that the Manager returned the money. Pen came home and went to bed at eight o'clock and had a fever. If this continues, his mother will be going over and fetch- ing the girl, the Major thought in despair. As for Pen, he thought he should die. We are not going to describe his feelings, or give a drear}' journal of his despair and passion. Have not other gentlemen been balked in love besides Mr. Pen? Yes, indeed : but few die of the malady. CHAPTER XIV. IN WHICH MISS FOTHERINGAT MAKES A NEAV ENGAGEMENT. Within a short period of the events above narrated, Mr. Manager Bingley was performing liis fjimous clmracter of Rolla, in " Pizarro," to a house so exceedingly thin, that it would appear as if the part of Rolla was by no means such a favorite with the people of Chatteris as it was with the accompUshed 126 PENDENNIS. actor himself. Scarce anybod^^ was in the theatre. Poor Pen had the boxes ahnost all to himself, and sat there lonely, with blood-shot e^'es, leaning over the ledge, and gazing haggardl}- towards tlie scene, when Cora came in. When she was not on the stage he saw nothing. Spaniards and Peruvians, proces- sions and buttles, priests and vii'gins of the sun, went in and out, and had their talk, but Arthur took no note of any one of them ; and onl}' saw Cora whom his soul longed after. He said afterwards that he wondered he had not taken a pistol to shoot her, so mad was he with love, and rage, and despair; and had it not been for his mother at home, to whom he did not speak about his luckless condition, but whose silent sj'm- pathy and watchfulness greatl}^ comforted the simple half heart- broken fellow, who knows but he might have done something desperate, and have ended his days prematurely in front of Chatteris gaol? There he sat then, miserable, and gazing at her. And she took no more notice of him than he did of the rest of the house. The Fotheringay was uncommonl}' handsome, in a white rai- ment and leopard skin, with a sun upon her breast, and fine tawdry bracelets on her beautiful glancing arms. She spouted to admiration the few words of her part, and looked it stii! better. The eyes, which had overthrown Pen's soul, rolled and gleamed as lustrous as ever ; but it was not to him that they were directed that night. He did not know to whom, or remark a couple of gentlemen, in the box next to him, upon whom Miss Fotheringay's glances were perpetually shining. Nor had Pen noticed the extraordinary change which had taken place on the stage a short time after the entry of these two gentlemen into the theatre. There were so few people in the house, that the first act of the play languished entirel}', and there had been some question of returning the money, as upon that other unfortunate night when poor Pen had been driven away. The actors were perfectly careless about their part.s, and yawned through the dialogue, and talked loud to each other in tlie intervals. Even Bingley was listless, and Mrs. B. in Elvira spoke under her breath. How came it that all of a sudden Mrs. Bingley began to raise her voice and bellow like a bull of Bashan ? Whence was it that Bingley, flinging off his apathy, darted about the stage and yelled like Kean ? Why did Garbetts and Rowkins and Miss Rouney tr^', each of them, the force of their charms or graces, and act and swagger and scowl and spout their very loudest at the two gentlemen in box No. 3.'' PENDENXIS. 127 One was a quiet little man in black, with a gray head and a jolly shrewd lace — the other was in all respects a splendid and remarkable individual. He was a tall and portly gentleman with a hooked nose and a profusion of curling brown hair and whiskers ; his coat was covered with the richest frogs, braiding, and velvet. He had under-waistcoats, many splendid rings, jewelled pins and neck-chains. When he took out his yello\» pocket-handkerchief with his hand that was cased in white kids, a delightful odor of musk and bergamot was shaken through the house. He was evidently a personage of rank, and it was at him that the little Chatteris company was acting. He was, in a word, no other than Mr. Dolphin, the great manager from London, accompanied bv his faithful friend and secretarj' Mr. William Minns : without whom he never trav- elled. He had not been ten minutes in the theatre before his august presence there was perceived b}' Bingle}' and the rest : and they all began to act their best and tr}^ to engage his atten- tion. Even Miss Fotheringay's dull heart, which was distui'bed at nothing, felt perhaps a flutter, when she came in presence of the famous London Impresario. She had not much to do in her part, but to look handsome, and stand in picturesque attitudes encircling her child : and she did this work to admiration. In vain the various actors tried to win the favor of the great stage Sultan. Pizarro never got a hand from him. Binglej' celled, and Mrs. Bingley bellowed, and the Manager only took snuff out of his great gold box. It was only in the last scene, when Rolla comes in staggering with the infant (Bingley is not so strong as he was, and his fourth son Master Talma Bingley is a monstrous large child for his age) — when Rolla comes stag- gering with the child to Cora, who rushes forward with a shriek and says — " O God, there's blood upon him ! " — that the Lon- don manager clapped his hands, and broke out with an enthu- siastic bravo. Then having concluded his applause, Mr. Dolphin gave his secretary a slap on the shoulder, and said "B}- Jove, Billv, she'll do ! " ' ' Who taught her that dodge ? " said old Bill}', who was a sardonic old gentleman — "I remember her at the Olvmpic, and hang me if she could sa}' Bo to a goose." It was little Mr. Bows in the orchestra who had taught her the " dodge " in question. All the compau}' heard the applause, and, as the curtain went down, came round her and congratu- lated and hated Miss Fotheringa}-. Now Mr. Dolphin's appearance in the remote little Chatteris 128 PENDENNIS. theatre ma}* be accounted for in this manner. In spite of all his exertions, and the perpetual blazes of triumph, coruscations of talent, A'ictories of good old English comedy, which his pla}-- bills advertised, his theatre (which, if you please, and to injure no present susceptibilities and vested interests, we shall call the Museum Theatre) by no means prospered, and the famous Im- presario found himself on the verge of ruin. The gi-eat Hub- bard had acted legitimate drama for twenty' nights, and failed to remunerate anybody but himself: the celebrated Mr. and Mrs. Cawdor had come out in Mr. Rawhead's tragedy, and in their favorite round of pieces, and had not attracted the public. Herr Garbage's lions and tigers had drawn for a little time, until one of the animals had bitten a piece out of the Herr's shoulder ; when the Lord Chamberlain interfered, and put a stop to this species of performance ; and the grand Lj-rical Drama, though brought out with unexampled splendor and success, with Monsieur Poumons as first tenor, and an enor- mous orchestra, had almost crushed poor Dolphin in its tri- umphant progi-ess : so that great as his genius and resources were, they seemed to be at an end. He was dragging on his season wretchedl}' with half salaries, small operas, feeble old comedies, and his ballet compau}- ; and ever3-bod3' was looking out for the day when he should appear in the Gazette. One of the illustrious patrons of the Museiun Theatre, and occupant of the great proscenium-box, was a gentleman whose name has been mentioned in a previous history ; that refined patron of the arts, and enlightened lover of music and the drama, the Most Noble the Marquis of Ste3'ne. His lordship's avocations as a statesman prevented him from attending the pla}- house very often, or coming ver^' early. But he occasion- all}' appeai'ed at the theatre in time for the ballet, and was always received with the greatest respect by the Manager, from whom he sometimes condescended to receive a visit in his box. It communicated with the stage, and when anything occurred there which parti cularlj' pleased him, when a new face made its appearance among the coryphees, or a fair dancer executed a pas with especial grace or agility, Mr. Wenham, Mr. Wagg, or some other aide-de-camp of the noble Marquis, would be com- missioned to go behind the scenes, and express the great man's approbation, or make the inquiries which were prompted by his lordship's curiosit}', or his interest in the dramatic art. He could not be seen by the audience, for Lord Ste3me sat mod- estly behind a curtain, and looked onl}' towards the stage — but you could know he was in the house, by the glances which PENDENNIS. 129 all the corps-de-ballet, and all the principal dancers, cast towards his box. I have seen many scores of pairs of eyes (as in the Palm Dance in the ballet of Cook at Otaheite, where no less than a hundred and twenty lovely female savages in palm leaves and feather aprons were made to dance round Floridar as Captain Cook), ogling that box as the}' performed before it, and haA'e often wondered to remark the presence of mind of Mademoiselle Sauterelle, or Mademoiselle de Bondi (known as la petite Caoutchouc), who, when actually up in the air quiver- ing like so many shuttlecocks, always kept their lovely eyes winking at that box in which the great Steyne sat. Now and then you would hear a harsh voice from behind the curtain, cry, ^'Brava, Brava," or a pair of white gloves wave from it, and begin to applaud. Bondi, or Sauterelle, when they came down to earth, curtsied and smiled, especially to those hands, before they walked up the stage again, panting and happy. One night this great Prince surrounded bj' a few choice friends was in his box at the Museum, and they were making such a noise and laughter that the pit was scandalized, and many indignant voices were bawling out silence so loudly, that Wagg wondered the police did not interfere to take the rascals out. Wenham was amusing the party in the box with extracts from a private letter which he had received from Major Pen- dennis, whose absence in the country at the full London season had been remarked, and of course deplored by his friends. "The secret is out," said Mr. Wenham, " there's a woman in the case." "Why, d — it, Wenham, he's j^our age," said the gentle- man behind the curtain. " Pour les ames bien nees, I'amour ne compte pas le nombre des annees," said Mr. Wenham, with a gallant air. " For my part, I hope to be a victim till I die, and to break my heart ever}' year of m}' hfe." The meaning of which sentence was, " My lord, you need not talk ; I'm three years younger than 30U, and twice as well conserve." " Wenham, you affect me," said the great man, with one of his usual oaths. " By you do. I like to see a fellow pre- serving all the illusions of youth up to our time of life — and keeping his heart warm as 3'ours is. Hang it, sir, — it's a com- fort to meet with such a generous, candid creature. — Who's that gal in the second row, with blue ribbons, third from the stage — fine gal. Yes, you and I are sentimentalists. Wagg 1 don't think so much cares — it's the stomach rather more than the heart with you, eh, Wagg, my boy?" 130 PENDENNIS. "I like everything that's good," said Mr. Wagg, gener- ously. " Beaut}^ and Burgundy, Venus and Venison. 1 don't say that Venus's turtles are to be despised, because they don't cook them at the London Tavern : but — but tell us about old Pendennis, Mr. Wenham," he abruptly concluded — for his joke flagged just then, as he saw that his patron was not listening. In fact, Steyne's glasses were up, and he was examining some object on the stage. "Yes, I've heard that joke about Venus's turtle and the London Tavern before — you begin to fail, my poor Wagg. If you don't mind I shall be obUged to have a new Jester," Lord Steyne said, laying down his glass. " Go on, Wenham, about old Pendennis." " Dear Wenham, — he begins," Mr. Wenham read, — "as 3'ou have had my character in your hands for the last three weeks, and no doubt have torn me to shreds, according to your custom, I think 3'ou can afford to be good-humored by way of variety, and to do me a service. It is a delicate matter, entre nous^ une affaire de cceur. There is a young friend of mine who is gone wild about a certain Miss Fotheriuga}-, an actress at the theatre here, and I must own to you, as handsome a woman, and, as it appears to me, as good an actress as ever put on rouge. She does Ophelia, Lady Teazle, Mrs. Haller — that sort of thing. Upon my word, she is as splendid as Georges in her best days, and, as far as I know, utterly superior to an}-- thing we have on our scene. / want a London engagement for her. Can't 3"0u get 3'om' friend Dolphin to come and see her — to engage her — to take her out of this place ? A word from a noble friend of ours (j'ou understand) would be invaluable, and if j-ou could get the Gaunt House interest for me — I will promise anything I can in return for your ser^ace — which I shall consider one of the greatest that can he done to me. Do, do this now as a good fellow, which / always said you were; and in return, command yours truly, A. Pendennis." " It's a clear case," said Mr. Wenham, having read this letter ; " old Pendennis is in love." " And wants to get the woman up to London — evidently," continued Mr. Wagg. " I should like to see Pendennis on his knees, with the rheumatism," said Mr. Wenham. " Or accommodating the beloved object with a lock of his hair," said Wagg. PENDENNIS. 131 "Stuff," said the great man. "He has relations in the county, hasn't he ? He said something about a nephew, whose interest could return a member. It is the nephew's affair, depend on it. The young one is in a scrape. I was myself — when I was in the fifth form at Eton — a market-gardener's daughter — and swore I'd marry her. I was mad about her — poor Poll}' ! " — Here he made a pause, and perhaps the past rose up to Lord Steyne, and George Gaunt was a bo}- again not altogether lost. — " But I sa^', she must be a fine woman from Pendennis's account. Have in Dolphin, and let us hear if he knows an^lhiug of her." At this Wenham sprang out of the box, passed the servitor who waited at the door communicating with the stage, and who saluted Mr. Wenham with profound respect ; and the latter emissary, pushing on and familiar with the place, had no diffi- culty in finding out the manager, who was employed, as he not unfrequentl}^ was, in swearing and cursing the ladies of the corps-de-ballet for not doing their duty. The oaths died away on Mr. Dolphin's lips, as soon as he saw Mr. Wenham ; and he drew off the hand which was clenched in the face of one of the offending coryphees, to grasp that of the new comer. "How do, Mr. Wenham? How's his lordship to-night? Looks uncommonly well," said the manager smiling, as if he had never been out of temper in his life ; and he was only too delighted to follow Lord Ste3'ne's ambassador, and pa}' his personal respects to that great man. The visit to Chatteris was the result of their conversation : and Mr. Dolphin wrote to his lordship from that place, and did himself the honor to inform the Marquis of Steyne, that he had seen the lady about whom his lordship had spoken, that he was as much struck by her talents as he was by her j^er- sonal appearance, and that he had made an engagement with Miss Fotheringay, who would soon have the honor of appear- ing before a London audience, and his noble and enlightened patron the Marquis of Steyne. Pen read the announcement of Miss Fotheringay's engage- ment in the Chatteris paper, where he had so often praised her charms. The Editor made very handsome mention of her tal- ent and beauty, and prophesied her success in the metropolis. Bingley, the manager, began to advei'tise "The last night of Miss Fotheringay's engagement." Poor Pen and Sir Derby Oaks were very constant at the play : Sir Derby in the stage- box throwing bouquets and getting glances, -^ Pen in the almost 132 PENDENNIS. deserted boxes, haggard, wretched, and lonely. Nobody careA whether Miss Fotheriuga}' was going or staying except those two — and perhaps one more, which was Mr. Bows of the orchestra. He came out of his place one night, and went into the house to the box where Pen was ; and lie held out his hand to him, and asked him to come and walk. They walked down the street together ; and went and sat upon Chatteris bi'idge in the moonlight, and talked about Her. "We may sit on the same bridg-e," said he : "we have been in the same boat for a long time. You are not the only man who has made a fool of himself about that woman. And I have less excuse than you, because I'm older and know her better. She has no more heart than the stone you are leaning on ; and it or you or I might fall into the water, and never come up again, and she wouldn't care. Yes — she would care for me, because she wants me to teach her : and she won't be able to get on with- out me., and will be forced to send for me from London. But she wouldn't if she didn't want me. She has no heart and no head, and no sense, and no feelings, and no griefs or cares, whatever. I was going to say no pleasures — but the fact is, she does like her dinner, and she is pleased when people ad- mire her." " And you do?" said Pen, interested out of himself, and wondering at the crabbed homely little old man. " It's a habit, like taking snuff, or drinking drams," said the other. " I've been taking her these five years, and can't do without her. It was I made her. If she doesn't send for me, I shall follow her: but I know she'll send for me. She wants me. Some day she'll marry, and fling me over, as I do the end of this cigar." The little flaming spark dro^^ped into the water below, and disappeared ; and Pen, as he rode home that night, actually thought about somebodj^ but himself. PENDENNIS. 133 CHAPTER XV. THE HAPPY VILLAGE. Until the enemy had retired altogether from before the place, Major Peiidennis was resolved to keep his garrison in Fairoaks. He did not appear to watch Pen's behavior, or to put any restraint on his nephew's actions, but he managed, nevertheless, to keep the lad constantly under his eye or those of his agents, and young Arthur's comings and goings were quite well known to his vigilant guardian. I suppose there is scarcely' any man who reads this or any other novel but has been balked in love sometime or the other, b}- fate and circumstance, bj' falsehood of women, or his own fault. Let that worth}' friend recall his own sensations under the circimastances, and apply them as illustrative of Mr. Pen's anguish. Ah ! what weary nights and sickening fevers ! Ah ! what mad desires dashing up against some rock of obstruction or indifference, and flung back again from the unimpression- able granite ! If a list could be made this very night in London of the groans, thoughts, imprecations of tossing lovers, what a catalogue it would be ! I wonder what a percentage of the male population of the metropolis will be lying awake at two or three o'clock to-morrow morning, counting the hours as they go by, knelling drearily-, and rolling from left to right, restless, yearning, and heart-sick ? What a pang it is ! I never knew a man die of love, certainl}-, but I have known a twelve stone man go down to nine stone five under a disappointed passion. so that prett}' nearl}' a quarter of him maj^ be said to have perished : and that is no small portion. Pie has come back to his old size subsequently — perhaps is bigger than ever: very likely some new aflfection has closed round his heart and ribs and made them comfortable, and 3'oung Pen is a man who will console himself like the rest of us. We saj^ this lest the ladies should be disposed to deploi-e him prematurely, or be seriousl}' uneasj' with regard to his complaint. His mother was, but what will not a maternal fondness fear or in- vent? "Depend on it, my dear creature," Major Pendennis would sa}'^ gallantly to her, " the boy will recover. As soon as we get her out of the country, we will take him somewhere, and show him a little life. Meantime make yourself easy about 134 PENDENNIS. him. Half a fellow's pangs at losing a woman result from vanity more than alTection. To be left by a woman is the deuce and all, to be sure ; but look how easily we leave 'em." Mrs. Pendennis did not know. This sort of knowledge had by no means come within the simple ladj's scope. Indeed, she did not like the subject or to talk of it : her heart had had its own little pi'ivate misadventure, and she had borne up against it, and cui^ed it : and perhaps she had not much patience with other folks' passions, except, of course, Arthur's, whose suffer- ings she made her own, feeling indeed yer^^ likely, in man}^ of the bo3-'s illnesses and pains, a great deal more than Pen him- self endured. And she watched hirn through this present grief with a jealous silent sj'mpathy ; although, as we have said, he did not talk to her of his unfortunate condition. The Major must be allowed to have had not a little merit and forbearance, and to have exhibited a highly creditable degree of family affection. The life at Fairoaks was uncom- monl}' dull to a man who had the entree of half the houses in London, and was in the habit of making his bow in three or four drawing-rooms of a night. A dinner with Doctor Portman or a neighboring Squire now and then ; a dreary rubber at backgammon with the widow, who did her utmost to amuse him ; these were the chief of his pleasures. Pie used to long for the arrival of the bag with the letters, and he read every word of the evening paper. He doctored himself too, assiduousl3', — a course of quiet living would suit him well, he thought, after the London banquets. He dressed himself laboriousl}' ever3^ morning and afternoon : he took regular exercise up and down the terrace walk. Thus, with his cane, his toilet, his medicine- chest, his backgammon-box, and his newspaper, this worthy and worldly philosopher fenced himself against ennui ; and if he did not improve each shining hour, like the bees by the widow's garden wall. Major Pendennis made one hour after another pass as he could ; and rendered his captivity just tolerable. Pen sometimes took the box at backgammon of a night, or would listen to his mother's simple music of summer evenings — but he was very restless and wretched in spite of all : and has been known to be up before the early daylight even : and down at a carp-pond in Clavering Park, a dreary pool with innumerable whispering rushes and green alders, where a milk- maid drowned herself in the Baronet's grandfather's time, and her ghost was said to walk still. But Pen did not drown him- PENDENNIS. 135 self, as perhaps his mother fancied might be his intention. He liked to go and tish there, and think and think at leisure, as the float quivered in the little eddies of the pond, and the fish flapped about him. If he got a bite he was excited enough : and in this wa}- occasionally brought home carps, tenches, and eels, which the Major cooked in the Continental fashion. By this pond, and under a tree, which was his favorite resort. Pen composed a number of poems suitable to his cir- cumstances — over which verses he blushed in after days, wondering how he could ever have invented such rubbish. And as for the tree, why it is in a hollow of this ver}' tree, where he used to put his tin-box of ground-bait, and other fishing commodities, that he afterwards — but we are advancing matters. Suffice it to say, he wrote poems and relieved him- self very much. When a man's grief or passion is at this point, it may be loud, but it is not very severe. When a gentleman is cudgelling his brain to find any rhj-me for sorrow, besides borrow and to-morrow, his woes are nearer at an end than he thinks for. So were Pen's. He had his hot and cold fits, his days of sullenness and peevishness, and of blank resignation and despondency, and occasional mad paroxysms of rage and longing, in which fits Rebecca would be saddled and galloped fiercely' about the countr}^ or into Chatteris, her rider gesticu- lating wildly on her back, and astonishing carters and turn- pikemen as he passed, crying out the name of the false one. Mr. Foker became a very frequent and welcome visitor at Fairoaks during this period, where his good spirits and oddities always amused the Major and Pendennis, while they astonished the widow and little Laura not a little. His tandem made a great sensation in Clavering market-place ; where he upset a market stall, and cut Mrs. Pybus's poodle over the shaven quarters, and drank a glass of raspberry bitters at the Clavering Arms. All the society in the little place heard who he was, and looked out his name in their Peerages. He was so young, and their books so old, that his name did not appear in many of their volumes ; and his mamma, now quite an antiquated lady, figured amongst the progeny of the Earl of Rosherville, as Lady Agnes Milton still. But his name, wealth, and honor- able lineage were speedily known about Clavering, where you ma}' be sure that poor Pen's little transaction with the Chatteris actress was also pretty freeh' discussed. Looking at the little old town of Clavering St. Mary from the London road as it runs b}- the lodge at Fairoaks, and seeing 136 PENDENNIS. the rapid and shining Brawl winding down from the town and skirting the woods of Clavering Park, and the ancient church tower and peaked roofs of the houses rising up amongst trees and old walls, behind which swells a fair background of sun- sliiny hills that sti-etch from Clavering westwards towards the sea — the place appears to be so cheery and comfortable that many a traveller's heart must have yearned towards it from the coach-top, and he must have thought that it was in such a calm friendl3' nook he would like to shelter at the end of life's struggle. Tom Smith, who used to drive the Alacrit}' coach, would often point to a tree near the river, from which a fine view of the church and town was commanded, and inform his companion on the box that ' ' Artises come and take hoff the Church from that there tree. — It was a Habby once, sir : " — and indeed a prettj- view it is, which I recommend to Mr. Stanfield or Mr. Roberts, for their next tour. Like Constantinople seen from the Bosphorus ; like Mrs. Rougemont viewed in her box from the opposite side of the house ; like many an object which we pursue in Ufe, and admire before we have attained it ; Clavering is rather prettier at a distance than it is on a closer acquaintance. The town so cheerful of aspect a few furlongs off, looks verj^ blank and drear}-. Except on market da^'s there is nobody in the streets. The clack of a pair of pattens echoes through half the place, and you may hear the creaking of the rusty old ensign at the Clavering Arms, without being disturbed by any other noise. There has not been a ball in the Assembly Rooms since the Clavering volunteers gave one to their Colonel, the old Sir Francis Clavering ; and the stables which once held a great part of that brilliant, but defunct regiment, are now cheerless and empt}', except on Thursdays, when the farmers put up there, and their tilted carts and gigs make a feeble show of liveliness in the place, or on Petty Sessions, when the magis- trates attend in what used to be the old card-room. On the south side of the market rises up the church, with its great gray towers, of which the sun illuminates the deUcate carving; deepening the shadows of the huge buttresses, and gilding the glittering windows, and flaming vanes. The image of the Patroness of the church was wrenched out of the porch centuries ago : such of the statues of saints as were within reach of stones and hammer at that period of pious demolition, are maimed and headless, and of those who were out of fire, only Doctor Portman knows the names and history, for his curate, Smirke, is not much of an antiquarian, and Mr. Simcoe (hus- PENDENNIS. 137 band of the Honorable Mrs. Simcoe), incumbent and architect of the Chapel of Ease in the lower town, thinks them the abomination of desolation. The Rectory is a stout, broad-shouldered brick house, of the reign of Anne. It communicates with the church and market by different gates, and stands at the opening of Yew- tree Lane, where the Grammar School (Rev. Wapshot) IP. ; Yew-tree Cottage (Miss Flather) ; the butcher's slaughter- ing-house, an old barn or brew-house of the Abbey times, and the Misses Finucane's establishment for 3'oung ladies. The two schools had their pews in the loft on each side of the organ, until the Abbey Church getting rather empty, through the falling off of the congregation, who were inveigled to the Heres3--shop in the lower town, the Doctor induced the Misses Finucane to bring their pretty little flock down stairs ; and the young ladies' bonnets make a tolerable show in the rather vacant aisles. Nobod}' is in the great pew of the Clavering family, except the statues of defunct baronets and their ladies : there is Sir Poyntz Clavering, Knight and Baronet, kneeling in a square beard opposite his wife in a ruff: a ver}- fat lad}-, the Dame Rebecca Clavering, in alto-relievo, is borne up to Heaven b}- two little blue-veined angels, who seem to have a severe task — and so forth. How well in after life Pen remembered those effigies, and how often in youth he scanned them as the Doctor was grumbling the sermon from the pulpit, and Smirke's mild head and forehead curl peered over the great prayer-book in the desk ! The Fairoaks folks were constant at the old church ; their servants had a pew, so had the Doctor's, so had Wapshot's, and those of the Misses Finucane's establishment, three maids and a verj' nice-looking young man in a livery. The Wapshot family were numerous and fiiithful. Glanders and his children regularly came to church : so did one of the apothecaries. Mrs. Pybus went, turn and turn about, to the Low Town church, and to the Abbey : the Charity School and their families of course came ; Wapshot's boys made a good cheerful noise, scuffling with their feet as they marched into church and up the organ-loft stau", and blowing their noses a good deal during the service. To be brief, the congregation looked as decent as might be in these bad times. The Abbey Church was furnished with a magnificent screen, and many hatchments and heraldic tombstones. The Doctor spent a great part of his income in beautifying his darUng place ; he had endowed it with a superb painted mndow. bought in the Netherlands, and an organ grand enough for a cathedral. 138 PENDENNIS. But in spite of organ and window, in consequence of the latter very likely, which had eome out of a Papistical place of worship and was blazoned all over with idolatry, Clavering New Church prospered scandalously in the teeth of Orthodox}' and many of the Doctor's congregation deserted to Mr. Simcoe and the honorable woman his wife. Their efforts had thinned the very Ebenezer hard by them, which building before Simcoe's advent used to be so full, that you could see the backs of the congregation squeezing out of the arched windows tnereof. Mr. Simcoe's tracts fluttered into the doors of all the Doctor's cottages, and were taken as greedily as honest Mrs. Portman's soup, with the quaUty of which the graceless people found fault. With the folks at the Ribbon Factory situated by the weir on the Brawl side, and round which the Low Town had grown. Orthodoxy could make no wa}' at all. Quiet Miss Mira was put out of court by impetuous Mrs. Simcoe and her female aides-de-camp. Ah, it was a hard burthen for the Doctor's lady to bear, to behold her husband's congregation dwindling away ; to give the precedence on the few occasions when they met to a notorious low-churchman's wife who was the daughter of an Irish Peer ; to know that there was a part}- in Clavering, their own town of Clavering, on which her Doctor spent a great deal more than his professional income, who held him up to odium because he played a rubber at whist ; and pronounced him to be a Heathen because he went to the pla3\ In her grief she besought him to give up the play and the rubber, — indeed they could scarcely get a table now, so dreadful was the outer}- against the sport, — but the Doctor declared that he would do what he thought right, and what the great and good George the Third did (whose Chaplain he had been) : and as for giving up whist because those silly folks cried out against it, he would play dummy to the end of his days with his wife and Mira, rather than yield to their despicable persecutions. Of the two famiUes, owners of the Factory (which had spoiled the Brawl as a trout-stream and brought all the mischief into the town) , the senior partner, Mr. Rolt, went to Ebenezer : the junior, Mr. Barker, to the New Church. In a word, people quarrelled in this httle place a great deal more than neighbors do in London ; and in the Book Club, which the prudent and conciliating Pendennis had set up, and which ought to have been a neutral territory, they bickered so much that nobody scarcely was ever seen in the reading-room, except Smirke, who, though he kept up a faint amity with the Simcoe faction, had still a taste for magazines and light worldly literature ; and PENDENNIS. 139 old Glanders, whose white head and grizzly moustache migbi be seen at the window ; and of course, little Mrs. Pybus, who looked at everybody's letters as the Post brought them (for the Clavering Reading Room, as every one knows, used to be held at Baker's Librar}', London Street, formerly Hog Lane), and read every advertisement in the paper. It may be imagined how great a sensation was created in this amiable little conununity when the news reached it of Mr. Fen's love passages at Chatteris. It was carried from house to house, and formed the subject of talk at high-church, low- church, and no-church tables ; it was canvassed by the Misses Finucane and their teachers, and very likely debated by the 3-oung ladies in the dormitories, for what we know ; Wapshot's big bo3's had their version of the story and e^-ed Pen curiously as he sat in his pew at church, or raised the finger of scorn at him as he passed through Chatteris. The}' alwaj-s hated him and called him Lord Pendennis, because he did not wear cordu- roy's as they did, and rode a horse, and gave himself the airs of a bu-ck. And, if the truth must be told, it was Mrs. Portman herself who was the chief narrator of the story of Pen's loves. What- ever tales this candid woman heard, she was sure to impart them to her neighbors ; and after she had been put into posses- sion of Pen's secret by the little scandal at Chatteris, poor Doc- tor Portman knew that it would next day be about the parish of which he was the Rector. And so indeed it was ; the whole society there had the legend — at the news-room, at the milli- ner's, at the shoe-shop, and the general warehouse at the corner of the market ; at Mrs. P3'bus's, at the Glanders's, at the Hon- orable Mrs. Simcoe's soiree., at the Factory ; nay, through the mill itself the tale was current in a few hours, and 3'oung Arthur Pendennis's madness was in every mouth. All Doctor Portman's acquaintances barked out upon him vviien he walked the street the next day. The poor divine knew that his Betsy was the author of the rumor, and groaned in spirit. Well, well, — it must have come in a da}"^ or two, and it was as well that the town should have the real story. What tne Clavering folks thought of Mrs. Pendennis for spoiling her son, and of that precocious 3'oung rascal of an Arthur, for dar- ing to propose to a play-actress, need not be told here. If pride exists amongst any folks in our country', and assuredly we have enough of it, there is no pride more deep-seated than that of twopenny old gentlewomen in small towns. "Gracious goodness," the cry was, "how infatuated the mother is about 140 PENDENNIS. that pert and headstrong boy who gives himself the airs of a lord on his blood-horse^ and for whom our society is not good enough, and who would marry an odious painted actress off a booth, where very likely he wants to rant himself. If dear good Mr. Pendennis had been alive this scandal would never have happened." No more it would, \QYy likely, nor should we have been oc- cupied in narrating Pen's histor3\ It was true that he gave himself airs to the Clavering folks. Naturally haughty and frank, their cackle and small talk and small dignities bored him, and he showed a contempt which he could not conceal. The Doctor and the Curate were the onl^^ people Pen cared for in the place — even Mrs. Portman shared in the general distrust of him, and of his mother, the widow, who kept herself aloof from the village society, and was sneered at accordingly^ be- cause she tried, forsooth, to keep her head up with the great County families. She, indeed ! Mrs. Barker at the Factory has four times the butcher's meat that goes up to Fairoaks, with all their fine airs. «&c. &c. &c. : let the reader fill up these details according to his hking and experience of village scandal. They will suffice to show how it was that a good woman, occupied solely in doing her dut}' to her neighbor and her children, and an honest, brave lad, impetuous, and full of good, and wishing well to every mortal alive, found enemies and detractors amongst peo- ple to whom the^' were superior, and to whom they had never done an3'thiug like haim. The Clavering curs were yelping all round the house of Fairoaks, and dehghted to pull Pen down. Doctor Portman and Smirke were both cautious of informing the widow of the constant outbreak of calumny which was pur- suing poor Pen, though Glanders, who was a friend of the house, kept him au courant. It may be imagined what his indig- nation was : was there any man in the village whom he could call to account? Presently' some wags began to chalk up " Fotheringay for ever ! " and other sarcastic allusions to late transactions at Fairoaks gate. Another brought a large play- bill from Chatteris, and wafered it there one night. On one occasion Pen, riding through the Low Town, fancied he heard the Factory boj's jeer him ; and finally, going through the Doctor's gate into the churchyard, where some of Wapshot's boys were lounging, the biggest of them, a 3'oung gentleman about twenty 3'ears of age, son of a neighboring small Squire, who lived in the doubtful capacity of parlor-boarder with Mr. Wapshot, tluug himself into a theatrical attitude near a newly- PENDENNIS. 141 made grave, and began repeating Hamlet's verses over Ophelia, v\'ith a hideous leer at Pen. The 3'oung fellow was so enraged that he rushed at Hobnell Major with a shriek very much resembling an oath, cut him furioush' across the face with the riding-whip which he carried, flung it awa}', calling npon the cowardly villain to defend him- self, and in another minute knocked the bewildered young ruffian into the grave which was just waiting for a different lodger. Then, with his fists clenched, and his face quivering with passion and indignation, he roared out to Mr. Hobnell's gaping companions, to know if an}' of the blackguards would come on? But they held back with a growl, and retreated, as Doctor Port- man came up to his wicket, and Mr. Hobnell, with his nose and lip bleeding piteously, emerged from the grave. Pen, looking death and defiance at the lads, who retreated towards their side of the churchyard, walked back again through the Doctor's wicket, and was interrogated by that gentleman. The young fellow was so agitated he could scarcelj' speak. His voice broke into a sob as he answered. "The coward insulted me, su*," he said ; and the Doctor passed over the oath, and respected the emotion of the honest suffering young heart. Pendennis, the elder, who, like a real man of the world, had a proper and constant dread of the opinion of his neighbor, was prodigiously annoyed by the absurd little tempest which was blowing in Chatteris, and tossing about Master Pen's reputa- tion. Doctor Portman and Captain Glanders had to support the charges of the whole Chatteris society against the 3'oung reprobate, who was looked upon as a monster of crime. Pen did not sa}' anything about the churchyard scuffle at home ; but went over to Bay mouth, and took counsel with his friend Hany Foker, Esq., who drove over his drag presently to the Claver- ing Arms, whence he sent Stoopid with a note to Thomas Hob- nell, Esq., at the Rev. J. Wapshot's, and a civil message to ask when he should wait upon that gentleman. Stoopid brought back word that the note had been opened by Mr. Hobnell, and read to half a dozen of the big boys, on whom it seemed to make a great impression ; and that after consulting together and laughing, Mr. Hobnell said he would send an answer " arter arternoon school, which the bell was a ringing : and Mr. Wapsliot, he came out in his Master's gownd." Stoopid was learned in academical costume, having attended Mr. Foker at St. Boniface. 142 PENDENNIS. Mr. FoK'cr went out to see the curiosities of Clavering meHii« while ; but not having a taste for architecture, Doctor Portman's fine cliurch did not engage his attention much, and he pro- nounced the tower to be as mouldy as an old Stilton cheese. He walked down the street and looked at the few shops there ; he saw Captain Glanders at the window of the Reading-room, and having taken a good stare at that gentleman, he wagged his head at him in token of satisfaction ; he inquired the price of meat at the butcher's with an air of the greatest interest, and asked "when was next kilUng day?" he flattened his little nose against Madame Fribsby's window to see if haply there was a pretty workwoman in her premises ; but there was no face more comely than the doll's or dummy's wearing the French cap in the window, onh' that of Madame Fribsb}^ herself, dimly visible in the parlor, reading a novel. That object was not of sufficient interest to keep Mr. Foker very long in con- templation, and so having exhausted the town and the inn sta- bles, in which there were no cattle, save the single old pair of posters that earned a scant}^ livelihood by transporting the gen- trj- round about to the county dinners, Mr. Foker was giving himself up to ennui entirely, when a messenger from Mr. Hob- nell was at length announced. It was no other than Mr. Wapshot himself, who came with an air of great indignation, and holding Pen's missive in his hand, asked Mr. Foker " how dared he bring such an unchris- tian message as a challenge to a bo}^ of his school ? " In fact Pen had written a note to his adversary of the day before, telling him that if after the chastisement which his inso- lence richl}' deserved, he felt inclined to ask the reparation which was usually given amongst gentlemen, Mr. Arthur Pendennis's friend, Mr. Henry Foker, was empowered to make any arrange- ments for the satisfaction of Mr. Hobnell. "And so he B&nt you with the answer — did he, sir?" Mr. Foker said, surveying the Schoolmaster in his black coat and •clerical costume. "If he had accepted this wicked challenge, I should have flogged him," Mr. Wapshot said, and gave Mr. Foker a glance which seemed to say, " and I should like \evy much to flog you too." "Uncommon kind of you, sir, I'm sure," said Pen's emis- sary. " I told my principal that I didn't think the other man would fight," he continued with a great air of dignit}'. " He prefers being flogged to fighting, sir, I dare say. Ma}' I offer you any refreshment, Mr. ? I haven't the advantage of your name." PENDENNIS. 143 " My name is Wapshot, sir, and I am Master of the Gram- mar School of this town, sir," cried the other : " and I want no refreshment, sir, I thank j'ou, and have no desire to make ^-our acquaintance, sir." "•I didn't seek 3'ours, sir, I'm sure," repUed Mr. Foker. *'In affairs of this sort, you see, I think it is a pit^^ that the clerg}' should be called in, but there's no accounting for tastes, sir." " I think it's a pity that boys should talk about committing murder, sir, as lightly as you do," roared the Schoolmaster ; " and if I had 3'ou in my school — " "I dare say you would teach me better, sir," Mr. Foker said, with a bow. "Thank you, sir. I've finished my educa- tion, sir, and ain't a-going back to school, sir — when I do, I'll remember your kind offer, sir. John, show this gentleman down stairs — and, of course, as Mr. Hobnell likes being thrashed, we can have no objection, sir, and we shall be very happy to accommodate him, whenever he comes our wa}'." And with this, the 30ung fellow bowed the elder gentleman out of the room, and sat down and wrote a note off to Pen, in which he informed the latter, that Mr. Hobnell was not disposed to fight, and proposed to put up with the caning which Pen had administered to him. CHAPTER XVI. WHICH CONCLUDES THE FIRST PART OF THIS HISTORY. Pen's conduct in this business of course was soon made public, and angered his friend Doctor Portman not a little ; while it only amused Major Pendennis. As for the good Mrs. Pendennis, she was almost distracted when she heard of the squabble, and of Pen's unchristian behavior. All sorts of wretchedness, discomfort, crime, annoyance, seemed to come out of this transaction in which the luckless boy had engaged : and she longed more than ever to see him out of Chatteris for a while, — anywhere removed from the woman who had brought him into so much trouble. Pen when remonstrated with by this fond parent, and angril)' rebuked by the Doctor for his violence and ferocious intentions, took the matter au grand serieux, with the happy conceit and gravity of 3'outh : said that he would permit no man to insult 144 PENDENNIS. him upon this head without vindicating his own honor, and appeahng, asked whether he could have acted otherwise as a gentleman, than as he did in resenting the outrage offered to him, and in offering satisfaction to the person chastised? " Vous allez trop vite^ my good sir," said the uncle, rather puzzled, for he had been indoctrinating his nephew with some of his own notions upon the point of honor — old-world notions savoring of the camp and pistol a great deal more than our soberer opinions of the present day — ' ' between men of the world, I don't say ; but between two schoolboys, this sort of thing is ridiculous, my dear boy — perfectly ridiculous." "It is extremely wicked, and unlike my son," said Mrs. Pendennis, with tears in her eyes ; and bewildered with the obstinacy of the boy. Pen kissed her, and said with great pomposity, "Women, dear mother, don't understand these matters — I put myself into Foker's hands — I had no other course to pursue." Major Pendennis grinned and shrugged his shoulders. The young ones were certainly making great progress, he thought. Mrs. Pendennis declared that that Foker was a wicked horrid little wretch, and was sure that he would lead her dear boy into mischief, if Pen went to the same college with him. " I have a great mind not to let him go at all," she said : and only that she remembered that the lad's father had always destined him for the College in which he had had his own "brief education, very likely the fond mother would have put a veto upon his going to the University. That he was to go, and at the next October term, had been arranged between all the authorities who presided over the lad's welfare. Foker had promised to introduce him to the right set ; and Major Pendennis laid great store upon Pen's intro- duction into College life and society by this admirable young gentleman. " Mr. Foker knows the very best young men now at the University," the Major said, " and Pen will form acquaint- ances there who will be of the gi-eatest advantage through life to him. The young Marquis of Pliulimmon is there, eldest son of the Duke of St. David's — Lord Magnus Charters is there, Lord Runnymede's son ; and a first cousin of Mr. Foker, (Lady Runnymede, my dear, was Lady Agatha Milton, you of course remember,) Lady Agnes will certainly invite him to Logwood ; and far from being alarmed at his intimacy with her son, vvho is a singular and humorous, but most prudent and amiable young man, to whom, I am sure, we are under every obligation for his admirable conduct in the affair of the Fotheringay mar- PENDENNIS. 145 riage, I look upon it as one of the very luckiest things which could have happened to Pen, that he should have formed an intimacy with this most amusing young gentleman." Helen sighed, she supposed the Major knew best. Mr. Foker had been ver}- kind in the wretched business with Miss Costigan, certainly, and she was gi'ateful to him. But she could not feel otherwise than a dim presentiment of evil ; and all these quarrels, and riots, and worldliness, scared her about the fate of her bo}' . Doctor Portman was decidedlj' of opinion that Pen should go to College. He hoped the lad would read, and have a mod- erato indulgence of the best society too. He was of opinion that Pen would distinguish himself: Smirke spoke ver}^ highl}^ of his proficienc}' : the Doctor himself had heard him construe, and thought he acquitted himself remarkabh' well. That he should go out of Chatteris was a great point at an}' rate ; and Pen, who was distracted from his private grief bj- the various rows and troubles which had risen round about him, gloomil}- said he would obey. There were assizes, races, and the entertainments and the flux of company consequent upon them, at Chatteris, during a part of the months of August and September, and Miss Foth- eriugay still continued to act, and take farewell of the audiences at the Chatteris Theatre during that time. Nobodj' seemed to be particularly' affected by her presence, or her announced de- parture, except those persons whom we have named ; nor could the polite county folks, who had houses in London, and very likel}' admired the Fotheringa}' prodigiously in the capital, when the}' had been taught to do so b}- the Fashion which set in in her favor, find anything remarkable in the actress performing on the little Chatteris boards. Man}' a genius and many a quack, for that matter, has met with a similar fate before and since Miss Costigan's time. This honest woman meanwhile bore up against the public neglect, and any other crosses oi'' vexations which she might have in life, with her usual equa- nimity ; and ate, drank, acted, slept, with that regularity and comfort which belongs to people of her temperament. What a deal of grief, care, and other harmful excitement, does a healthy dulness and cheerful insensibility avoid ! Nor do I mean to say that Virtue is not Virtue because it is never tempted to go astray ; only that dulness is a much finer gift than we give it credit for being, and that some people are very lucky whom Nature has endowed with a good store of that great anodyne. Pen used to go dreai'ily ia and out from the play at Chatteris 10 146 PENDENS IS. during this season, and pretty much according to his fancy. His proceedings tortured his mother not a little, and her anxiety would have led her often to interfere, had not the Major con- stantly checked, and at the same time encouraged her ; for the wily man of the world fancied he saw that a favorable turn had occurred in Pen's malady. It was the violent efflux of versi- fication, among other s3'mptoms, which gave Pen's guardian and ph^-sician satisfaction. He might be heard spouting verses in the shrubbery walks, or muttering them between his teeth as he sat with the home party of evenings. One da}^ prowling about the house in Pen's absence, the Major found a great book full of verses in the lad's study. They were in English, and in Latin ; quotations from the classic authors were given in the scholastic manner in the foot-notes. He can't be very bad, wisely thought the Pail-Mall Philosopher : and he made Pen's mother remark (not, perhaps, without a secret feehng of disap- pointment, for she loved romance hke other soft women), that the young gentleman during the last fortnight came home quite hungry to dinner at night, and also showed a very decent ap- petite at the breakfast table in the morning. '*Gad, I wish 1 could," said the Major, thinking ruefully of his dinner pills. "The boy begins to sleep well, depend upon that." It was cruel, but it was true. Having no other soul to confide in, the lad's friendship for the Curate redoubled, or rather, he was never tired of having Smirke for a listener on that one subject. What is a lover without a confidant? Pen emploj-ed Mr. Smirke, as Corydon does the elm-tree, to cut out his mistress's name upon. He made him echo with the name of the beautiful Amaryllis. When men have left off playing the tune, they do not care much for the pipe : but Pen thought he had a great friendship for Smirke, because he could sigh out his loves and griefs into iiis tutor's ears ; and Smirke had his own reasons for always being ready at the lad's call. The poor Curate was naturall}^ very much dismayed at the contemplated departure of his pupil. When Arthur should go, Smirke's occupation and delight would go too. What pretext could he find for a daily visit to Fairoaks, and that kind word or glance from the lady there, which v/as as necessary to the Curate as the frugal dinner Avhich Madame Fribsby served him ? Arthur gone, he would only be allowed to make visits hke any other acquaintance : little Laura could not accommodate him by learning the Catechism more than once a week : he had curled himself like ivy round Fairoaks : he pined at the thought PENDENNIS. 147 that he must lose his hold of the place. Should he speak his mind and go down on liis knees to the widow? He thought over any indications in her behavior which flattered his hopes. She had praised his sermon three weeks before : she had thanked him exceedingly for his present of a melon, for a small dinner party which Mis. Pendcnnis gave : she said she should always be grateful to him for his kindness to Arthur: and when lie declared that there were no bounds to his love and affection for that dear bo}', she had certainly replied in a romantic manner, indicating her own strong gratitude and regard to all her son's friends. Should he speak out? — or should he delay? If he spoke and she refused him, it was awful to think that the gate of Fairoaks might be shut upon him for ever — and within that door lay all the world for Mr. Smirke. Thus, O friendly readers, we see how every man in the world has his own private griefs and business, by which he is more cast down or occupied than b}' the affairs or sorrows of any other person. While Mrs. Pendenuis is disquieting herself about losing her son, and that anxious hold she has had of him, as long as he has remained in the mother's nest, whence he is about to take fliglit into the great world bej-ond — while the Major's great soul chafes and frets, inwardly vexed as he thinlcs what great parties are going on in London, and that he might be sunning himself in the glances of Dukes and Duchesses, but for those cursed affairs which keep him in a wretched little country hole — while Pen is tossing between his passion and a more agreeable sensation, unacknowledged yet, but swaying him considerably, namely, his longing to see the world — Mr. Smirke has a private care watching at his bedside, and sitting behind him on his pon}' ; and is no more satisfied than the rest of us. How lonel}^ we are in the world ! how selfish and secret, everybody ! You and your wife have pressed the same pillow for forty 3'ears and fancy yourselves united. — Psha, does she cry out when you have the gout, or do you lie awake when she has the tooth-ache ? Your artless daughter, seemingly all inno- cence and devoted to her mamma and her piano-lesson, is think- ing of neither, but of the young Lieutenant with whom she danced at the last ball — the honest frank bo}' just returned from school is secretly speculating upon the money you will give him, and the debts he owes the tart-man. The old grand- mother crooning in the corner and bound to another world within a few months, has some business or cares which are quite private and her own — very likely she is thinking of fifty years back, and that night when she made such an impressiou. 148 PENDENNIS. and danced a cotillon with the Captain before your father pro- posed for her : or, what a silh' little over- rated creature youi wife is, and how absurdl}' 3^ou are infatuated about her — and, as for your wife — O philosophic reader, answer and say, — Do you tell her all? Ah, sir, — a distinct universe walks about under j^our hat and under mine — all things in nature are dif- ferent to each — the woman we look at has not the same fea- tures, the dish we eat from has not the same taste to the one and the other — you and I are but a pair of infinite isolations, with some fellow-islands a little more or less near to us. Let us return, however, to the solitary Smirke. Smirke had one confidant for his passion — that most injudi- cious woman, Madame Fribsby. How she became Madame Fribsb}-, nobody knows : she had left Clavering to go to a milliner's in London as Miss Fribsby — she pretended that she had got the rank in Paris during her residence in that city. But how could the French king, were he ever so much dis- posed, give her an}- such title? We shall not inquire into this myster}', however. Suffice to say, she went away from home a bouncing young lass ; she returned a rather elderlj' character, with a Madonna front and a melancholy countenance — bought the late Mrs. Harbottle's business for a song — took her elderl}' mother to live with her ; was very good to the poor, was con- stant at church, and had the best of characters. But there was no one in all Clavering, not Mrs. Portman herself, who read so many novels as Madame Fribsb}". She had plentj' of time for this amusement, for, in truth, very few people besides the folks at the Rectory and Fairoaks emploj-ed her ; and by a perpetual perusal of such works (which were by no means so moral or edifying in the daj^s of which we write, as the}' are at present), she had got to be so absurdly sentimental, that in her eyes life was nothing but an immense love-match ; and she never could see two people together, but she fancied they were dying for one another. On the day after Mrs. Pendennis's visit to the Curate, which we have recorded many pages back, Madame Fribsby settled in her mind that Mr. Smirke must be in love with the widow, and did everything in her power to encourage this passion on both sides. Mrs. Pendennis she very seldom saw, indeed, except in public, and in her pew at church. That lady had very little need of millinery, or made most of her own dresses and caps ; but on the rare occasions when Madame Fribsby received visits from Mrs. Pendennis, or paid her respects at Fairoaks, she never failed to entertain the widow PENDENNIS. 149 with praises of the Curate, pointing out what an angelical man he was, how gentle, how studious, how loneh' ; and she would wonder that no ladj' would take pit}' upon him. Helen laughed at these sentimental remarks, and wondered that Madame herself did not compassionate her lodger, and console him. Madame Fribsb}' shook her Madonna front. " Mong cure a boco souffare" she said, laying her hand on the part she designated as her cure. " 11 est more en Espang^ Madame" she said with a sigh. She was proud of her intimacy with the French language, and spoke it with more volubility than correctness. Mrs. Pendennis did not care to penetrate the secrets of this wounded heart : except to her few intimates she was a reserved, and it may be a very proud woman ; she looked upon her son's tutor merel}- as an attendant on that 3'oung Prince, to be treated with respect as a clergyman cer- tainly', but with proper dignity as a dependant on the house of Pendennis. Nor were Madame's constant allusions to the Curate particularly agreeable to her. It required a very in- genious sentimental turn indeed to find out that the widow had a secret regard for Mr. Smirke, to which pernicious error how- ever Madame Fribsby persisted in holding. Her lodger was ver}' much more willing to talk on this subject with his soft-hearted landlady. Ever}' time after that she praised the Curate to Mrs. Pendennis, she came away from the latter with the notion that the widow herself had been praising him. '•'■ £tre soul au monde est bien ouneeyong" she would say, glancing up at a print of a French carbineer in a green coat and brass cuirass which decorated her apartment — " Depend upon it when Master Pendennis goes to college, his Ma will find herself very lonely. She is quite young yet. — You wouldn't suppose her to be five-and-twenty. Monsieur le Oury^ song cure est touchy — fong suis sure — Je conny cela biang — Ally Monsieur Smirke." He softly blushed ; he sighed ; he hoped ; he feared ; he doubted ; he sometimes yielded to the delightful idea — his pleasure was to sit in Madame Fribsby's apartment, and talk upon the subject, where, as the greater part of the conversation was carried on in French by the Milliner, and her old mother was deaf, that retired old individual (who had once been a housekeeper, wife and widow of a butler in the Clavering family), could understand scarce one syllable of their talk. When Major Pendennis announced to his nephew's tutor that the young fellow would go to College in October, and that Mr. Smirke's valuable services would no longer be needful to 150 PENDENNIS. his pupil, for which services the Major, who spoke as grandly as a lord, professed himself exceedingly gi-ateful, and besouglit Mr. Smirke to command his interest in any way — the Curate felt that the critical moment was come for him, and was racked and tortured by those severe pangs which the occasion war- ranted. And now that Arthur was going awa}', Helen's heart was rather softened towards the Curate, from whom, perhaps divin- ing his intentions, she had shrunk liitherto : she bethought her how very polite Mr. Smirke had been ; how he had gone on messages for her ; how he had brought books and copied music ; how he had taught Laura so many things, and given her so many kind presents. Her heart smote her on account of her ingratitude towards the Curate : — so much so that one after- noon when he came down from stud}' with Pen, and was hanker- ing about the hall previous to his departure, she went out and shook hands with him with rather a blushing face, and begged him to come into her drawing-room, where she said they now never saw him. And as there was to be rather a good dinner that da}^, she invited Mr. Smirke to partake of it ; and we may be sure that he was too happy to accept such a delightful summons. Helen was exceedingly kind and gracious to Mr. Smirke during dinner, redoubhng her attentions, perhaps because Major Pendennis was veiy high and reserved with his nephew's tutor. When Pendennis asked Smirke to drink wine, he addressed him as if he was a Sovereign speaking to a petty retainer, in a man- ner so condescending, that even Pen laughed at it, although quite ready, for his part, to be as conceited as most young men are. But Smirke did not care for the impertinences of the Major so long as he had his hostess's kind behavior ; and he passed a delightful time by her side at table, exerting all his powers of conversation to please her, talking in a manner both clericjil and worldly, about the fancy Bazaar, and the Great Missionary Meeting, about the last new novel, and the Bishop's excellent sermon — about the fashionable parties in London, an account of which he read in the newspapers — in fine, he neglected no art, by which a College divine who has both sprightly and serious talents, a taste for the genteel, an irreproachable con- duct, and a susceptible heart, will try and make himself agreea- ble to the person on whom he has fixed his afl^ections. Major Pendennis came yawning out of the dining-room very soon after his sister and little Laura had left the apartment. PENDENNIS. 151 Now Arthur, flushed with a good deal of pride at the privi- lege of having the ke3-s of the cellar, and remembering that a very few more dinners would probably take place which he and his dear friend Smirke could share, had brought up a liberal supply' of claret for the company's drinking, and when the elders with little Laura left him, he and the Curate began to pass the wine very freely. One bottle speedily yielded up the ghost, another shed more than half its blood, before the two topers had been much more than half an hour together — Pen, with a hollow laugh and voice, had drunk otf one bumper to the falsehood of women, and had said sardonicall}', that wine at an^- rate was a mistress who never deceived, and was sure to give a man a welcome. Smirke gently said that he knew for his part some women who were all truth and tenderness ; and casting up his ej-es towards the ceiling, and heaving a sigh as if evoking some being dear and unmentionable, he took up his glass and drained it, and the ros}' hquor began to suffuse his face. Pen trolled over some verses he had been making that morn- ing, in which he informed himself that the woman who had slighted his passion couJd not be worth}' to win it : that he was awaking from love's mad fever, and, of course, under these circumstances, proceeded to leave her, and to quit a heartless deceiver : that a name which had one da}' been famous in the land, might again be heard in it : and, that though he never should be the happy and careless boy he was but a few months since, or his heart be what it had been ere passion had filled it and gi-ief had wellnigh killed it ; that though to him personally death was as welcome as life, and that he would not hesitate to part with the latter, but for the love of one kind being whose happiness depended on his own, — yet he hoped to show he was a man worthy of his race, and that one day the false one should be brought to know how great was the treasure and noble the heart which she had flung away. Pen, we sa}', who was a ver}^ excitable person, rolled out these verses in his rich sweet voice, which trembled with emotion whilst our 3'oung poet spoke. He had a trick of blush- ing when in this excited state, and his large and honest gra}' »^yes also exhibited proofs of a sensibilit}' so genuine, heart}'^, und manl}-, that Miss Costigan, if she had a heart, must needs ^ave softened toward him ; and ver}^ likely she was, as he said, altogether unworthy of the affection which he lavished upon her. The sentimental Smirke was caught b}' the emotion which agitated his 3'oung friend. He grasped Pen's hand over the 152 PENDENNiS. dessert dishes and wine-glasses. He said the verses were beautiful : that Pen was a poet, a gi-eat poet, and likely by Heaven's permission to run a great career in the world. ' ' Go on and prosper, dear Arthur," he cried: " the wounds under which at present you suffer are only temporarj^ and the very grief you endure will cleanse and strengthen your heart. I have always prophesied the greatest and brightest things of you, as soon as you have corrected some failings and weak- nesses of character, which at present belong to you. But 3'ou will get over these, my bo}', you will get over these ; and when 3'Ou are famous and celebrated, as I know j'ou will be, will 3-ou remember your old tutor and the happ}' early days of your youth?" Pen swore he would : with another shake of the hand across the glasses and apricots. " I shall never forget how kind you have been to me, Smirke," he said. " I don't know what 1 should have done without 3'Ou. You are my best friend." "Ami really, Arthur?" said Smirke, looking through his spectacles ; and his heart began to beat so that he thought Pen must almost hear it throbbing. " M3' best friend, m}- friend /or ever" Pen said. "God bless 3'ou, old bo}'," and he drank up the last glass of the second bottle of the famous wine which his father had laid in, which his uncle had bought, which Lord Levant had imported, and which now, like a slave indifferent, was ministering pleasure to its present owner, and giving its 30ung master delectation. " We'll have another bottle, old boy," Pen said, " b3- Jove we will. Hurra3" ! — claret goes for nothing. M3' uncle was telling me that he saw Sheridan drink five bottles at Brookes's, besides a bottle of Maraschino. This is some of the finest wine in England, he sa3^s. So it is by Jove. There's nothing like it. Nunc vino pellite curas — eras ingens iterabimus ceg — fill 3'our glass. Old Smirke, a hogshead of it won't do 3'ou an3' harm." And Mr. Pen began to sing the drinking song out of " Der Freischiitz." The dining-room windows were open, and his mother was softl3' pacing on the lawn outside, while little Laura was looking at the sunset. The sweet fresh notes of the boy's voice come to the widow. It cheered her kind heart to hear him sing. " You — 3'ou are taking too much wine, Arthur," Mr. Smirke said softly — " 3'Ou are exciting 3'ourself." "No," said Pen, " women give headaches, but this don't. Fill 3'-our glass, old fellow, and let's drink — I say, Smirke, my boj" — let's drink to her — your her, I mean, not mine, for (( (( PENDENNIS. 153 whom I swear I'll care no more — no, not a penny — no, not a fig — no. not a glass of wine. Tell us about the lady, Smirke ; I've often seen vou sighino- about her." " Oh ! " said Smirke — and his beautiful cambric shirt-front and glistening studs heaved with the emotion which agitated his gentle and suffering bosom. "Oh — what a sigh!" Pen cried, growing very hilarious: " fill, my bo}', and drink the toast, you can't refuse a toast, no gentleman refuses a toast. Here's her health, and good luck to yon, and may she soon be Mrs. Smirke." ^'' Do you say so?" Smirke said, all of a tremble. " Do you really sa}^ so, Arthur ? " " Saj' so; of course, I say so. Down with it. Here's Mrs. Smirke's good health : Hip, hip, hurra}- ! " Smirke convulsivel}' gulped down his glass of wine, and Pen waved his over his head, cheering so as to make his mother and Laura wonder on the lawn, and his uncle, who was dozing over the paper in the drawing-room, start, and say to himself, "that boy's drinking too much." Smirke put down the glass. I accept the omen," gasped out the blushing Curate. Oh, my dear Arthur, you — you know her — " "What — Mira Portman? I wish you joy: she's got a dev'lish large waist ; but I wish 3-0U joy, old fellow." " O Arthur ! " groaned the Curate again, and nodded his head, speechless. "Beg your pardon — sorry I offended you — but she has got a large waist, you know — devilish large waist," Pen con- tinued — the third bottle evidently beginning to act upon the 3'oung gentleman. "It's not Miss Portman," the other said, in a voice of agon}'. "Is it anybody at Chatteris or at Clapham? Somebody here ? No — it ain't old Pybus ? it can't be Miss Rolt at the Factory — she's onl}^ fourteen." "It's somebody rather older than I am, Pen," the Curate cried, looking up at his friend, and then guiltily casting his eyes down into his plate. Pen burst out laughing. " It's Madame Fribsby, by Jove, it's Madame Fribsby. Madame Frib. by the immortal Gods ! " The Curate could contain no more. "O Pen," he cried, "how can 3'ou suppose that any of those — of those more than ordinary beings you have named — could have an influ- ence upon this heart, when I have been daily in the habit ot 6 154 PENDENNIS. contemplating perfection ! I may be insane, I may be madly ambitious, I may be presumptuous — but for two years my heart has been tilled by one image, and has known no other idol. Haven't I loved 3'ou as a son, Arthur? — say, hasn't Charles Smirke loved 3'ou as a son ? " '' Yes. old bo}', you've been ver}' good to me," Pen said, whose liking, however, for his tutor was not by any means of the filial kind. " M}- means," rushed on Smirke, " are at present limited, I own, and my mother is not so liberal as might be desii'ed ; but what she has will be mine at her death. Were she to hear of my marrying a lady of rank and good fortune, my mother would be liberal, I am sure she would be liberal. Whatever I have or subsequenth^ inherit — and it's five hundred a-^'ear at the very least — would be settled upon her, and — and — and j-ou at m}' death — that is — " ' ' What the deuce do 3'Ou mean ? — and what have I to do with your money? " cried out Pen, in a puzzle. '* Arthur, Arthur ! " exclaimed the other wildly ; "You say I am 3-our dearest friend — Let me be more. Oh, can't 3'ou see that the angelic being I love — the i^urest, the best of women — is no other than 3'our dear, dear angel of a — mother." " My mother ! " cried out Arthur, jumping up and sober in a minute. "Pooh! damn it, Smirke, 3'Ou must be mad — ■ she's seven or eight 3'ears older than you are." " Did you find that any objection?" cried Smirke, piteousl3-, and alluding, of course, to the elderl3' subject of Pen's own passion. The lad felt the hint, and blushed quite red. " The cases are not similar, Smirke," he said, " and the allusion might have been spared. A man ma3' forget his own rank and elevate any woman to it ; but allow me to sa3' our positions are ver3' different." " How do 3^ou mean, dear Arthur?" the Curate interposed sadl3', cowering as he felt that his sentence was about to be read. " Mean?" said Arthur. " I mean what I sa3\ M3- tutor, I say my tutor ^ has no right to ask a lady of my mother's rank of life to marr3^ him. It's a breach of confidence. I say it's a libert3' 3'OU take, Smirke — it's a libert3\ Mean, indeed ! " " O Arthur ! " the Curate began to cr3' with clasped hands, and a scared face, but Arthur gave another stamp with his foot, and began to pull at the bell. " Don't let's have an3' more of this. We'll have come coftee, if 30U please," he said with a PENDENNIS. 155 majestic air : and the old butler entering at the summons, Arthur bade him to serve that refreshment. John said he had just carried coftee into the drawing-room, where his uncle was asking for Master Arthur, and the old man gave a glance of wonder at the three empty claret-bottles. Smirke said he thought he'd — he'd rather not go into the drawing-room, on which Arthur haughtil}- said, "As ^-ou please," and called for Mr. Smirke's horse to be brought round. The poor fellow said he knew the wa^' to the stable and would get his pony himself, and he went into the hall and sadly put on his coat and hat. Pen followed him out uncovered. Helen Avas still walking up and down the soft lawn as the sun was setting, and the Curate took off his hat and bowed by way of farewell, and passed on to the door leading to the stable court by which the pair disappeared. Smirke knew the wa}- to the stable as he said, well enough. He fumbled at the girths of the saddle, which Pen fastened for him, and put on the bridle and led the pony into the yard. The boy was touched b}' the grief which appeared in the other's face as he mounted. Pen held out his hand, and Smirke wrung it silent!}'. " I say, Smirke," he said in an agitated voice, " forgive me if I have said anything harsh — for you have always been very, very kind to me. But it can't be, old fellow, it can't be. Be a man. God bless 3'ou. Smirke nodded his head silently, and rode out of the lodge gate : and Pen looked after him for a couple of minutes, until he disappeared down the road, and the clatter of the pony's hoofs died away. Helen was still lingering on the lawn wait- ing until the l30_y came back — she put his hair off his fore- head and kissed it fondly. She was afraid he had been drinking too much wine. Why had Mr. Smirke gone awa^' without any tea? He looked at her with a kind humor beaming in his e^-es ; "Smirke is unwell," he said with a laugh. For a long while Helen had not seen the boy looking so cheerful. He put his arm round her waist, and walked her up and down the walk in front of the house. Laura began to drub on the drawing- room window and nod and laugh from it. ' ' Come along j'ou two people," cried out Major Pendennis, " your coffee is get- ting quite cold. When Laura was gone to bed. Pen, who was big with his secret, burst out with it, and described the dismal but ludicrous scene which had occurred- Helen heard of it with man}' blushes. 156 PENDENNIS. which became her pale face very well, and a perplexity which Arthur roguishly enjoyed. '• Confound the fellow's impudence," Major Pendennis said, as he took his candle, "where will the assurance of these people stop ? " Pen and his mother had a long talk that night, full of love, confidence, and laughter, and the bo}' somehow slept more soundly and woke up more easily than he had done for many months before. I Before the great Mr. Dolphin quitted Chatteris, he not only made an advantageous engagement with Miss Fotheringay, but he liberalh' left with her a sum of money to pay off any debts which the little famil}' might have contracted during their sta}' in the place, and which, mainly through the lady's own economy and management, were not considerable. The small account with the spirit merchant, which Major Pendennis had settled, was the chief of Captain Costigan's debts, and though the Cap- tain at one time talked about repaying every farthing of the money, it never appears that he executed his menace, nor did the laws of honor in the least call upon him to accomplish that threat. When Miss Costigan had seen all the outstanding bills paid to the uttermost shilling, she handed over the balance to her father, who broke out into hospitalities to all his friends, gave tlie little Creeds more apples and gingerbread than he had ever bestowed upon them, so that the widow Creed ever after held the memory of her lodger in veneration, and the 3'oung ones wept bitterly when he went awa}' ; and in a word managed the money so cleverly that it was entirely expended before man}' days, and he was compelled to draw upon Mr. Dolphin for a sum to pay for travelling expenses when the time of their departure arrived. There was held at an inn in that county town a weekl}' meeting of a festive, almost a riotous character, of a society of gentlemen who called themselves the Buccaneers. Some of the choice spirits of Chatteris belonged to this cheerful Club. Graves, the apothecary (than whom a better fellow never put a pipe in his mouth and smoked it). Smart, the talented and humorous portrait-painter of High Street, Croker, an excellent auctioneer, and the uncompromising Hicks, the able Editor for twenty-three yesivs of the County Chronicle and Chatteris Cham- pion, were amongst the crew of the Buccaneers, whom also Bingley, the manager, liked to join of a Saturday evening, whenever he received permission from his lady. PENDENNIS. 157 Costigan had been also an occasional Buccaneer. But a want of punctuality of payments had of late somewhat excluded him from the Societ}-, where he was subject to disagreeable re- marks from the landlord, who said that a Buccaneer who didn't pay his shot was utterly unworthy to be a Marine Bandit. But when it became known to the 'Ears, as the Clubbists called themselves familiarly, that Miss Fotheringay had made a splen- did eno-agement, a great revolution of feeling took place in the Club regarding Captain Costigan. Solly, mine host of the Grapes, told the gents in the Buccaneers' room one night how noble the Captain had beayved ; having been round and paid off all his ticks in Chatteris, including his score of three pound fourteen here — and pronounced that Cos was a good fellar, a gentleman at bottom, and he, Solly, had always said so, and finally worked upon the feelings of the Buccaneers to give the Captain a dinner. The banquet took place on the last night of Costigan's stay at Chatteris, and was served in Solly's accustomed manner. As good a plain dinner of old English fare as ever smoked on a table was prepared by Mrs. S0II3' ; and about eighteen gentle- men sat down to the festive board. Mr. Jubber (the eminent draper of High Street) was in the Chair, having the distin- guished guest of the Club on his right. The able and con- sistent Hicks officiated as croupier on the occasion ; most of the gentlemen of the Club were present, and H. Foker, Esq., and Spavin, Esq., friends of Captain Costigan, were also participators in the entertainment. The cloth having been drawn, the Chairman said, "Costigan, there is wine, if you like," but the Captain preferring punch, that liquor was voted by acclamation : and " Non Nobis" having been sung in ad- mirable style by Messrs. Bingley, Hicks, and BuUby (of the Cathedral choir, than whom a more jovial spirit ' ' ne'er tossed off a bumper or emptied a bowl"), the Chairman gave the health of the " King !" which was drunk with the loyalty of Chatteris men, and then, without further circumlocution, pro- posed their friend " Captain Costigan." After the enthusiastic cheering, which rang through old Chatteris, had subsided, Captain Costigan rose in reply, and made a speech of twenty minutes, in which he was repeatedly overcome by his emotions. The gallant Captain said he must be pardoned for incoher- ence, if his heart was too full to speak. He was quitting a city celebrated for its antiquitee, its hospltalitee, the beautee of its women, the manly fidelitee, generositee, and jovialitee of 15S PENDEKNIS. its mon. T Cheers.) He was going from that ancient and venerable city, of which, while Mimoree held her sayt. he should never think without the fondest emotion, to a methraw- poUs where the talents of Ms daughter were about to have full play, and where he would watch over her like a guardian angel. He should never forget that it was at Chatteris she had ac- quired the skill which she was about to exercise in another sphere, and in her name and his own. Jack Costigan thanked and blessed them. The gallant officer's speech was received with tremendous cheers. Mr. Hicks, Croupier, in a brilliant and energetic manner, proposed Miss Fotheringay's health. Captain Costigan returned thanks in a speech full of feeling and eloquence. Mr. Jubber proposed the Drama and the Chatteris Theatre, and Mr. Bingley was about to rise, but was prevented b}- Cap- tain Costigan, who, as long connected with the Chatteris Thea- tre, and on behalf of his daughter, thanked the company. He informed them that he had been in ganison, at Gibraltar, and at Malta, and had been at the taking of Flushing. The Duke of York was a patron of the Drama : he had the honor of dining with His Royal Highness and the Duke of Kent many times ; and the former had justh' been named the friend of the soldier. (Cheers.) The Army was then proposed, and Captain Costigan re- turned thanks. In the course of the night, he sang his well- known songs, '-The Deserter," '-The Shan Van Voght,*' '• The Little Pig imder the Bed." and •• The Vale of Avuca." The evening was a great triumph for him — it ended. All triumphs and all evenings end. And the next day. Miss Costi- gan having taken leave of all her friends, having been recon- ciled to Miss Rounc\', to whom she left a necklace and a white satin gown — the next day. he and Miss Costigan had places in the Competitor coach rolling by the gates of Fairoaks Lodge — and Pendennis never saw them. Tom Smith, the coachman, pointed out Fairoaks to Mr. Costigan, who sat on the box smelling of rum-and-water — and the Captain said it was a poor place — and added, "Ye should see Castle Costigan. County Ma}'©, me boy," — which Tom said he should like very much to see. They were gone, and Pen had never seen them I He onh' knew of their departure bv its announcement in the county paper the next day : and straight galloped over to Chatteris to hear the truth of this news. They were gone indeed. A card PENDENNIS. 159 of "• Lodgings to let," was placed in the dear little familiar window. He rushed up into the room and viewed it over. He sat ever so long in the old window-seat looking into the Dean's Garden : whence he and Emily had so often looked out together. He walked, with a sort of teiTor, into her little empt}- bed- room. It was swept out and prepared for new comers. The glass which had reflected her fair face was shining read}' for her successor. The curtains lay square folded on the little bed : he flung himself down and buried his head on the vacant pillow. Laura had netted a purse into which his mother had put some sovereigns, and Pen had found it on his dressing-table that very morning. He gave one to the little servant who had been used to wait upon the Costigans, and another to the chil- dren, because they said they were very fond of her. It was but a few months back, yet what years ago it seemed since he had first entered that room ! He felt that it was all done. The very missing her at the coach had something fatal in it. Blank, weary, utterly wretched and lonely the poor lad felt. His mother saw She was gone by his look when he came home. He was eager to fly too now, as were other folks round about Chatteris. Poor Smirke wanted to go away from the sight of the siren widow, Foker began to think he had had enough of Bay mouth, and that a few supper parties at Saint Bonifoce would not be unpleasant. And Major Pendennis longed to be off, and have a little pheasant-shooting at Still- brook, and get rid of all the annoyances and tracasseries of the village. The widow and Laura nervously set about the i)repa- rations for Pen's kit, and filled trunks with his books and linen. Helen wrote cards with the name of Arthur Pendennis, Esq., which were duly nailed on the boxes ; and at which both slic and Laura looked with tearful, wistful eyes. It was not until long, long after he was gone, that Pen remembered how constant and tender the aflTection of these women had been, and how selfish his own conduct was. A night soon comes, when the mail, with echoing horn and blazing lamps, stops at the lodge-gate of Fairoaks, and Pen's trunks and his Uncle's are placed on the roof of the carriage, into which the pair presentl}' afterwards enter. Helen and Laura are standing by the evergreens of the shrubbery, their figures lighted up by the coach lamps; the guard cries "all right : " in another instant the carriage whirls onward ; the lights disappear, and Helen's heart and prayers go with them. 160 PENDENNIS. Her sainted benedictions follow the departing boy. He has left the home-nest in which he has been chafing, and whither, after his very first flight, he returned bleeding and wounded ; he is eager to go forth again and tr}' his restless wings. How lonely the house looks without him! The corded trunks and book-boxes are there in his empty study. Laura asks leave to come and sleep in Plelen's room : and when she ftias cried herself to sleep there, the mother goes softly into Pen's vacant chamber, and kneels down b}^ the bed on which the moon is shining, and there prays for her boy, as mothers only know how to plead. He knows that her pure blessings are following him, as he is carried miles away. CHAPTER XVII. ALMA MATER. Every man, however brief or inglorious may have been his academical career, must remember with kindness and tenderness the old university comrades and days. The ^oung man's life is just beginning : the bo3''s leading strings are cut, and he has all the novel delights and dignities of freedom. He has no idea of cares yet, or of bad health, or of roguery, or poverty, or to-morrow's disappointment. The play has not been acted so often as to make him tired. Though the after-drink, as we mechanieall}- go on repeating it, is stale and bitter, how pure and brilliant was that first sparkling draught of pleasure ! — How the boy rushes at the cup, and with what a wild eagerness he drains it ! But old epicures who are cut off from the delights of the table, and are restricted to a poached egg and a glass of water, like to see people with good ai)petites ; and, as the next best thing to being amused at a pantomime one's self is to see one's children enjoy it, I hope there may be no degree of age or experience to which mortal ma}' attain, when he shall become such a glum philosopher, as not to be pleased by the sight of happ3' 30uth. Coming back a few weeks since from a brief visit to the old University of Oxbridge, where m}^ friend Mr. Arthur Pendennis passed some period of his life, I made the journey in the railroad by the side of a }oung fellow at present a student of Saint Boniface. He had got an exeat somehow, and was bent on a day's lark in London : he never stopped rattling and talk- PEN DENNIS. 161 ing from the commencement of the journc}^ until its close (which was a great deal too soon for me, for I never was tired of listen- ing to the honest 3'oung fellow's jokes and cheery' laughter) ; and when we arrived at the terminus nothing would satisf}' him but a Hansom cab, so that he might get into town the quicker, and plunge into the pleasures awaiting him there. Away the young lad went whirling, with jo}- lighting up his honest face ; and as for the reader's hiunble servant, having but a small car- pet-bag, I got up on the outside of the omnibus, and sat there ver}' contentedly between a Jew-pedlar smoking bad cigars, and a gentleman's servant taking care of a poodle-dog, until we got our fated coiBplement of passengers and boxes, when the coach- man drove leisurely awa}'. We weren't in a hurry to get to town. Neither one of us was particular!}' eager about rushing into that near smoking Bab} Ion, or thought of dining at the Club that night, or dancing at the Casino. Yet a few years more, and my young friend of the railroad will be not a whit more eager. There were no railroads made when Arthur Pendennis went to the famous University of Oxbridge ; but he drove thither in a well-appointed coach, filled inside and out with dons, gowns- men, young freshmen about to enter, and their guardians, who were conducting them to the university. A fat old gentleman, in gray stockings, from tlie City, who sat by Major Pendennis inside the coach, having his pale-faced son opposite, was fright- ened beyond measure, when he heard that the coach had been driven for a couple of stages by young Mr. Foker, of Saint Boni- face College, who was the friend of all men, including coachmen, and could drive as well as Tom Hicks himself. Pen sat on the roof, examining coach, passengers, and country, with great delight and curiosity. His heart jumped with pleasure as the famous university came in view, and the magnificent prospect of venerable towers and pinnacles, tall elms and shining river, spread before him. I Pen had passed a few days with his uncle at the Major's lodgings, in Bury Street, before they set out for Oxbridge. ]\Iajor Pendennis thought that the lad's wardrobe wanted re- newal ; and Arthur was by no means averse to any plan which was to bring him new coats and waistcoats. Tliere was no end to the sacrifices which the self-denying uncle made in the youtli's behalf. London was awfully lonely. " The Pall Mall pavement was deserted ; the very red-jackets had gone out of town. There was scarce a face to be seen in the bow- windows of the clubs. The Major conducted his nephew into one or two of those desert 11 162 PENDENNIS. mansions, and wrote down the lad's name on the candidate-list of one of them ; and Arthur's pleasure at this compliment on his guardian's part was excessive. He read in the parchment volume his name and titles, as " Arthur Pendennis, Esquire, of Fairoaks Lodge, shire, and Saint Boniface College, Ox- bridge ; proposed b}' Major Pendennis, and seconded by Vis- count Colchicum," with a thrill of intense gratification. " You will come in for ballot in about three years, by which time you will have taken your degree," the guardian said. Pen longed for the three j'cars to be over, and surveyed the stucco-halls, and vast libraries, and drawing-rooms, as already his own prop- erty. The Major laughed slyly to see the pompous airs of the simple 3'ouug fellow, as he strutted out of the building. He and Folcer drove down in the latter's cab one day to the Grey Friars, and renewed acquaintance with some of their old com- rades there. The boys came crowding up to the cab as it stood by the Grey Friars gates, where the}' were entering, and ad- mired the chestnut horse, and the tights and livery and gravity of Stoopid, the tiger. The bell for afternoon-school rang as the}' were swaggering about the play-ground talking to their old cronies. The awful Doctor passed into school with his gi'ammar in his hand. Foker slunk away uneasily at his presence, but Pen went up blushing, and shook the dignitary by the hand. He laughed as he thought that well-remembered Latin Grammar had boxed his ears man}' a time. He was generous, good- natured, and, in a word, perfectl}'^ conceited and satisfied with himself. Then they drove to the parental brew-house. Foker's En- tire is composed in an enormous pile of buildings, not far from the Grey Friars, and the name of that well-known firm is gilded upon innumerable public-house signs, tenanted b}' its vassals in the neighborhood : the venerable junior partner and manager did honor to the young lord of the vats and his friend, and served them with silver flagons of brown-stout, so strong, that you would have thought, not onl}' the young men, but the very horse Mr. Hany Foker drove, was affected b}' the potency of the drink, for he rushed home to the west-end of the town at a rapid pace, which endangered the pie-stalls and the women on the crossings, and brought the cab-steps into collision with the posts at the street corners, and caused Stoopid to swing fear- fully on his board behind. The Major was quite pleased when Pen was with his young acquaintance ; listened to Mr. Foker's artless stories with the greatest interest : gave the two hoys a fine dinner at a Covent PENDENNIS. 163 Garden Coffee-house, whence they proceeded to the play ; but was above all happy wheu Mr. aud Lady Agnes Foker, who happened to be in London, requested the pleasure of Major Pendennis and Mr. Arthur Pendennis's company at dinner in Grosvenor Street. "Having obtained the entree into Lady Agnes Foker's house," he said to Pen with an affectionate sol- emnity which befitted the importance of the occasion, "it be- hoves 3-ou, my dear boy, to keep it. You must mind and nevei- neglect to call in Grosvenor Street Avheu you come to London. I recommend 3'ou to read up careful!}', in Debrett, the aUiances and genealogy of the Earls of Rosherville, and if you can, to make some trifling allusions to the family, something historical, neat, and complimentar}-, and that sort of thing, which you, who have a poetic fancy, can do prettj' well. Mr. Foker him- self is a worth}' man, though not of high extraction or indeed much education. He al\va3's makes a point of having some of the family porter served round after dinner, which you will on no account refuse, and which I shall drink myself, though all beer disagrees with me confoundedl}'." And the heroic martyr did actually sacrifice himself, as he said he would, on the day when the dinner took place, and old Mr. Foker, at the head of his table, made his usual joke about Foker's Entire. We should all of us, I am sure, have liked to see the Major's grin, when the worthy old gentleman made his time-honored joke. Lady Agnes, who, wrapped up in Harry, was the fondest of mothers, and one of the most good-naturfed though not the wisest of women, received her son's friend with great cordiality ; and astonished Pen by accounts of the severe course of studies which her darling bo}^ was pursuing, and which she feared might injure his dear health. Foker the elder burst into a horse-laugh at some of these speeches, and the heir of the house winked his eye ver}' knowingly at his friend. And Lady Agnes then going through her son's history from the earliest time, and recounting his miraculous sufierings in the measles and whooping-cough, his escape from drowning, the shocking tyraimies practised upon him at that horrid school, whither Mr. Foker would send him because he had Ijeen brought up there him- self, aud she never would forgive that disagreeable Doctor, no never — Lady Agnes, we sa}', having prattled away for an hour incessantly about her son, voted the two Messieurs Pendennis most agreeable men ; and when the pheasants came with the second course, which the Major praised as the very finest birds he ever saw, her ladyship said tlipy came from Logwood (as the Major knew perfect^ well) and hoped that they would both 164 PENDENNIS. paj' her a visit there — at Christmas, or when dear Harry was at home for the vacations. " God bless you, my dear bo}-," Pendennis said to Arthur, as the}' were lighting their candles in Bury Street afterwards to go to bed. "You made that little allusion to Agincoui't, where one of the Roshervilles distinguished himself, very neatly and well, although Lady Agnes did not quite understand it : but it was exceedingly well for a beginner — though you oughtn't to blush so, by the way — and I beseech j-ou, m}' dear Arthur, to remember through life, that with an entree — with a good entree^ mind — it is just as eas}' for you to have good societ}' as bad, and that it costs a man, when properly intro- duced, no more trouble or soins to keep a good footing in the best houses in London than to dine with a lawyer in Bedford Square. Mind this when 3'ou are at Oxbridge pursuing your studies, and for Heaven's sake be very particular in the acquaint- ances which you make. Tlie •premier pas in life is the most important of all — did you write to 3^our mother to-day ? — No ? — well, do, before 3'ou go, and call and ask Mr. Foker for a frank — They like it — Good night. God bless j'ou." Pen wrote a droll account of his doings in London, and the plaj', and the visit to the old Friars, and the brewery, and the party at Mr. Foker's, to his dearest mother, who was saying her prayers at home in the lonelj- house at Fairoaks, her lieart full of love and tenderness unutteral)le for the boy : and she and Laura read tliat letter and those which followed, many, many times, and brooded over them as women do. It was the first step in life that Pen was making — Ah ! what a dangerous journey it is, and how the bravest ma}' stumble and the strong- est fail. Brother wayfarer ! may you have a kind arm to sup- port yours on the path, and a fricndl}' hand to succor those who fall beside you. May truth guide, mercy forgive at the end, and love accompany always. Without that lamp how blind the traveller would be, and how black and cheerless the journey ! So the coach drove up to that ancient and comfortable inn the Trencher, which stands in Main Street, Oxbridge, and Pen with delight and eagerness remarked, for the first time, gowns- men going about, chapel bells clinlving (bells in Oxbridge are ringing from morning-tide till even-song,) — towers and j^inna- cles rising calm and stately over the gables and antique house- roofs of the city. Previous communications had taken place between Doctor Portman on Pen's part, and Mr. Buck, Tutor of Boniface, on whose side Pen was entered ; and as soon a-s PENDENNIS. 165 Major Pendennis had aiTanged his personal appearance, so that it should make a satisfactor}' impression upon Pen's tutor, the pair walked down Main Street, and passed the great gate and belfry-tower of Saint George's College, and so came, as they were directed, to Saint Boniface, where again Pen's heart be- gan to beat as they entered at the wicket of the venerable ivy- mantled gate of the College. It is surmounted with an ancient dome almost covered with creepers, and adorned witli the effigy of the Saint from whom the House takes its name, and many coats-of-arms of its royal and noble benefactors. The porter pointed out a queer old tower at the corner of the quadrangle, b}' which Mr. Buck's rooms were approached, and the two gentlemen walked across the square, the main fea- tures of wliich were at once and for ever stamped in Pen's mivid — the prett}' fountain playing in the centre of the fair grass plats ; the tall chapel windows and buttresses rising to the right ; the hall, with its tapering lantern and oriel window ; the lodge, from the doors of which the Master issued awfully in rustling silks : the lines of the surrounding rooms pleasantly broken b}' carved chimnej-s, gray turrets, and quaint gables — all these Mr. Pen's e^^es drank in with an eagerness which belongs to first impressions ; and Major Pendennis surve^-ed with that calmness which belongs to a gentleman who does not care for the picturesque, and whose eyes have been somewhat dimmed by the constant glare of the pavement of Pall Mall. Saint George's is the great College of the Universit}- of Oxbridge, with its four vast quadrangles, and its beautiful hall and gardens, and the Georgians, as the men are called, wear gowns of a peculiar cut, and give themselves no small airs of superiorit}' over all other young men. Little Saint Boniface is but a petty hermitage in comparison of the huge consecrated pile alongside of which it lies. But considering its size it has always kept an excellent name in the university. Its ton is veiy good : the best families of certain counties have time out of mind sent up their young men to Saint Boniface : the college livings are remarkably good, the fellowships eas\" ; the Boniface men had had more than their fair share of university honors ; their boat was third upon the river ; their chapel-choir is not inferior to Saint George's itself; and the Boniface ale the best in Oxbridge. In the comfortable old wainscoted College-Hall, and round about Roubilliac's statue of Saint Boniface (who stands in an attitude of seraphic benediction over the uncom- monl}' good cheer of the fellows' table) there are portraits of many most eminent Bonifacians. There is the learned Doctor 166 PENDENNIS. Griddle, who suffered in Henry VIII. 's time, and Archbishop Bush who roasted him — there is Lord Chief Justice Hicks — the Dulve of St. David's, K.G., Chancellor of the University and Member of this College — Sprott the Poet, of whose fame the college is justly proud — Doctor Blogg, the late master, and friend of Doctor Johnson, who visited him at Saint Boniface — and other lawyers, scholars, and divines, whose portraitures look from the walls, or whose coats-of-arms shine in emerald and ruby, gold and azure, in the tall windows of the refectory. The venerable cook of the college is one of the best artists in Oxbridge, and the wine in the fellows' room has long been famed for its excellence and abundance. Into this certainly not the least snugly sheltered arbor amongst the groves of Academe, Pen now found his way, lean- ing on his uncle's arm, and they speedilj^ reached Mr. Buck's rooms, and were conducted into the apartment of that courteous gentleman. He had received previous information from Doctor Portman regarding Pen, with respect to whose family, fortune, and per- sonal merits the honest doctor had spoken with no small en- thusiasm. Indeed Portman had described Arthur to the tutor as ''a young gentleman of some fortune and landed estate, oi one of the most ancient families in the kingdom, and possess- ing such a character and genius as were sure, under proper guidance, to make him a credit to the college and the univer- sity-. " Under such recommendations, the tutor was, of course, most cordial to the young freshman and his guardian, invited the latter to dine in hall, where he would have the satisfaction of seeing his nephew wear his gown and eat his dinner for the first time, and requested the pair to take wine at his rooms after hall, and in consequence of the highly' favorable report he had received of Mr. Arthur Pendennis, said, he should be happy to give him the best set of rooms to be had in college — a gentleman-pensioner's set, indeed, which were just luckilj- vacant. AVhen a College Magnate takes the trouble to be polite, there is no man more splendidly- courteous. Immersed in their books, and excluded from the world by the gravity of their occupations, these reverend men assume a solemn mag- nificence of compliment in which they rustle and swell as in their grand robes of state. Those silks and brocades are not put on for all comers or every day. When the two gentlemen had taken leave of the tutor in his study, and had returned to Mr. Buck's ante-room, or lecture- room, a very handsome apartment, turkey carpeted, and hung PENDENNIS. 167 with excellent prints and richly framed pictiu'es, they found the tutor's servant already in waiting there, accompanied by a man with a bag lull of caps and a number of gowns, from which Pen might select a cap and gown for himself, and the servant, no doubt, would get a commission proportionable to the service done b\' him. Mr. Pen was all in a tremor of pleasure as the bustling tailor tried on a gown, and pronounced that it was an excellent fit ; and then he put the pretty college cap on, in rather a dandified manner, and somewhat on one side, as he had seen Fiddicombe, the 3-oungest master at Gre^' Friars, wear it. And he inspected the entire costume with a great deal of satis- faction in one of the great gilt mirrors which ornamented JMr. Buck's lecture-room : for some of these college divines are no more above looking-glasses than a lady is, and look to the set of their gowns and caps quite as anxiously as folks do of the lovelier sex. Then Davis, the skip or attendant, led the way, keys in hand, across the quadrangle, the Major and Pen following him, the latter blushing, and pleased with his new academical habili- ments, across the quadrangle to the rooms which were destined for the freshman ; and which were vacated by the retreat of the gentleman-pensioner, Mr. Spicer. The rooms were very com- fortable, with large cross beams, high wainscots, and small windows in deep embrasures. Mr. Spicer's furniture was there, and to be sold at a valuation, and Major Pendennis agreed on his nephew's behalf to take the available part of it, laughingly however declining (as, indeed. Pen did for his own part) six sporting prints, and four groups of opera-dancers with gauze draperies, which formed the late occupant's pictorial collection. Then they went to hall, where Pen sat down and ate his commons with his brother freshmen, and the Major took his place at the high-table along with the college dignitaries and other fathers or guardians of youth, who had come up with their sons to Oxbridge ; and after all the}- went to Mr. Buck's to take wine ; and after wine to chapel, where the Major sat with great gravity in the upper place, having a fine view of the Mas- ter in his carved throne or stall under the organ-loft, where that gentleman, the learned Doctor Donne, sat magnificent, with his great pra3'er-book before him, an image of statuesque piety and rigid devotion. All the 3'oung freshmen behaved with gravit}' and decorum, but Pen Avas shocked to see that atrocious little Foker, who came in very late, and half a dozen of his comrades in the gentlemen-pensioners' seats, giggling and talking as if they had been in so many stalls at the Opera. 168 PENDENNIS. Pen could hardly sleep at night in his bedroom at the Trencher : so anxious was he to begin his college life, and to get into his own apartments. What did he think about, as he ia}- tossing and awake ? Was it about his mother at home ; the pious soul whose life was bound up in his? Yes, let us hope he thought of her a little. Was it about Miss Fotherin- gay, and his eternal passion, which had kept him awake so many nights, and created such wretchedness and such longing? He had a trick of blushing, and if you had been in the room, and the candle had not been out, ^-ou might have seen the youth's countenance redden more than once, as he broke out into pas- sionate incoherent exclamations regarding that luckless event of his life. His uncle's lessons had not been thrown awa}' Upon him ; the mist of passion had passed from his eyes now, and he saw her as she was. To think that he, Pendennis, had been en- slaved by such a woman, and then jilted by her ! that he should have stooped so low, to be trampled on in the mire ! that there was a time in his life, and that but a few months back, when he was willing to take Costigan for his father-in-law ! — "Poor old Smirke ! " Pen presently laughed out — "well, I'll write and tr^' and console the poor old boy. He won't die of his passion, ha, ha ! " The Major, had he been awake, might have heard a score of such ejaculations uttered by Pen as he lay awake and restless through the first night of his resi- dence at Oxbridge. It would, perhaps, have been better for a youth, the battle of whose life was going to begin on the morrow, to have passed the eve in a ditferent sort of vigil : but the world had got hold of Pen in the shape of his selfish old Mentor : and those who have any interest in his character, mitst have perceived ere now, that this lad was very weak as well as very impetuous, very vain as well as very frank, and if of a generous disposition, not a little selfish, in the midst of his profuseness, and also rather fickle, as all eager pursuers of self-gratification are. The six-months' passion had aged him very considerably. There was an immense gulf between Pen the victim of love, and Pen the innocent boy of eighteen, sighing after it : and so Arthur Pendennis had all the experience and superiority, besides that command which afterwards conceit and imperiousness of disposition gave him over the young men with whom he now began to live. He and his uncle passed the morning with great satisfaction in making purchases for the better comfort of the apartments which the lad was about to occupy. Mr. Spicer's china and PENDENNIS. 169 glass were in a dreadfully dismantled condition, his lamps smashed, and his book-cases by no means so spacious as those shelves which would be requisite to receive the contents of the boxes which were lying in the hall at Fairoaks, and which were addressed to Arthur in the hand of poor Helen. The boxes arrived in a few days, that his mother had packed with so much care. Pen was touched as he read the superscrip- tions in the dear well-known hand, and he arranged in their proper places all the books, his old friends, and all the linen and table-cloths which Helen had selected from the family stock, and all the jam-pots which little Laura had bound in straw, and the hundred simple gifts of home. CHAPTER XVIII. PENDENNIS OF BONIFACE. Our friend Pen was not sorry when his Mentor took leave of the 30ung gentleman on the second day after the arrival of the pair in Oxbridge, and we ma}' be sure that the Major on his part was very glad to have discharged his dut}', and to have the dut}' over. More than three months of precious time had that martyr of a Major given up to his nephew — Was ever selfish man called upon to make a greater sacrifice ? Do you know man}' men or Majors who would do as much? A man will lay down his head, or peril his life for his honor, but let us be shy how we ask him to give up his ease or his heart's desire. Very few of us can bear that trial. Let us give the Major due credit for his conduct during the past quarter, and own that he has quite a right to be pleased at getting a holiday. Foker and Pen saw him off in the coach, and the former youth gave particular orders to the coachman to take care of that gentleman inside. It pleased the elder Pendennis to have his nephew in the company of a young fellow who would introduce him to the best set of the university. The Major rushed ofl* to London and thence to Cheltenham, from which watering-place he de- scended upon some neighboring great houses, whereof the families were not gone abroad, and where good shooting and company were to be had. We are not about to go throi>gh young Pen's academicaJ career very minutely. Alas, tlic life of such boys doco not bear 170 PENDENNIS. tolling altogether. I wish it did. I ask yon, does 3'oiirs? As long as what we call our honor is clear, 1 suppose your mind is prett}' easy. Women are pure, but not men. Women are un- selfish, but not men. And I would not wish to sa}- of poor Arthur Pendennis that he was worse than his neighbors, only that his neighbors are bad for the most part. Let us have the candor to own as much at least. Can you point out ten spot- less men of 3'our acquaintance? Mine is pretty large, but I can't find ten saints in the list. During the first term of Mr. Pen's university life, he attended classical and mathematical lectures with tolerable assiduity ; but discovering before ver^- long time that he had little taste or genius for the pursuing of the exact sciences, and being perhaps rather anno^^ed that one or two ver}' vulgar j'oung men, who did not even use straps to their trousers so as to cover the abominabl}" thick and coarse shoes and stockings which they wore, beat him completel}' in the lecture-room, he gave up his attendance at that course, and announced to his fond parent that he proposed to devote himself exclusivel}' to the cultivation of Greek and Roman Literature. Mrs. Pendennis was, for her part, quite satisfied that her darling boy should pursue that branch of learning for which he had the greatest inclination ; and onlj- besought him not to ruin his health by too much stud}-, for she had heard the most mel- ancholv stories of young students who, by over fatigue, had brought on brain-fevers and perished untimely in the midst of their university career. And Pen's health, which was alwa3-s delicate, was to be regarded, as she justl}' said, beyond all con- siderations or vain honors. Pen, although not aware of any lurking disease which was likely to endanger his life, 3'et kindh' promised his mamma not to sit up reading too late of nights, and stuck to his word in this respect with a great deal more tenacit}^ of resolution than he exhibited upon some other occa- sions, when perhaps he was a little I'emiss. Presently he began too to find that he learned little good in the classical lecture. His fellow-students there were too dull, as in mathematics the3^ were too learned for him. Mr. Buck, the tutor, was no better a scholar than many a fifth-form bo3' at Gre3' Friars ; might have some stupid humdrum notions about the metre and grammatical construction of a passage of ^sch3'- lus or Aristophanes, but had no more notion of the poetr}* than Mrs. Binge, his bed-maker ; and Pen grew wear3' of hearing the dull students and tutor blunder through a few lines of a play, which he could read in a tenth pai't of the time which they PENDENNIS. 171 gave to it. After all, private reading, as he began to perceive, was the only study which was really profitable to a man ; and he announced to his mamma that he should read by himself a great deal more, and in pubhc a great deal less. That excel- lent woman knew no more about Homer than she did about Algebra, but she was quite contented with Pen's arrangements regarding his course of studies, and felt perfectly confident that her dear bo}' would get the place which he merited. Pen did not come home until after Christmas, a little to the fond mother's disappointment, and Laura's, who was longing for him to make a fine snow fortification, such as he had made three winters before. But he was iuAited to Logwood, Lady Agnes Foker's, where there were private theatricals, and a gay Christmas party of very fine folks, some of them whom Major Pendennis would on no account have his nephew neglect. How- ever, he sta3'ed at home for the last three weeks of the va- cation, and Laura had the opportunity of remarking what a quantilA' of fine new clothes he brought with him, and his mother admhed his improved appearance and manly and de- cided tone. He did not come home at Easter ; but when he amved for the long vacation, he brought more smart clothes ; appearing in the morning in wonderful shooting-jackets, with remarkable buttons ; and in the evening in gorgeous velvet waistcoats, with richly embroidered cravats, and curious linen. And as she pried about his room, she saw, oh, such a beautiful dressing- case, with silver mountings, and a quantity' of lovely rings and jewellery. And he had a new French watch and gold chain, in place of the big old chronometer, with its bunch of jingling seals, which had hung from the fob of John Pendennis, and by the second-hand of which the defunct doctor had felt many a patient's pulse in his time. It was but a few months back Pen had longed for this watch, which he thought the most splendid and august time-piece in the world ; and just before he went to college, Helen had taken it out of her trinket-box (where it had remained unwound since the death of her husband) and given it to Pen with a solemn and appropriate little speech respecting his father's virtues and the proper use of time. This portl}- and valuable chronometer Pen now pronounced to be out of date, and indeed, made some comparisons between it and a warming-pan, which Laura thought disrespectful, and he left the watch in a drawer, in the couipany of soiled prinu'ose gloves, cravats which had gone out of favor, and of that other school watch which has once before been mentioned in this history. 172 PENDENNIS. Our old friend, Rebecca, Pen pronounced to l)e no longer up to his weiglit, and swapped her away for anotlicr and more power- ful horse, for which he had to pay rather a heavy figure. Mrs. Pendennis gave the boy the money for the new horse ; and Laura cried when Rebecca was fetched away. Also Pen brought a large box of cigars branded Color ados ^ Afrancesados, Telescopies, Fudson Oxford Street, or by some such strange titles, and began to consume these not only about the stables and green-houses, where they were very good for Helen's plants, but in his own study, — which practice his mother did not at first approve. But he was at work upon a, prize-poem, he said, and could not compose without his cigar, and quoted the late lamented Lord Byron's lines in favor of the custom of smoking. As he was smoking to such good purpose, his mother could not of course refuse permission : in fact, the good soul coming into the room one day in the midst of Pen's labors (he was consulting a novel which had recently appeared, for the cultivation of the light literature of his own country as well as of foreign nations became every student) — Helen, we say, coming into the room and finding Pen on the sofa at this work, rather than disturb him went for a light-box and his cigar-case to his bedroom which was adjacent, and actually put the cigar into his mouth and lighted the match at which he kindled it. Pen laughed, and kissed his mother's hand as it hung fondly over the back of the sofa. " Dear old mother," he said, " if I were to tell you to burn the house down, I think you would do it." And it is very likely that Mr. Pen was right, and that the foolish woman would have done almost as much for him as he said. Besides the works of English " light literature" which this diligent student devoured, he brought down boxes of the light literature of the neighboring country of France : into the leaves of which when Helen dipped, she read such things as caused her to open her eyes with wonder. But Pen showed her that it was not he who made the books, though it was absolutely necessary that he should keep up his French by an acquaint- ance with the most celebrated writers of the day, and that it was as clearly his duty to read the eminent Paul de Kock, as to study Swift or MoUere. And Mrs. Pendennis yielded with a sigh of perplexity. But Miss Laura was warned oiT the books, both by his anxious mother, and that rigid moralist Mr. Arthur Pendennis himself, who, however he might be called upon to study ever}' branch of literature in order to form his mind and to perfect his style, would by no means prescribe such a course PENDENNIS. 173 of reading to a young lady whose business in life was very different. In the course of this long A-acation Mr. Pen drank up the bin of claret which his father had laid in, and of which we have heard the son remark that there was not a headache in a hogshead ; and this wine being exhausted, he wrote for a fur- ther suppl}' to "his wine merchants," Messrs. Binne}' and Latham of Mark Lane, London : from whom, indeed, old Doctor Portman had recommended Pen to get a supply of port and sherry on going to college. "You will have, no doubt, to entertain your young friends at Boniface with wine parties," the honest rector had remarked to the lad. " Thc\y used to be customary' at college in my time, and I would ad- vise you to emplo}- an honest and resi)ectable house in London for 3'our small stock of wine, rather than to have recourse to the Oxbridge tradesmen, whose liquor, if I remember rightly, was both deleterious in quality and exorbitant in price." And the obedient young gentleman took the Doctor's advice, and patronized Messrs. Binney and Latham at the rector's sug- gestion. So when he wrote orders for a stock of wine to be sent down to the cellars at Fairoaks, he hinted that Messrs. B. and L. might send in his university account for wine at the same time with the Fairoaks bill. The poor widow was frightened at the amount. But Pen laughed at her old-fashioned views, said that the bill was moderate, that ever^'body drank claret and champagne now, and, finally, the widow paid, feeling dimly that the expenses of her household were increasing considera- bly, and that her narrow income would scarce suffice to meet them. But they were onl}' occasional. Pen merely came home for a few weeks at the vacation. Laura and she might pinch when he was gone. In the brief time he was with them ought they not to make him happy ? Arthur's own allowances were liberal all this time ; indeed, much more so than those of the sons of far more wealthy men. Years before, the thrifty and affectionate Jolin Pendennis, whose darling project it had ever been to give his son a uni- versitv education, and those advantages of which his own father's extravagance had deprived him, had begun laying by a store of mone}- which he called Arthur's Education Fund. Year after year in his book his executors found entries of sums vested as A.E.F., and during the period subsequent to her husband's decease, and before Pen's entr}' at college, the widow had added sundry sums to this fund, so that when 174 PENDENNIS. Arthur went up to Oxbridge it reached no inconsiderable amount. Let him be liberally allowanced, was Major Pen- dennis's maxim. Let him make his first entree into the world as a gentleman, and take his place with men of good rank and station ; after giving it to him, it will be his own duty to hold it. There is no such bad policy as stinting a boy — or putting him on a lower allowance than his fellows. Arthur will have to face the world and fight for himself presently-. Meanwhile we shall have procured for him good friends, gentlemanly hab- its, and have him well backed and well trained against the time when the real struggle comes. And these liberal opinions the Major probably advanced both because they were just, and be- cause he was not dealing with his own mone}'. Thus young Pen, the only son of an estated country gen- tleman, with a good allowance, and a gentlemanlike bearing and person, looked to be a lad of much more consequence thai\ he was really ; and was held by the Oxbridge authorities, tradesmen, and under-graduates, as quite a 3'oung buck and member of the aristocracy'. His manner was frank, brave, and perhaps a little impertinent, as becomes a high-spirited 3'outh. He was perfectly generous and free-handed with his money, which seemed pretty plentiful. He loved jovialitj-, and had a good voice for a song. Boat-racing had not risen in Pen's time to the fureur which, as we are given to under- stand, it has since attained in the university ; and riding and tandem-driving were the fashions of the ingenuous youth. Pen rode well to hounds, appeared in pink, as became a young buck, and not particularly extravagant in equestrian or an^- other amusement, 3'et managed to run up a fine bill at Nile's, the livery stable-keeper, and in a number of other quarters. In fact, this lucky young gentleman had almost CA-ery taste to a considerable degree. He w\as very fond of books of all sorts: Doctor Portman had taught h'im to like rare editions, and his own taste led him to like beautiful bindings. It was marvellous what tall copies, and gilding, and marbling, and blind-tooling, the booksellers and binders put upon Pen's book-shelves. He had a very fair taste in matters of art, and a keen relish for prints of a high school — none of your French Opera Dancers, or tawdry Racing Prints, such as had delighted the simple eyes of Mr. Spicer, his predecessor — but your Stranges, and Rembrandt-etchings, and Wilkies before the letter, with which his apartments were furnished presently in the most perfect good taste, as was allowed in the univer- sity, where this young fellow^ got no small reputation. We PENDENNIS. 175 have mentioned that he cxhibilcd a certain pnrtialit}' for rings, jewellery, and fine raiment of all sorts ; and it nnist be owned that Mr. Pen, during his time at the university', was rather a dress}- man, and loved to array himself in splendor. He and his polite friends would dress themselves out with as much care in order to go and dine at each other's rooms, as other folks would who were going to enslave a mistress. The}' said he used to wear rings over his kid gloves, which he always denies ; but what follies will not youth perpetrate with its own admirable gravity and simplicity? That he took perfumed baths is a truth ; and he used to say that he took them after meeting certain men of a ver}' low set in hall. In Pen's second year, when Miss Fotheringay made her chief hit in London, and scores of prints were published of her, Pen had one of these hung in his bedroom, and confided to the men of his set how awfnll}', how wildl}', how madl}', how pas- sionatel}', he had loved that woman. He showed them in con- fidence the verses that he had written to her, and his brow would darken, his e^es roll, his chest heave with emotion as he recalled that fatal period of his life, and described the woes and agonies which he had suffered. The verses were copied out, handed about, sneered at, admired, passed from coterie to coterie. There are few things which elevate a lad in the esti- mation of his brother boys, more than to have a character for a gi-eat and romantic passion. Perhaps there is something noble in it at all times — among very young men, it is con- sidered heroic — Pen was pronounced a tremendous fellow. The}' said he had almost committed suicide : that he had fought a duel with a baronet about her. Freshmen pointed him out to each other. As at the promenade time at two o'clock he swaggered out of college, surrounded by his cronies, he was famous to behold. He was elaborately attired. He would ogle the ladies who came to lionize the University, and passed before him on the arms of happy gownsmen, and give his opinion upon their personal charms, or their toilettes, with the gravity of a critic whose experience entitled him to speak with authorit}'. Men used to say that they had been walking with Pendennis, and were as pleased to be seen in his company as some of us would be if we walked with a duke down Pall Mall. He and the Proctor capped each other as they met, as if they were rival powers, and the men hardly knew which was the greater. In fact, in the course of his second year, Arthur Pendennis had become one of the men of fasliion in tlie universit}-. It is 176 PENDENNIS. curious to watch that facile admiration, and simple fidelity of youth. They hang round a leader : and wonder at him, and love him, and imitate him. No generous bo}' ever lived, I suppose, that has not had some wonderment of admiration for another boy ; and Monsieur Pen at Oxbridge had his school, his faithful band of friends, and his rivals. When the 3'oung men heard at the haberdashers' shops that Mr. Pendennis, of Boniface, had just ordered a crimson satin cravat, 30U would see a couple of dozen crimson satin cravats in Main Street in the course of the week — and Simon, the Jeweller, was known to sell no less than two gross of Pendennis pins, from a pat- tern which the 3^oung gentleman had selected in his shop. Now if any person with an arithmetical turn of mind will take the trouble to calculate what a sum of money it would cost a 3'Oung man to indulge freelj- in all the above propensities which we have said Mr. Pen possessed, it will be seen that a 3'oung fellow, with such liberal tastes and amusements, must needs in the course of two or three jears spend or owe a very handsome sum of mone3\ We have said our friend Pen had not a calculating turn. No one propensity of his was outra- geously extravagant : and it is certain that Paddington's tailor's account ; Guttlebury's cook's bill for dinners ; Dille}' Tandy's bill with Finn, the print-seller, for Raphael-Morghens, and Landseer proofs, and Wormall's dealings with Parkton, the great bookseller, for Aldine editions, black-letter folios, and richl}' illuminated Missals of the XVI. Centur}' ; and Snaffle's or Foker's score with Nile the horse-dealer, were, each and all of them, incomparably' greater than an}' little bills which Mr. Pen might run up with the above-mentioned tradesmen. But Pendennis of Boniface had the advantage over all these 3'oung gentlemen, his friends and associates, of a universality of taste : and whereas young Lord Paddington did not care two-pence for tlie most beautiful print, or to look into any gilt frame that had not a mirror within it ; and Guttlebury did not mind in the least how he was dressed, and had an aversion for horse exer- cise, nay a terror of it ; and Snaffle never read an}' printed works but the " Racing Calendar," or "Bell's Life," or cared for any manuscript except his greasy little scrawl of a betting- book : — our catholic-minded young friend occupied himself in every one of the branches of science or pleasure above-men- tioned, and distinguished liimself tolerably in each. Hence young Pen got a prodigious reputation in the univer- sity, and was hailed as a sort of Crichton ; and as for the English veBse prize, in competition for which we have Been him PENDENNIS. 177 busih' engaged at Fairoaks, Jones of Jesus carried it that year certain!}', but tlie undergraduates thought Pen's a much finer poem, and he had his verses printed at his own expense, and distributed in gilt morocco covers amongst his acquaintance, I found a copy of it lately in a dusty corner of Mr. Pen's book- cases, and have it before me tliis minute, bound up in a collec- tion of old Oxbridge tracts, university statutes, prize-poems by successful and unsuccessful candidates, declamations recited in the college chapel, speeches delivered at tlie Union Debating Societ}-, and inscribed by Arthur with his name and college, Pendennis — Boniface ; or presented to him by his affectionate friend Thompson or Jackson, the author. How strange the epigraphs look in those half-boyish hands, and what a thrill the sight of the documents gives one after the lapse of a few lus- tres ! How fate, since that time, has removed some, estranged others, dealt awfully with all. Many a hand is cold that wrote those kindly memorials, and that we pressed in the confident and generous grasp of youthful friendship. What passions our friendships were in those old days, how artless and void of doubt ! How the arm you were never tired of having linked in 3'ours under the fair college avenues or by the river side, where it washes Magdalen Gardens, or Christ Church Meadows, or winds by Trinity and King's, was withdrawn of necessity, when you entered presently the world, and each parted to push and struggle for himself through the great mob on the way through life ! Are we the same men now that wrote those inscriptions — that read those poems ? that delivered or heard those essays and speeches so simple, so pompous, so ludicrously solemn ; parodied so artlessly from books, and spoken with smug chubb}^ faces, and such an admirable aping of wisdom and gravity? Here is the book before me : it is scarcely fifteen years old. Here is Jack moaning with despair and Byronic misanthropy, whose career at the university was one of unmixed milk-punch. Here is Tom's daring Essa}' in defence of suicide and of repub- licanism in general, apropos of the death of Eoland and the Girondins — Tom's, who wears the starchest tie in all the diocese, and would go to Smithfield rather that eat a beefsteak on a Friday in Lent. Here is Bob, of the Circuit, who has made a fortune in Railroad Committees, — bellowing out with Tancred and Godfrey, "On to the breach, ye soldiers of the cross. Scale the red wall and swim the choking foss. Ye dauntless archers, twang your cross-bows well ; On, bill and- battle-axe and mangonel ! Ply battering-ram and Imrtling catapult, Jerusalem is ours — id Deus vult." After which comes 12 178 PENDENNIS. a mellifluous description of the gardens of Sharon and the maids of Salem, and a prophecy that roses shall deck the entire coun- try of Syria, and a speedy reign of peace be established — all in undeniably decasyllabic lines, and the queerest aping of sense and sentiment and poetr}-. And there are Essa3's and Poems along with these grave parodies, and boyish exercises (which are at once frank and false, and so mirthful, yet, some- how, so mournful), by youthful hands, that shall never write more. Fate has interposed darkly, and the young voices are silent, and the eager brains have ceased to work. This one had genius and a great descent, and seemed to be destined for honors which now are of little worth io him : that had virtue, learning, genius — every facult3' and endowment which might secure love, admiration, and worldly fame : an obscure and solitary churchyard contains the grave of many fond hopes, and the pathetic stone which bids them farewell. I saw the sun shining on it in the fall of last year, and heard the sweet village choir raisina; anthems round about. What boots whether it be Westminster or a little country spire which covers your ashes, or if, a few days sooner or later, the world forgets you ? Amidst these friends then, and a host more. Pen passed more than two brilliant and happy years of his life. He had his fill of pleasure and popularity. No dinner or supper party was complete without him ; and Pen's jovial wit, and Pen's songs, and dashing courage, and frank and manly bearing, charmed all the undergraduates. Though he became the favorite and leader of young men who were much his superiors in wealth and station, he was much too generous to endeavor to propitiate them by an}^ meanness or cringing on his own part, and would not neglect the humblest man of his acquaintance in order to curry favor with the richest young grandee in the university. His name is still remembered at the Union Debating Club, as one of the brilliant orators of his da}'. By the way, from having been an ardent Tory in his Freshman's year, his j^rinciples took a sudden turn afterwards, and he became a liberal of the most violent order. He avowed himself a Dantonist, and asserted that Louis the Sixteenth was served right. And as for Charles the First, he vowed that he would chop off that monarch's head with his own right hand were he then in the room at the Union Debating Club, and had Cromwell no other executioner for the traitor. He and Lord Magnus Charters, the Marquis of Run- nymede's son, before mentioned, were the most truculent repub- licans of their day. There are reputations of this sort made quite independent of PENDEXXIS. 179 the collegiate hicrarchj-, in the republic of fjownsmen. A man may be famous in the Honor-lists and entirely unknown to the undergraduates : who elect kings and chieftains of their own, whom the}' admire and obey, as negro-gangs have private black sovereigns in their own body, to whom the}' pay an occult obedience, besides that which they publich' profess for their owners and drivers. Among the young ones Pen became fa- mous and popular : uot that he did much, but there was a general determination that he could do a great deal if he chose. " Ah, if Pendennis of Boniface would but tr}'," the men said, " he might do anything." He was backed for the Greek Ode won by Smith of Trinity ; everybod}' was sure he would have the Latin hexameter prize which Brown of St. John's, however, carried off, and in this way one uuiversit}* honor after another was lost by him, until, after two or three failures, Mr. Pen ceased to compete. But he got a declamation prize in his own college, and brought home to his mother and Laura at Fairoaks a set of prize-books begilt with the college arms, and so big, well- bound, and magnificent, that these ladies thought there had been no such prize ever given in a college before as this of Pen's, and that he had won the verj' largest honor which Ox- bridge was capable of awarding. As vacation after vacation and term after term passed away without the desired news that Pen had sat for any scholarship or won an}' honor. Doctor Portraan grew mightily gloomy ir his behavior towards Arthur, and adopted a sulky grandeur o« deportment towards him, which the lad returned by a similar haughtiness. One vacation he did not call upon the Doctor at all, much to his mother's annoyance, who thought that it was a privilege to enter the Rectory-house at Clavering, and listened to Dr. Portman's antique jokes and stories, though ever so often repeated, with unfailing veneration. " I cannot stand the Doctor's pati'onizing air," Pen said. '' He's too kind to me, a great deal too fatherly. I have seen in the world better men than him, and I am not going to bore myself by listening to his dull old stories." The tacit feud between Pen and the Doctor made the widow nervous, so that she too avoided Portman, and was afraid to go to the Rectory when Arthur was nt home. One Sunday in the last long vacation, the wretched boy pushed his rebellious spirit so far as not to go to church, and he was seen at the gate of the Clavering Arms smoking a cigar, in the face of the congregation as it issued from St. Mary's. There was an awful sensation in the village society, 180 PENDENNTS. Portmun prophesied Pen's ruin after that, and groaned in spirit over the n-belhous young prodigal. So did Helen tremble in her heart, and little Laura — Laura had grown to be a fine young stripling b}' this time, graceful and fair, clinging round Helen and worshipping her, with a pas- sionate affection. Both of these women felt that their boy was changed. He was no longer the artless Pen of old days, so brave, so artless, so impetuous, and tender. His face looked cai-eworn and haggard, his voice had a deeper sound, and tones more sarcastic. Care seemed to be pursuing him ; but he only laughed when his mother questioned him, and parried her anxious queries with some scornful jest. Nor did he spend much of his vacations at home ; he went on visits to one great friend or another, and scared the quiet pair at Fairoaks by stories of great houses whither he had been invited, and by talking of lords without their titles. Honest Harry Foker, who had been the means of introducing Arthur Pendennis to that set of young men at the university, from whose society and connections Arthur's uncle expected that the lad would get so much benefit ; who had called for Arthur's first song at his first supper-party ; and who had pre- sented him at the Barmecide Club, where none but the very best men of Oxbridge were admitted (it consisted in Pen's time of six noblemen, eight gentlemen-pensioners, and twelve of the most select commoners of the universit}'), soon found himself left far behind by the 3'oung freshman in the fashionable world of Oxbridge, and being a generous and worthy fellow, without a spark of envy in his composition, was exceedingl}' pleased at the success of his 3'oung protege, and admired Pen quite as much as any of the other youth did. It was he who followed Pen now, and (]uoted his sayings ; learned his songs, and retailed them at minor supper-parties, and was never wear}^ of hearing them from the gifted young poet's own mouth — for a good deal of the time which Mr. Pen might have emplo3'ed much more ad- vantageousl}' in the pursuit of the regular scholastic studies, was given up to the composition of secular ballads, which he sang about at parties according to university wont. It had been as well for Arthur if the honest Foker had re- mained for some time at college, for, with all his vivacity, he was a prudent 3'oung man, and often curbed Pen's propensity to extravagance : but Foker's collegiate career did not last very long after Arthur's entrance at Boniface. Repeated differences "srith the universit}' authorities caused Mr. Foker to quit Ox- bridge in an untimel}' manner. He would persist in attending PENDENNIS. 181 races on the neighboring Hnngerford Heath, in spite of the injunctions of his academic superiors. He never could be got to frequent the cliapel of the college with that regularit}- of piety which Alma Mater demands from her children ; tandems, which are abominations in the e^es of the heads and tutors, were. Foker's greatest delight, and so reckless was his driving and frequent the accidents and upsets out of his drag, that Pen called taking a drive with him taking the '' Diversions of Purley ; " finally, having a dinner-party at his rooms to entertain some friends froju London, nothing would satisfy' Mr. Foker but painting Mr. Buck's door vermilion, in which freak he was cauglit by the proctor ; and although young Black Strap, the celebrated negro-fighter, who was one of Mr. Foker's distin- guished guests, and was holding the can of paint while the young artist operated on the door, knocked down two of the proctor's attendants and performed prodigies of valor, 3'et these feats rather injured than served Foker, whom the proctor knew ver3' well and who was taken with the brush in his hand, sum- mawly convened and sent down from the universit}'. The tutor wrote a ver}' kind and leeling letter to Lady Agnes on the subject, stating that everybody was fond of the youth ; that he never meant harm to any mortal creature ; that he for his own part would have been delighted to pardon the harmless little boyish frolic, had not its unhappy publicity rendered it impossible to look the freak over, and breathing the most fervent wishes for the 3'oung fellow's welfare — wishes no doubt sincere, for Foker, as we know, came of a noble famil}' on his mother's side, and on the other was heir to a great number of thousand pounds a 3'ear. " It don't matter," said Foker, talking over the matter with Pen, — "a little sooner or a little later, what is the odds? I should have been plucked for m^' little go again, I know I should — that Latin I cannot screw into my head, and my mamma's anguish would have broken out next term. The Gov- ernor will blow like an old grampus, I know he will, — well, we must stop till he gets his wind again. I shall probably go abroad and improve my mind with foreign travel. Yes, parly voo's the ticket. It'ly, and that sort of thing. I'll go to Paris, and learn to dance and complete m}' education. But it's not me I'm anxious about. Pen. As long as people drink beer I don't care, — it's about 30U I'm doubtful, my bo}'. You're going too fast, and can't keep up the pace, I tell 3'ou. It's not the fifty you owe me, — pa3' it or not when you like, — but it's the every-da3' pace, and I tell you it will kill 3'ou. Y«u're 182 PENDENNTS. livin' as if there was no end to the money in the stockin' at iiorae. You ouohtn't to give dinners, you ought to eat 'em. Fellows are glad to have 3'ou. You oughtn't to owe horse \.;Ms, you ought to ride other chaps' nags. You know no more about'betting than 1 do about algebra : the chaps will win your money as sure as you sport it. Hang me if you are not try- iug at everything. 1 saw you sit down to ecarte. last week at Trumpington's, and taking your turn with the laones after Ring- wood's supper. They'll beat you at it, Pen, my boy, even if they play on the square, which I don't say they don't, noi- which I don't say they do, mind. But / won't play with 'em. You're no match for 'em. You ain't up to their weight. It's like little Black Strap standing up to Tom Spring, — the Black's a pretty fighter, but, Law bless you, his arm ain't long enough to touch Tom, — and I tell you, you're going it with fellers beyond your weight. Look here — If you'll promise me never to bet nor touch a box nor a card, I'll let 3'ou oflT the two ponies." But Pen, laughingly, said, "that though it wasn't conven- ient to him to pay the two ponies at that moment, he by no means wished to be let off any just debts he owed ; " and he and Foker parted, not without many dark forebodings on the lattei-'s part with regard to his friend, who Harry thought was travelling speedil}' on the road to ruin. *'One must do at Rome as Rome does," Pen said, in a dandified manner, jingling some sovereigns in his waistcoat pocket. "A little quiet play at icarU can't hurt a man who plaj's prett}' well — I came away fourteen sovereigns richer from Ringwood's supper, and, gad! I wanted the money." — And he walked off, after having taken leave of poor Foker, who went away without any beat of drum, or ofl'er to drive the coach out of Oxbridge, to superintend a little dinner which he was going to give at his own rooms in Boniface, about which dinners, the cook of the college, who had a great respect for Mr. Pendennis, always took especial pains for his 3'oung favorite. PENDENNIS. 183 CHAPTER XIX. rake's progress. So in Pen's second year Major Pendennis paid a brief visit bo his nephew^ and was introduced to several of Pen's universit}' friends — tlie gentle and polite Lord Plinlimmon, the gallant and open-hearted Magnus Charters, the sly and witt^' Harland ; the intrepid Ivingwood, who was called Rupert in the Union Debating Club, from his opinions and the braver^' of his blun- ders ; Broadbent, styled Barebones Broadbent from the repub- lican nature of his opinions (he was of a dissenting family from Bristol, and a perfect Boanerges of debate) ; and Bloundell- Bloundell, whom Mr. Pen entertained at a dinner whereof his uncle was the chief guest. The Major said, " Pen, m}' boy, your dinner went off a merveille ; you did the honors very nicel}'^ — you carved well — I am glad you learned to carve — it is done on the side-board now in most good houses, but is still an important point, and ma}^ aid 3'ou in middle-life — young Lord Plinlimmon is a verv amiable young man, quite the image of his dear mother (whom I knew as Lady Aquila Brownbill) ; and Lord Magnus's repub- licanism will wear off — it sits prettily enough on a 3'oung patrician in earl}^ life, though nothing is so loathsome among persons of our rank — Mr. Broadbent seems to have much elo- quence and considerable reading , your friend Foker is always delightful ; but your acquaintance, Mr. Bloundell, struck me as in all respects a most ineligible young man." " Bless my soul, sir, Bloundell-Bloundell ! " cried Pen, laugh- ing: " why, sir, he's the most popular man of the university. He was in the Dragoons before he came up. We elected him of the Barmecides the first week he came up — had a special meeting on purpose — he's of an excellent family — .Suffolk Bloundells, descended from Richard's Blondel, bear a harp in chief — and motto O Mong Roy." " A man may have a very good coat-of-arms, and be a tiger, my boy," the Major said, chipping his egg; ''that man is a tiger, mark m}- word — a low man. I will la}- a wager that ho left his regiment, which was a good one (for a more respectable man than my friend, Lord Martingale, never sat in a saddle) , in bad odor. There is the unmistakable look of slang and bad 184 PENDENNIS. habits about this Mr. Bloundell. He frequents low gambhng- houses and billiard hells, sir — he haunts third-rate clubs — I know he does. I know by his style. I never was mistaken in my man yet. Did 3'ou remark the quantit}^ of rings and jew- ellery he wore ? That person has Scamp written on his counte- nance, if an}- man ever had. Mark my words and avoid him. Let us turn the conversation. Tlie dinner was a leetle too fine, but I don't object to your making a few extra /rms when you receive friends. Of course you don't do it often, and only those whom it is your interest to fker. The cutlets were excellent, and the souffie uncommonly light and good. The third bottle of champagne w^as not necessary ; but you have a good income, and as long as 30U keep within it, I shall not quarrel with you, my dear bo}." Poor Pen ! the worth}- uncle little knew how often those dinners took place, while the reckless young Amphitryon de- lighted to show his hospitality and skill in gourmandise . There is no art about which boys are more anxious to have an air of knowingness. A taste and knowledge of wines and cookery appears to them to be the sign of an accomplished roue and manly gentleman. Pen, in his character of Admirable Crichton , thought it necessary to be a great judge and practitioner of dinners ; we have just said how the college cook respected him, and shall soon have to deplore that that worthy man so blindly trusted our Pen. In the third year of the lad's residence at Oxbridge, his staircase was by no means encumbered with dish-covers and desserts, and waiters carrying in dishes, and skips opening iced champagne ; crowds of different sorts of attendants, with faces sulky or piteous, hung about the outer oak, and assailed the unfortunate lad as he issued out of his den. Nor did his guardian's advice take any effect, or induce Mr. Pen to avoid the society of the disreputable Mr. Bloundell. The 3'oung magnates of the neighboring great College of St. George's, who regarded Pen, and in whose societ}' he lived, were not taken in by Bloundell's flashy graces, and rakish airs of fashion. Broadbent called him Captain Macheath, and said he would live to be hanged. Foker, during his brief stay at the university with Macheatli, with characteristic caution, de- clined to say anything in the Captain's disfavor, but hinted to Pen that he had better have him for a partner at whist than play against him, and better back him at ecarte than bet on the other side. " You see, he plays better than 3-ou do. Pen," was the astute young gentleman's remark: "he plays uncommon raXDENOTS. 185 well, the Captain docs ; — and Pen, I wouldn't take the odds too freely from him, if I was you. I don't think he's too flush of money, the Captain ain't." But beyond these dark sug- gestions and generalities, the cautious Foker could not be got to speak. Not that his advice would have had more weight with a headstrong joung man, than advice commonly has with a lad who is determined on pursuing his own way. Pen's appetite for pleasure was insatiable, and he rushed at it wherever it pre- sented itself, with an eagerness which bespoke his fiery consti- tution and 3'outhful health. He called taking pleasure " seeing life," and quoted well-known maxims from Terence, from Hor- ace, from Shakspeare, to show that one should do all that might become a man. He bade fair to be utterly used up and a roue^ in a few years, if he were to continue at the pace at which he was going. One night after a supper-party in college, at which Pen and Macheath had been present, and at which a little quiet vingt-et- un had been played, as the men had taken their caps and were going away, after no great losses or winnings on any side, Mr. Bloundell playfully took up a green wine-glass from the supper- table, which had been destined to contain iced cup, but into which he inserted something still more pernicious, namely a pair of dice, which the gentleman took out of his waistcoat pocket, and put into the glass. Then giving the glass a grace- ful wave which showed that his hand was quite experienced in the throwing of dice, he called seven's the main, and whisking the ivory cubes gently on the table, swept them up lightly again from the cloth, and repeated this process two or three times. The other men looked on, Pen, of course, among the number, who had never used the dice as yet, except to play a humdrum game of backgammon at home. Mr. Bloundell, who had a good voice, began to troll out the chorus from " Robert the Devil," an Opera then in great vogue, in which chorus many of the men joined, especially Pen, who was in very high spirits, having won a good number of shillings a»d half-crowns at the vingt-et-un — and presenth', instead of going home, most of the party were seated round the table playing at dice, the green glass going round from hand to hand until Pen finally shivered it, after throwing six mains. From that night Pen plunged into the delights of the game of hazard, as eagerh' as it was his custom to pursue any new pleasure. Dice can be played of mornings as well as after dinner or supper. Bloundell would come into Pen's rooms "^ ~ 7 186 PENDENNIS. after breakfast, and it was astonishing how quick the time passed as the bones were rattling. They had little quiet parties with closed doors, and Bloundell devised a box lined with felt, so that the dice should make no noise, and their tell-tale rattle not bring the sharp-eared tutors up to the rooms. Bloundell, Ringwood, and Pen were once very nearly caught by Mr. Buck, who° passing in the Quadrangle, thought he heard the words " Two to one on the caster," through Pen's open window ; but when the tutor got into Arthur's rooms he found the lads with three Homers before them, and Pen said, he was trying to coach the two other men, and asked Mr. Buck with great gi-avity what was the present condition of the River Scamander, and whether it was navigable or no ? Mr. Arthur Pendennis did not win much money in these transactions with Mr. Bloundell, or indeed gain good of any kind except a knowledge of the odds at hazard, which he might have learned out of books. One Easter vacation, when Pen had announced to his mother and uncle his intention not to go down, but stay at Oxbridge and read, Mr. Pen was nevertheless induced to take a brief visit to London in company with his friend Mr. Bloun- dell. They put up at a hotel in Covent Garden, where Bloun- dell had a"tick, as he called it, and took the pleasures of the town very freely after the wont of young university men. Bloundell still belonged to a military club, whither he took Pen to dine once or twice (the young men would drive thither in a cab, trembling lest they should meet Major Pendennis on his beat in Pall Mall), and here Pen was introduced to a num- ber of gallant young fellows with spurs and mustachios, with whom he drank pale-ale of mornings and beat the town of a aight. Here he saw a deal of life, indeed : nor in his career about the theatres and singing-houses which these roaring young blades frequented, was he very likely to meet his guar- dian. One night, nevertheless, they were ver}' near to each other : a plank only separating Pen, who was in the boxes of the Museum Theatre, from the Major, who was in Lord Steyne's box, along with that venerated nobleman. The Fotheringay was in the pride of her glory. She had made a hit : that is, she had drawn very good houses for nearly a year, had starred the provinces with great eclat, had come back to shine in Lon- don with somewhat diminished lustre, and now was acting with "ever increasing attraction, &c.," "triumph of the good old British drama," as tlie play-bills avowed, to houses in which there was plenty of room for anybody' who wanted to see her. PENDENNIS. 187 It was not the first time Pen had seen her, since that memo>- rable day when the two had parted in Chatteris. In the pre- vious year, when the town was making much of her, and the press lauded her beauty, Pen had found a pretext for coming to London in term-time, and had rushed off to the theatre to see his old flame. He i-ecollected it rather than renewed it. He remembered how ardently he used to be on the look-out at Chatteris, when the speech before Ophelia's or Mrs. Haller's entrance on the stage was made by the proper actor. Now, as the actor spoke, he had a sort of feeble thrill : as the house began to thunder with applause, and Ophelia entered with her old bow and sweeping curtsy, Pen felt a slight shock and blushed ver^- much as he looked at her, and could not help thinking that all the house was regarding him. He hardly heard her for the first part of the play : and he thought with such rage of the humiUation to which she had subjected him, that he began to fancy he was jealous and in love with her still. But that illusion did not last very long. He ran round to the stage door of the theatre to see her if possible, but he did not succeed. She passed indeed under his nose with a female companion, but he did not know her, — nor did she recognize him. The next night he came in late, and stayed very quietly for the after-piece, and on the third and last night of his stay in London — whj' Taglioni was going to dance at the Opera, — Taglioni ! and there was to be Don Giovanni, which he admired of all things in the world : so Mr. Pen went to Don Giovanni and Taglioni. This time the illusion about her was quite gone. She was not less handsome, but she was not the same, somehow. The light was gone out of her eyes which used to flash there, or Pen's no longer were dazzled by it. The rich voice spoke as of old, yet it did not make Pen's bosom thrill as formerly. He thought he could recognize the brogue underneath : the accents seemed to him coarse and false. It annoyed him to hear the same emphasis on the same words, onlj- uttered a little louder : worse than this, it annoyed him to think that he should ever have mistaken that loud imitation for genius, or melted at those mechanical sobs and sighs. He felt that it was in another life almost, that it Avas another man who had so madly loved her. He was ashamed and bitterly humiliated, and very lonely. Ah, poor Pen ! the delusion is better than the truth sometimes, and fine dreams than dismal M^aking. They went and liad an uproarious sijpper that night, *nd Mr. Pea had a fine headache *J[ie next morning, with 188 PENDENNIS. which he went back to Oxbridge, having spent all his readj money. As all this narrative is taken from Pen's own confessions, so that the reader may be assured of the truth of every word of it, and as Pen himself never had any accurate notion of the manner in which he spent his money, and plunged himself in much deeper pecuniary difficulties, during his luckless residence at Oxbridge Universit}^ it is, of course, impossible for me to give any accurate account of his involvements, beyond that general notion of his way of life, which we have sketched a few pages back. He does not speak too hardly of the roguery of the university tradesmen, or of those in London whom he honored with his patronage at the outset of his career. Even Finch, the money-lender, to whom Bloundell introduced him, and with whom he had various transactions, in which the 3'oung 7ascars signature appeared upon stamped paper, treated him, according to Pen's own account, with forbearance, and never mulcted him of more than a hundred per cent. The old college- cook, his fervent admirer, made him a private bill, offered to send him in dinners up to the very last, and never would have pressed his account to his dying day. There was that kindness and frankness about Arthur Pendennis, which won most people who came in contact with him, and which, if it rendered him an easj'^ prey to rogues, got him, perhaps, more good will than he merited from manj- honest men. It was impossible to resist his good-nature, or, in his worst moments, not to hope for his rescue from utter ruin. At the time of his full career of university pleasure, he would leave the ga^-est party to go and sit with a sick friend. He never knew the difference between small and great in the treatment of his acquaintances, however much the unlucky lad's tastes, which were of the sumptuous order, led him to prefer good society ; he was onl}^ too ready to share his guinea iwith a poor friend, and when he got money had an irresistible propensit}^ for paj'ing, which he never could conquer through life. In his third year at college, the duns began to gather awfully round about him, and there was a levee at his oak which scan- dalized the tutors, and would have scared many a stouter heart. With some of these he used to battle, some he would bully (under Mr. Bloundell's directions, who was a master in this art, though he took a degree in no other) , and some depre- cate. And it is reported of him that little Mary Frodsham, the daughter of a certain poor gilder and frame-maker, whom Mr. PENDENNIS. 189 Pen had thought fit to emplo}', and who had made a number of beautiful frames for his fine prints, coming to Pendennis with a piteous tale that her father was ill with ague, and that there was an execution in their house, Pen in an anguish of remorse rushed away, pawned his grand watch and ever}' single article of jeweller}- except two old gold sleeve-buttons, which had belonged to his father, and rushed with the proceeds to Frod- sham's shop, where, with tears in his e3-es, and the deepest re- pentance and humiUty, he asked the poor tradesman's pardon. This, young gentlemen, is not told as an instance of Pen's virtue, but rather of his weakness. It would have been much more virtuous to have had no prints at all. He still owed for the baubles which he sold in order to pay Frodsham's bill, and his mother had cruellj- to pinch herself in order to discharge the jewellers' account, so that she was in the end the sufferer b}' the lad's impertinent fancies and follies. We are not presenting Pen to 3'ou as a hero or a model, only as a lad, who, in the midst of a thousand vanities and weaknesses, has as yet some generous impulses, and is not altogether dis- honest. We have said it was to the scandal of Mr. Buck the tutor that Pen's extravagances became known : from the manner in which he entered college, the associates he kept, and the intro- ductions of Doctor Portman and the Major, Buck for a long time thought that his pupil was a man of large property, and won- dered rather that he only wore a plain gown. Once on going up to London to the levee with an address from His Majesty's Loyal University of Oxbridge, Buck had seen Major Penden- nis at St. James's in conversation with two knights of the gar- ter, in the carriage of one of whom the dazzled tutor saw the Major whisked away after the levee. He asked Pen to wine the instant he came back, let him off from chapels and lectures more than ever, and felt perfectl}' sure that he was a young gentleman of large estate. Thus, he was thunderstruck when he heard the truth, and received a dismal confession from Pen. His university debts were large, and the tutor had nothing to do, and of course Pen did not acquaint him, -wath his London debts. \\Tiat man ever does tell all when pressed bj' his friends about his liabilities? The tutor learned enough to know that Pen was poor, that he had spent a handsome, almost a magnificent allowance, and bad raised around him such a fine crop of debts, as it would be very hard work for any man to mow down ; for there is no lAixnt that grows so rapidly when once it has taken root. 190 PENDENNIS. Perhaps it was because she was so tender and good that Pen was terrified lest his mother should know of his sins. "I can't bear to break it to her," he said to the tutor in an agony of gnef, " Oh ! sir, I've been a villain to her " — and he repented, and he wished he had the time to come over again, and he asked himself, " Wh}', why did his uncle insist upon the necessity of living with great people, and in how much did all his grand acquaintance profit him? " They were not shy, but Pen thought the\' were, and slunk from them during his last terms at college. He was as gloomy as a death's-head at parties, which he avoided of his own part, or to which his young friends soon ceased to invite him. EA'ery- body knew that Pendennis was "hard up." That man Bloun- dell, who could pay nobod}', and who was ob'iged to go down after three terms, was his ruin, the men said. His melancholy figure might be seen shirking about the lonely quadrangles in his battered old cap and torn gown, and he who had been the pride of the university but a year before, the man whom all the young ones loved to look at, was now the object of conversa- tion at freshmen's wine parties, and they spoke of him with wonder and awe. At last came the Degree Examinations. Man}' a 3'oung man of his year whose hob-nailed shoes Pen had derided, and whose face or coat he had caricatured — many a man whom he had treated with scorn in the lecture-room or crushed with his eloquence in the debating club — many of his own set who had not half his brains, but a little regularity and constancy of occupation, took high places in the honors or passed with de- cent credit. And where in the list was Pen the superb. Pen the wit and dand}', Pen the poet and orator? Ah, where was Pen the widow's darling and sole pride? Let us hide our heads, and shut up the page. The lists came out ; and a dread- ful rumor rushed through the university, that Pendennis of Boniface was plucked. PENDENNIS. 191 CHAPTER XX. FLIGHT AFTER DEFEAT. DTmiNG the latter part of Pen's residence at the University of Oxbridge, his uncle's partiality had great^v increased for the lad. The Major was proud of Arthur, who had high spirits, frank manners, a good person, and high genllemanlilve bearing. It pleased the old London bachelor to see Pen walking with the young patricians of his university, and he (who was never known to entertain his friends, and whose stinginess had passed into a sort of byword among some wags at the club, who envied his many engagements, and did not choose to consider his pov- erty) was charmed to give his nephew and the young lords snug little dinners at his lodgings, and to regale them with good claret and his very best bons mots and stories : some of which would be injured by the repetition, for the Major's manner of telling them was incomparably neat and careful ; and others, whereof the repetition would do good to nobody. He paid his court to their parents through the young men, and to himself as it were by their company. He made more than one visit to Oxbridge,"^ where the young fellows were amused by entertain- ing the old gentleman, and gave parties and breakfasts and fetes, partly to joke him and partly to do him honor. He plied them with his stories. He made himself juvenile and hilarious in the company of the young lords. He went to hear Pen at a grand debate at the Union, crowed and cheered, and rapped his stick in chorus with the cheers of the men, and was astounded at the boy's eloquence and fire. He thought he had got a young Pitt for a nephew. He had an almost paternal fondness for Pen. He wrote to the lad letters with playful advice and the news of the town. He bragged about Arthur at his Clubs, and introduced him with pleasure into his cojiversation ; saying, tliat. Egad, the young fellows were putting the old ones to the wall ; that the lads who were coming up, young Lord Plinlimmon, a friend of my boy, young Lord Magnus Charters, a elunn of my scapegrace, &c., would make a greater figure in the world than ever their fathers had done before them. He asked permission to bring Arthur to a grand fete at Gaunt House ; saw him witli ineffable satisfaction dancing with the sisters of the young noblemen before mentioned ; and gave himself as much trouble 192 PENDENNrS. to procni'p cards of invitation for the lad to some good houses, ns if he had been a manmia with a daughter to marr}', and not an old half-pay officer in a wig. And he boasted everywhere of the boy's great talents, and remarkable oratorical powers ; and of the brilliant degree he was going to take. Lord Runny raede would take him on his embassy, or the Duke would bring him in for one of his boroughs, he wrote over and over again to Helen ; who, for her part, was too ready to believe anjthing that any- bod}' chose to say in favor of her son. And all this pride and affection of uncle and mother had been trampled down b}' Pen's wicked extravagance and idle- ness ! I don't envy Pen's feelings (as the phrase is), as he thought of what he had done. He had slept, and the tortoise had won the race. He had marred at its outset what might have been a brilliant career. He had dipped ungenerously into a generous mother's purse ; basely and recklessly spilt her little cruse. Oh ! it was a coward hand that could strike and rob a creature so tender. And if Pen felt the wrong which he had done to others, are we to suppose that a young gentleman of his vanity did not feel still more keenl}' the shame he had brought upon himself? Let us be assured that there is no more cruel remorse than that ; and no groans more piteous than those of wounded self-love. Like Joe Miller's friend, the Senior Wrangler, who bowed to the audience from his box at the play, because he and the king happened to enter the theatre at the same time, only with a fatuity by no means so agreeable to himself, poor Arthur Pendennis felt perfectly convinced that all England would remark the absence of his name from the examination- lists, and talk about his misfortune. His wounded tutor, his many duns, the skip and bed-maker who waited upon him, the undergraduates of his own time and the j'ears below him, whom he had patronized or scorned — how could he bear to look any of them in the face now? He rushed to his rooms, into which he shut himself, and there he penned a letter to his tutor, full of thanks, regards, remorse, and despair, requesting that his name might be taken off the college books, and inti- mating a wish and expectation that death would speedily end the woes of the disgraced Arthur Pendennis. Then he slunk out, scarcel}' knowing whither he went, but mechanically taking the unfrequented little lanes by the backs of the colleges, until he cleared the university precincts, and got down to the banks of the Camisis River, now deserted, but so often alive with the boat-races, and the crowds of cheering gownsmen, he wandered on and on, until he found himself at PENDENNIS. 195 some miles' distance from Oxbridge, or rather was found by some acquaintance, leaving that cit}'. As Pen went up a hill, a drizzling January rain beating in his face, and his ragged gown flying behind him — for he had not divested himself of his academical garments since the morning — a post-chaise came rattling up the road, on the box of which a servant was seated, whilst within, or rather half out of the carriage window, sat a young gentleman smoking a cigar, and loudly encouraging the post-boy. It was our young acquaintance of Baymouth, Mr. Spavin, who had got his degree, and was driving homewards in triumph in his 3'ellow post-chaise. He caught sight of the figure, madly gesticulating as he worked up the hill, and of poor Pen's pale and ghastly face as the chaise whirled by him. " Wo ! " roared Mr. Spavin to the post-bo}', and the horses stopped in their mad career, and the carriage pulled up some fifty yards before Pen. He presentl}- heard his own name shouted, find beheld the upper half of the body of Mr. Spavin thrust out of the side-window of the vehicle, and beckoning Pen vehemently towards it. Pen stopped, hesitated — nodded his head fiercely, and pointed onwards, as if desirous that the postilion should pro- ceed. He did not speak : but his countenance must have looked very desperate, for j'oung Spavin, having stared at him with an expression of blank alarm, jumped out of the carriage presently, ran towards Pen holding out his hand, and grasping Pen's said, " I say — hullo, old boy, where are you going, and what's the row now ? " "I'm going where I deserve to go," said Pen with an imprecation. " This ain't the wa}'," said Mr. Spavin, smiling. " This is the Fenbur}- road. I sa}', Pen, don't take on because 3'ou are plucked. It's nothing when 30U are used to it. I've been plucked three times, old bo}' — and after the first time I didn't care. Glad it's over, though. You'll have better luck next time." Pen looked at his early acquaintance, — who had been plucked, who had been rusticated, who had onh*, after repeated failures, learned to read and write correctly-, and who, in spite of all these drawbacks, had attained the honor of a degree. "This man has passed," he thought, "and I have failed!" It was almost too much for him to bear. " Good-by, Spavin," said he; "I'm ver^- glad you are through. Don't let me keep you ; I'm in a huiTy — I'm going «u town to-night." 13 194 PENDENNTS. "Gammon," said Mr. Spavin. "This &.ii't the wa}- to town ; this is the Fenbury road, I tell you." " I was just going to turn back," Pen said. " All the coaches are full with the men going down," Spavin said. Pen winced. "You'd not get a place for a ten-pound note. Get into my yellow ; I'll drop 3-ou at Mud- ford, where 3'ou have a chance of the Fenbury mail. I'll lend you a hat and a coat ; I've got lots. Come along ; jump in, old boy — go it, leathers ! " — and in this wtiy Pen found him- self in Mr. Spavin's post-chaise, and rode with that gentleman as far as the Ram Inn at Mudford, fifteen luiles from Oxbridge ; where the Fenbury mail changed horses, ■>i,nd where Pen got a place on to London. The next day there was an immense excitement in Boniface College, Oxbridge, where, for some time, a rumor prevailed, to the terror of Pen's tutor and tradesmen, that Pendennis, mad- dened at losing his degree, had made away with himself — a battered cap, in which his name was almost discernible, to- gether with a seal bearing his crest of an eagle looking at a now extinct sun, had been found three miles on the Fenbury road, near a mill stream ; and, for four-and-twenty hours, it was supposed that poor Pen had flung himself into the stream, until letters arrived from him, bearing the London post-mark. The mail reached London at the dreary- hour of five ; and he fastened to the inn at Co vent Garden, at which he was accus- tomed to put up, where the ever- wakeful porter admitted him, and showed him to a bed. Pen looked hard at the man, and wondered whether Boots knew he was plucked ? When in bed he could not sleep there. He tossed about until the appear- ance of the dismal London daylight, when he sprang up desper- ately, and walked off to his uncle's lodgings in Bury Street ; where the maid, who was scouring the steps, looked up sus- piciously at him, as he came with an unshaven face, and j-ester- day's linen. He thought she knew of his mishap, too. '" Good evens! Mr. Harthur, what as appened, sir?" Mr. Morgan, the valet, asked, who had just arranged the well-brushed clothes and shiny boots at the door of his master's bedroom, and was carrying in his wig to the Major. " I want to see ray uncle," he cried, in a ghastty voice, and fluns himself down on a chair Morgan backed before the pale and desperate-looking young man, with terrified and wondering glances, and disappeared into his master's auartment. PENDENNIS. 195 The Major put his head out of the bedroom door, as soon as he had his wig ou. "What? examination over? Senior Wrangler, double First Class, hay?" said the old gentleman — "I'll come di- rectly ; " and the head disappeared. "They don't know what has happened," groaned Pen; " what will the}' say when the}' know all? " Pen had been standing with his back to the window, and to such a dubious light as Bury Street enjo3's of a fogg}^ January morning, so that his uncle could not see the expression of the young man's countenance, or the looks of gloom and despair which even Mr. Morgan had remarked. But when the Major came out of his dressing-room neat and radiant, and preceded by faint odors from Delcroix's shop, from which emporium Major Pendennis's wig and his pocket- handkerchief got their perfume, he held out one of his hands to Pen, and was about addressing him in his cheery high-toned voice, when he caught sight of the boy's face at length, and dropping his hand, said, "Good God! Pen, what's the mat- ter?" " You'll see it in the papers at breakfast, sir," Pen said. "See what?" " M}' name isn't there, sir." " Hang it, why should it be? " asked the Major, more per- plexed. "I have lost everything, sir," Pen groaned out; "my honor's gone ; I'm ruined irretrievabl}' ; I can't go back to Oxbridge." "Lost your honor?" screamed out the Majoi'. "Heaven alive ! you don't mean to say you have shown the white feather ? " Pen laughed bitterly at the word feather, and repeated it. " No, it isn't that, sir. I'm not afraid of being shot; I wish to God anybod}' would shoot me. I have not got my degree. I — I'm plucked, sir." The Major had heard of plucking, but in a very vague and cursory way, and concluded that it was some ceremony per- formed corporalU' upon rebellious university youth, " I won- der you can look me in the face after such a disgrace, sir," he said ; '" I wonder you submitted to it as a gentleman." "I couldn't help it, sir. I did my classical papers well enough • it was those infernal mathematics, which I have always neglected." " Was it — was it done in public, sir?" the Major said "What?" 196 PENDENNFS. "The — the plucking?" asked the guardian, looking Pen anxiousl}^ in the face. Pen perceived the error under which his guardian was laboring, and in the midst of his misery the bkinder caused the poor wretch a faint smile, and served to bring down the con- versation from the traged3'-ke3% in which Pen had been disposed to carr}^ it on. He explained to his uncle that he had gone in to pass his examination, and failed. On which the Major said, that though he had expected far better things of his nephew, there was no great misfortune in this, and no dishonor as far as he saw, and that Pen must try again. " J/e again at Oxbridge," Pen thought, "after such a humiliation as that ! " He felt that, except he went down to burn the place, he could not enter it. But it was when he came to tell his uncle of his debts that the other felt suiprise and anger most keenly, and broke out into speeches most severe upon Pen, which the lad bore, as best he might, without flinching. He had determined to make a clean breast, and had formed a full, true, and complete list of all his bills and liabilities at the university, and in London. They consisted of various items, such as London Tailor. Oxbridge do. Oxbridge do. Bill for horses. Haberdasher, for shirts and gloves. Printseller. Jeweller. Books. College Cook. Binding. Crump, for desserts. Hairdresser and Perfumery. Bootmaker. Hotel Bill in London. Wine Merchant in London. Sundries. All which items the reader may fill in at his pleasure — such accounts have been inspected by the parents of many uni- versity 3-outh, — and it appeared that Mr. Pen's bills in all amounted to about seven hundred pounds ; and, furthermore, it was calculated that he had had more than twice that sum of ready money during his staj' at Oxbridge. This sum he had spent, and for it had to show — what? " You need not press a man who is down, sir," Pen said to his uncle, gloomil}'. " I know very well how wicked and idle I have been. M}- mother won't like to see me dishonored, sir," he continued, with his voice failing ; " and I know she will pay these accounts. But I shall ask her for no more mone}'." " As 3'ou like, sir," the Major said. " You are of age, and PENDENNIS. 197 m}' bands are washed of 3"our affairs. But you can't live with- out moner, and have no means of making it that I see, though you have a fine talent in spending it, and it is m}^ belief that j-ou will proceed as 3'ou have begun, and ruin 3'our mother before you are five j-ears older. — Good morning ; it is time for me to go to breakfast. My engagements won't permit me to see 3'ou much during the time that you stay in London. I pre- sume that you will acquaint 3'our mother with the news which you have just conveyed to me." And pulling on his hat, and trembhng in his limbs some- what, Major Pendennis walked out of his lodgings before his nephew, and went ruefully off to take his accustomed corner at the Club. He saw the Oxbridge examination-lists in the morn- ing papers, and read over the names, not understanding the business, with mournful accurac}'. He consulted various old fogies of his acquaintance, in the course of the day, at his Clubs ; Wenham, a Dean, various Civilians ; and, as it is called, "took their opinion," showing to some of them the amount of his nephew's debts, which he had dotted down on the back of a card, and asking what was to be done, and whether such debts were not monstrous, preposterous? "What was to be done ? — There was nothing for it but to pay. Wenham and the others told the Major of young men who owed twice as much — five times as much — as Arthur, and with no means at all to pay. The consultations, and calculations, and opinions, comforted the Major somewhat. After all, he was not to pay. But he thought bitterly of the many plans he had formed to make a man of his nephew, of the sacrifices which he had made, and of the manner in which he was disappointed. And he wrote off a letter to Doctor Portman, informing him of the dire- ful events which had taken place, and begging the Doctor to break them to Helen. For the orthodox old gentleman pre- served the regular routine in all things, and was of opinion that it was more coiTect to " break " a piece of bad news to a person by means of a (possibly maladroit and unfeeUng) messenger, than to convey it simply to its destination by a note. So the Major wrote to Doctor Portman, and then went out to din- ner, one of the saddest men in any London dining-room that day. Pen, too, wrote his letter, and skulked about London streets for the rest of the day, fancj-ing that everybody was looking at him and whispering to his neighbor, " That is Pen- dennis of Boniface, who was plucked yesterday." His letter to his mother was full of tenderness and remorse : he wept the 198 PENDENNIS. bitterest tears over it — and the repentance and passion soothed him to some degree. He saw a party of roaring young blades from Oxbridge in the coffee-room of his hotel, and slunk away from them, and paced the streets. He remembers, he sa3-s, the prints which he saw hanging up at Ackermann's window in the rain, and a book which he read at a stall near the Temple : at night he went to the pit of the play, and saw Miss Fotheringay, but he doesn't in the least recollect in what piece. On the second day there came a kind letter from his tutor, containing many grave and appropriate remarks upon the event whicih had befallen him, but strongly urging Pen not to take his name off the universit}' books, and to retrieve a disaster which, everybody knew, was owing to his own carelessness alone, and which he might repair by a month's application. He said he had ordered Fen's skip to pack up some trunks of the 3'oung gen- tleman's wardrobe, which duly arrived with fresh copies of all Pen's bills laid on the top. On the third da^^ there arrived a letter from Home ; which Pen read in his bedroom, and the result of which was that he fell down on his knees, with his head in the bed-clothes, and there prayed out his heart, and humbled himself; and having gone down stairs and eaten an immense breakfast, he sallied forth and took his place at the Bull and Mouth, Piccadilly, by the Chatteris coach for that evening. CHAPTER XXI. prodigal's return. Such a letter as the Major wrote, of course sent Doctor Portman to Fairoaks, and he went off with that alacrity which a good man shows when he has disagreeable news to communi- cate. He wishes the deed were done, and done quickly. He is sorr}', but que voulez-vous9 the tooth must be taken out, and he has 30U into the chair, and it is surprising with what cour- age and vigor of wrist he applies the forceps. Perhaps he would not be quite so active or eager if it were his tooth ; but, in fine, it is your duty to have it out. So the Doctor, ha^dng read the epistle out to Mira and Mrs. Portman, with PENDENNIS. 199 inan}' damnatorj comments upon the young scapegrace who was going deeper and deeper into perdition, left those ladies to spread the news through the Clavering society, which they did with their accustomed accuracy and despatch, and strode oyer to Fairoaks to break the intelligence to the widow. She had the news already. She had read Pen's letter, and it had relieved her somehow. A gloomy presentiment of evil had been hanging over her for many, man}^ months past. She knew the worst now, and her darling boy was come back to her re- pentant and tender-hearted. Did she want more? All that the Rector could say ( and his remarks were both dictated by com- mon sense, and made respectable b}' antiquity) could not bring Helen to feel an}* indignation or particular unhappiness, except that the boy should be unhappy. What was this degree that they made such an outer}' about, and what good would it do Pen? Wh}- did Doctor Portman and his uncle insist upon sending the bo}' to a place where there was so much tempta- tion to be risked, and so little good to be won ? Why didn't the}' leave him at home with his mother? As for his debts, of course they must be paid ; — his debts ! — wasn't his father's mone}' all his, and hadn't he a right to spend it? In this way the widow met the virtuous Doctor, and all the arrows of his indignation somehow took no effect upon her gentle bosom. For some time past an agreeable practice, known since times ever so ancient, by which brothers and sisters are wont to ex- hibit their affection towards one another, and in which Pen and his little sister Laura had been accustomed to indulge pretty frequently in their childish days, had been given up by the mutual consent of those two individuals. Coming back from college after an absence from home of some months, in place of the simple girl whom he had left behind him, Mr. Arthur found a tall, slim, handsome young lady, to whom he could not somehow proffer the kiss which he had been in the habit of administering prcviousl}', and who received him with a gracious curtsy and a proffered hand, and with a great blush which rose up to the cheek, just upon the very spot which 3'oung Pen had been used to salute. I am not good at descriptions of female beaut}' ; and, indeed, do not care for it in the least (thinking that goodness and vir- tue are, of course, far more advantageous to a young lady than any mere fleeting charms of person and face), and so shall not attempt any particular delineation of Miss Laura Bell at the age of sixteen years. At that age she had attained her present altitude of five feet four inches, so that she was called tall and 200 TENDENNIS. oawk}' by ssome, aud a Maypole by others, of her own sex, who prefer littler women. But if she was a Maypole, she had beau- tiful roses about her head, and it is a fact that many swains were disposed to dance round her. She was ordinarily pale, with a faint rose tinge in her cheeks ; but they flushed up in a minute when occasion called, and continued so blushing ever so long, the roses remaining after the emotion had passed awaj- which had summoned those pretty flowers into existence. Her eyes have been described as very large from her earliest child- hood, and retained that characteristic in later life. Good- natured critics (always females) said that she was in the habit of making play with those e^'es, and ogling the gentlemen and ladies in her company ; but the fact is, that Nature had made them so to shine and to look, and the^^ could no more help so looking and shining than one star can help being brighter than another. It was doubtless to mitigate their brightness that Miss Laura's eyes were provided with two pairs of veils in the shape of the longest and finest black eyelashes, so that, when she closed her eyes, the same people who found fault with those orbs, said that she wanted to show her eyelashes oflT; and, indeed, I dare sa}' that to see her asleep would have been a pretty sight. As for her complexion, that was nearly as biilliant as Lady Mantrap's, and without the powder which her ladyship uses. Her nose must be left to the reader's imagination : if her mouth was rather large (as Miss Piminy avers, who, but for her known appetite one would think could not swallow anything larger than a button) everybody allowed that her smile was charming, and showed off a set of pearly teeth, whilst her voice was so low and sweet, that to hear it was like listening to sweet music. Because she is in the habit of wearing very long dresses, people of course say that her feet are not small : but it may be, that they are of the size becoming her figure, and it does not follow, because Mrs. Pincher is always putting her foot out, that all other ladies sliould be perpetually^ bringing theirs on the tapis. In fine, Miss Laura Bell, at the age of sixteen, was a sweet 3'oung lady. Many thousands of such are to be found, let us hope, in this country, where there is no lack of goodness, and modesty, and purit}-, and beauty. Now, Miss Laura, since she had learned to think for herself (and in the past two years her mind and her person had both developed themselves considerably), had onl}' been half pleased with Pen's general conduct and bearing. His letters to his mother at home had become of late ver}' rare and sho:l. It PENDENNIS. 201 was in vain that the fond widow urged how constant Arthur's occupations and studies were, and how many his engagements. '• It is better that he should lose a prize," Laura said, '• than forget his mother: and indeed, mamma, I don't see that he gets many prizes. Why doesn't lie come home and sta}' with you, instead of passing his vacations at his great friends' fine houses? There is nobod}' there will love him half as much as — as 30U do." "As /do onh-, Laura," sighed out Mrs, Pendennis. Laura declared stoutly that she did not love Pen a bit, when he did not do his duty to his mother : nor would she be convinced b}' any of Helen's fond arguments, that the bo3" must make his way in the world ; that his uncle was most desirous that Pen should cultivate the acquaintance of persons who were likely to befriend him in life ; that men had a thou- sand ties and calls which women could not understand, and so forth. Perhaps Helen no more believed in these excuses than her adopted daughter did ; but she tried to believe that she believed them, and comforted herself with the maternal infatu- ation. And that is a point whereon I suppose many a gentle- man has reflected, that, do what we will, we are pretty sure of the woman's love that once has been ours ; and that that untir- ing tenderness and forgiveness never fail us. Also, there had been that freedom, not to say audacit}^ in Arthur's latter talk and ways, which had shocked and dis- pleased Laura. Not that he ever offended her by rudeness, or addressed to her a word which she ought not to hear, for Mr. Pen was a gentleman, and by nature and education polite to every woman high and low ; but he spoke lightly and laxl}'^ of women in general ; was less courteous in his actions than in his words — neglectful in sundry waj's, and in many of the little offices of life. It offended Miss Laura that he should smoke his hoi'rid pipes in the house ; that he should refuse to go to church with his mother, or on walks or visits with her, and be found yawning over his novel in his dressing-gown, when the gentle widow returned from those duties. The hero of Laura's early infancj^ about whom she had passed so many, manj- nights talking with Helen (who recited endless stories of the boy's virtues, and love, and bravery, when he was away at school), was a very different person from the young man whom now she knew ; bold and brilliant, sarcastic and defiant, seeming to scorn the simple occupations or pleasures, or even devotions, of the women with whom he lived, and whom he quitted on such light pretexts. The Fotheiingay affair, too. when Laura came to hear of i** 202 PENDENNIS. (which she did first by some sarcastic allusions of Major Pen- dermis, when on a visit to Fairoaks, and then from their neigh- bors at Clavering, who had plenty of information to give her on this head), vastly shocked and outraged Miss Laura. A Pen- dcnnis fling himself awa}^ on such a woman as that ! Helen's boy galloping away fi'om home, day after da}^ to fall on his knees to an actress, and drink with her horrid father ! A good son want to bring such a man and such a woman into his house, and set her over his mother ! "I would have run awa}', mamma ; I would, if I had had to walk barefoot through the snow," Laura said. " And 1/ou would have left me too, then? " Helen answered ; on which, of course, Laura withdrew her previous observation, and the two women rushed into each other's embraces with that warmth which belonged to both their natures, and which charac- terizes not a few of their sex. Whence came all this indigna- tion of Miss Laura about Arthur's passion? Perhaps she did not know, that, if men throw themselves awa}- upon women, women throw themselves away upon men, too ; and that there is no more accounting for love, than for an^' other physical liking or antipathy : perhaps she had been misinformed bj- the Clavering people and old Mrs. Portman. who was vastly bitter against Pen, especially since his impertinent behavior to the Doctor, and since the wretch had smoked cigars in church-time : perhaps, finall}', she was jealous ; but this is a vice in which it is said the ladies very seldom indulge. Albeit she was angry with Pen, against his mother she had no such feeling ; but devoted herself to Helen with the utmost force of her girlish affection — such affection as women, whose hearts are disengaged, are apt to bestow upon the near female friend. It was devotion — it was passion — it was all sorts of fondness and folly ; it was a profusion of caresses, tender epi- thets and endearments, such as it does not become sober his- torians with beards to narrate. Do not let us men despise these instincts because we cannot feel them. These women were made for our comfort and delectation, gentlemen, — with aU the rest of the minor animals. But as soon as Miss Laura heard that Pen was unfortunate and unhappy, all her wrath against him straightway vanished, and gave place to the most tender and unreasonable compas- sion. He was the Pen of old da3's once more restored to her, the frank and affectionate, the generous and tender-hearted. She at once took side with Helen against Doctor Portman, when he outcried at the enormity' of Pen's transgressions. Debts ? PENDENNIS. 203 what were his debts ? they were a trifle ; he had licen thrown into expensive societ}' b^^ his uncle's order, and of course was obliged to live in the same manner as the 3'oung gentlemen whose compan}- he frequented. Disgraced by not getting his degree ? the poor boy was ill when he went in for the examina- tions : he couldn't think of his mathematics and stutf on account of those very debts which oppressed him ; verj' likel}' some of the odious tutors and masters were jealous of him, and had favorites of their own whom they wanted to put over his head. Other people disliked him and were cruel to him, and were unfair to him, she was very sure. And so, with flushing cheeks and ej-es bright with anger, this young creature reasoned ; and she went up and seized Helen's hand, and kissed her in the Doctor's presence, and her looks braved the Doctor, and seemed to ask how he dared to sav a word against her darling mother's Pen ? When that divine took his leave, not a little discomfited and amazed at the pertinacious obstinacy of the women, Laura repeated her embraces and arguments with tenfold fervor to Helen, who felt that there was a gi-eat deal of cogency in most of the latter. There must be some jealous3' against Pen. She felt quite sure that he had offended some of the examiners, who had taken a mean revenge of him — nothing more likely. Al- together, the announcement of the misfortune vexed these two ladies very little indeed. Pen, who was plunged in his shame and grief in London, and torn with great remorse for thinking of his mother's sorrow, would have wondered, had he seen how easily she bore the calamity. Indeed, calamit3^ is welcome to women if they think it will bring truant affection home again : and if you have reduced jour mistress to a crust, depend upon it that she won't repine, and onl}' take a very little bit of it for herself, provided j-ou will eat the remainder in her company. And directlj' the Doctor was gone, Laura ordered fires to be lighted in Mr. Arthur's rooms, and his bedding to be aired ; and had these preparations completed by the time Helen had finished a most tender and affectionate letter to Pen : when the girl, smiling fondly, took her mamma bj' the hand, and led her into those apartments whei'e the fires were blazing so cheer- fully, and there the two kind creatures sat down on the bed, and talked about Pen ever so long. Laura added a postscript to Helen's letter, in which she called him her dearest Pen, and bade him come home instantly^ with two of the handsomest dashes under the word, and be happy with his mother and hia atlectionate sister Laura. 204 PENDENNIS. In the middle of the night — as these two ladies, after read- ing their Bibles a great deal during the evening, and after taking just a look into Pen's room as they passed to their own — in the middle of the night, I say, Laura, whose head not unfrequently chose to occupy that pillow which the nightcap of the late Pendennis had been accustomed to press, cried out suddenly, "Mamma, are 3'ou awake?" Helen stirred and said, "Yes, I'm awake." The truth is, though she had been lying quite still and silent, she had not been" asleep one instant, but had been looking at the night- lamp in the chimney, and had been thinking of Pen for houi's and hours. Then Miss Laura (who had been acting with similar hypoc- risy, and lying, occupied with her own thoughts, as motionless as Helen's brooch, with Pen's and Laura's hair in it, on the frilled white pincushion on the dressing-table) began to tell Mrs. Pendennis of a notable plan which she had been forming in her busy little brains ; and by which all Pen's embarrass- ments would be made to vanish in a moment, and without the least trouble to an3-body. " You know, mamma," this young lady said, " that I have been living with 3'ou for ten 3'ears, during which time 3'ou have never taken any of m}" mone}^ and have been treating me just as if I was a charity' girl. Now, this obligation has offended me very much, because I am proud and do not like to be be- holden to people. And as, if I had gone to school — onl}- I wouldn't — it must have cost me at least fift}^ pounds a year, it is clear that I owe j-ou fifty times ten pounds, which I know 3'OU have put into the bank at Chatteris for me, and which doesn't belong to me a bit. Now, to-morrow we will go to Chatteris, and see that nice old Mr. Rowdy, with the bald head, and ask him for it, — not for his head, but for the five hundred pounds : and I dare say he will lend you two more, which we will save and pay back ; and we will send the money to Pen, who can pa}' all his debts without hurting an3bod3', and then we will live happy ever after." What Helen replied to this speech need not be repeated, as the widow's answer was made up of a gi'eat number of in- coherent ejaculations, embraces, and other irrelative matter. But the two women slept well after that talk ; and when the night-lamp went out with a splutter, and the sun rose gloriousty over the purple hills, and the birds began to sing and pipe cheerfully amidst the leafless trees and glistening evergreens on Fairoaks lawn, Helen woke too, and as she looked at the sweet PENDENNIS. ^ 205 face of the girl sleeping beside her, her lips parted with a smile, lilushes on her cheeks, her spotless bosom heaving and falling with gentle undulations, as if happy dreams were sweeping over it — Pen's mother felt happy and grateful beyond all power of words, save such as pious women offer up to the Beneficent Dispenser of love and mercy — in Whose honor a chorus of such praises is constautl}' rising up all round the world. Although it was January" and rather cold weather, so sincere was Mr. Pen's remorse, and so determined his plans of economy, that he would not take an inside place in the coach, but sat up behind with his friend the Guard, who remembered his former liberalit}-, and lent him plenty of great-coats. Perhaps it was the cold that made his knees tremble as he got down at the lodge gate, or it may be that he was agitated at the notion of seeing the kind creature for whose love he had made so self- ish a return. Old John was in waiting to receive his master's baggage, but he appeared in a fustian jacket, and no longer wore his liverj^ of drab and blue. " I'se garner and stable man, and lives in the ladge now," this worthy man remarked, with a grin of welcome to Pen, and something of a blush ; but instantly as Pen turned the corner of the shrubbery, and was out of eye-shot of the coach, Helen made her appearance, her face beaming with love and forgiveness — for forgiving is what some women love best of all. We may be sure that the widow, having a certain other object in view, had lost no time in writing off to Pen an account of the noble, the magnanimous, the magnificent offer of Laiu'a, filling up her letter with a profnsion of benedictions upon both her children. It was probabl}' the knowledge of this mone}'- obligation wliich caused Pen to blush very much when he saw Laura, who was in waiting in the hall, and who this time, and for this time onlj-, broke through the little an^angement of which we have spoken, as having subsisted between her and Arthur for the last few years ; but the truth is, there has been a great deal too much said about kissing in the present chapter. So the Prodigal came home, and the fatted calf was killed for him, and he was made as happ}^ as two simple women could make him. No allusions were made to the Oxbridge mishap, or questions asked as to his farther proceedings, for some time. But Pen debated these anxiously in his own mind, and up in his own room, where he passed much time in cogitation. A few days after he came home, he rode to Chatteris on his 206 PENDENNIS. horse, and came back on the top of the coach. He then in- formed his mother that he had left the horse to be sold : and when that operation was effected, he handed her over the cheque, which she, and possibly Pen himself, thought was an act of uncommon virtue and self-denial, but which Laura pro- nounced to be only strict justice. lie rarely mentioned the loan which she had made, and which, indeed, had been accepted by the widow with certain modifications ; but once or twice, and with great hesitation and stammering, he alluded to it, and thanked her. It evidently pained his vanity to be beholden to the orphan for succor. He was wild to find some means of repajing her. He left off drinking wine, and betook himself, but with great moderation, to the refreshment of whiskey-and-water. He gave up cigar smoking ; but it must be confessed that of late years he had liked pipes and tobacco as well or even better, so that this sacrifice was not a very severe one. He fell asleep a great deal after dinner when he joined the ladies in the drawing-room, and was certainly very moody and melancholy. He watched the coaches with great interest, walked in to read the papers at Clavering assiduously, dined with anybody who would ask him (and the widow was glad that he should have any entertainment in their solitary place), and played a good deal at cribbage with Captain Glanders. He avoided Doctor Portman, who, in his turn, whenever Pen passed, gave him very severe looks from under his shovel- hat. He went to church with his mother, however, very re the suite in the landing, to the south, the bedroom, the sitting-room, and the dressing-room. We'll throw a con- servatory out, over the balcony. Where will you have your rooms ? " "Put mine in the north wing," said the Baronet, with a yawn, ' ' and out of the reach of Miss Amory's confounded piano. I can't bear it. She's scweeching from morning till night." The Captain burst out laughing. He settled the whole further arrangements of the house in the course of their walk through it ; and, the promenade ended, they went into the steward's room, now inhabited by Mrs. Blenkinsop, and where Mr. Tatham was sitting poring over a plan of the estate, and the old housekeeper had prepared a collation in honor of her lord and master. Then they inspected the kitchen and stables, about both of which Sir Francis was rather interested, and Captain Strong was for examining the gardens: but the Baronet said, "D — the gardens, and that sort of thing ! " and linall}' he drove away from the house as unconcernedly as he had entered it ; and that night the people of Clavering learned that Sir Francis 214 PENDENNIS. Clavering had paid a visit to the Park, and was coming to live in the county. When this fact came to be known at Chatteris, all the folks in the place were set in commotion : High Church and Low Church, half-pay captains and old maids and dowagers, sport- ing squireens of the vicinage, farmers, tradesmen, and factory people — all the population in and round about the little place. The news was brought to Fairoaks, and received by the ladies there, and by Mr. Pen, with some excitement. "Mrs. Pybus sa3's there is a very pretty girl in the family, Arthur," Laura said, who was as kind and thoughtful upon this point as women generallj' are : "a Miss Amor}', Lad}' Clavering's daughter by her first marriage. Of course, you will fall in love with her as soon as she arrives." Helen cried out, "• Don't talk nonsense, Laura." Pen laughed, and said, "Well, there is the 3'oung Sir Francis for you." "He is but four years old," Miss Laura replied. "But I shall console m3'self with that handsome officer, Sir Francis's friend. He was at church last Sunday, in the Clavering pew, and his mustachios were beautiful." Indeed the number of Sir Francis's family (whereof the members have all been mentioned in the above paragraphs) was pretty soon known in the town, and everything else, as nearly as human industry and ingenuity could calculate, regarding his household. The Park avenue and grounds were dotted now with town folks of the summer evenings, who made their wa}'' up to the great house, peered about the premises, and criticised the improvements which were taking place there. Loads upon loads of furniture arrived in numberless vans from Chatteris and London ; and numerous as the vans were, there was not one but Captain Glanders knew what it contained, and escorted the baggage up to the Park House. He and Captain Edward Strong had formed an intimate acquaintance by this time. The 3'ounger Captain occupied those very lodgings at Clavering, which the peaceful Smirke had previousl}' tenanted, and was deep in the good graces of Madame Fribsb}', his landlad}' ; and of the whole town, indeed. The Captain was splendid in person and raiment ; fresh-colored, blue-eyed, black- whiskered, broad-chested, athletic — a slight tendency to fulness did not take away from the comeliness of his jolly figure — a braver soldier never presented a broader chest to the enemy. As he strode down CkiA-ering High Street, his hat on one side, his cane clanking on the pavement, or wav- PENDENNIS. 215 iug rouud him in the execution of militaiy cuts and soldatesque manoeu^'l•es — his joll}' laughter ringing through the otherwise silent street — he was as Avelcome as sunshine to the place, and a comfort to every inhabitant in it. On the first market-day he knew ever}^ pretty girl in the market : he joked with all the women ; had a word with the farmers about their stock, and dined at the Agricultural Ordi- nary at the Clavering Arms, where he set them all dying with laughter b}' his fun and jokes. '• Tu be sure he be a vine fel- ler, tu be sure that he be," was the universal opinion of the gentlemen in top-boots. He shook hands with a score of them, us the}' rode out of the inn-3'ard on their old nags, waving his hat to them splendidly as he smoked his cigar in the inn-gate. In the course of the evening he was free of the landlady's bar, knew what rent the landlord paid, how many acres he farmed, how much malt he put in his strong beer ; and whether he ever run in a little brandy unexcised by kings from Ba3-mouth, or the fishing villages along the coast. He had tried to live at the great house first ; but it was so dull he couldn't stand it. "I am a creature born for society," he told Captain Glanders. '• I'm down here to see Clavering's house set in order ; for between ourselves, Frank has no energy, sir, no energy ; he's not the chest for it, sir (and he threw out his own trunk as he spoke) ; but I must have social intercourse. Old Mrs. Blenkinsop goes to bed at seven, and takes Polly with her. There was nobod}' but me and the Ghost for the first two nights at the great house, and I own it, sir, I like company. Most old soldiers do." Glanders asked Strong where he had served? Captain Strong curled his moustache, and said with a laugh, that the other might almost ask where he had not served. '' I began, sir, as cadet of Hungarian Uhlans, and when the war of Greek independence broke out, quitted that service in consequence of a quarrel with my governor, and was one of seven who escaped from Missolonghi, and was blown up in one of Botzaris's fire- ships, at the age of seventeen. I'll show you mj' Cross of the Redeemer, if you'll come over to my lodgings and take a glass of gi'og with me. Captain, this evening. I've a few of those baubles in ray desk. I've the White Eagle of Poland ; Skrzy- necki gave it me" (he pronounced Skrz3necki's name with wonderful accurac}^ and gusto) " upon the field of Ostrolenko. I was a lieutenant of the fourth regiment, sir, and we marched through Diebitsch's lines — bang thro' 'em into Prussia, sir, without firing a shot. Ah, Captain, that was a mismanaged 216 PENDENNIfS. business. I received this wound by the side of the King before Oporto — where he would have pounded the stock-jobbing Pedroites, had Bourmont followed ni}' advice ; and I served in Spain with the King's troops, until the death of m}' dear friend, Zuinalacarreguj', when I saw the game was over, and hung up my toasting-iron, Captain. Alava offered me a regiment ; but I couldn't — damme I couldn't — and now, sir, you know Ned Strong — the Chevalier Strong the}^ call me abroad — as well as he knows himself." In this wa}- almost ever3-bod3' in Clavering came to know Ned Strong. He told Madame Fribsb}-, he told the landlord of the George, he told Baker at the reading-rooms, he told Mrs. Glanders, and the 3-oung ones, at dinner: and finally, he told Mr. Arthur Pendennis, who, yawning into Clavering one day, found the Chevalier Strong in company' with Cap- tain Glanders ; and who was delighted with his new acquaint- ance. Before man}- days were over, Captain Strong was as much at home in Helen's drawing-room as he was in Madame Fribs- by's first floor ; and made the lonely house very gay with his good-humor and ceaseless flow of talk. The two women had never before seen such a man. He had a thousand stories about battles and dangers to interest them — about Greek cap- tives, Polish beauties, and Spanish nuns. He could sing scores of songs, in half a dozen languages, and would sit down to the piauo and troll them off in a rich manly voice. Both the ladies pronounced him to be delightful — and so he was : though, in- deed, the}- had not had much choice of man's societ}^ as yet, having seen in the course of their lives but few persons, except old Portman and the Major, and Mr. Pen, who was a genius, to be sure ; but then your geniuses are somewhat flat and moody at home. And Captain Strong acquainted his new friends at Fairoaks, not only with his own biography, but with the whole history of the family now coming to Clavering. It was he who had made the marriage between his friend Frank and the widow Amory. She wanted rank, and he wanted money. What match could be more suitable ? He organized it ; he made those two people happy. There was no particular romantic attachment between them ; the widow was not of an age or a person for romance, and Sir Francis, if he had his game at Hl- liards, and his dinner, cared for little besides. But they were as happy as people could be. Clavering would return to his native place and countr}', his wife's fortune would pay his en- PENDENNIS. 217 cumhrances off, and his son and heir would be one of the first men in the county. "And Miss Amor}-?" Laura asked. Laura was uncom- monly curious about Miss Amor}'. Strong laughed. "Oh, Miss Amory is a muse — Miss Amory is a mystery — Miss Amory is a feinme iyicomprise." "What is that?" asked simple Mrs. Pendennis — but the Chevalier gave her no answer ; perhaps could not give her one. " Miss Amory paints, Miss Amory writes poems, Miss Amory composes music, Miss Amory rides like Diana Vernon. Miss Amory is a paragon, in a word." " I hate clever women," said Pen. " Thank you," said Laura. For her part she was sure she should be charmed with Miss Amory, and quite longed to have such a friend. And with this she looked Pen full in the face, as if every word the Uttle hypocrite said was Gospel truth. Thus an intimacy was arranged and prepared beforehand between the Fairoaks family and their wealthy neighbors at the Park ; and Pen and Laura were to tlie full as eager for their arrival, as even the most curious of the Clavering folks. A Londoner, who sees fresh faces and yawns at them every day, may smile at the eagerness with which country people expect a visitor. A cockney comes amongst them, and is remembered by his rural entertainers for years after he has left them, and forgotten them very likely — floated far away from them on the vast London sea. But the islanders remember long after the mariner has sailed away, and can tell you what he said and what he wore, and how he looked and how he laughed. In fine, a new arrival is an event in the country not to be under- stood by us, who don't, and had rather not, know who lives next door. "When the painters and upholsterers had done their work in the house, and so beautified it, under Captain Strong's superin- tendence, that he might well be proud of his taste, that gentle- man announced that he should go to London, where the whole family had arrived by this time, and should speedily return to establish them in their renovated mansion. Detachments of domestics preceded them. Carriages came down by sea, and were brought over from Baymouth by horses which had previously arrived under the care of grooms and coachmen. One day the "Alacrity" coach brought down on its roof two large and melancholy men, who were dropped at the Park lodge with their trunks, and who were Messieurs Frederic and James, metropolitan footmen, who had no objee' 8 218 PENDENNIS. tion to the countrj', and brought with them state and other suits of the Clavering uuiform. On another day, the mail deposited at the gate a foreign gentleman, adorned with many ringlets and chains. He made a great riot at the lodge gate to the keeper's wife (who, being a West countr}- woman, did not understand his Enghsh or his Gascon French), because there was no carriage in waiting to drive him to the house, a mile off, and because he could not walk entire leagues in his fatigued state and varnished boots. This was Monsieur Alcide Mirobolant, formerly Chef of his Highness the Due de Borodino, of H. Eminence Cardinal Bee- calico, and at present Chef of the bouche of Sir Clavering, Baronet: — Monsieur Mirobolant's library, pictures, and piano, had arrived previously in charge of the intelligent young Eng- lishman, his aide-de-camp. He was, moreover, aided by a. professed female cook, likewise from London, who had inferior females under her orders. He did not dine in the steward's room, but took his nutri- ment in solitude in his own apartments, where a female servant was affected to his private use. It was a grand sight to behold him in his dressing-gown composing a menu. He alwaj's sat down and played the piano for some time before. If inter- rupted, he remonstrated patheticall}'. Ever}- great artist, he said, had need of solitude to perfectionate his works. But we are advancing matters in the fulness of our love and respect for Monsieur Mirobolant, and bringing him prematurely on the stage. The Chevalier Strong had a hand in the engagement of all the London domestics, and, indeed, seemed to be the master of the house. There were those among them who said he was the house-steward, only he dined with the family. Howbeit, he knew how to make himself respected, and two of by no means the least comfortable rooms of the house were assigned to his particular use. He was walking upon the terrace finally upon the eventful day, when, amidst an immense jangling of bells from Clavering Church, where the flag was flying, an open carriage and one of those travelling chariots or family arks, which only English philo-progenitiveness could invent, drove rapidl}' with foaming horses through the Park gates, and up to the steps of the Hall. The two battans of the sculptured door flew open. Two superior officers in black, the large and melancholy gentlemen, now in liver}- with their hair in powder, the country menials engaged t/O aid them, were in waiting- in the ball, and bowed like lad PENDENNIS. 219 elms when autumn winds wail in the park. Through this avenue passed Sir Francis Clavering with a most unmoved face : Lady Clavering, with a pair of bright black eyes, and a good-humored countenance, which waggled and nodded veiy graciousl}' : Mas- ter Francis Clavering, who was holding his mamma's skirt (and who stopped the procession to look at the largest footman, wliose appearance seamed to sti-ike the young gentleman), and Miss Blandy, governess to Master Francis, and Miss Amory, her ladyship's daughter, giving her arm to Captain Strong. It was summer, but fires of welcome were crackling in the great hall chimney, and in the rooms which the family were to oc- cupy. Monsieur Mirobolant had looked at the procession from one of the lime-trees in the avenue. " Elle est la," he said, la3-ing his jewelled hand on his richly embroidered velvet waistcoat with glass buttons, " Je t'ai vue ; je te benis, O ma S3dphide, O mon ange ! " and he dived into the thicket, and made his waj' back to his furnaces and saucepans. The next Sunday the same party which had just made its appearance at Clavering Park, came and publicly took pos- session of the ancient pew in the church, where so many of the Baronet's ancestors had prayed, and were now kneeling in effigy. There was such a run to see the new folks, that the Low Church was deserted, to the disgust of its pastor ; and as the state barouche, with the grays and coachman in silver wig, and solemn footmen, drew up at the old churchj^ard gate, there was such a crowd assembled there as had not been seen for mau}^ a long da}'. Captain Strong knew everybody, and saluted for all the company. The countr}' people vowed my lady was not handsome, to be sure, but pronounced her to be uncommon fine dressed, as indeed she was — with the finest of shawls, the finest of pelisses, the brilliantest of bonnets and wreaths, and a power of rings, cameos, brooches, chains, bangles, and other nameless gimcracks { and ribbons of every breadth and color of the rainbow flaming on her person. Miss Amory appeared meek in dove-color, like a vestal virgin — while Master Francis was in the costume then prevalent of Rob Roy Macgregor, a celebrated Highland outlaw. The Baronet was not more ani- mated than ordinarily — there was a happy vacuity about him which enabled him to face a dinner, a death, a church, a mar- riage, with the same indifferent ease. A pew for the Clavering servants was filled by these domes- tics, and the enraptured congregation saw the gentlemen from London with " vlower on tlieir heeds-" and the miraculous 220 PENDENMS. coachman with his silver wig, take their places in that pew sa soon as his horses were put up at the Clavering Arms. In the course of the sei-vice, Master Francis began to make such a yelling in the pew, that Frederic, the tallest of the foot- men, was beckoned by his master, and rose and went and carried out Master Francis, who roared and beat him on the head, so that the powder flew round about, like clouds of in- cense. Nor was he pacified until placed on the box of the carriage, where he plaj-ed at horses with John's whip. " You see the little beggar's never been to church before,. Miss Bell," the Baronet drawled out to a 30ung lad^' who was visiting him ; "no wonder he should make a row : I don't go in town neither, but I think it's right in the country to give a good example — and that sort of thing." Miss Bell laughed and said, " The little boy had not given a particularly^ good example." " Gad, I don't know," said the Baronet. " It ain't so bad neither. Whenever he wants a thing, Frank alwaj's cwies, and whenever he cwies he gets it." Here the child in question began to howl for a dish of sweet- meats on the luncheon table, and making a lunge across the table-cloth, upset a glass of wine over the best waistcoat of one of the guests present, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, who was greatly annoyed at being made to look foolish ; and at having his spot- less cambric shirt-front blotched with wine. "We do spoil him so," said Lady Clavering to Mrs. Pen- dennis, fondl3^ gazing at the cherub, whose hands and face were now frothed over with the species of lather which is in- serted in the confection called meringues a la creme. " Gad, I was quite wight," said the Baronet. " He has cwied, and he has got it, you see. Go it, Fwank, old boj'." " Sir Francis is a ver}^ judicious parent," Miss Amor}^ whis- pered. "Don't you think so, Miss Bell? I shan't call yon Miss Bell — I shall call you Laura. I admired 3'ou so at church. Your robe was not well made, nor 3'our bonnet ver3' fresh. But 3^ou have such beautiful gray e3'es, and such a lovely tint." " Thank 3^ou," said Miss Bell, laughing. " Your cousin is handsome, and thinks so. He is uneasy de sa personne. He has not seen the world 3'et. Has he genius ? Has he suffered? A lad3^ a little woman in rumpled satin and velvet shoes — a Miss P3'bus — came here, and said he has suf- fered. I, too, have suffered, — and you, Laura, has your heart ever been touched?" PENDENNIS. 221 Laura said " No ! " but perhaps blushed a little at the idea or the question, so that the other said, — '• Ah, Laura ! I see it all. It is the beau cousin. Tell me everything. I already love j'ou as a sister." " You are very kind," said Miss Bell, smihng, " and — and it must be owned that it is a very sudden attachment." "All attachments are so. It is electricity — spontaneity. It is instantaneous. I knew I should love yoii from the moment I saw you. Do 3'ou not feel it yourself ? " " Not yet," said Laura ; " but I dare say I shall if I try." " Call me by m^'^ name, then." " But I don't know it," Laura cried out. "My name is Blanche — isn't it a pretty name? Call me by it." " Blanche — it is very prett}', indeed." " And while mamma talks with that kind-looking lady^ what relation is she to you? She must have been pretty once, but is rather passee ; she is not well gantee^ but she has a prettj"^ hand — and while mamma tallvs to her, come with me to my own room, — my own, own room. It's a darling room, though that hoiTid creature, Captain Strong, did arrange it. Are yon epns of him? He says you are, but I know better; it is the beau cousin. Yes — il a de beaux yeux. Je n' aime pas les blonds, ordinairement. Car je suis blond moi — je suis Blanche et blonde,"" — and she looked at her face and made a mone in the glass ; and never stopped for Laura's answer to the questions which she had put. Blanche was fair, and like a sylph. She had fair hair, with green reflections in it. But she had dark eyebrows. She had long black e3'elashes, which veiled beautiful brown ej^es. She had such a slim waist, that it was a wonder to behold ; and such slim little feet, that you would have thought the grass would hardU' bend under them. Her lips were of the color of faint rosebuds, and her voice warbled limpidl}' over a set of the sweetest little pearlj- teeth ever seen. She showed them very often, for they were ver}- prett3\ She was always smiling, and a smile not only showed her teeth wonderfull}', but likewise exhibited two lovely little pink dimples, that nestled in either cheek. She showed Laura her drawings, which the other thought charming. She played her some of her waltzes, with a rapid and brilliant finger, and Laura was still more charmed. And she then read her some poems, in French and English, likewise of her own composition, and which she kept locked in her own 222 PENDENNIS. book — lier own clear little book ; it was bound in blue velvet, with a gilt lock, and on it was printed in gold the title of " Mes Larmes." ' ' Mes Larmes ! — isn't it a pretty name ? " the 3'oung lady continued, who was pleased with everything that she did, and did everything ver^' well. Laura owned that it was. She had never seen an^'thing like it befoi-e ; an^'thing so lovely, so ac- complished, so fragile and prett}' ; warbling so prettily, and tripping about such a pretty room, with such a number of prett}- books, pictures, flowers, round about her. The honest and generous country girl forgot even jealousy in her admiration. " Indeed, Blanche," she said, " everything in the room is pretty ; and you are the prettiest of all." The other smiled, looked in the glass, went up and took both of Laura's hands, and kissed them, and sat down to the piano, and shook out a little song. The intimacy between the j'oung ladies sprang up like Jack's Bean-stalk to the skies in a single night. The large footmen were perpetuall}' walking with little pink notes to Fairoaks ; where there was a pretty housemaid in the kitchen, who might possibly tempt those gentlemen to so humble a place. Miss Amory sent music, or Miss Amory sent a new novel, or a pic- ture from the "Journal des Modes," to Laura; or my lady's compliments arrived witli flowers and fruit ; or Miss Amory begged and prayed Miss Bell to come to dinner ; and dear Mrs. Pendennis, if she was strong enough ; and Mr. Arthur, if a humdrum party were not too stupid for him ; and would send a pony-carriage for Mrs. Pendennis ; and would take no denial. Neither Arthur nor Laura wished to refuse. And Helen, who was, indeed, somewhat ailing, was glad that the two should have their pleasure ; and would look at them fondly as they set forth, and ask in her heart that she might not be called awav until those two beings whom she loved best in the world should be joined together. As they went out and crossed over the bridge, she remembered summer evenings flve-and-twenty years ago, when she, too, had bloomed in her brief prime of love and happiness. It w^as all over now. The moon was looking from the purpling sk}^ and the stars glittering there, just as they used in the early well-remembered evenings. He was lying dead far awa}^ with the billows rolling between them. Good God ! how well she remembered the last look of his face as the}' parted. It looked out at her through the vista of long years, as sad and as clear as then. PENDENNIS. 223 So Mr. Pen and Miss Laura found the society at Clavering Park an uncommonly agi'eeable resort of summer evenings, Blanche vowed that she raffoled of Laura ; and, very likel}', Mr. Pen was pleased with Blanche. His spirits came back : he laughed and rattled till Laura wondered to hear him. It was not the same Pen, yawning in a shooting-jacket, in the Fair- oaks parlor, who appeared alert and brisk, and smiling, and well dressed, in Lady Clavering's drawing-room. Sometimov they had musiq. Laura had a sweet contralto voice, and sang with Blanche, who had had the best continental instruction, and was charmed to be her friend's mistress. Sometimes Mr. Pen joined in these concerts, or oftener looked sweet upon Miss Blanche as she sang. Sometimes they had glees, when Captain Strong's chest was of vast service, and he boomed out in a pro- digious bass, of which he was not a little proud. "Good fellows Strong — ain't he. Miss Bell?" Sir Francis would sa}' to her. ' ' Plaj's at ecarte with Lady Clavering — plays an3'thing, pitch and toss, pianofort}', cwibbage if you like. How long do you think he's been staying with me ? He came for a week with a carpet-bag, and gad. he's been staying thwee years. Good fellow, ain't he? Don't know how he gets a shillin', though, by Jove I don't. Miss Lauwa." And yet the Chevalier, if he lost his money to Lady Claver- ing, always paid it ; and if he lived with his friend for three years, paid for that too — in good-humor, in kindness and jovi- ality, in a thousand little services bj' which he made himself agreeable. What gentleman could want a better friend than a man who was always in spirits, never in the wa}' or out of it, and was ready to execute an}' commission for his patron, Avhether it was to sing a scng or meet a law^-er, to fight a duel, or to carve a capon? Although Laura and Pen commonl}' went to Clavering Park together, 3'et sometimes Mr. Pen took walks there unattended by her, and about which he did not tell her. He took to fish- ing the Brawl, w^hich runs through the Park, and passes not ver}' far from the garden-wall ; and by the oddest coincidence, Miss Amory would walk out (having been to look at her flowers), and would be quite surprised to see Mr. Pendennis fishing. I wonder what trout Pen caught while the j'oung lady was looking on? or whether Miss Blanche was the pretty little fish which played round his fly, and which Mr. Pen was endeavoring to hook ? As for Miss Blanche, she had a kind heart ; and having, as 224 PENDENNIS. she owned, herself " suffered" a good deal in the course of her brief life and experience — why, she could compassionate other susceptible beings like Pen, who had suffered too. Her love for Laura and that dear Mrs. Pendennis redoubled : if they were not at the Park, she was not easy unless she herself was at Fairoaks. She played with Laura ; she read French and Ger- man with Laura ; and Mr. Pen read French and German along with them. He turned sentimental ballads of Schiller and Goethe into English verse for the ladies, and Blanche unlocked " Mes Larmes" for him, and imparted to him some of the plaintive outpourings of her own tender Muse. It appeared from these poems that the young creature had indeed suffered prodigiously. She was familiar with the idea of suicide. Death she repeatedly longed for. A faded rose inspired her with such grief that you would have thought she must die in pain of it. It was a wonder how a 3'oung creature should have suffered so much — should have found the means of getting at such an ocean of despair and passion (as a run- away boy who will get to sea) , and having embarked on it, should survive it. What a talent she must have had for weep- ing to be able to pour out so manj' of ' ' Mes Larmes ! " They were not particularly briu}'. Miss Blanche's tears, that is the truth: but Pen, who read her verses, thought them very well for a lad}' — and wrote some verses himself for her. His were very violent and passionate, very hot, sweet, and strong: and he not onl}^ wrote verses; but — Oh, the villain ! Oh, the deceiver ! he altered and adapted former poems in his possession, and which had been composed for a certain Miss Emily Fotheringay, for the use and to the Chris- tian name of Miss Blanche Amory. CHAPTER XXIII. A LITTLE INNOCENT. "Egad, Strong," one day the Baronet said, as the pair were conversing after dinner over the billiard-table, and that great unbosomer of secrets, a cigar; "Egad, Strong, I wish to the doose your wife was dead." "So do I. That's a cannon, by Jove! But she won't; she'll live for ever — j'ou see if she don't. Why do you PENDENNIS. 223 wish her off" the hooks, Frank, uiy boy?" asked Captain Strong. "Because then you might marry Missy. She ain't bad- looking. She'll have ten thousand, and that's a good bit of mone}- for such a poor old devil as you," drawled out the other gentleman. "And egad, Strong, I hate her worse and worse every day. I can't stand her, Strong ; by gad, I can't." " I wouldn't take her at twice the figure," Captain Strong said, laughing. " I never saw such a little devil in m}^ life." " I should like to poison her," said the sententious Baronet ; " by Jove I should." " Why, what has she been at now? " asked his friend. " Nothing particular," answered Sir Francis ; " only her old tricks. That girl has such a knack of making everybody miserable that, hang me, it's quite surprising. Last night she sent the governess crying away from the dinner-table. After- wards, as I was passing Frank's room, I heard the poor little beggar howling in the dark, and found his sister had been frightening his soul out of his body, by telling him stories about the ghost that's in the house. At lunch she gave my lady a turn ; and though my wife's a fool, she's a good soul — I'm hanged if she ain't." " What did Miss}" do to her?" Strong asked. " Why, hang me, if she didn't begin talking about the late Amor}-, m}- predecessor," the Baronet said, with a grin. " She got some picture out of ' the Keepsake,' and said, she was sure it was like her dear father. She wanted to know where her father's grave was. Hang her father ! AVhenever Miss Amory talks about him. Lady Clavering alwa^^s bursts out crying : and the little devil will talk about him in order to spite her mother. To-da}' when she began, I got in a confounded rage, said I was her father, and — and that sort of thing, and then, sir, she took a shy at me." ' ' And what did she say about you, Frank ? " Mr. Strong, still laughing, inquired of his friend and patron. "Gad, she said I wasn't her father; that I wasn't fit to comprehend her ; that her father must have been a man of genius, and fine feelings, and that sort of thing ; whereas I had married her mother for money." " Well, didn't you?" asked Strong. "It don't make it any the pleasanter to hear because it's true, don't you know," Sir Francis Clavering answered. "I ain't a literary man and that ; but I ain't such a fool as she uiakes me out. I don't know how it is, but she always man- 15 226 PENDENNIS. ages to — to put me in the hole, don't j'ou understand. She turns all the house round her in her quiet way, and with her confounded sentimental airs. I wish she was dead, Ned." " It was mj' wife whom you wanted dead just now," Strong said, always in perfect good-humor ; upon which the Baronet, with his accustomed candor, said, " Well, when people bore m}' life out, I do wish the}^ were dead, and I wish Missy were down a well with all my heart." Thus it will be seen from the above report of this candid conversation that our accomplished little friend had some peculiarities or defects of character which rendered her not ver^' popular. She was a j'oung lad}- of some genius, exqui- site S3'mpathies and considerable literary attainments, living, like many another genius, with relatives who could not com- prehend her. Neither her mother nor her step-father were persons of a Uterary turn. "Bell's Life" and the "Racing Calendar " were the extent of the Baronet's reading, and Lady Clavering still wrote hke a school-gui of thirteen, and with an extraordinary disregard to grammar and spelling. And as Miss Amor}^ felt very keenly that she was not appreciated, and that she lived with persons who were not her equals in intellect or conversational power, she lost no opportunity to acquaint her family circle with their inferiority to herself, and not onl}^ was a martyr, but took care to let ever3'bod3' know that she was so. If she suffered, as she said and thought she did, severeh', are we to wonder that a young creature of such delicate sensibilities should shriek and cry out a good deal? If a poetess may not bemoan her lot, of what earthly use is her l3Te ? Blanche struck hers only to the saddest of tunes ; and sang elegies over her dead hopes, dirges over her earl}- frost-nipt buds of affection, as became such a melancholy fate and Muse. Her actual distresses, as we have said, had not been up to the present time very considerable : but her griefs lay, like those of most of us, in her own soul — that being sad and habitually dissatisfied, what wonder that she should weep? So " Mes Larmes " dribbled out of her e3^es an3' day at com- mand : she could furnish an unlimited supply of tears, and her faculty of shedding them increased b3- practice. For sen- timent is like another complaint mentioned by Horace, as in- creasing by self-indulgence (I am sorr3' to sa3', ladies, that the complaint in question is called the drops3-) , and the more you cry, the more 30U will be able and desirous to do so. Miss3' had begun to gush at a ver3' early age. Lamartine PENDENNIS. 227 was her favorite bard from the period when she first could feel ; and she had subsequently improved her mind b}- a sedu- lous study of novels of the great modern authors of the French language. There was not a romance of Balzac and George Sand which the indefatigable little creature had not devoured by the time she was sixteen : and, however little she s^onpa- thized with her relatives at home, she had friends, as she said, in the spirit-world, meaning the tender Indiana, the passionate and poetic Lelia, the amiable Trenmor, that high-souled con- vict, that angel of the galleys, — the fiery Stenio, — and the other numberless heroes of the French romances. She had been in love with Prince Rodolph and Prince Djalma while she was 3-et at school, and had settled the divorce question, and the rights of woman, with Indiana, before she had left off pinafores. The impetuous little lad}' played at love with these imaginary worthies, as a little while before she had played at maternity with her doll. Pretty little poetical spirits ! it is curious to watch them with those playthings. To-da}^ the blue-eyed one is the favorite, and the black-eyed one is pushed behind the drawers. To-morrow blue-eyes may take its turn of neglect : and it ma}" be an odious little wretch with a burnt nose, or torn head of hair, and no eyes at all, that takes the first place in Miss's aifection, and is dandled and caressed in her arms. As novelists are supposed to know ever3'thing, even the scerets of female hearts, which the owners themselves do not perhaps know, we ma}^ state that at eleven years of age Made- moiselle Betsi, as Miss Amory was then called, had felt tender emotions towards a 30uug Savoyard organ-grinder at Paris, whom she persisted in believing to be a prince carried off from his parents ; that at twelve an old and hideous drawing-master — (but, ah, what age or personal defects are proof against woman's love ?) had agitated her 3'oung heart ; and that, at thirteen, being at Madame de Carmel's boarding-school, in the Champs El^sees, which, as everybody knows, is next door to Monsieur Rogron's (Chevalier of the Legion of Honor) pension for young gentlemen, a correspondence b}' letter took place between the seduisante Miss Betsi and two young gentlemen of the College of Charlemagne, who were pensioners of the Cheva- lier Rogron. In the above paragraph our young friend has been called b}- a Christian name, different to that under which we were lately presented to her. The fact is, that Miss Amorjs called Miss}' at home, had really at the first been christened Betsy — but 228 PE:N DENNIS. assumed the name of Blanche of her own will and fantasy, and crowned . herself with it ; and the weapon which the Baronet, her step-father, held in terror over her, was the threat to call her publicly by her name of Betsj', by which menace he some- times managed to keep the ^oung rebel in order. Blanche had had hosts of dear, dear, darling friends ere now, and had quite a little museum of locks of hair in her treas- ure-chest, which she had gathered in the course of her senti- mental progress. Some dear friends had married : some had gone to other schools : one beloved sister she had lost from the pension, and found again, Oh, horror ! her darling, her Leocadie, keeping the books in her father's shop, a grocer in the Rue du Bac : in fact, she had met with a number of disappointments, estrangements, disillusionments, as she called them in her prett}' French jargon, and had seen and suffered a great deal for so young a woman. But it is the lot of sensibility to suffer, and of confiding tenderness to be deceived, and she felt that she was only undergoing the penalties of genius in these pangs and disappointments of her 3'oung career. Meanwhile, she managed to make the honest lady, her mother, as uncomfortable as circumstances would permit ; and caused her worthy step-father to wish she was dead. With the excep- tion of Captain Strong, whose invincible good-humor was proof against her sarcasms, the little lady ruled the whole house with her tongue. If Lady Clavering talked about Sparrowgrass instead of Asparagus, or called an object a hobject, as this un- fortunate lady would sometimes do, Missy calmly corrected her, and frightened the good soul, her mother, into errors only the more frequent as she grew more nervous under her daugh- ter's eye. It is not to be supposed, considering the vast interest which the arrival of the family at Clavering Park inspired in the in- habitants of the httle town, that Madame Fribsby alone, of all the folks in Clavering, should have remained unmoved and in- curious. At the first appearance of the Park family- in church, Madame noted ever}- article of toilette which the ladies wore, from their bonnets to their brodequins, and took a survey of the attire of the ladies'-maids in the pew allotted to them. We fear that Doctor Portman's sermon, though it was one of his oldest and most valued compositions, had little effect upon Madame Fribsby on that da}-. In a very few daj's afterwards, she had managed for herself an interview with Lady Clavering's oonfideatial attendant, in the housekeeper's! room at the Park ; PENDENNIS. 229 and her cards in French and English, stating that she received the newest fashions from Paris from her correspondent Madame Victorine, and that she was in the custom of making court and ball dresses for the nobilit}^ and gentry of the shu'e, were in the possession of Lady Clavering and Miss Amory, and favorably received, as she was happy to hear, by those ladies. Mrs. Bonner, Lady Clavering's lady, became soon a great frequenter of Madame Fribsby's drawing-room, and partook of many entertainments at the milliner's expense. A meal of green tea, scandal, hot Sallj-Lunn cakes, and a little novel reading, were alwaj's at the service of Mrs. Bonner, whenever she was free to pass au evening in the town. And she found much more time for these pleasures than her junior officer. Miss .^nory's maid, who seldom could be spared for a hoUday, and was worked as hard as any factory girl by that inexorable Uttle Muse, her mistress. And there was another person connected with the Clavering establishment, who became a constant guest of our friend, the milliner. This was the chief of the kitchen. Monsieur Mirobo- lant, with whom Madame Fribsby soon formed an intimacy. Not having been accustomed to the appearance or society of persons of the French nation, the rustic inhabitants of Clavering were not so favorably impressed by Monsieur Alcide's manners and appearance, as that gentleman might have desired that they should be. He walked among them quite unsuspiciously upon the afternoon of a summer day, when his services were not required at the House, in his usual favorite costume, namel}^ his light green frock or paletot, his crimson velvet waistcoat, with blue glass buttons, his pantalon Ecossais, of a very large and decided check pattern, his orange satin neck-cloth, and his jean-boots, with tips of shiny leather, — these, with a gold em- broidered cap, and richl}^ gilt cane, or other varieties of orna- ment of a similar tendency', fonned his usual holiday costume, in which he flattered himself there was nothing remarkable (unless, indeed, the beauty of his person should attract obser- vation) , and in which he considered that he exhibited the ap- pearance of a gentleman of good Parisian ton. He walked then down the street, grinning and ogling every woman he met with glances, which he meant should kiU them outright, and peered over the railings, and in at the windows, where females were, in the tranquil summer evening. But Betsy, Mrs. Pybus's maid, shrank back with a " Lor bless us ! " as Alcide ogled her over the laurel bush ; the Misses Baker, and their mamma, stared with wonder ; and presently a crowd 230 PENDEXNIS. began to follow the interesting foreigner, of ragged urchins and children, who left their dirt-pies in the street to pursue him. For some time he thought that admiration was the cause which led these persons in his wake, and walked on, pleased himself that he could so easily confer on others so much harm- less pleasure. But the little children and dirt-pie manufac- turers were presently succeeded by followers of a larger growth, and a number of lads and girls from the factory being let loose at this hour, joined the mob, and began laughing, jeering, hoot- ing, and calling opprobrious names at the Frenchman. Some cried out, " Frenchy ! Frenchy ! " some exclaimed "Frogs!" one asked for a lock of his hair, which was long and in richly flowing ringlets ; and at length the poor artist began to per- ceive that he was an object of derision rather than of respect to the rude gi-inuing mob. It was at this juncture that Madame Fribsb}- spied the un- luck}' gentleman with the train at his heels, and heard the scorn- ful shouts with which they assailed him. She ran out of her room, and across the street to the persecuted foreigner ; she held out her hand, and, addressing him in his own language, invited him into her abode ; and when she had housed him fairly within her door, she stood bravel}' at the threshold before the gibing factor}' girls and boys, and said the}' were a pack of cowards to insult a poor man who could not speak their lan- guage, and was alone and without protection. The little crowd, with some ironical cheers and hootings, nevertheless felt the force of Madame Fribsby's vigorous allocution, and retreated before her ; for the old lady was rather respected in the place, and her oddity and her kindness had made her many friends there. Poor Mirobolant was grateful indeed to hear the language of his country ever so ill spoken. Frenchmen pardon our faults in their language much more readily than we excuse their bad English ; and will face our blunders throughout a long conver- sation, without the least propensity to grin. The rescued artist vowed that Madam Fribsby was his guardian angel, and that he had not as yet met with such suavity and politeness among les Anglaises. He was as courteous and comphmentary to her as if it was the fairest and noblest of ladies whom he was address- ing : for Alcide Mirobolant paid homage after his fashion to all womankind, and never dreamed of a distinction of ranks in the realms of beaut}', as his phrase was. A cream, flavored with pine-apple — a mayonnaise of lob- PENDENNIS. 231 ster, which he flattered himself was not unworthy' ot his hand, or of her to whom he had the honor to offer it as an homage, and a box of preserved fruits of Provence, were brought by- one of the chefs aides-de-camp, in a basket, the next day to the milliner's, and were accompanied with a gallant note to the amiable Madame Fribsb}'. '' Her kindness," Alcide said, " had made a green place in the desert of his existence, — her suavity would ever contrast in memory with the grossierete of the rus- tic population, who were not worthy to possess such a jewel." An intimacy of the most confidential nature thus sprang up between the milliner and the chief of the kitchen ; but I do not know whether it was with pleasure or mortification that Madame received the declarations of friendship which the young Alcides proffered to her, for he persisted in calling her, " Za respectable Fribsbi" " La vertueuse Fribsbi," — and in stating that he should consider her as his mother, while he hoped she would regard him as her son. Ah ! it was not very long ago, Fribsby thought, that words had been addressed to her in that dear French language, indicating a different sort of attachment. And she sighed as she looked up at the picture of her Carabi- neer. For it is sm-prising how young some people's hearts remain when their heads have need of a front or a little hair- dye — and, at this moment, Madame Fribsby, as she told young Alcide, felt as romantic as a girl of eighteen. When the conversation took this turn — and at their first intimacy Madame Fribsby was rather inclined so to lead it — Alcide alwa^'s politely diverged to another subject : it was as his mother that he persisted in considering the good milliner. He would recognize her in no other capacity, and with that relationship the gentle lady was forced to content herself, when she found how deeply the artist's heart was engaged else- where. He was not long before he described to her the subject and origin of his passion. " I declared myself to her," said Alcide, la^'ing his hand on his heart, " in a manner which was as novel as I am charmed to think it was agreeable. Where cannot love penetrate, re- spectable Madame Fribsbi ? Cupid is the father of invention ! — I inquired of the domestics what were the plats of which Mademoiselle partook with most pleasure ; and built up my little battery accordingly. On a day when her parents had gone to dine in the world (and 1 am grieved to say that a gros- sier dinner at a restaurant, on the Boulevard, or in the Palais Royal, seemed to form the delights of these unrefined persons), 232 ' ¥^ENDENNIS. the charming Miss entertained some comrades of the pension ; and I advised myself to send up a little repast suitable to so delicate 3'oung palates. Her lovely name is Blanche. The veil of the maiden is white ; the wreath of roses which she wears is white. I determined that my dinner should be as spotless as the snow. At her accustomed hour, and instead of the rude gigot a I'eau which was ordinarily served at her too simple table, I sent her up a little potage a la Reine — a la Reine Blanche I called it, — as white as her own tint — and confectioned with the most fragrant cream and almonds. I then offered up at her shrine a filet de merlan a V Agnes, and a ([elicnte plat, which I have designated as Eperlan a la Saints Therese, and of which my charming Miss partook with pleasure. I followed this by two little entrees of sweet-bread and chicken ; and the only brown thing which I i>ermitted myself in the en- tertainment was a little roast of lamb, which I laid in a meadow of spinaches, surrounded with croustillons, representing sheep, and ornamented with daisies and other savage flowers. After this came my second service : a pudding a la Heine Elizabeth (who, Madame Fribsbi knows, was a maiden princess) ; a dish of opal-colored plovers' eggs, which I called Nid de tourtereaux a la Roucoule ; placing in the midst of them two of those tender volatiles, billing each other, and confectioned with butter ; a basket containing little gateaux of apricots, which, I know, all young ladies adore ; and a jeily of mai'asquin, bland, insinuat- ing, intoxicating as the glance of beauty. This I designated Amhroisie de Calypso a la Souveraine de mon cceur. And when the ice was brought in — an ice of plombiere and cherries — how do 3^ou think I had shaped them, Madame Fribsbi? In the form of two hearts united with an arrow, on which I had laid, before it entered, a bridal veil in cut-paper, surmounted by a wreath of virginal orange-flowers. I stood at the door to watch the efi'ect of this entry. It was but one cry of admiration. The three 3'oung ladies filled their glasses with the sparkling Ay, and carried me in a toast. I heard it — I heard Miss speak of me — I heard her say, ' Tell Monsieur Mirobolant that we thank him — we admire him — we love him ! ' My feet almost failed me as I spoke. " Since that, can I have any reason to doubt that the young artist has made some progress in the heart of the English Miss ? I am modest, but m}^ glass informs me that I am not ill-looking. Other victories have convinced me of the fact." ''■ Dangerous man ! " cried the milliner. *' The blond misses of Albion see nothing in the dull inhabi- /: 1-! /.- N 'DOES ANYBODY WANT MORE?" Thackeray, Vol. Three PENDENNIS. 233 tants of their brumous isle, which can con^pare with the ardor and vivacit}- of the children of the South. We bring our sun- shine with us ; we are Frenchmen, and accustomed to conquer. Were it not for this affair of the heart, and m\' determination to marry an Anglaise, do 30U think I would stop in this island (which is not altogether ungrateful, since I have found here a tender mother in the respectable Madame Fribsbi) , in this island, in this family ? My genius would use itself in the com- pan}' of these rustics — the poesy of my art cannot be under- stood b}' these carnivorous insularies. No — the men are odious, but the women — the women! I own, dear Fribsbi, are seducing ! I have vowed to marr}' one ; and as I cannot go into your markets and purchase, according to the custom of the country, I am resolved to adopt another custom, and fly with one to Gretna Grin. The blond Miss will go. She is fascinated. Her eyes have told me so. The white dove wants but the signal to fl}'." ' ' Have 3'ou an}- correspondence with her ? " asked Fribsb}-, in amazement, and not knowing whether the young lad}' or the lover might be laboring under a romantic delusion. " I correspond with her b}' means of m}- art. She partakes of dishes which I make expresslj- for her. I insinuate to her thus a thousand hints, which, as she is perfectly- spiritual, she receives. But I want other intelligences near her." " There is Pincott, her maid," said Madame Fribsb}', who, by aptitude or education, seemed to have some knowledge of affairs of the heart, but the great artist's brow darkened at this suggestion. " Madame," he said, "there are points upon which a gal- lant man ought to silence himself; though, if he break the se- cret, he ma}' do so with the least impropriety to his best friend — his adopted mother. Know then, that there is a cause why Miss Pincott should be hostile to me — a cause not uncommon with your sex — jealous}^" " Perfidious monster ! " said the confidante. " Ah, no," said the artist, with a deep bass voice, and a tragic accent worthy of the Porte St. Martin and his favorite melo-drames, "not perfidious, but fatal. Yes, I am a fatal man, Madame Fribsbi. To inspire hopeless passion is my destiny. I cannot help it that women love me. Is it my fault that that young woman deperishes and languishes to the view of the eye, consumed by a flame which I cannot return? Listen ! There are others in this family who are similarly un- happy. The governess of the voung Milor has encountered me 234 PENDENNIS. in mj walks, and looked at me in a way which can bear but one interpretation. And Milady herself, who is of mature age, but who has oriental blood, has once or twice addressed com- pliments to the lonel}- artist which can admit of no mistake. 1 avoid the household. I seek solitude, I undergo my destiny. I can marry but one, and am resolved it shall be to a lady of your nation. And, if her fortune is sufficient, I think Miss would be the person who would be most suitable. I wish to ascertain what her means are before I lead her to Gretna Grin." AVhether Alcide was as irresistible a conqueror as his name- sake, or whether he was simply crazy, is a point which must be left to the reader's judgment. But the latter, if he has had the benefit of much French acquaintance, has perhaps met with men amongst them who fancied themselves almost as invincible ; and who, if you credit them, have made equal havoc in the hearts of les Anglaises. CHAPTER XXIV. CONTAINS BOTH LOVE AND JEALOUSY. Our readers have already heard Sir Francis Clavering's can- did opinion of the lady who had given him her fortune and restored him to his native countrj' and home, and it must be owned that the Baronet was not far wrong in his estimate of his wife, and that Lady Clave ring was not the wisest or the best educated of women. She had had a couple of ^-ears' education in Europe, in a suburb of London, which she persisted in call- ing Ackney to her d}ing da}', whence she had been summoned to join her father at Calcutta at the age of fifteen. And it was on her voyage thither, on board the Ramchunder East Indiaman, Captain Bragg, in which ship she had two years previously- made her journey to Europe, that she formed the acquaintance of her first husband, Mr. Amory, who was third mate of the vessel in question. We are not going to enter into the early part of Lady Clavering's history, but Captain Bragg, under whose charge Miss Snell went out to her father, who was one of the Captain's consignees, and part owner of the Ramchunder and many other vessels, found reason to put the rebellious rascal of a mate in irons, until the}^ reached the Cape, where the Captain PEN DENNIS. 235 left his officer behind : and finally delivered his ward to her father at Calcutta, after a stormy and perilous voyage in which the Ramchunder and the cargo and passengers incurred no small danger and damage. Some months afterwards Amor^- made his appearance at Calcutta, having worked his way out before the mast from the Cape — married the rich attorney's dnugliter in spite of that old speculator — set up as indigo planter and failed — set up as agent and failed again — set up as editor of the " Sunderbund Pilot " and failed again — quarrelling ceaselessh" with his father- in-law and his wife during the progress of all these mercantile transactions and disasters, and ending his career finally with a crash which compelled him to leave Calcutta and go to New South Wales. It was in the course of these luckless proceed- ings, that Mr. Amor}- probabl}- made the acquaintance of Sir Jasper Rogers, the respected Judge of the Supreme Court of Calcutta, who has been mentioned before, and, as the truth must out, it was b}' making an improper use of his father- in-law's name, who could write perfectly well, and had no need of an amanuensis, that fortune finally forsook Mr. Amory and caused him to abandon all further struggles with her. Not being in the habit of reading the Calcutta law-reports ver}' assiduoush', the European public did not know of these facts as well as people did in Bengal, and Mrs. Amory and her father, finding her residence in India not a comfortable one, it was agreed that the lady should return to Europe, whither she came with her little daughter, Betsy or Blanche, then four years old. They were accompanied by Betsy's nurse, who has been presented to the reader in the last chapter as the confiden- tial maid of Lady Clavering, Mrs. Bonner : and Captain Bragg took a house for them in the near neighborhood of his residence in Pocklington Street. It was a very hard bitter summer, and the rain it rained ever}' da}' for some time after Mrs. Amory 's arrival. Bragg was very pompous and disagreeable, perhaps ashamed, perhaps anxious, to get rid of the Indian lady. She believed that all the world in London was talking about her husband's disaster, and that the King and Queen and the Court of Directors were aware of her unlucky history. She had a good allowance from ner father ; she had no call to live in England ; and she deter- mined to go abroad. Away she went, then, glad to escape the gloomy surveillance of the odious bully, Captain Bragg. People had no objection to receive her at the continental towns where she stopped, and at the various boarding-houses, where 236 PENDENNIS. she royally paid her way. She called Hackne}' Ackney, to be sure (though otherwise she spoke English with a little foreign twang, very curious and not unpleasant) ; she dressed amaz- ingly ; she was conspicuous for her love of eating and drinking, and prepared curries and pillaus at every boarding-house which she frequented ; but her singularities of language and behavior only gave a zest to her society, and Mrs. Amor^- was deservedly popular. She was the most good-natured, jovial, and generous of women. She was up to any party of pleasure by whomso- ever proposed. She brought three times more champagne and fowls and ham to the picnics than any one else. She took endless boxes for the play, and tickets for the masked balls, and gave them away to ever3'bod3'. She paid the boarding- house people months beforehand ; she helped poor shabby mustachioed bucks and dowagers, whose remittances had not arrived, with constant supplies from her purse ; and in this way she tramped through Europe, and appeai'ed at Brussels, at Paris, at Milan, at Naples, at Rome, as her fancy led her. News oi Amor}^s death reached her at the latter place, where Captain Clavering was then staying, unal)le to pa}' his hotel bill, as, indeed, was his friend the Chevaher Strong, and the good- natured widow married the descendant of the ancient house of Clavering — professing, indeed, no particular grief for the scapegrace of a husband whom she had lost : and thus we have brought her up to the present time when she was mistress of Clavering Park. Miss}' followed her mamma in most of her peregrinations, and so learned a deal of life. She had a governess for some time ; and after her mother's second marriage, the benefit of Madame de Caramel's select pension in the Champs Ely^ees. When the Claverings came to England, she of course came with them. It was only within a few years, after the death of her grandfather, and the birth of her little brother, that she began to understand that her position in life was altered, and that Miss Amory, nobody's daughter, was a verj^ small personage in a house compared with Master Francis Clavering, heir to an ancient baronetcy, and a noble estate. But for little Frank, she would have been an heiress, in spite of her father : and though she knew and cared not much about money, of which she never had any stint, and though she was a romantic little Muse, as we have seen, yet she could not reasonabl}- be grate- ful to the persons who had so contributed to change her con- dition : nor, indeed, did she understand what the matter really was, until she had made some further progress, and acquired more accurate knowledge of the world. PENDENXIS. 237 But this was clear, that her step-father was dull and weak : that mamma dropped her H's, and was not refined in man- ners or appearance ; and that little F'rank was a spoiled quar- relsome urchin, always having his way, always treading upon her feet, always upsetting his dinner on her dresses, and keep- ing her out of her inheritance. None of these, as she felt, could comprehend her : and her solitary heart naturally pined for other attachments, and she sought around her where to bestow the precious boon of her unoccupied affection. This dear girl, then, from want of sympathy, or other cause, made herself so disagreeable at home, and frightened her mother, and bored her step-father so much, that they were quite as anxious as she could be that she should settle for herself in life ; and hence Sir Francis Clavering's desire expressed to his friend, in the last chapter, that Mrs. Strong should die, and that he would take Blanche to himself as a second Mrs. Strong. But as this could not be, any other person was welcome to win her : and a smart 3'oung fellow, well-looking and well- educated, like our friend Arthur Pendennis, was quite free to propose for her if he had a mind, and would have been received with open arms by Lady Clavering as a son-in-law, had he had the courage to come forward as a competitor for Miss Amor3''s hand. Mr. Pen, however, besides other drawbacks, chose to enter- tain an extreme diffidence about himself. He was ashamed of his late failures, of his idle and nameless condition, of the poverty which he had brought on his mother by his folly, and there was as much of vanity as remorse in his present state of doubt and distrust. How could he ever hope for such a prize as this brilliant Blanche Amory, who lived in a fine park and mansion, and was waited on by a score of grand domestics, whilst a maid-servant brought in their meagre meal at Fairoaks, and his mother was obliged to pinch and manage to make both ends meet? Obstacles seemed to him insurmountable, whicli would have vanished had he marched manful]}' upon them : and he preferred despairing, or dallying with his wishes, — or perhaps he had not positively shaped them as 3'et, — to attempt- ing to win gallantly the object of his desire. Many a young man fails by that species of vanit}' called shj^ness, who might, for the asking, have his will. But we do not pretend to say that Pen had, as yet, ascer- tained his : or tlmt he was doing much more than thinking about falling in love. Miss Amory was charming and livelj. 238 PENDENNIS. She fascinated and cajoled him by a thousand arts or natura\ graces or flatteries. But there were kirking reasons and doubts, besides sh3'ness and vanity, withholding him. In spite of her cleverness, and her protestations, and her fascinations. Pen's mother had divined the girl, and did not trust her. Mrs. Pen- dennis saw Blanche light-minded and frivolous, detected many wants in her which oilended the pure and pious-minded ladj' ; a want of reverence for her parents, and for things more sacred, Helen thought : workUiness and selfishness couched under pretty words and tender expressions. Laura and Pen battled these points strongl}' at first with the widow — Laura being as yet enthusiastic about her new friend, and Pen not far-gone enough in love to attempt any concealment of his feelings. He would laugh at these objections of Helen's, and say, " Psha, mother ! you are jealous about Laura — all women are jealous." But when, in the course of a month or two, and by watching the pair with that anxiet}' with which brooding women watch over their sons' affections — and in acknowledging which, I have no doubt there is a sexual jealous}' on the mother's part, and a secret pang — when Helen saw that the intimac}' appeared to make progress, that the two young people were perpetually finding pretexts to meet, and that Miss Blanche was at Fair- oaks or Mr. Pen at the Park every day, the poor widow's heart began to fail her — her darling project seemed to vanish before her ; and, giving wa}' to her weakness, she fairl}' told Pen one day what her views and longings were ; that she felt herself breaking, and not long for this world, and that she hoped and praj'ed before she went, that she might see her two childi-en one. The late events. Pen's life and career and former passion for the actress, had broken the spirit of this tender lady. She felt that he had escaped her, and was in the maternal nest no more ; and she clung with a sickening fondness to Laura, Laura who had been left to her b}^ Francis in Heaven. Pen kissed and soothed her in his grand patronizing way. He had seen something of this, he had long thought his mother wanted to make this marriage — did Laura know anything of it? (Not she, — Mrs. Pendennis said — not for worlds would she have breathed a word of it to Laura) — " Well, well, there was time enough, his mother wouldn't die," Pen said, laugh- ingly : "he wouldn't hear of anj'^ such thing, and as for the Muse, she is too grand a lady to think about poor little me — and as for Laura, who knows that she would have me? She would do anything you told her, to be sure. But am I worthy of her?" PENDENNIS. 239 " O Pen, 3-011 might be," was the widow's repl^- ; not that Mr. Pen ever doubted that he was ; and a feeling of indefinable pleasure and self-complacency came over him as he thought over this proposal, and imaged Laura to himself, as his mem- ory remembered her for 3-ears past, always fair and open, kindly and pious, cheerful, tender, and true. He looked at her with brightening e^'es as she came in from the garden at the end of this talk, her cheeks rather flushed, her looks frank and smiling — a basket of roses in her hand. She took the finest of them and brought it to Mrs. Penden- nis, who was refreshed by the odor and color of these flowers ; and hung over her fondly and gave it to her. " And I might have this prize for the asking ! " Pen thought, with a thrill of triumph, as he looked at the kindh' girl. " Why, she is as beautiful and as generous as her roses." The image of the two women remained for ever after in his mind, and he never recalled it but the tears came into his eyes. Before ver}' many weeks' intimacy' with her new acquaint- ance, however. Miss Laura was obhged to give in to Helen's opinion, and own that the Muse was selfish, unkind, and incon- stant. Little Frank, for instance, might be very provoking, and might have deprived Blanche of her mamma's affection, but this was no reason why Blanche should box the child's ears because he upset a glass of water over her drawing, and wh}- she should call him many opprobrious names in the English and French language ; and the preference accorded to little Frank was cer- tainly no reason why Blanche should give herself imperial airs of command towards the bo3''s governess, and send that 3'oung lady upon messages through the house to bring her book or to fetch her pocket-handkerchief. When a domestic performed an errand for honest Laura, she was always thankful and pleased ; whereas, she could not but perceive that the little Muse had not the slightest scruple in giving her commands to all the world round about her, and in disturbing an^'body's ease or comfort, in order to administer to her own. It was Laura's first experience in friendship ; and it pained the kind creature's heart to be ol)ligcd to give up as delusions, one b}' one, those charms and brilliant qualities in which her fancy had dressed her new friend, and to find that the fascinating little fairy was but a mortal, and not a ver^' amiable mortal after all. What generous person is there that has not been so deceived in his time? — what person, perhaps, that has not so disapjxjiuted others in his turn ? 240 PENDENNIS. After the scene with httlc Frank, in which that refractory son and heir of the house of Clavering had received the comph>^ ments in Frencli and English, and the accompanying box on the ear from his sister, Miss Laura, who had plenty of humor, could not lielp calUng to mind some very touching and tender verses which tlie Muse had read to her out of Mes Larmes, and which began, " My prett}' baby brother, ma}' angels guard thy rest," in which the Muse, after complimenting the bab}' upon the station in life which it was about to occup}-, and contrasting it with her own lonel}' condition, vowed nevertheless that the angel bo^' would never enjoy such affection as hers was, or find in the false world before him an3'thing so constant and tender as a sister's heart. " It may be," the forlorn one said, " it may be, you will slight it, my pretty baby sweet. You will spurn me from your bosom, I'll cling around your feet ! Oh, let me, let me love you ! the world will prove to you As false as 'tis to others, but /am ever true." And behold the Muse was boxing the darling brother's ears instead of kneeling at his feet, and giving Miss Laura her first lesson in the Cynical philosophy — not quite her first, however, — something like this selfishness and waywardness, something like this contrast between prac- tice and poetry, between grand versified aspirations and every- day life, she had witnessed at home in the person of our 3'oung friend Mr. Pen. But then Fen was different. Pen was a man. It seemed natural, somehow, that he should be self-willed and should have his own way. And under his waywardness and selfish- ness, indeed, there was a kind and generous heart. Oh, it was hard that such a diamond should be changed away against such a false stone as this. In a word, Laura began to be tired of her admired Blanche. She had assayed her and found her not true ; and her former admiration and delight, which she had expressed with her accustomed generous artlessness, gave way to a feeling, which we shall not call contempt, but which was very near it ; and which caused Laura to adopt towards Miss Amory a grave and tranquil tone of superiority, which was at first by no means to the Muse's liking. Nobody likes to be found out, or, having held a high place, to submit to step down. The consciousness that this event was impending did not serve to increase Miss Blanche's good-humor, and as it made her peevish and dissatisfied with herself, it probablj^ rendered her even less agreeable to the persons round about her. So there arose, one fatal day, a battle-royal between dearest Blanche PENDENNIS. 241 and dearest Laura, in which the friendship between them was all but slain outright. Dearest Blanche had been unusuall3' capri- cious and wicked on this day. She had been insolent to her mother ; savage with httle Frank ; odiously impertinent in her behavior to the bo^-'s governess ; and intolerably cruel to Pin- cott, her attendant. Not venturing to attack her friend (for the little t3Tant was of a timid feline nature, and onl}' used her claws upon those who were weaker than herself) , she mal- treated all these, and especiaU}- poor Pincott, who was menial, confidante, companion (slave alwa3's), according to the caprice of her young mistress. This girl, who had been sitting in the room with the 3'oung ladies, being driven thence in tears, occasioned by the cruelty of her mistress, and raked with a parting sarcasm as she went sobbing from the door, Laura fau'ly broke out into a loud and indignant invective — wondered how one so 3'oung could forget the deference owing to her elders as well as to her inferiors in station ; and professing so much sensibilit3' of her own, could torture the feelings of others so wantonh. Laura told her friend that her conduct was absolutely wicked, and that she ought to ask pardon of Heaven on her knees for it. And hav- ing delivered herself of a hot and voluble speech whereof the delivery astonished the speaker as much almost as her auditor, she ran to her bonnet and shawl, and went home across the park in a great flurr3' and perturbation, and to the surprise of Mrs. Pendennis, who had not expected her until night. Alone with Helen, Laura gave an account of the scene, and gave up her friend henceforth. '• O Mamma," she said, " you were right ; Blanche, who seems so soft and so kind, is, as you have said, selfish and cniel. She who is alwa3's speak- ing of her affections can have no heart. No honest gu'l would afflict a mother so, or torture a dependant ; and — and, I give her up from this da3', and I will have no other friend but you." On this the two ladies went through the osculator3' cere- mon3- which the3' were in the habit of performing, and Mrs. Pendennis got a great secret comfort from the little quarrel — for Laura's confession seemed to say, " That girl can never be a wife for Pen, for she is light-minded and heartless, and quite unworthy of our noble hero. He will be sure to find out her unworthiness for his own part, and then he will be saved from this flight3' creature, and awake out of his delusion." But Miss Laura did not tell Mrs. Pendennis, perhaps did not acknowledge to herself, what had been the real cause oi' 16 242 PENDENNIS. the day's quarrel. Being in a very wicked mood, and bent upon mischief everywhere, tlie little wicked Muse of a Blanche liad very soon begun her tricks. Her darling Laura had come to pass a long day ; and as they were sitting in her own room together, had chosen to bring the conversation round to the subject of Mr. Pen. " I am afraid he is sadly fickle," Miss Blanche observed. "Mrs. Pybus, and many more Clavering people, have told us all about the actress." " I was quite a child when it happened, and I don't know anything about it," Laura answered, blushing very much. "He used her very ill," Blanche said, wagging her little head. " He was false to her." " I am sure he was not," Laura cried out ; " he acted most generously by her : he wanted to give up everything to marry her. It was she that was false to him. He nearly broke his heart about it : he — " "I thought you didn't know anything about the story, dearest," interposed Miss Blanche. " Mamma has said so," said Laura. " Well, he is very clever," continued the other little dear. " What a sweet poet he is ! Have 3'ou ever read his poems ? " " Only the ' Fisherman and the Diver,' which he translated for us, and his Prize Poem, which didn't get the prize ; and, indeed, I thought it very pompous and prosy," Laura said, laughing. " Has he never written you any poems, then, love?" asked Miss Amory. " No, my dear," said Miss Bell. Blanche ran up to her friend, kissed her fondly, called her my dearest Laura at least three times, looked her archly in the face, nodded her head, and said, " Promise to tell no-o-body, and I will show you something." And tripping across the room daintily to a little mother-of- pearl inlaid desk, she opened it with a silver key, and took out two or three papers crumpled and rather stained with green, which she submitted to her friend. Laura took them and read them. They were love-verses sure enough — something about Undine — about a Naiad — about a river. She looked at them for a long time ; but in truth the lines were not very distinct before her eyes. "And you have answered them, Blanche?" she asked, put- ting them back. " Oh no ! not for worlds, dearest," the other said : and when PKNDENNIS. 243 her dearest Laura had quite done with the verses, she tripped back, and popped them again into the pretty desk. Then she went to her piano, and sang two or three songs of Rossini, whose flourishes of music her flexible little voice could execute to perfection, and Laura sat b}-, vaguely listen- ing, as she performed these pieces. What was Miss Bell think- ing about the while? She hardh* knew; but sat there silent as the songs rolled by. After this concert the 3'oung ladies were summoned to the room w^here luncheon was served ; and whither they of course went with their arms round each other's waists. And it could not have been jealousy or anger on Laura's part which had made her silent : for, after they had tripped along the corridor and descended the steps, and were about to open the door which leads into the hall, Laura paused, and look- ing her friend kindly and frankly in the face, kissed her with a sisterly w^armth. Something occurred after this — Master Frank's manner of eating, probably, or mamma's blunders, or Sir Francis smell- ing of cigars — which vexed Miss Blanche, and she gave way to that series of naughtinesses whereof we have spoken, and which ended in the above little quarrel. CHAPTER XXV. A HOUSE FULL OF VISITORS. The difference between the girls did not last long. Laura was alwa^-s too eager to forgive and be forgiven, and as for Miss Blanche, her hostilities, never very long or durable, had not been provoked by the above scene. Nobody cares about being accused of wickedness. No vanity is hurt by that sort of charge : Blanche was rather pleased than provoked by her friend's indignation, which never would have been raised but for a cause which both knew, though neither spoke of. And so Laura, with a sigh, was obliged to confess that the romantic part of her first friendship was at an end, and that the object of it was only worthy of a very ordinary sort of regard. As for Blanche, she instantly composed a copy of touching verses setting forth her desertion and disenchantment. It was only the old story she wrote, of love meeting with coldness, 244 PENDENNIS. and fidelity returned hy neglect ; and some new neighbors arriv- ing from London about this time, in whose family there were daughters, Miss Amor}' had the advantage of selecting an eter- nal friend from one of these young ladies, and imparting her soiTows and disappointments to this new sister. The tall foot- men came but seldom now with notes to the sweet Laura ; the pony carriage was but rarely despatched to Fairoaks to be at the orders of the ladies there. Blanche adopted a sweet look of suffering martpxlom when Laura came to see her. The other laughed at her friend's sentimental mood, and treated it with a good-humor that was by no means respectful. But if Miss Blanche found new female friends to console her, the faithful historian is also bound to say, that she discov- ered some acquaintances of the other sex who seemed to give her consolation too. If ever this artless young creature met a young man, and had ten minutes' conversation with him in a garden walk, in a drawing-room window, or in the intervals of a waltz, she confided in him, so to speak — made pla}^ with her beautiful eyes — spoke in a tone of tender interest, and simple and touching appeal, and left him, to perform the same pretty little drama in behalf of his successor. When the Clavenngs first came down to the Park, there were very few audiences before whom Miss Blanche could per- form : hence Pen had all the benefits of her glances, and confi- dences, and the drawing-room window, or the garden walk all to himself. In the town of Clavering, it has been said, there were actually no J'oung men : in the near surrounding country, only a curate or two, or a rustic young squire, with large feet and ill-made clothes. To the dragoons quartered at Chatteris the Baronet made no overtures : it was unluckil}' his own regi- ment : he had left it on bad terms with some officers of the corps — an ugly business about a horse bargain — a disputed play account at blind-Hooke}' — a white feather — who need ask ? — it is not our business to inquire too closely into the by- gones of our characters, except in so far as their previous his- tory appertains to the development of this present story. The autumn, and the end of the Parliamentar}' Session, and the London season, brought one or two county families down to their houses, and filled tolerably the neighboring little water- ing-place of Baymouth, and opened om- friend Mr. Bingley's Theatre Royal at Chatteris, and collected the usual company at the Assizes and Race-balls there. Up to this time, the old county families had been rather sh}' of our friends of Clavering Park. The Fogeys of Drummington ; the Squares of Dozley PENDENNIS. 245 Park ; the Welborcs of The Barrow, &c. All sorts of stories were current among these folks regarding the famil}' at Claver- ing; — indeed, nobod}' ought to say that people in tlie country have no imagination, who hear them talk about new neighbors. About Sir Francis and his Lad}', and her birth and parentage, about Miss Amor\', about Captain Strong, there had been end- less histories which need not be recapitulated ; and the famil}' of the Park had been three months in the county before the great people around began to call. But at the end of the season, the Earl of Trehawk, Lord Lieutenunt of the County, coming to E^-rie Castle, and the Countesfcj Dowager of Rockminster, whose son was also a mag- nate of the land, to occup}' a mansion on the JNIarine Parade at Ba3moulh — these great folks came publicly, immediatel}', and in state, to call upon the famih' of Clavering Park ; and the carriages of the county families speedily followed in the track, which had been left in the avenue b^' their lordl}' wheels. It was then that Mirobolant began to have an opportunit}' of exercising that skill which he possessed, and of forgetting, in the occupations of his art, the pangs of love. It was then that the large footmen were too much employed at Clavering Park to be able to bring messages, or dally over the cup of small beer with thv.' poor little maids at Fairoaks. It was then that Blanche found other dear friends than Laura, and other places to walk in besides the river side, where Pen was fishing. He came da}' after day, and whipped the stream, but the '•' fish, fish!" wouldn't do their dut}-, nor the Peri appear. And here, though in strict confidence, and with a request that the matter go no further, we ma}- as well allude to a delicate business, of which previous hint has been given. Mention has been made, in a former page, of a certain hollow tree, at which Pen used to take his station when engaged in his passion for Miss Fotheringay, and the cavity of which he afterwards used for otiier purposes than to insert his baits and fishing-cans in. The truth is, he converted this tree into a post-office. Under a piece of moss and a stone, he used to put little poems, or letters equally poetical, which were addressed to a certain Undine, or Naiad who frequented the stream, and which, once or twice, were replaced by a receipt in the shape of a flower, or by a modest little word or two of acknowledgment, written in a dc^licate hand, in French or English, and on pink scented paper. Cer- tainly, Miss Amory used to walk b}' this stream, as we have seen'; and it is a fact that she used pink scented paper for her correspondence. But after the great folks had invaded Claver- 246 PENDENNIS. ing Park, and the famil}' coach passed out of the lodge-gates, evening after evening, on their way to the other great country houses, nobody came to fetch Pen's letters at the post-office ; the white paper was not exchanged for the pink, but lay undis- turbed under its stone and its moss, whilst the tree was reflected into the stream, and the Brawl went rolling by. There was not much in the letters certainly : in the pink notes scarcely anything — merely a little word or two, half jocular, half sym- pathetic, such as might be written by any young lady. But, oh, you silly Pendennis, if you wanted this one, why did you not speak ? Perhaps neither party was in earnest. You were only playing at being in love, and the sportive little Undine was humoring you at the same play. Nevertheless if a man is balked at this game, he not un- frequently loses his temper ; and when nobody came any more for Pen's poems, he began to look upon those compositions in a very serious light. He felt almost tragical and romantic again, as in his first affair of the heart : — at any rate he was bent upon having an explanation. One day he went to the Hall, and there was a room-full of visitors : on another, Miss Amory was not to be seen ; she was going to a ball that night, and was lying down to take a little sleep. Pen cursed balls, and the narrowness of his means, and the humility of his posi- tion in the county that caused him to be passed over by the givers of these entertainments. On a third occasion, Miss Amory was in the garden, and he ran thither ; she was walking there in state with no less personages than the Bishop and Bishopess of Chatteris and the episcopal family, who scowled at him, and drew up in great dignity when he was presented to them, and the}^ heard his name. The Right Reverend Prelate had heard it before, and also of the little transaction in the Dean's garden. " The Bishop says you're a sad young man," good-natured Lady Clavering whispered to him. "What have 30U been a doing of? Nothink, I hope, to vex such a dear Mar as yours? How is j'our dear Mar? Wh}' don't she come and see me? We an't seen her this ever such a time. We're a goin about a gaddin, so that we don't see no neighbors now. Give ni}' love to her and Laurar, and come all to dinner to-morrow." Mrs. Pendennis was too unwell to come out, but Laura and Pen came, and there was a gi-eat party, and Pen onlj^ got an opportunity of a hurried word with Miss Amory. " You never come to the river now," he said. " I can't," said Blanche, " the house is full of people." PEXDEXNIS. 247 "Undine has left the stream," Mr. Pen went on, choosing to be poetical. "She never ought to have gone there," Miss Amor}' an- swered. " She won't go again. It was very foolish, very wrong : it was only play. Besides, you have other consolations at home," she added, looking him full in the face an instant, and dropping her e3'es. If he wanted her, wh}^ did he not speak then ? She might have said "Yes" even then. But as she spoke of other con- solations at home, he thought of Laura, so affectionate and so pure, and of his mother at home, who had bent her fond heart upon uniting him with her adopted daughter. " Blanche ! " he began, in a vexed tone, — " Miss Amory ! " " Laura is looking at us, Mr. Pendennis," the young lady said. " I must go back to the companj-," and she ran off, leav- ing Mr. Pendennis to bite his nails in perplexity, and to look out into the moonlight in the garden. Laura indeed was looking at Pen. She was talking w^ith, or appearing to listen to the talk of, Mr. Pynsent, Lord Rock- minster's son, and gi-andson of the Dowager Lady, who was seated in state in the place of honor, graveh' receiving Lady Clavering's bad grammar, and pati'onizing the vacuous Sir Fran- cis, whose interest in the county she was desirous to secm'e. Pynsent and Pen had been at Oxbridge together, where the latter, during his hej'da}' of good fortune and fashion, had been the superior of the young patrician, and perhaps rather super- cilious towards him. Thc}^ had met for the first time, since they had parted at the Universit}' at the table to-day, and given each other that exceedingly impertinent and amusing demi-nod of recognition which is practised in England only, and onl}- to perfection b\- University men, — and which seems to say, " Con- found 3'ou — what do you do here ? " "I knew that man at Oxbridge," Mr. Pynsent said to Miss Bell— " a Mr. Pendennis, I think." "Yes," said Miss Bell — " He seems rather sweet upon Miss Amor}'," the gentleman went on. Laura looked at them, and perhaps thought so too, but said nothing. ' ' A man of large property in the county, ain't he ? He used to talk about representing it. He used to speak at the Union. Whereabouts do his estates lie?" Laura smiled. "His estates lie on the other side of the river, near the lodge-gate. He is my cousin, and I live there." " Where?" asked Mr. Pynsent, with a laugh. 248 PENDENNIS. " Why, on the other side of the river, at Fairoaks," answered Miss Bell. "Many pheasants there? Cover looks rather good," said the simple gentleman. Laura smiled again. " Wc have nine hens and a cock, a pig, and an old pointer." " Pendennis don't preserve, then?" continued Mr. Pynsent. " You should come and see him," the girl said, laughing, and greatly amused at the notion that her Pen was a great county gentleman, and perhaps had given himself out to be such. " Indeed, I quite long to renew our acquaintance," Mr. Pynsent said, gallantly, and with a look which fairly said, " It is you that I would like to come and see " — to which look and speech Miss Laura vouchsafed a smile, and made a little bow. Here Blanche came stepping up with her most fascinating smile and ogle, and begged dear Laura to come and take the second in a song. Laura was ready to do anything good- natured, and went to the piano ; b}' which Mr. Pynsent listened as long as the duet lasted, and until Miss Amory began for herself, when he strode away. " What a nice, frank, amiable, well-bred girl that is, Wagg," said Mr. P3-nsent to a gentleman who had come over with him from Baj'mouth — " the tall one I mean, with the ringlets and the red lips — monstrous red, ain't they?" ' ' What do you think of the girl of the house ? " asked Mr. Wagg. " 1 think she's a lean, scraggy humbug ; " said Mr. Pynsent, with great candor. ' ' She drags her shoulders out of her dress : she never lets her eyes alone : and she goes simpering and oghng about like a French waiting-maid." " Pynsent, be civil," cried the other, " somebody can hear." " Oh, it's Pendennis of Boniface," Mr. P^^nsent said. " Fine evening, Mr. Pendennis ; we were just talking of 3-our charming cousin." " Any relation to my old friend. Major Pendennis?" asked Mr. Wagg. " His nephew. Had the pleasure of meeting you at Gaunt House," Mr. Pen said with his ver}- best air — the acquaintance between the sentlemen was made in an instant. &^ In the afternoon of the next day, the two gentlemen who were staying at Clavering Park were ibund by Mr. Pen on his return from a fishing excursion, in which he had no sport, PENDENNIS. 249 seated in his mother's drawing-room in comfoi'table conversa- tion with the widow and her ward. Mr. Pynsent, tall and gaunt, with large red whiskers and an imposing tuft to his chin, was striding over a chair in the intimate neighborhood of Miss Laura. She was amused by his talk, which was simple, straight- forward, rather humorous, and keen, and interspersed with homely expressions of a style which is sometimes called slang. It was the first specimen of a young London dandy that Laura had seen or heard ; for she had been but a chit at the time of Mr. Foker's introduction at Fairoaks, nor indeed was that in- genuous gentleman much more than a boy, and his refinement was only that of a school and college. Mr. Wagg, as he entered the Fairoaks premises with his companion, e3ed and noted everything. "Old gardener," he said, seeing Mr. John at the lodge — •• old red livery waistcoat — clothes hanging out to dry on the gooseberry buslies — blue aprons, white ducks — gad, they must be young Pendennis's white ducks — nobody else wears 'em in the famil}'. Rather a shy place for a sucking count}' member, ay, Pynsent?" " vSnug little crib," said Mr. Pynsent, -'• pretty cozy little lawn." "Mr. Pendennis at home, old gentleman?" Mr. Wagg said to the old domestic. John answered, " No, Master Pendennis was agone out." " Are the ladies at home?" asked the younger visitor. Mr. John answered, "■ Yes, they be ;" and as the pair vralked over the trim gravel, and by the neat shrubbei'ies, up the steps to the hall-door, which old John opened, Mr. Wagg noted every- thing that he saw ; the barometer and the letter-bag, the um- brellas and the ladies' clogs, Pen's hats and tartan wrapper, and old John opening the drawing-room door, to introduce the new comers. Such minutiae attracted Wagg instinctively ; he seized them in spite of himself. "Old fellow does all the work," he whispered to Pynsent. " Caleb Balderstone. Shouldn't wonder if he's the housemaid." The next minute the pair were in the presence of the Fairoaks ladies ; in whom Pynsent could not help recognizing two per- fectly well-bred ladies, and to whom Mr. Wagg made his obei- sance, with florid bows, and extra courtesy, accompanied with an occasional knowing leer at his companion. Mr. Pynsent did not choose to acknowledge these signals, except b}' extreme haughtiness towards INIr. AVagg, and particuhir deference to the ladies. If there was one thing laughable in Mr. Wagg's eyes, it was poverty. He had the' soul of a butler who had been brought from his pantry to make fun in the drawing-room. 9 250 TENDENNIS. His jokes were plenty, and his good-nature thoroughh' genuine, but he did not seem to understand that a gentleman could wear an old coat, or that a lady could be respectable unless she had her carriage, or emploj'ed a Fi-ench milliner. " Charming place, ma'am," said he, bowing to the widow ; "noble prospect — delightful to us Cockneys, who seldom see anything but Pall Mall." The widow said, simpl}-, she had never been in London but once in her life — before her son was born. " P'ine village, ma'am, fine village," said Mr. Wagg, "and increasing every da}'. It'll be quite a large town soon. It's not a bad place to live in for those who can't get the country, and will repay a visit when you honor it." "My brother. Major Pendenuis, has often mentioned your name to us," the widow said, " and we have been — amused by some of your droll books, sir," Helen continued, who never could be brought to like Mr. Wagg's books, and detested their tone most thoroughly'. " He is my very good friend," Mr. Wagg said, with a low bow, " and one of the best known men about town, and where known, ma'am, appreciated — I assure you appreciated. He is with our friend .Ste3'ne, at Aix-la-Chapelle. Steyne has a touch of the gout, and so, between ourselves, has ^'our brother. I am going to IStillbrook for the pheasant-shooting, and after- w^ards to Bareacres, where Pendenuis and I shall probably meet ; " and he poured out a flood of fashionable talk, introdu- cing the names of a score of peers, and rattling on with breath- less spirits, whilst the simple widow listened in silent wonder. What a man, she thought ; are all the men of fashion in Lon- don like this? I am sure Pen will never be like him. Mr. Pynsent was in the meanwhile engaged with Miss Laura. He named some of the houses in the neighborhood whither he was going, and hoped verj' much that he should see Miss Bell ,at some of them. He hoped that her aunt would give her a season in London. He said, that in the next parliament it was probable he should canvass the county, and he hoped to get Pendennis's interest here. He spoke of Pen's triumph as an orator at Oxbridge, and asked was he coming into parliament too? He talked on very pleasantly, and greatly to Laura's satisfaction, until Pen himself appeared, and as has been said, found these gentlemen. Pen behaved very courteously to the pair, now that they had found their way into his quarters ; and though he recollected with some twinges a conversation at Oxbridge, when Pynseni PENDEXNIS. 251 was present, and in which, after a great debate at the Union, and in the ruidst of considerable excitement, produced hy a supper and champagne-cup, — he had announced his intention of coming in for liis native county, and liad absolute!}' returned thanks in a fine speech as the future member ; yet Mr. Pynsent's manner was so frank and cordial, that Pen hoped Pynsent might have forgotten his little fanlaronnade, and any other braggadocio speeches or actions which he might have made. He suited himself to the tone of the visitors then, and talked about Plinlimmon and Magnus Charters, and the old set at Oxbridge, with careless familiarity and high-bred ease, as if he lived with marquises every day, and a duke was no more to him than a village curate. But at this juncture, and it being then six o'clock in the evening, Betsy, the maid, who did not know of the advent of strangers, walked into the room without an}' preliminary but that of flinging the door wide oi)en before her, and bearing in her arms a tra}', containing three tea-cups, a tea-pot, and a plate of thick bread-and-butter. All Pen's splendor and mag- nificence vanished away at this — and he faltered and became quite abashed. "-"What will the}' think of us?" he thought: and, indeed, Wagg thrust his tongue in his cheek, thought the tea utterly contemptible, and leered and winked at Pynsent to that efiect. But to Mr. Pynsent the transaction appeared perfectly simple — there was no reason present to his mind why people should not drink tea at six if they were minded, as well as at any other hour ; and he asked of Mr. Wagg, when they went away, "What the devil he was grinning and winking at, and what amused him ? " " Didn't you see how the cub was ashamed of the thick bread-and-butter? I dare say they're going to have treacle if they are good. I'll take an opportunity of telling old Pendennis when we get back to town," Mr. Wagg chuckled out. " Don't see the fun," said Mr. Pynsent. " Never thought you did," growled Wagg between his teeth ; and they walked home rather sulkily. Wagg told the story at dinner very smartly, with wonderful accuracy of observation. He described old John, the clothes that were drying, the clogs in the hall, the drawing-room, and its furniture and pictures: "Old man with a beak and bald head — feu Pendennis I bet two to one; sticking-plaster full- length of a youth in a cap and gown — the present Marquis of 252 PENDENNIS. Fairoaks, of course ; the widow when young in a miniature, Mrs. Mee ; she had the gown on when we came, or a dress made the year after, and the tips cut off the fingers of her gloves which she stitches her son's collars with ; and then the sarving maid came in with their teas ; so we left the Earl and the Countess to their bread-and-butter." Blanche, near whom he sat as he told this storj', and who adored les hommes d'esprit, burst out laughing, and called him such an odd, droll creature. But Pynsent, who began to be utterh' disgusted with him, broke out in a loud voice, and said, ^' I don't know, Mr. Wagg, what sort of ladies j-ou are accus- tomed to meet in 3'our own famil}^ but by gad, as far as a first acquaintance can show, I never met two better-bred women in m^^ life, and I hope, ma'am, you'll call upon 'em," he added, addressing Lady Rockminster, who was seated at Sir Francis Clavering's right hand. Sir Francis turned to the guest on his left, and whispei'ed, " That's what I call a sticker for Wagg." And Lady Claver- ing, giving the 3'oung gentleman a delighted tap with her fan, winked her black eyes at him, and said, " Mr. Pynsent, you're a good feller." After the affair with Blanche, a difference ever so slight, a tone of melancholy', perhaps a little bitter, might be perceived in Laura's converse with her cousin. She seemed to weigh him, and find him wanting too ; the widow saw the girl's clear and honest eyes watching the 3'oung man at times, and a look of almost scorn pass over her face, as he lounged in the room with the women, or lazil}' sauntered smoking upon the lawn, or lolled under a tree there over a book, which he was too list- less to read. "What has happened between vou?" eager-sighted Helen asked of the girl. " Something has happened. PLas that wicked little Blanche been making mischief? Tell me, Laura." " Nothing has happened at all," Laura said. "Then why do you look at Pen so?" asked his mother quickly. "Look at him, dear mother!" said the girl. "We two women are no society for him : we don't interest him ; we are not clever enough for such a genius as Pen. He wastes his life and energies away among us, tied to our apron-strings. He interests himself in nothing : he scarcely cares to go beyond the garden-gate. Even Captain Glanders and Captain Strong pall upon him," she added with a bitter laugh ; " and they are men j-ou know, and our superiors. He will never be happy PENDENNIS. 253 while he is here. Wh}' is he not facing the world, and without a profession ? " '' We haA-e got enough, with great econom}-," said the widow, her heart beginning to beat violentl}-. '• Pea has spent nothing for months. I'm sure he is very good. I am sure he might be very happ}' with us." " Don't agitate yourself so, dear mother," the girl answered. " I don't like to see you so. You should not be sad because Pen is unhapp}' here. All men are so. They must work. They must make themselves names and a place in the world. Look, the two captains have fought and seen battles : that Mr. Pynsent, who came here, and who will be ver}' rich, is in a public office ; he works ver}' hard, he aspires to a name and a reputation. He says Pen was one of the best speakers at Oxbridoe, and had as great a character for talent as anv of the young gentlemen there. Pen himself laughs at Mr. Wagg's celebrity (and indeed he is a horrid person), and says he is a dunce, and that anybodj' could write his books." " I am sure they are odious," interposed the widow. " Yet he has a reputation. — You see the Count}- Chronicle says, ' The celebrated Mr. AYagg has been sojourning at Bay- mouth — let our fashionables and eccentrics look out for some- thing from his caustic pen.' If Pen can write better than this gentleman, and speak better than Mr. P^-nsent, why doesn't he ? Mamma, he can't make speeches to us ; or distinguish himself here. He ought to go away, indeed he ought." " Dear Laura," said Helen, taking the girl's hand. " Is it kind of 3-ou to hurry him so ? I have been waiting. I have been saving up money these many months — to — to pay back your advance to us." " Hush, mother ! " Laura cried, embracing her friend hastih'. *' It was your money, not mine. Never speak about that again. How much money have 3'ou saved ? " Helen said there were more than two hundred pounds at the bank, and that she would be enabled to pa}' off all Laura's money by the end of the next year. "Give it him — let him have the two hundred pounds. Let him go to London and be a lawyer : be something, be worthy of his mother — and of mine, dearest mamma," said the good girl ; upon which, and with her usual tenderness and emo- tion, tlie fond widow declared that Laura was a blessing to her, and the best of girls — and I hope no one in this instance will be disposed to contradict her. The widow and her daughter had more than one conversa- 254 PENDENNIS. tion on this subject : the elder gave way to the superior reason of tlie honest and stronger minded girl ; and, indeed, v\'henever there was a sacrifice to be made on her part, this kind l&dy was only too eager to make it. But she took her own way, and did not lose sight of the end she had in view, in imparting these new plans to Pen. One day she told him of these projects, and who it was that had formed them ; how it was Laura who insisted upon his going to London and studying ; how it was Laura who would not hear of the — the mone}- arrangements when he came back from Oxbridge — being settled just then : how it was Laura whom he had to thank, if indeed he thous-ht he ought to go. At that news Pen's countenance blazed up with pleasure, and he hugged his mother to his heart with an ardor that I fear disappointed the fond lad}^ ; but she rallied when he said, " By Heaven ! she is a noble girl, and may God Almighty bless her ! O mother ! I have been wear3'ing myself away for months here, longing to work, and not knowing how. I've been fretting over the thouglits of my shame, and my debts, and my past cursed extravagance and follies. I've suffered infernally. My heart has been half-broken — never mind about that. If I can get a chance to redeem the past, and to do m_y duty to myself and the best mother in the world, indeed, indeed, I will. I'll be worthy of you yet. Heaven bless you ! God bless Laura ! Wh}' isn't she here, that I may go and thank her? " Pen went on with more incoherent phrases ; paced up and down the room, drank glasses of water, jumped about his mother with a thou- sand embraces — began to laugh — began to sing — was happier than she had seen him since he was a bo}^ — since he had tasted of the fruit of that awful Tree of Life which, from the begin- ning, has tempted all mankind. Laura was not at home. Laura was on a visit to the stately Lad}^ Rockminster, daughter to m}- Lord Bareacres, sister to the late Lady Pont.ypool, and by consequence a distant kins- woman of Helen's, as lier ladysliip, who was deeply versed in genealogy, was the first graciously to point out to the modest country lad}'. Mr. Pen was greatly delighted at the relation- ship being acknowledged, though perhaps not over well pleased that Lady Rockminster took Miss Bell home with her for a couple of days to Baymouth, and did not make the slightest invitation to Mr. Arthur Pendennis. There was to be a ball at Baymouth, and it was to be Miss Laura's fii'st appearance. The dowager came to fetch her in her carriage, and she went PENDEXNIS. 255 off with a white dress iu her box, happy and bhisliing, like the rose to which Pen compared her. This was the night of the ball — a pnblic entertainment at the Ba3mouth Hotel. '• By Jove ! " said Pen, " I'll ride over ■ — No, I won't ride, but I'll go too." His mother was charmed that he should do so ; and, as he was debating about the con- veyance in which he should start for Baymouth, Captain Strong called opportunely, said he was going himself, and that he would put his horse. The Butcher Bo}', into the gig, and drive Pen over. When the grand company- began to fill the house at Clavcr- ing Park, the Chevalier Strong seldom intruded himself upon its societ}', but went elsewhere to seek his relaxation. " I've seen plent}^ of grand dinners in mj- time," he said, " and dined, by Jove, in a compan}^ where there was a king and royal duke at top and bottom, and every man along the table had six stars on his coat : but damm^'. Glanders, this finery don't suit me ; and the English ladies with their confounded buckram airs, and the squires with their politics after dinner, send me to sleep — sink me dead if they don't. I like a place where I can blow my cigar when the cloth is removed, and when I'm thirsty, have my beer in its native pewter." So on a gala day at Clavering Park, the Chevalier would content himself with superintending the arrangements of the table, and drilling the major-domo and servants ; and having looked over the bill of fare with Monsieur Mirobolant, would not care to take the least part in the banquet. " Send me up a cutlet and a bottle of claret to mj' room," this philosopher would say, and from the windows of that apartment, which commanded the terrace and avenue, he would survey the company as the}' arrived in their carriages, or take a peep at the ladies in the hall through an oeil-de-boeuf which commanded it from his corridor. And the guests being seated, Strong would cross the park to Cap- tain Glanders's cottage at Clavering, or to pay the landlady a visit at the Clavering Arms, or to drop in upon Madame Fribsby over her novel and tea. Wherever the Chevalier went he was welcome, and whenever he came away a smell of hot brandy and water lingered behind him. The Butcher Boy — not the worst horse in Sir Francis's stable — was appropriated to Captain Strong's express use; and the old Campaigner saddled him and brought him home at all hours of the day or night, and drove or rode him up and down the country. Where there was a public-house with a good tap of beer — where there was a tenant with a pretty 256 PENDENNIS. daughter who played on the piano — to Chatteris, to the play, or the barracks — to Baymouth, if any fun was on foot there ; to the rural fairs or races, the Chevalier and his brown horse made their way continually ; and this worthy gentleman lived at free quarters in a friendly country. The Butcher Boy soon took Pen and the Chevalier to Baymouth. The latter was as familiar with the hotel and landlord there as with every other inn round about ; and having been accommodated with a bed- room to dress, they entered the ball-room. The Chevalier was splendid. He wore three little gold crosses in a brochette on the portly breast of his blue coat, and looked like a foreign field-marshal. The ball was public and all sorts of persons were admitted and encouraged to come, young Pynsent having views upon the county, and Lady Rockminster being patroness of the ball. There was a quadrille for the aristocracy at one end, and select benches for the people of fashion. Towards this end the Chev- alier did not care to penetrate far (as he said he did not care for the nobs) ; but in the other part of the room he knew every- body — the wine-inerchants', innkeepers', tradesmen's, solicit- ors', squire-farmers' daughters, their sires and brothers, and plunged about shaking hands. "Who is that man with the blue ribbon and the three- pointed star ? " asked Pen. A gentleman in black with ringlets and a tuft stood gazing fiercely about him, with one hand in the arm-hole of his waistcoat and the other holding his claque. "By Jupiter, it's Mirobolant ! " cried Strong, bursting out laughing. '•'' Bon jour ^ Chef! — Bon jour ^ Chevalier!" "Z>e la croix de Juillet^ Chevalier!" said the Chef, laying his hand on his decoration. " By Jove, here's some more ribbon ! " said Pen, amused. A man with very black hair and whiskers, dyed evidently with the purple of Tyre, with twinkling eyes and white eye- lashes, and a thousand wrinkles in his face, which was of a strange red color, with two under- vests, and large gloves and hands, and a profusion of diamonds and jewels in his waistcoat and stock, with coarse feet crumpled into immense shiny boots, and a piece of particolored ribbon in his button-hole, here came up and nodded famiharly to the Chevalier. The Chevalier shook hands. " My friend Mr. Pendennis," Strong said. "Colonel Altamont, of the bod,y-guard of his Highness the Nawaub of Lucknow." That officer bowed to the salute of Pen ; who was now looking out eagerly to see if the person he wanted had entered the room. PEXDEXXIS. 257 Not yoi. But the band l)ogan presently performing •' See the Conquering Hero comes." and a host of fashionables — Dowager Countess of Roekminster. Mr. P^nsent and Miss Bell, Sir Francis Clavering, Bart., of Clavering Park, Lady Claver- ing and Miss Amory, Sir Horace Fogey, Bart., Lady Fogey, Colonel and Mrs. Higgs, ^A'agg, Esq. (as the county paper afterwards described them), entered the room. Pen rushed by Blanche, ran up to Laura, and seized her hand. " God bless you ! " he said, " I want to speak to you — I must speak to 3'ou — Let me dance with you." " Not for three dances, dear Pen," she said, smiling : and he fell back, biting his nails with vexation, and forgetting to salute Pynsent. After Lady Rockminster's party, Lady ClaA'ering's followed in the procession. Colonel Altamont e3-ed it hard, holding a most musky pocket-handkerchief up to his face, and bursting with laughter behind it. " Who's the gal in green along with 'em, Cap'n?" he asked of Strong. "That's Miss Amory, Lady Clavering's daughter," replied the Chevalier. The Colonel could hardh' contain himself for laughing. CHAPTER XXVI. CONTAINS SOME BALL-PRACTISING. Under some calico draperies in the shady embrasure of a window, Arthur Pendennis chose to assume a very gloom}' and frowning countenance, and to watch Miss Bell dance her first quadrille Avith Mr. Pynsent for a partner. Miss Laura's face was beaming with pleasure and good-nature. The lights and the crowd and music excited her. As she spread out her white robes, and performed her part of the dance, smiling and happy, her brown ringlets flowino; back over her fair shoulders from her honest rosy face, more than one gentleman in the room ad- mired and looked after her ; and Lady Fogey, who had a house in London, and gave herself no small airs of fashion when in the country, asked of Lady Roekminster who the young person was, mentioned a reigning beaut}' in London whom, in her ladyship's opinion, Laura was rather like, and pronounced that she would " do." 17 258 PBNDENNIS. Lady Rockminster would have been very much surprised if any protegee of hers would not "do," and wondered, at Lady Foge3''s impudence in judging upon the point at all. Slie sur- veyed Laura with majestic glances through her eye-glass. She was pleased with the girl's artless looks, and gay innocent man- ner. Her manner is ver^^ good, her ladyship thought. Her arms are rather red, but that is a defect of her 3'outh. Her ton is far better than that of the little pert Miss Amory, who is dancing opposite to her. Miss Blanche was, indeed, the vis-a-vis of Miss Laura, and smiled most killingly upon her dearest friend, and nodded to her, and talked to her, when they met during the quadrille evolutions, and patronized her a great deal. Her shoulders were the whitest in the whole room : and they were never eas}' in her frock for one single instant : nor were her eyes, which rolled about incessantlj' : nor was her little figure : — it seemed to say to all the people, "Come and look at me — -not at that pink, health^-, bouncing country lass. Miss Bell, who scarceh' knew how to dance till I taught her. This is the true Pari- sian manner — this is the prettiest little foot in the room, and the prettiest little chaussure, too. Look at it, Mr. Pyn- sent. Look at it, Mr. Pendennis, you who are scowling behind the curtain — I know you are longing to dance with me." Laura went on dancing, and keeping an attentive eye upon Mr. Pen in the embrasure of the window. He did not quit that retirement during the first quadrille, nor until the second, when the good-natured Lady Clavering beckoned to him to come up to her to the dais or place of honor where the dowagers were, and whither Pen went blushing and exceedingly awkward, as most conceited 3'oung fellows are. He performed a haughty salutation to Lady Rockminster, who hardly acknowledged his bow and then went and paid his respects to the widow of the late Amory, who was splendid in diamonds, velvet, lace, feathers, and all sorts of millinery and goldsmith's ware. Young Mr. Foge}-, then in the fifth form at Eton, and ar- dently expecting his beard and his commission in a dragoon regiment, was the second partner who was honored with Miss Bell's hand. He was rapt in admiration of that young lad}'. He thought he had never seen so charming a creature. " I like you much better than the French girl" (for this 3'oung gentle- man had been dancing with Miss Amory before) , he candidl}- said to her. Laura laughed, and looked more good-humored than ever ; and in the midst of her laughter caught a sight of Pen, and continued to laugh us he, on his side, continued to PENDENNIS. 259 look absurdly pompous and sulky. The next dance was a waltz, and young Fogey thought, with a sigh, that ho did not know how to waltz, and voAved he would have a master the next holidays. Mr. PA-nsent again claimed Miss Bell's hand for this dance ; and Pen beheld her, in a lury, twirling round the room, her waist encircled by the arm of that gentleman. Pie never used to be angry before when, on summer evenings, the chairs and tables being removed, and the governess called down stairs to pla}' the piano, he and the Chevalier Strong (who was a splen- did performer, and could dance a British hornpipe, a German waltz, or a Spanish fandango, if need were) , and the two young ladies, Blanche and Laura, improvised little balls at Clavering Park. Laura enjoyed this dancing so much, and was so ani- mated, that she even animated Mr. Pynsent. Blanche, who could dance beautifulh', had an unluck}- partner. Captain Broad- foot, of the Dragoons, then stationed at Chatteris. For Cap- tain Broadfoot, though devoting himself with great energy to the object in view, could not get round in time : and, not having the least ear for music, was unaware that his movements were too slow. So, in the waltz as in the quadrille. Miss Blanche saw that her dear friend Laura had the honors of the dance, and was b^' no means pleased with the latter's success. After a couple of turns with the heavy dragoon, she pleaded fatigue, and re- quested to be led back to her place, near her mamma, to whom Pen was talking : and she asked him why he had not asked her to waltz, and had left her to the mercies of that great odious man in spurs and a red coat? " I thought spurs and scarlet were the most fascinating ob- jects in the world to }oung ladies," Pen answered. " I never should have dared to put my black coat in competition with that splendid red jacket." " You are very unkind and cruel and sulky and naughty," said Miss Am.ory, with another shrug of the shoulders. " You had better go awa}-. Your cousin is looking at us over Mr. Pynsent's shoulder." " Will you waltz with me?" said Pen. " Not this waltz. I can't, having just sent away that great hot Captain Broadfoot. Look at Mr. P3-nsent, did you ever see such a creature ? But I will dance the next waltz with you, and the quadrille too. I am promised, but I will tell Mr. Poole that I had forgotten my engagement to you." " Women forget very readily," Pendennis said. 260 PENDENNIS. "But they always come back, and are very repentant and sorry for what they've done," Blanche said. ''See, here comes the Poker, and dear Laura leaning on him. How prettv she looks!" Lam-a came up, and put out her hand to Pen, to whom Pj-nsent made a sort of bow, appearing to be not much more graceful than that domestic instrument to which Miss Amory compared him. But Laura's face was full of kindness. " I am so glad you have come, dear Pen," she said. "I can speak to you now. How is mamma ? The three dances are over, and I am engaged to you for the next. Pen." " I have just engaged myself to Miss Amory," said Pen ; and Miss Amory nodded her head, and made her usual little curtsy. " T don't intend to give him up, dearest Laura," she said. "Well, then, he'll waltz with me, dear Blanche," said the other. " Won't you, Pen?" " I promised to waltz with Miss Amory." " Provoking ! " said Laura, and making a curtsy in hertm-n, she went and placed herself under the ample wing of Lady Rockminster. Pen was delighted with his mischief. The two prettiest girls in the room were quarrelling about him. He flattered himself he had punished Miss Laura, He leaned in a dandified air, with his elbow over the wall, and talked to Blanche : he quizzed unmercifull}' all the men in the room — the heavy dragoons in their tight jackets — the country dandies in their queer attu-e — . the strange toilettes of the ladies. One seemed to have a bird's nest in her head ; another had six pounds of grapes in her hair, beside her false pearls. " It's a coiffure of almonds and rai- sins," said Pen, '• and might be served up for dessert." In a word, he was exceedingly satirical and amusing. During the quadrille he carried on this kind of conversation (with unflinching bittei-ness and vivacity, and kept Blanche con- tinually laughing, both at his wickedness and jokes, which were good, and also because Laura was again their vis-a-vis, and could see and hear how merry and confidential they were. "Arthur is charming to-night," she whispered to Laura, across Cornet Perch's shell-jacket, as Pen was performing cava- lier seul before them, drawling through that figure with a thumb in the pocket of each waistcoat. " Who?" said Laura. " Aithur," answered Blanche, in French. " Oh, it's such a PENDENNIS. 261 pretty name ! " And now the young ladies went over to Pen's side, and Cornet Perch performed a pas seul in his turn. He had no waistcoat pocket to put his hands into, and they looked large and swollen as they hung before him depending from the tight arms in the jacket. During the interval between the quadrille and the succeed- ing waltz, Pen did not take any notice of Laura, except to ask her whether her partner, Cornet Perch, was an amusing youth, and whether she liked him so well as her other partner, Mr. Pynsent. Having planted which two daggers in Laura's bosom, Mr. Pendennis proceeded to rattle on with Blanche Amoi-y, and to make jokes good or bad, but which were always loud. Laura was at a loss to account for her cousin's sulky behav- ior, and ignorant in what she had offended him ; however, she was not angry in her turn at Pen's splenetic mood, for she was the most good-natured and forgiving of women, and besides, an exhibition of jealousy on a man's part is not always disagreea- ble to a lad}'. As Pen could not dance with her, she was glad to take up with the active Chevalier Strong, who was a still better per- former than Pen ; and being very fond of dancing, as ever}' brisk and innocent young girl should be, when the waltz music began she set oft", and chose to enjoy herself with all her heart. Captain Broadfoot on this occasion occupied the floor in con- junction with a lady of proportions scarcely inferior to his own ; Miss Roundle, a large young woman in a strawberry-ice colored crape dress, the daughter of the lady with the grapes in her head, whose bunches Pen had admired. And now taking his time, and with his fair partner Blanche hanging lovingly on the arm which encircled her, Mr. Arthur Pendennis set out upon his waltzing career, and felt, as he whirled round to the music, that he and Blanche were perform- ing ver}' brilliantly indeed. Very likely he looked to see if Miss Bell thought so too ; but she did not or would not see him, and was always engaged with her partner Captain Strong. But Pen's triumph was not destined to last long : and it was doomed that poor Blanche was to have yet another discomfiture on that unfortunate night. While she and Pen were whirling round as light and brisk as a couple of opera-dancers, honest Captain Broadfoot and the lady round whose large waist he was cling- ing, were twisting round very leisurely according to their na- tures, and indeed were in everybody's way. But they were more in Pendennis's way than in anybody's else, for he and Blanche, whilst executing their rapid gyrations, came bolt up 262 PENDENNIS. against the heavy dragoon and his lady, and with such force that the centre of gravity was lost by all four of the circum- volving bodies ; Captain Broadfoot and Miss Roundle were fairly upset, as was Pen himself, who was less luckj^ than his partner Miss Amory, who was onl}- thrown upon a bench against a wall. But Pendennis came fairly down upon the floor, sprawling in the general ruin with Broadfoot and Miss Roundle. The Captain, though heavy, was good-natured, and was the first to burst out into a loud laugh at his own misfortune, which nobody therefore heeded. But Miss Amory was savage at her mishap ; Miss Roundle placed on her seant, and looking pitifully round, presented an object which verj- few people could see without laughing ; and Pen was furious when he heard the people giggling about him. He w^as one of those sarcastic young fellows that did not bear a laugh at his own expense, and of all things in the world feared ridicule most. As he got up Laura and Strong were laughing at him ; every- body was laughing ; Pynsent and his partner were laughing ; and Pen boiled with wrath against the pair, and could have stabbed them both on the spot. He turned away in a fury from them, and began blundering out apologies to Miss Amory. It was the other couple's fault — the woman in pink had done it — Pen hoped Miss Amory was not hurt — would she not have the courage to take another turn ? Miss Amory in a pet said she was very much hurt indeed, and she would not take another turn ; and she accepted with great thanks a glass of water which a cavalier, who wore a blue ribbon and a three-pointed star, rushed to fetch for her when he had seen the deplorable accident. She drank the water, smiled upon the bringer gracefully, and turning her white shoulder at Mr. Pen in the most marked and haught}- manner, besought the gentleman with the star to conduct her to hei mamma ; and she held out her hand in order to take his arm. The man with the star trembled with delight at this mark of her favor ; he bowed over her liand, pressed it to his coat fervidly, and looked round him with triumph. It was no other than the happ}- Mirobolant whom Blanche had selected as an escort. But the truth is, that the young lady had never fairly looked in the artist's face since he had been emplo3-ed in her mother's famil}', and had no idea but it was a foreign nobleman on whose arm she was leaning. As she went off, Pen forgot his humiliation in his surprise, and cried out, " By Jove, it's the cook J " PENDENNIS. 263 The instant he had uttered the words, he was sorry for hav- ing spoken them — for it was Blanche who had herself invited Miro\)olant to escort her, nor could the artist do otherwise than compiy with a lady's command. Blanche in her flutter did not hear what Arthur said ; but Mirobolant heard him. and cast a furious glance at him over his shoulder, which rather amused Mr. Pen. He was in a mischievous and sulky humor ; wanting perhaps to pick a quarrel with somebody ; but the idea of hav- ing uisuited a cook, or that such an individual should have any feeling of honor at all, did not much enter into the mind of this lofty 3'oung aristocrat, the apothecar3-'s son. It had never entered that poor artist's head, that he as a man was not equal to any other mortal, or that there was any- thing in his position so degrading as to prevent him from giving hia arm to a lady who asked for it. He had seen in the fetes in his own country fine ladies, not certainl}' demoiselles (but the demoiselle Anglaise he knew was a gi'eat deal more free than the spinster in France) join in the dance with Blaise or Pierre ; and he would have taken Blanche up to Lady Claver- ing, and possibly have asked her to dance too, but he heard Pen's exclamation, which struck him as if it had shot him, and cruelly humiliated and angered him. She did not know what caused him to start, and to grind a Gascon oath between his teeth. But Strong, who was acquainted with the poor fellow's state of mind, having had the interesting information from our friend Madame Fribsb}', was luckily in the Avay when wanted, and saying something rapidly in Spanish, which the other under- stood, the Chevalier begged Miss AmoiT to come and take an ice before she went back to Lady Clavering. Upon which the unhappv Mirobolant relinquished the arm which he had held for a minute, and with a most profound and piteous bow, fell back. " Don't you know who it is?" Strong asked of Miss Amory, as he led her away, "• It is the chef Mirobolant." " How should I know?" asked Blanche. " He has a croix ; he is ver}'^ distingiu- ; he has beautiful e3^es." "The poor fellow is mad for your beaux yeux^ I believe," Strong said. *' He is a very good cook, but he is not quite right in the head." " What did you say to him in the unknown tongue? " asked Miss Blanche. " He is a Gascon, and comes from the borders of Spain," Strong answered. " I told him he would lose his place if he walked with 3'ou." 264 PENDENNIS. " Poor Monsieur Mirobolant ! " said Blanche. " Did you see the look he gave Pendennis ? " — Strong asked, enjoying the idea of the mischief — " I think he would like to run little Pen through with one of his spits." " He is an odious, conceited, clumsy creature, that Mr. Pen," said Blanche. " Broadfoot looked as if he would like to kill him too, so did Pynsent," Strong said. " What ice will you have — ^ater ice or cream ice ? " " Water ice. Who is that odd man staring at me — he is decore too." " That is my friend Colonel Altamont, a very queer charac- ter, in the service of the Nawaub of Lucknow. Hallo ! what's that noise. I'll be back in an instant," said the Chevalier, and sprang out of the room to the ball-room, where a scuffle and a noise of high voices was heard. The refreshment-room, in which Miss Armor}^ now found herself, was a room set apart for the purposes of supper, which Mr. Rincer the landlord had provided for those who chose to partake, at the rate of five shillings per head. Also, refresh- ments of a superior class were here ready for the ladies and gentlemen of the county families who came to the ball ; but the commoner sort of persons were kept out of the room by a waiter who stood at the portal, and who said that was a select room for Lady Clavering and Lady Rockminster's parties, and not to be opened to the public till supper-time, which was not to be until past midnight. Pynsent, who danced with his con- stituents' daughters, took them and their mammas in for their refreshment there. Strong, who was manager and master of the revels wherever he went, had of course the entree — and the onl}' person who was now occupying the room, was the gentle- man with the black wig and the orders in his button-hole ; the officer in the service of his Highness the Nawaub of Lucknow. This gentleman had established himself very early in the evening in this apartment, where, saying he was confoundedly thirsty, he called for a bottle of champagne. At this order, the waiter instanth- supposed tliat he had to do with a grandee, and the Colonel sat down and began to eat his supper and absorb his drink, and enter affabl}' into conversation with any- body who entered the room. Sir Francis Clavering and Mr. Wagg found him there ; when they left tlie ball-room, which the}' did prett}' early — Sir Francis to go and smoke a cigar, and look at the people gathered out- PENDENNIS. 265 side the ball-room on the shore, which he declared was much better fun than to remain within : Mr. Wagg to hang on to a Baronet's arm, as he was always pleased to do on the arm of the greatest man in the compan}'. Colonel Altamont had stared at these gentlemen in so odd a manner, as the}' passed through the '• Select" room, that Clavering made inquiries of the land- lord who he was, and hinted a strong opinion that the officer of •the Nawaub's service was drunk. Mr. Pynscnt, too, had had the honor of a conversation with the servant of the Indian potentate. It was Pynsent's cue to speak to everybody ; (which he did, to do him justice, in the most ungracious manner;) and he took the gentleman in the black wig for some constituent, some merchant captain, or other outlandish man of the place. Mr. P^nsent, then, coming into the refreshment-room with a lady, the wife of a constituent, on his arm, the Colonel asked him if he would tr}' a glass of Sham? Pynsent took it with great gravity, bowed, tasted the wine, and pronounced it excellent, and with the utmost polite- ness retreated before Colonel Altamont. This gravity and decorum routed and surprised the Colonel more than any other kind of behavior probably would : he stared after Pynsent stupidh', and pronounced to the landlord over the counter that he wasa rum one. Mr. Rincer blushed, and hardly knew what to say. Mr. Pynsent was a county Earl's grandson, going to set up as a Parliament man. Colonel Altamont, on the other hand, wore orders and diamonds, jingled sovereigns constantly in his pocket, and paid his way like a man ; so not knowing what to say, Mr. Rincer said, " Yes, Colonel — yes, ma'am, did you say tea? Cup a tea for Mr. Jones, Mrs. R.," and so got off that discussion regarding Mr. Pynsent's qualities, into which the Nizam's officer appeared inclined to enter. In fact, if the truth must be told, Mr. Altamont, having remained at the buffet almost all night, and employed himself very actively whilst there, had considerably flushed his brain by drinking, and he was still going on drinking, w^hen Mr. Strong and Miss Amory entered the room. When the Chevalier ran out of the apartment, attracted by the noise in the dancing- room, the Colonel rose from his chair with his little red eyes glowing like coals, and, with rather an unsteady- gait, advanced towaixls Blanche, who was sipping her ice. She was absorbed in absorljing it, for it was very fresh and good ; or she was not curious to know what was going on in the adjoining room, altliough the waiters were, who ran after Chevalier Strong. So that when she looked up from her glass. 266 PENDENNIS. she beheld this strange man staring at her out of his Uttle red eyes. " Who was he? It was quite exciting." " And so you're Betsy Amory," said he, after gazing at her. " Betsy Amor}^ by Jove ! " " Who — wlio speaks to me? " said Betsy, alias Blanche. But the noise in the ball-room is really becoming so loud, that we must rush back thither, and see what is the cause of the disturbance. CHAPTER XXVII. WHICH IS BOTH QUARRELSOME AND SENTIMENTAL. Civil war was raging, high words passing, people pushing and squeezing together in an unseemly manner, round a window in the corner of the ball-room, close b}- the door through which the Chevalier Strong shouldered his way. Through the opened window the crowd in the street below Avas sending up sarcastic remarks, such as ''Pitch into him!" "Where's the police?" and the like ; and a ring of individuals, among whom Madame Fribsby was conspicuous, was gathered round Monsieur Alcide Mirobolant on the one side ; whilst several gentlemen and ladies surrounded our friend Arthur Pendennis on the other. Strong penetrated into this assembl}', elbowing by Madam Fribsby, who was charmed at the Chevalier's appearance, and cried, " Save him, save him ! " in frantic and pathelir; accents. The cause of the disturbance, it appeared, was the angry little chef of Sir Francis Clavering's culinar}^ establishment. Shortly after Strong had quitted the room, and whilst Mr. Pen, greatly irate at his downfall in the waltz, which had made him look ridiculous in the e^'es of the nation, and by Miss Amoiy's behavior to him, which had still further insulted his dignit}^, was endeavoring to get some coolness of bod}* and temper, by looking out of window towards the sea, which was sparkling in the distance, and murmuring in a wonderful calm — whilst he was really tr3'ing to compose himself, and owning to himself, perhaps, that he had acted in a veiy absurd and peevish manner during the night — he felt a hand upon his shoulder; and, on looking round, beheld, to his utter surprise and horror, that the hand in question belonged to Monsieur Mirobolant, whose eyes were glaring out of his pale face and ringlets at Mr. Pen. To be tapped on the shoulder b3' a French cook was a piece of PEXDEXNIS. 267 familiarity which made the blood of the Pendennises to boil up in the veins of their descendant, and he was astounded, almost more than enraged, at such an indignity. "You speak French ? " Mirobolant said in his own language, to Pen. " What is that to you, pray?" said Pen, in English. "At any rate, you understand it?" continued the other, with a bow. '• Yes sir," said Pen, with a stamp of his foot ; "I under- stand it pretty well." " Vous me comprendrez alors, Monsieur Pendennis," replied the other, rolling out his r with Gascon force, " quand je vous dis que vous etes un lache. Monsieur Pendennis — un lache, entendez-vous ? " " What?" said Pen, starting round on him. " You understand the meaning of the word and its conse- quences among men of honor?" the artist said, putting his hand on his hip, and staring at Pen. " The consequences are, that I will fling you out of window, you — impudent scoundrel," bawled out Mr. Pen ; and darting upon the Frenchman, he would very likely have put his threat into execution, for the window was at hand, and the artist by no moans a match for the 3'ouug gentleman — had not Captain Broad foot and another heav}' officer flung themselves between the combatants, — had not the ladies begun to scream, — had not the fiddles stopped, — had not the crowd of people come running in that direction, — had not Laura, with a face of great alarm, looked over their heads and asked for Heaven's sake what was wrong — had not the opportune Strong made his appearance from the refreshment-room, and found Alcide grinding his teeth and jabbering oaths in his Gascon French, and Pen looking uncommonly wicked, although trying to appear as calm as possible, when the ladies and the crowd came up. " What has happened ! " Strong asked of the chef, m Span- ish. " I am Chevalier de Juillet," said the other, slapping his breast, '• and he has insulted me." '' What has he said to you? " asked Strong. "II m'a appele — Cuisinier" hissed out the little French- man. Strong could hardly help laughing. " Come away with me, my poor Chevalier," he said. "We must not quarrel before jadies. Come away ; I will carr}' your message to Mr. Pen- dennis. — The Door fellow is not right in his head," he whiS' 268 PENDENNIS. pered to one or two people about liim ; — and others, and anxious Laura's face visible amongst these, gathered round Pen and asked the cause of the disturbance. Pen did not know. '' The man was going to give his arm to a young lad}', on which I said that he was a cook, and the man called me a coward and challenged me ta fight. I own I was so surprised and indignant, that if you gentlemen had not stopped me, I should have thrown him out of window," Pen said. "D — him, serve him right, too, — the d — impudent for- eign scoundrel," the gentlemen said. "■I — I'm very sorry if I hurt his feelings, though," Pen added : and Laura was glad to hear him say that ; although some of the joung bucks said, " No, hang the fellow, — hang those impudent foreigners — little thrashing would do them good." "You will go. and shake hands with him before 3'ou go to sleep — won't you. Pen?" said Laura, coming up to him. "Foreigners maybe more susceptible than we are, and have different manners. If you hurt a poor man's feelings, I am sure you would be the first to ask his pardon. Wouldn't j'ou. dear Pen?" She looked all forgiveness and gentleness, like an angel, as she spoke, and Pen took both her hands, and looked into her kind face, and said indeed he would. " How fond that girl is of me ! " he thought, as she stood gazing at him. " Shall I speak to her now? No — not now. I must have this absurd business with the Frenchman over." Laura asked — Wouldn't he stop and dance with her? She was as anxious to keep him in the room, as he to quit it. " Won't you stop and waltz with me. Pen? I'm not afraid to waltz witli you." This was an aflfectionate, but an iuiluck\' speech. Pen saw himself prostrate on the ground, having tumbled over Miss Roundle and the dragoon, and flung Blanclie up against the wall — saw himself on the gi'ound, and all the people laughing at him, Laura and Pynsent amongst them. "I shall never clance again," he replied, with a dark and determined face. "Never. I'm surprised j'ou should ask me." " Is it because you can't get Blanche for a partner ? " asked Laura, with a wicked, unlucky captiousness. "Because I don't wish to make a fool of myself, for other people to laugh at me," Pen answered — " for you to laugh at PENDENNIS. 269 me, Laura. I saw you and Pyuseut. B}' Jove ! uo man shall laugh at me." " Pen, Pen, don't be so wicked ! " cried out the poor girl, hurt at the morbid perverseness and savage vanity of Pen. He was glaring round in the direction of Mr. Pynsent as if he would have liked to engage that gentleman as he had done the cook. ' • Who thinks the worse of you for stumbling in a waltz?" If Laura does, we don't. '* Why are you so sensi- tive, and read}' to think evil? " Here again, by ill luck, Mr. Pynsent came up to Laura, and .said, "I have it in command from Lad}- Rockminster to ask whether I may take you in to supper ? " "I — I was going in with'my cousin," Laura said. "Oh — pray, no!" said Pen. "You are in such good hands, that I can't do better than leave you : and I'm going home." "Good night, Mr. Pendennis," Pynsent said, dryly — to which speech (which in fact, meant, ' ' Go to the deuce for an insolent, jealous, impertinent jackanapes, whose ears I should like to box") Mr. Pendennis did not vouchsafe an}- reply, except a bow : and, in spite of Laura's imploring looks, he left the room. "How beautifully calm and bright the night outside is!" said Mr. Pynsent; "and what a murmur the seals making! It would be pleasanter to be walking on the beach than in this hot room." " Very," said Laura. "What a strange congi'egation of people," continued Pyn- sent. " I have had to go up and perform the agreeable to most of them — the attorney's daughters — the apothecary's wife — I scarcely know whom. There was a man in the re- freshment-room, who insisted upon treating me to champagne — a seafaring looking man — extraordinarily dressed, and seeming half tipsy. As a public man. one is bound to con- ciliate all these people, but it is a hard task — especially when one would so very much like to be elsewhere " ^— and he blushed rather as he spoke. " I beg your pardon," said Laura — "I — I was not listen- ing. Indeed — I was frightened about that quarrel between my cousin and that — that — French person." " Your cousin has been rather unlucky to-night," Pynsent said. "There are three or four persons whom he has not Bucceeded in pleasing — Captain Broadwood ; what is his name — the officer — and the young lady in red with whom he 270 PENDENNIS. danced — and Miss Blanche — and the poor chef — and I don't think he seemed to be particularly pleased with me." "Didn't he leave me in charge to 3'ou?" Lam-a said, look- ing up into Mr. P3nsent's face, and dropping her eyes instantly, like a guilty little story-telling coquette. " Indeed, I can forgive him a good deal for that," Pynsent eagerl}' cried out, and she took his arm, and he led off his little prize in the direction of the supper-room. She had no great desire for that repast, though it was served in Rincer's well-known style, as the county paper said, giv- ing an account of the entertainment afterwards ; indeed, she was very distraite ; and exceedingly pained and unhappy about Pen. Captious and quarrelsome ; jealous and selfish ; fickle and violent and unjust when his anger led him astray ; how could her mother (as indeed Helen had by a thousand words and hints) ask her to give her heart to such a man? and sup- pose she were to do so, would it make him happ}'? But she got some relief at length, when, at the end of half an hour — -a long half-hour it had seemed to her — a waiter brought her a little note in pencil from Pen, who said, " I met Cooky below ready to fight me ; and I asked his pardon. I'm glad I did it. I wanted to speak to you to-night, but will keep what I had to say till you come home. God bless 3'ou. Dance awa}' all night with Pynsent, and be very happy. Pen." — Laura was ver^' thankful for this letter, and to think that there was goodness and forgiveness still in her mother's bo3\ Pen went down stairs, his heart reproaching him for his absurd behavior to Laura, whose gentle and imploring looks followed and rebuked him : and he was scared}- out of the ball-room door before he longed to turn back and ask her pardon. But he remembered that he had left her with that confounded Pynsent. He could not apologize before him. He would compromise and forget his wrath, and make his peace with the Frenchman. The Chevalier was pacing down below in the hall of the inn when Pen descended from the ball-room ; and he came up to Pen, with all sorts of fun and mischief lighting up his J0II3' face. "I have got him in the coffee-room," he said, "with a brace of pistols and a candle. Or would 30U like swords on the beach? Mirobolant is a dead hand with the foils, and killed four gardes-du-corps with his own point in the barricades of July." PENDENNIS. 271 ♦' Confound it," said Pen, in a Iiuy, " I can't Cght a cook ! " "He is a Clievalier of July," replied the other. " They present arms to him in his own country." "And do A'ou ask me. Captain Strong, to go out with a seryant? " Pen asked fiercely ; "I'll call a policeman for him; but — but — " "You'll invite me to hair triggers?'' cried Strons:. with a laugh. " Thank you for nothing; 1 was but joking. I came to settle quarrels, not to fight them. I have been soothing down INIirobolant ; I have told him that you did not apply the word ' Cook ' to him in an offensive sense : that it was contrary to all the customs of the country that a hired officer of a house- hold, as I called it, should give his arm to the daughter of the house." And then he told Pen the grand secret which he had had from Madame Fribsb}-, of the violent passion under which the poor artist was laboring. When Arthur heard this tale, he broke out into a hearty laugh, in which Strong joined, and his rage against the poor cook vanished at once. He had been absurdly jealous himself all the evening, and had longed for a pretext to insult Pynsent. He remembered how jealous he had been of Oaks in his first affair ; he was ready to pardon anything to a man under a pas- sion like that : and he went into the coffee-room where Miro- bolant was waiting, with an outstretched hand, and made him a speech in French, in which he declared that he was " Sin- cerement fache d'avoir use une expression qui avoit pu blesser Monsieur Mirobolant, et qu'il donnoit sa parole comme un gen- tilhorame qu'il ne I'avoit jamais, jamais — intcnde," said Pen, who made a shot at a Fiench word for " intended," and was secretly much pleased with his own fluency and correctness in speaking that language. " Bravo, bi-avo ! " cried Strong, as much amused with Pen's speech as pleased b}' his kind manner. "And the Chevalier Mirobolant of course withdraws, and sincerely regrets the ex- pression of which ho made use." , " Monsieur Pendcnnis has disproved ray words himself," said Alcide with great politeness ; "he has shown that he is a galant homme." And so the}' shook hands and parted, Arthur in the first place despatching his note to Lain-a before he and Strong com- mitted themselves to the Butcher Boy. As they drove along. Strong complimented Pen upon his behavior, as well as upon his skill in French. " You're a good fellow, Pendcnnis, and you speak French like Chateaubriand, by Jove." 272 PENDENXIS. " I've beeR accustomed to it from my youth upwards," said Pen : and Strong had the grace not to laugh for five minutes, when he exploded into fits of hilarity which Pendennis has never, perhaps, understood up to this da}'. It was da3'break when they got to the Brawl, where they separated. By that time the ball at Ba3'mouth was over too. Madame Fribsby and Mirobolant were on their wa^^ home in the Clavering Qy ; Laura was in bed with an easy heart and asleep at Lady Rockminster's ; and the Claverings at rest at the inn at Baymouth, where they had quarters for the night. A short time after the disturbance between Pen and the chef, Blanche had come out of the refreshment- room, looking as pale as a lemon-ice. She told her maid, having no other confidante at hand, that she had met with the most romantic adventure — the most singular man — one who had known the author of her being — her persecuted — her unhappy — her heroic — her mur- dered father ; and she began a sonnet to his manes before she went to sleep. So Pen returned to Fairoaks, in company' with his friend the Chevalier, without having uttered a word of the message which he had been so anxious to deliver to Laura at Baymouth. He could wait, however, until her return home, which was to take place on the succeeding da}'. He was not seriously jealous of the progress made by Mr. Pynsent in her favor ; and he felt prett}' certain that in this, as in any other famil}' arrangement, he had but to ask and have, and Laura, like his mother, could refuse him nothing. When Helen's anxious looks inquired of him what had happened at Baymouth, and whether her darling i)roject was fulfilled. Pen, in a gay tone, told of the calamity which had befallen ; laughingly said, that no man could think about dec- larations under such a mishap, and made light of the matter. " There will be plenty of time for sentiment, dear mother, when Laura comes back," be said, and he looked in the glass with a killing air, and his mother put his hair off" his fore- head and kissed him, and of course thought, for her part, that no woman could resist him ; and was exceedingl}' happy that day. When he was not with her, Mr. Pen occupied himself in packing books and portmanteaus, burning and arranging papers, cleaning his gun and putting it into its case : in fact, in making dispositions for departure. For though he was read}' to marry, this geiitlomau w.\s eager to go to London too. rightly consider- 1 PENDENNIS. 273 ing that at three-and-twenty it was quite time for him to begin upon the serious business of life, and to set about making a fortune as quickl}' as possible. The means to this end he had already shaped out for him- self. " I shall take chambers," he said, " and enter myself at an Inn of Court. With a couple of hundred pounds I shall be able to carr}' through the first 3ear very well ; after that I have little doubt m}- pen will support me, as it is doing with several Oxbridge men now in town. I have a tragedy-, a comedy, and a novel, all nearl}' finished, and for which I can't fail to get a price. And so I shall be able to live pretty well, without draw- ing upon m\' poor mother, until I have made my way at the bar. Then, some da}' I will come back and make her dear soul happ}' by marrjing Laura. She is as good and as sweet-tempered a girl as ever lived, besides being reall}' ver}' good-looking, and the engagement will serve to steady me,- — won't it, Ponto?" Thus, smoking his pipe, and talking to his dog as he sauntered through the gardens and orchards of the little domain of Fair- oaks, this 30ung day-dreamer built castles in the air for himself: " Yes, she'll steady me, won't she? And 3'ou'll miss me wheu I've gone, won't you, old boy?" he asked of Ponto, who quiv- ered his tail and thrust his brown nose into his master's fist. Ponto licked his hand and shoe, as they all did in that house, and Mr. Pen received their homage as other folks do the flattery which they get. Laura came home rather late in the evening of the second day ; and Mr. Pynsent, as ill luck would have it, drove her from Clavering. The poor girl could not refuse his offer, but his appearance brought a dark cloud upon the brow of Arthur Pendennis. Laura saw this, and was pained by it : the eager widow, however, was aware of nothing, and being anxious, doubtless, that the delicate question should be asked at once, was for going to bed very soon after Laura's arrival, and rose for that purpose to leave the sofa where she now generall}' lay, and where Laura would come and sit and work or read by her. But when Helen rose, Laura said, with a blush and rather an alarmed voice, that she was also ver}" tired and wanted to go to bed : so that the widow was disappointed in her scheme for that night at least, and Mr. Pen was left another day in suspense regarding his fate. His dignity was offended at being thus obliged to remain in the ante-chamber when he wanted an audience. Such a sultan as he. could not afford to be kept waiting. However, he went to be(.l and slept upon his disappointment pretty comfortably, 18 274 PENDENNIS. and did not wake until the cai'ly morning, when he looked up and saw his mother standing in his room. " Dear Pen, rouse up," said this lady. "Do not be laz}*. It is the most beautiful morning in the world. I have not been able to sleep since daybreak ; and Laura has been out for an hour. She is in the garden. Every bodj- ought to be in the garden and out on such a morning as this." Pen laughed. He saw what thoughts were uppermost in the simple woman's heart. His good-natured laughter cheered the widow. ''Oh, you profound dissembler," he said, kissing his mother. " Oh, you artful creature ! Can nobod}- escape from your wicked tricks ? and will you make your only son your vic- tim?" Helen too laughed, she blushed, she fluttered, and was agitated. She was as happy as she could be^ — a good tender, match-making woman, the dearest project of whose heart was about to be accomplished. So, after exchanging some knowing looks and hasty words, Helen left Arthur ; and this 3'oung hero, rising from his bed, proceeded to decorate his beautiful person, and shave his am- brosial chin ; and in half an hour he issued out from his apart- ment into the garden in quest of Laura. His reflections as he made his toilette were rather dismal. •■' I am going to tie m}'- self for life," he thought, " to please my mother. Laura is the best of women, and — and she has given me her money. I wish to Heaven I had not received it ; I wish I had not this dut}' to perform just 3'et. But as both the women have set their hearts on the match, wh}^ I suppose I must satisfy them — and now for it. A man may do worse than make happy two of the best creatures in the world." So Pen, now he was actu- all3' come to the point, felt ver}^ grave, and by no means elated, and, indeed, thought it was a great sacrifice he was going to perform. I It was Miss Laura's custom, upon her garden excursions, to wear a sort of uniform, which, though homely, was thought by man}' people to be not unbecoming. She had a large straw hat, with a streamer of broad ribbon, which was useless proba- bly', but the hat sufficientl}' protected the owner's pretty face from the sun. Over her accustomed gown she wore a blouse or pinafore, which, being fastened round her little waist b}' a smart belt, looked extremel}' well, and her hands were guaran- teed from the thorns of her favorite rose-bushes by a pau' of gauntlets, which gave this young lady a military and resolute pexdpa':j^is. 275 Somehow she had the very same smile Tvith which she had laughed at him on the night previous, and the recollection of his disaster again offended Pen. But Laura, though she saw him coming down the walk looking so gloomy and lull of care, ac- corded to him a smile of the most perfect and provoking good- humor, and went to meet him, holding one of the gauntlets to him, so that he might shake it if he liked — and Mr. Pen con-; descended to do so. His face, however, did not lose its tragic expression in consequence of this favor, and he continued to regard her with a dismal and solemn air. '•Excuse my glove," said Laura, with a laugh, pressing Pen's hand kindly with it, " We are not angry again, are we, Pen?" " "VVh}- do you laugh at me?" said Pen. "You did the other night, and made a fool of me to the people at Bay- mouth." " My dear Arthur, I meant you no wrong," the girl answered. '• You and Miss Roundle looked so droll as you — as you met with your little accident, that I could not make a tragedy of it. Dear Pen, it wasn't a serious fall. And, besides, it was Miss Roundle who was the most unfortunate." " Confound Miss Roundle ! " bellowed out Pen. " I'm sure she looked so," said Laura, archlj'. " You were up in an instant ; but that poor lady sitting on the ground in her red crape dress, and looking about her with that piteous face — can I ever forget her?" — and Laura began to make a face in imitation of Miss Roundle's under the disaster, but she checked herself repentantl}', saying, "Well, we must not laugh at her, but I am sure we ought to laugh at you. Pen, if 3'ou were angry about such a trifle." " Tou should not laugh at me, Laura," said Pen, with some l)itterness ; " not you, of all people." " And whj' not? Are 3'ou such a great man?" asked Laura. "Ah no, Laura, I'm such a poor one," Pen answered. " Haven't you baited me enough already?" " M}' dear Pen, and how? " cried Laura. " Indeed, indeed, I didn't think to vex you b}' such a trifle. I thought such a clover man as you could bear a harmless little joke from his sister," she said, holding her hand out again. " Dear Arthur, if I have hurt you, I beg your pardon." "It is your kindness that humiliates me more even than your laughter, Laura," Pen said. "You are always my superior." "What! superior to the great Arthur Pendenuis? How 276 PENDENNIS. can it be possible?" said Miss Laura, who may have had a little wickedness as well as a great deal of kindness in her composition. "You can't mean that any woman is your equal?" "Those who confer benefits should not sneer," said Pen. " I don't like my benefactor to laugh at me, Laura ; it makes the obligation very hard to bear. You scorn me because I have taken j'our money, and I am worthy to be scorned ; but the blow is hard coming from you." "Money! Obligation! P'or shame, Pen ; this is ungener- ous," Laura said, flushing red. " Mj^y not our mother claim everything that belongs to us ? Don't I owe her all my happi- ness in this world, Arthur? What matters about a few paltry guineas, if we can set her tender heart at rest, and ease her mind regarding j-ou ? I would dig in the fields, I would go out and be a servant — I would die for her. You know I would," said Miss Laura, kindling up; "and 3'ou call this paltry money an obligation ? Oh, Pen, it's cruel — it's unworthy of you to take it so ! If my brother ma_y not share with me my superfluit}^ who may ? — Mine ? — I tell you it was not mine ; it was all mamma's to do with as she chose, and so is everjiihing I have," said Laura ; "My life is hers." And the enthusiastic girl looked towards the windows of the widow's room, and blessed in her heart the kind creature within. Helen was looking, unseen, out of that window towards which Laura's ej'es and heart were turned as she spoke, and was watching her two children with the deepest interest and emotion, longing and hoping that the prayer of her life might be fulfilled ; and if Laura had spoken as Helen hoped, who knows what temptations Arthur Pendennis might have been spared, or what different trials he would have had to undergo? He might have remained at Fairoaks all his days, and died a country gentleman. But would he have escaped then? Temptation is an obsequious servant that has no objection to the country, and we know that it takes up its lodging in hermit- ages as well as in cities ; and that in the most remote and inaccessible desert it keeps company with the fugitive solitary. " Is your life my mother's," said Pen, beginning to tremble, and speak in a very agitated manner. "You know, Laura, what the great object of hers is?" And he took her hand once more. "What, Arthur?" she said, dropping it, and looking at him, at the window again, and then dropping her eyes to the ground, so that they avoided Pen's saze. She, too, trembled, PENDENXIS. 277 for she felt that the crisis for wliich she had been secretly pre- paring was come. '•Our mother has one wish above all others in the world, Laura," Pen said, "'and I think you know it. I own to you that she has spoken to me of it ; and if you will fulfil it, dear sister, I am ready. I am but very young as yet ; but I have had so man}' pains and disappointments, that I am old and weary. I think I have hai'dly got a heart to offer. Before I have almost begun the race in life, 1 am a tired man. My career has been a failure ; I have been protected by those whom I by right should have protected. I own that Aour nobleness and generositv, dear Laura, shame me, whilst the}' render me grateful. Wlien I heard from our mother what 30U had done for me : that it was you who armed me and bade me go out for one struggle more ; I longed to go and throw myself at your feet, and say, ' Laura, will 30U come and share the contest with me? Your sj'mpath}' will cheer me while it lasts. I shall have one of the tenderest and most generous creatures under heaven to aid and bear me company.' Will you take me, dear Laura, and make our mother happ}'?" " Do 3-ou think mamma would be happy if you were other- wise, Arthur?" Laura said in a low sad voice. '' And why should I not be," asked Pen eagerly, " with so dear a creature as you by my side ? I have not my first love to give you. I am a broken man. But indeed I would love you fondly and traly. I have lost man}' an illusion and ambi- tion, but I am not without hope still. Talents I know I have, wretchedly as I have misapplied them : they may serve me yet : they would, had I a motive for action. Let me go away and think that I am pledged to return to you. Let me go and work, and hope that you will share my success if I gain it. You have given me so much, dear Laura, will vou take from me noth- ing?" " AVhat have you got to give, Arthur?" Laura said, with a grave sadness of tone, which made Pen start, and see that his words had committed him. Indeed, his declaration had not been such as he would have made it two days earlier, when, full of hope and gratitude, he had run over to Laura, his libera- tress, to thank her for his recovered freedom. Had he been permitted to speak then, he had spoken, and she, perhaps, had listened difierently. It would have liecn a grateful heart asking for hers ; not a weary one offered to her, to take or to leave. Laura was offended with the terms in which Pen offered him- self to her. He had. in fact, said that he had no love, and yet 278 PENDENNIS. would take no denial. "I give myself to yon to please my mother," he had said : " take me, as she wishes that I should make this sacrifice." The girl's spirit would brook a husband under no such conditions : she was not minded to run forward because Pen chose to hold out the handkerchief, and her tone, in reply to Arthur, showed her determination to be independent. "No, Arthur," she said, "our marriage would not make mamma happy, as she fancies ; for it would not content you ver}' long. I, too, have known what her wishes were ; for she is too open to conceal anything she has at heart : and once, perhaps, I thought — but that is over now — that I could have made 3^ou — that it might have been as she wished." "You have seen somebody else," said Pen, angry at her tone, and recalling the incidents of the past daj's. "That allusion might have been spared," Laura replied, flinging up her head. "A heart which has worn out love at three-and-twenty, as j'ours has, you sa^', should have survived jealousy too. I do not condescend to say whether I have seen or encouraged an}^ other person. I shall neither admit the charge, nor deny it : and beg you also to allude to it no more." " I ask your pardon, Laura, if I have offended you : but if I am jealous, does it not prove that I have a heart?" "Not for me, Arthur. Perhaps you think you love me now : but it is only for an instant, and because you are foiled. "Were there no obstacle, you would feel no ardor to overcome it. No, Arthur, you don't love me. You would wear}' of me in three months, as — as 3'ou do of most things ; and mamma, seeing you tired of me, would be more unhappy than at my refusal to be j'ours. Let us be brother and sister, Arthur, as heretofore — but no more. You will get over this little disappointment. " " I will try," said Arthur, in a great indignation. "Have you not tried before?" Laura said, with some anger, for she had Ijeen angr}' with Arthur for a very long time, and was now determined, I suppose, to speak her mind. " And the next time, Arthur, when 3'ou offer yourself to a woman, do not saj' as 3'ou have done to me, ' I have no heart — I do not love 3-0U ; but I am ready to many vou because my mother wishes for the match.' We require more than this in return for our love — that is, I think so. I have had no experience hitherto, and have not had the — the practice which 3'OU sup- posed me to have, when 3-ou spoke but now of m3' having seen somebody else. Did you tell your first love that 3'ou had no PEXDENNIS. 279 heart, Arthur ? or your second that you did not love her, but that she might have you if she hked ? " "What — what do you mean?" asked Arthur, blushing, and still in srreat wrath. *" I mean Blanche Amory, Arthur Pendennis," Laura said, proudl}'. "• It is but two months since you were sighing at her feet — making poems to her — placing them in hollow trees b}' the river side. I knew all. I watched you — that is, she showed them to me. Neither one nor the other were in earnest perhaps ; but it is too soon now, Arthur, to begin a new attach- ment. Go through the time of your — your widowhood at least, and do not think of marrying until you are out of mourn- ing." — (Here the girl's eyes filled with tears, and she passed her hand across them.) "I am angr^' and hurt, and I have no right to be so, and I ask your pardon in m^- turn now, dear Arthur. You had a right to love Blanche. She was a thousand times prettier and more accomplished than — than any girl near us here ; and you could not know that she had no heart ; and so you were right to leave her too. I ought not to rebuke you about Blanche Amory, and because she deceived you. Pardon me, Pen," — and she held the kind hand out to Pen once more. " We were both jealous," said Pen. " Dear Laura, let us both forgive " — and he seized her hand and would have drawn her towards him. He thought that she was relenting, and alread}' assumed the airs of a victor. But she shrank back, and her tears passed away ; and she fixed on him a look so melancholy and severe, that the young man in his turn shrunk before it. "Do not mistake me, Arthur," she said, " it cannot be. You do not know what j-ou ask, and do not be too angr}- with me for saying that I think vou do not deserve it. What do vou offer in exchange to a woman for her love, honor, and obedience? If ever I sa}' these words, dear Pen, I hope to say them in earnest, and by the blessing of God to keep my vow. But you — what tie binds you? You do not care about many things which we poor women hold sacred. I do not like to think or ask how far your incredulity leads you. You oflTer to marry to please our mother, and own that you have no heart to give away. Oh, Arthur, what is it you offer me? What a rash compact would you enter into so liglitly? A month ago, and you would have given ^-ourself to another. I pray you do not trifle with your own or others' hearts so recklessly. Go and work ; go and menu, dear Arthur, for I see your faults, and dare speak of them now ; go and get fame, as you say that you can, and I 280 PENDENNIS. will pray for my brother, and watch our dearest mother at home." " Is that your final decision, Laura? " Arthur cried. " Yes," said Laura, bowing her head ; and once more giving him her hand, she went away. He saw her pass under the creepers of the little porch, and disappear into the house. The curtains of his mother's window fell at the same minute, but he did not mark that, or suspect that Helen had been witnessing the scene. Was he pleased, or was he angry at its termination? He had asked her, and a secret triumph filled his heart to think that he was still free. She had refused him, but did she not love him ? That avowal of jealous^' made him still think that her heart was his own, whatever her lips might utter. And now we ought, perhaps, to describe another scene which took place at Fairoaks, between the widow and Laura, ■when the latter had to tell Helen that she had refused Arthur Pendennis. Perhaps it was the hardest task of all which Laura had to go through in this matter : and the one which gave her the most pain. But as we do not like to see a good woman unjust, we shall not say a word more of the quarrel which now befell between Helen and her adopted daughter, or of the bitter tears which the poor girl was made to shed. It was the onl}' difference which she and the widow had ever had as yet, and the more cruel from this cause. Pen left home whilst it was as A'et pending — and Helen, who could pardon almost everything, could not pardon an act of justice in Laura. CHAPTER XXVIII. BABYLON. Our reader must now please to quit the woods and seashore of the west, and the gossip of Clavering, and the humdrum life of poor little Fairoaks, and transport himself with Arthur Pendennis, on the "Alacrity" coach, to London, whither he goes once for all to face the world and to make his fortune. As the coach whirls through the night away from the friendly gates of home, man}' a plan does the young man cast in his mind of future life and conduct, prudence, and peradventure PEXDENNIS. 281 success and fame. He knows he is a better man than man}- who have hitherto been ahead of him in the race : his first failure has caused him remorse, and brought with it reflection ; it has not taken away his courage, or, let us add, his good opinion of him- self. A hundred eager fancies and bus}- hopes keep him awake. How much older his mishaps and a 3-ear's thought and self- communion have made him, than when, twelve months since, he passed on this road on his way to and from Oxbridge ! His thoughts turn in the night with inexpressible fondness and ten- derness towards the fond mother, who blessed him when part- ing, and who, in spite of all his past faults and follies, trusts him and loves him still. Blessings be on her ! he pra3^s, as he looks up to the stars overhead. O Heaven, give him strength to work, to endure, to be honest, to avoid temptation, to be worth}' of the loving soul who loves him so entirely ! Ver}' likel}- she is awake too, at that momenc, and sending up to the same Father purer prayers than his for the welfare of her boy. That woman's love is a talisman by which he holds and hopes to get his safety. And Laura's — he would have "ain carried her affection with him too, but she has denied it, as he is not worthy of it. He owns as much with shame and remorse, con- fesses how much better and loftier her nature is than his own — confesses it, and j-et is glad to be free. " I am not good enough for such a creature," he owns to himself. He draws back before her spotless beauty and innocence, as from some- thing that scares him. He feels he is not fit for such a mate as that ; as many a wild prodigal who has been pious and guiltless in early days, keeps away from a church which he used to fre- quent once — shunning it, but not hostile to it — only feeling that he has no right in that pure place. With these thoughts to occup}' him, Pen did not fall asleep until the nipping dawn of an October morning, and woke con- siderably refreshed when the coach stopped at the old break- fasting place at B , where he had had a score of merry meals on his way to and from school and college many times since he was a bo}'. As they left that place, the sun broke out brightly, the pace was rapid, the horn blew, the milestones flew b\'. Pen smoked and joked with guard and fellow-passen- gers and people along the familiar road ; it grew more busy and animated at every instant ; the last team of grays came out at H , and the coach drove into London. What 3'oung fellow has not felt a thrill as he entered the vast place ? Hun- dreds of other carriages, crowded with their thousands of men, were hastening to the great city. " Here is my place," thought 10 282 PENDENNIS. Pen ; " here is in}' battle beginning, in whicli I must fight and conquer, or fall. I have been a boy and a dawdler as yet. Oh, I long, I long to show that 1 can be a man." And from his place on the coach-roof the eager young fellow looked down upon the cit}', with the sort of longing desire which young soldiers feel on the eve of a campaign. As the}^ came along the road, Pen had formed acquaintance with a cheery fellow-passenger in a shabby' cloak, who talked a great deal about men of letters with whom he was very famil- iar, and who was, in fact, tiie reporter of a London news- paper, as whose representative he had been to attend a great wrestling-match in the west. This gentleman knew intimately, as it appeared, all the leadhig men of letters of his da}^, and talked about Tom Campbell, and Tom Hood, and Sydney Smith, and this and the other, as if he had been their most intimate friend. As they passed by Brompton, this gentleman pointed out to Pen Mr. Hurtle, the reviewer, walking with his umbrella. Pen craned over the coach to have a long look at the great Hurtle. He was a Boniface man, said Pen. And Mr. Doolan, of the "Tom and Jerry" newspaper (for such was the gentleman's name and address upon the card which he handed to Pen), said " Faith he was, and he knew him very well." Pen thought it was quite an honor to have seen the great Mr. Hurtle, w^hose Avorks he admired. He beheved fondly, as yet, in authors, reviewers, and editors of news- papers. Even Wagg, whose books did not appear to him to be masterpieces of human intellect, he yet seeretlj^ revered as a successful writer. He mentioned that he had met Wagg in the country, and Doolan told him how that famous novelist received three hundther pounds a volume for every one of Ms novels. Pen began to calculate instantly whether he might not make five thousand a year. The very first acquaintance of his own whom Arthur met, as the coach pulled up at the Gloster Coffee House, was his old friend Harry Foker, who came prancing down Arlington Street behind an enormous cab-horse. He had white kid gloves and white reins, and nature had by this time decorated him with a considerable tuft on the chin. A very small cab- boy, vice Stoopid retu-ed, swung on behind Foker's vehicle; knock-kneed and in the tightest leather breeches. Foker looked at the dusty coach, and the smoking horses of the " Alacrity" by which he had made journeys in former times. — "What, Foker!" cried out Pendennis — " Hullo ! Pen, my boy ! " said the other, and he waA^ed his whip by way of PENDENNIS. 283 amity and salute to Arthur, who was veiy glad to see his queer friend's kind old face. Mr. Doolan had a great respect for Pen who had an acquaintance in such a grand cab ; and Pen was greatly excited and pleased to be at libert}' and in Lon- don. He asked Doolan to come and dine with him at the Covent Garden Coffee House, where he put up : he called a cab and rattled awaA' thither in the highest spirits. He was glad to see the bustling waiter and polite bowing landlord again ; and asked for the landlady, and missed the old Boots, and would have liked to shake hands with everybod}-. He had a hundred pounds in his pocket. He th-essed himself in his very best ; dined in the coffee-room with a modest pint of sherry (for he was determined to be very economical), and went to the theatre adjoining. The lights and the music, the crowd and the ga^^ety, charmed and exhilarated Pen, as those sights will do young fellows from college and the country', to whom they are tolerabh- new. He laughed at the jokes ; he applauded the songs, to the delight of some of the di'eary old habitues of the boxes, who had ceased long ago to find the least excitement in their place of nightly resort, and were pleased to see any one so fresh, and so much amused. At the end of the first piece, he went and strutted about the lobbies of the theatre, as if he was in a resort of the highest fashion. What tired frequenter of the London pave is there that cannot remember having had similar earl}- delusions, and would not call them back again? Here was young Foker again, like an ardent votaiy of pleasure as he was. He was walking with Granby Tiptolf, of the House- hold Brigade, Lord Tiptoff's brother, and Lord Colchicum, Captain Tiptoff's uncle, a venerable peer, who had been a man of pleasure since the first French Revolution. Foker rushed upon Pen with eagerness, and insisted that the latter should come into his private box, where a lady with the longest ring- lets, and the fairest shoulders, was seated. This was Miss Blenkinsop, the eminent actress of high comedy ; and in the back of the box snoozing in a wig, sat old Blenkinsop, her papa. He was described in the theatrical prints as the ' ' veteran Blen- kinsop" — "the useful Blenkinsop" — "that old favorite of the public, Blenkinsop : " those parts in the drama, which are c.Jled the heavj' fathers, were usually assigned to this veteran, wlio, indeed, acted the heavy father in public, as in private life. At this time, it being about eleven o'clock, Mrs. Pendennis was gone to bed at Fairoaks, and wondering whether her dear- est Arthur was at rest after his journey. At this time Laura- 284 PENDENNIS. too, was awake. And at this time yesterday uight, as the coach rolled over silent commons, where cottage windows twinkled, and b}^ darkling woods under calm starlit skies, Pen was vowing to reform and to resist temptation, and his heart was at home Meanwhile the farce was going on verj' successfully, and Mrs. LearN^ in a hussar jacket and braided pantaloons, was enchanting the audience with her archness, her lovely figure, and her dehghtful ballads. Pen, being new to the town, would have liked to listen to Mrs. Leary ; but the other people in the box did not care about her song or her pantaloons, and kept up an incessant chatter- ing. TiptofT knew where her maillots came from. Colchicum saw her when she came out in '14. Miss Blenkinsop said she sang out of all tune, to the pain and astonishment of Pen, who thought that she was as beautiful as an angel, and that she sang like a nightingale ; and when Hoppus came on as Sir Har- court Featherb}^ the young man of the piece, the gentlemen in the box declared that Hoppus was getting too stale, and Tiptoff was for flinging Miss Blenkinsop's bouquet to him. " Not for the world," cried the daughter of the veteran Blen- kinsop ; " Lord Colchicum gave it to me." Pen remembered that nobleman's name, and with a bow and a blush said he believed he had to thank Lord Colchicum for having proposed him at the Polyanthus Club, at the request of his uncle Major Pendennis. "What, you're Wigsby's nephew, are you?" said the peer "I beg your pardon, we always call him Wigsby." Pen blushed to hear his venerable uncle called by such a familiar name. " We balloted 3"ou in last week, didn't we? Yes, last Wednesday night. Your uncle wasn't there." Here was delightful news for Pen ! He professed himself ver}- much obliged indeed to Lord Colchicum, and made him a handsome speech of thanks, to which the other listened, with his double opera-glass up to his eyes. Pen was full of excite- ment at the idea of being a member of this polite Club. "Don't be always looking at that box, you naughty crea- ture," cried Miss Blenkinsop. " She's a dev'lish fine woman, that Mirabel," said Tiptofl"; " though Mii'abel was a d — d fool to marry her." " A stupid old spoone}'," said the peer. " Mirabel ! " cried out Pendennis. "Ha! ha! "laughed out Harry Foker. "We've heard o/ her before, haven't we. Pen?" It was Pen's first love. It was Miss Fotheringay. The PENDENNIS. 285 yeas before she had been led to the altar by Sir Chai-les Mira- bel, G.C.B., and formerh' envoy to the Court of Pumpernickel, who had taken so active a part in the negotiations befoi-e the Congress of Swammerdan, and signed, on behalf of H. B. M., the Peace of Pultusk. '' Emily was always as stupid as an owl," said Miss Blen- kinsop. " Eh ! Eh ! pas si bete," the old peer said. " Oh, for shame ! " cried the actress, who did not in the least know what he meant. And Pen looked out and beheld his first love once again — and wondered how he ever cou'ld have loved her. Thus, on the very first night of his arrival in London, Mr. Arthur Pendennis found himself introduced to a Club, to an actress of genteel comedv and a lieavv father of the Stas-e, and to a dashing society of jovial blades, old and 3'oung ; for my Lord ColchicuiD, though stricken in ^-ears, bald of head, and enfeebled in person, was still indefatigable in the pursuit of enjoyment, and it was the venerable Viscount's boast that he could drink as much claret as the youngest member of the soci- ety- which he frequented. He lived with the youth about town ; he gave them countless dinners at Richmond and Greenwich : an enlightened patron of the drama in all languages and of the Terpsichorean art, he received dramatic professors of all na- tions at his banquets — English fi'om the Covent Garden and Strand houses, Italians from the Haymarket, French from their own pretty little theatre, or the boards of the Opera where the}' danced. And at his villa on the Thames, this pillar of the State gave sumptuous entertainments to scores of 3'Oung men of fashion, who very affably consorted with the ladies and gentle- men of the green-room — with the former chiefly, for Viscount Coichicum preferred their society- as more polished and gay tlian that of their male brethren. Pen went the next da}' and paid his entrance money at the Club, which operation caiTied off exactly one-third of his hun- dred pounds : and took possession of the edifice, and ate his luncheon there with immense satisfaction. He plunged into an easy chair in the library, and tried to read all the magazines. He wondered whether the members were looking at him, and that they could dare to keep on their hats in such fine rooms. He sat down a)Hl wrote a 'etter to Fairoaks on the Club paper, and said, what a comfort this place would be to him after his day's work was over. He went over to his uncle's lodgings in 286 PENDENNIS. Burj- Street with some considerable tremor, and in compliance with his mother's earnest deske, that he should instantly call on Major Pendennis ; and was not a little relieved to find that the Major had not yet returned to town. His apartments were blank. Brown Hollands covered his librar3'-table, and bills and letters lay on the mantel-piece, grimly awaiting the return of their owner. The Major was on the continent, the landlady- of the house said, at Badn-Badn, with the Marcus of Stcyne. Pen left his card upon the shelf with the rest. Fair- oaks was written on it still. When the Major returned to London, which he did in time for the fogs of November, after enjoying which he proposed to spend Christmas with some friends in the country, he found another card of Arthur's, on which Lamb Court, Temple, was engraved, and a note from that 3"oung gentleman and from his mother, stating that he was come to town, was entered a member of the Upper Temple, and was reading hard for the bar. Lamb Court, Temple: — where was it? Major Pendennis remembered that some ladies of fashion used to talk of dining with Mr. Ayliffe, the barrister, who was in "society," and who lived there in the King's Bench, of which prison there was probabl}^ a branch in the Temple, and Ayliffe was ver}' likely an officer. Mr. Deuceace, Lord Crabs's son, had also lived there, he recollected. He despatched Morgan to find out where Lamb Court was, and to report upon the lodging selected by Mr. Arthur. That alert messenger had little difficulty in dis- covering Mr. Pen's abode. Discreet Morgan had in his time traced people far more difficult to find than Arthur. "What sort of a place is it, Morgan?" asked the Major out of the bed-curtains in Bur}" Street the next morning, as the valet was arranging his toilette in the deep j^ellow London fog. "I should say rayther a shy place," said Mr. Morgan. "The lawj^ers lives there, and has their names on the doors. jMr. Harthur fives three pair high, sir. Mr. Warrington lives there too, sir." " Suffolk Warringtons ! I shouldn't wonder : a good fam- ily," thought the Major. "The cadets of many of our good families follow the robe as a profession. Comfortable rooms, eh?" " Honly saw the outside of the door, sir, with Mr. Warring- ton's name and Mr. Arthur's painted up, and a piece of paper with * Back at 6 ; ' but I couldn't see no servant, su*." " Economical at any rate," said the Major. " Very, sir. Three pair, sir. Nast3" black staircase as PENDENNIS. 287 ever I see. Wonder how a gentleman can live in such a place." " Pi'ayi, who taught 30U where gentlemen should or should not live, Morgan? Mr. Arthur, sir, is going to study for the bar, sir ; " the Major said with dignity ; and closed the conver- sation and began to array himself in the yellow fog. '' Boys will be bo>'s," the molhlied uncle thought to himself. " He has written to me a devilish good letter. Colchicum says he has had him to dine, and thinks hun a gentlemanlike lad. His mother is one of the best creatures in the world. If he has sown his wild oats and will stick to his business, he may do well yet. Think of Charley Mirabel, the old fool, marrying that flame of his ; that Fotheringay ! He doesn't like to come here till I give him leave, and puts it in a very manly nice way. I was deuced angry with him, after his Oxbridge escapades — and showed it, too, when he w'as here before — Gad, I'll go and see him, hang me, if 1 don't." And having ascertained from Morgan that he could reach the Temple without much difficulty, and that a city omnibus would put him down at the gate, the Major one day after break- fast at his Club — not the Polyanthus, whereof Mr. Pen was just elected a member, but another Club : for the Major was too wise to have a nephew as a constant inmate of any house where he was in the habit of passing his time — the Major one day entered one of those public vehicles, and bade the conductor to put him down at the gate of the Upper Temple. When Major Pendennis reached that dingy portal it was about twehc o'clock in the day ; and he was directed b}' a civil personage with a badge and a white apron, through some dark alleys, and under various melancholy arcliwa3-s into courts each more dismal than the other, until finally he reached Lamb Court. If it was dark in Pall Mall, what was it in Lamb Court? Can- dles were burning in man}' of the rooms there — in the pupil- room of Mr. Hodgeman, the special pleader, whose six pupils were scribbling declarations under the tallow ; in Sir Hokey Walker's clerk's room, where the clerk, a person far more gentlemanlike and cheerful in appearance than the celebrated counsel, his master, was conversing in a patronizing manner with the managing clerk of an attorney' at the door ; and in Curling, the wigmaker's melancholy shop, where, from behind the feeble glimmer of a couple of lights, large Serjeants' and judges' wigs were looming drearil}-, with the blank blocks look- ing at the lamp-post in the court. Two little clerks were pla\ing at toss-halfpenny under that lamp. A laundress in 288 PENDENNIS. pattens passed in at one door, a newspaper boj' issued from another. A porter, whose white apron was faintly visible^ paced up and down. It would be impossible to conceive a place more dismal, and the Major shuddered to think that any one should select such a residence. "Good Ged ! " he said, " the poor boy mustn't live on here." The feeble and filthy oil-lamps, with which the staircases of the Upper Temple are lighted of nights, were of course not illuminating the stairs by da}', and Major Pendennis, having read with difficulty his nephew's name under Mr. Warrington's on the wall of No. 6, found still greater difficulty in climbing the abominable black stairs, up the banisters of which, which contributed their damp exudations to his gloves, he groped painfully until he came to the third stor}'. A candle was in the passage of one of the two sets of rooms ; the doors were open, and the names of Mr. Warrington and Mr. A. Penden- nis were very clearl}"^ visible to the Major as he went in. An Irish charwoman, with a pail and broom, opened the door for the Major. " Is that the beer ? " cried out a great voice : " give us hold of it." The gentleman who was speaking was seated on a table, unshorn and smoking a short pipe ; in a farther chair sat Pen, with a cigar, and his legs near the fire. A little bo}', who acted as the clerk of these gentlemen, was grinning in the Major's face, at the idea of his being mistaken for beer. Here, upon the third floor, the rooms were somewhat lighter, and the Major could see the place. " Pen. my bo}', it's I — it's 3'our uncle," he said, choking with the smoke. But as most young men of fashion used the weed, he pardoned the practice easilj' enough. Mr. Warrington got up from the table, and Pen, in a very perturbed manner, from his chair. ' ' Beg your pardon for mis- taking you," said Warrington, in a frank, loud voice. " Will you take a cigar, sir? Clear those things off the chair, Pidgeon, and pull it round to the fire." Pen flung his cigar into the grate ; and was pleased with the cordialit}^ with which his uncle shook him by the hand. As soon as he could speak for the stairs and the smoke, the Major began to ask Pen ver}' kindl}' about himself and about his mother ; for blood is blood, and he was pleased once more to see the boy. Pen gave his news, and then introduced Mr. Warrington — ^ au old Boniface man — whose chambers he shared. PENDENNIS. 289 The Major was quite satisfied wlien he heard that Mr. War- rington was a younger son of Sir jMiles Warrington of Suffolk. He had served with an uncle of his in India and in New South Wales, years ago. "Took a sheep-farm there, sir, made a fortune — better thing than law or soldiering," Warrington said. "Think I shall go there, too." And here, the expected beer coming in, in a tankard with a glass bottom, Mr. Warrington, with a laugh, said he supposed the Major would not have any, and took a long, deep draught himself, after which he wiped his wrist across his beard with great satisfaction. The 3'oung man was perfectly easy and unembarrassed. He was dressed in a ragged old shooting-jacket, and had a bristly blue beard. He was drinking beer like a coal-heaver, and 3'et 3'ou couldn't but perceive that he was a gentleman. When he had sat for a minute or two after his draught, he went out of the room, leaving it to Pen and his uncle, that they might talk over famil}' affairs were the}' so inclined. "Rough and read}' your chum seems," the Major said. " Somewhat different from jour dandy friends at Oxbridge." " Times are altered," Arthur replied, with a blush. " War- rington is onl}' just called, and has no business, but he knows law pretty well ; and until I can afford to read with a pleader, I use his books and get his help." " Is that one of the books?" the Major asked, with a smile. A French novel was lying at the foot of Pen's chau". " This is not a working day, sir," the lad said. " We were out very late at a part}' last night — at Lady Whiston's," Pen added, knowing his uncle's weakness. "Everybody in town was there except you, sir ; Counts, Ambassadors, Turks, Stars and Garters — I don't know who — it's all in the paper, and my name, too," said Pen, with great glee. " I met an old flame of mine there, sir," he added, with a laugh. " You know whom I mean, sir, — Lady Mirabel, to whom I was introduced over again. She shook hands, and was gracious enough. I may thank you for being out of that scrape, sir. She presented me to the husband, too, an old beau in a star and a blond wig. He does not seem very wise. She has asked me to call on her, sir : and I may go now without any fear of losing my heart." " What, we have had some new loves, have we?" the Major asked, in high good-humor. "Some two or three," Mr. Pen said, laughing. " But I don't put on my grand serieux any more, sir. That goes off after the first flame." 19 290 PENDENNIS. " Very right, my dear boy. Flames and darts and passion, and that sort of thing, do very well for a lad : and you were but a lad when that affair with the Fotheringill — Fotheringay — (what's her name ?) came ofl". But a man of the world gives up those follies. You still may do very well. You have been hit, but you may recover. You are heir to a little independence, which everybody fancies is a doosid deal more. You have a good name, good wits, good manners, and a good person — ' and, begad ! I don't see why you shouldn't marry a woman with money — get into Parliament — distinguish yourself, and — and, in fact, that sort of thing. Remember, it's as easy to marry a rich woman as a poor woman : and a devilish deal pleasanter to sit down to a good dinner than to a scrag of mut- ton in lodgings. Make up your mind to that. A woman with a good jointure is a doosid deal easier a profession than the law, let me tell you. Look out ; I shall be on the watch for you : and I shall die content, my boy, if I can see 3'ou with a good lady-like wife, and a good carriage, and a good pair of horses, living in society, and seeing your friends, like a gentle- man." It was thus this affectionate uncle spoke, and ex- pounded to Pen his simple philosophy. " What would my mother and Laura say to this, I wonder? " thought the lad. Indeed, old Pendennis's morals were not their morals, nor was his wisdom theirs. This affecting conversation between uncle and nephew had scarcel}' concluded, when Warrington came out of his bedroom, no longer in rags, but dressed like a gentleman, straight and tall, and perfectly frank and good-humored. He did the hon- ors of his ragged sitting-room with as much ease as if it had been the finest apartment in London. And queer rooms the}^ were in which the Major found his nephew. The carpet was full of holes — the table stained with many circles of Warring- ton's previous ale-pots. There was a small library of law- books, books of poetry, and of mathematics, of which he was very fond. (He had been one of the hardest livers and hardest readers of his time at Oxbridge, where the name of Stunning Warrington was 5'et famous for beating bargemen, pulling matches, winning prizes, and drinking milk-punch.) A print of the old college hung up over the mantel-piece, and some bat- tered volumes of Plato, bearing its well-known arms, were on the book-shelves. There were two easy chairs ; a standing readiiig-desk piled with bills ; a couple of very meagre briefs on a broken-legged study-table. Indeed, there was scarceh* au}' article of furniture that had not been in the wars, and was PEXDENNIS. 291 noi wouiided. " Look here, sir, here is Pen's room. He is a dand}-, and has got curtains to his bed. and wears shiny boots, and has a silver dressing-case." Indeed, Pen's room was rather coquettishly arranged, and a couple of neat prints of opera- dancers, besides a drawing of Fairoaks. hung on the walls. In Warrington's room there was scarcely any article of furniture, save a great shower-bath, and a heap of books by the bedside ; where he lay upon straw like Marger}- Daw, and smoked his pipe, and read half through the night his favorite poetr}- or mathematics. When he had completed his simple toilette, Mr, Warrington came out of this room, and proceeded to the cupboard to search for his breakfast. "Might I offer 3'ou a mutton-chop, su*? We cook 'em our- selves, hot and hot ; and I am teaching Pen the first principles of law, cooking, and morality at the same time. He's a lazy beggar, sir, and too much of a dandy." And so saying, Mr. Warrington wiped a gridiron with a piece of paper, put it on the fire, and on it two mutton-chops, and took from the cupboard a couple of plates, and some knives and silver forks, and castors. •' Sa}' but a word, Major Pendennis," he said; "there's another chop in the cupboard, or Pidgeon shall go out and get 3'Ou anything you like." Major Pendennis sat in wonder and amusement, but he said he had just breakfasted, and wouldn't have an}' lunch. So Warrington cooked the chops, and popped them hissing hot upon the plates. Pen fell to at his chop with a good appetite, after looking up at his uncle, and seeing that gentleman was still in good-humor. "You see, sir," Warrington said, "Mrs. Flanaghan isn't here to do 'em, and we can't emplo}' the bo}', for the little beg- gar is all da}' occupied cleaning Pen's boots. And now for another swig at the beer. Pen drinks tea ; it's only fit for old women." I " And so you were at Lady Whiston's last night," the Major said, not in truth knowing what observation to make to this rough diamond. " I at Lady Whiston's ! not such a flat, sir. I don't care for female society. In fact it bores me. I spent ray evening philosophically at the Back Kitchen." "The Back Kitchen? indeed I " said the Major. " I see you don't know what it means," Warrington said. " Ask Pen. He was there after Lady Whiston's. Tell Major 292 PENDENNIS. Pendennis about the Back Kitchen, Pen — don't be ashamed CI yourself." So Pen said it was a little eccentric society of men of letters and men about town, to which he had been presented ; and the Major began to think that the 3'oung fellow had seen a good deal of the world since his arrival in London. CHAPTER XXIX. THE KNIGHTS OF THE TEMPLE. Colleges, schools, and inns of court, still have some respect ixjT antiquit}' , and maintain a great number of the customs and institutions of our ancestors, with which those persons who do not particularly regard their forefathers, or perhaps are not very well acquainted with them, have long since done away. .4. well-ordained workhouse or prison is much better provided with the appliances of health, comfort, and cleanliness, than a respectable Foundation School, a venerable College, or a learned Inn. In the latter place of residence men are con- tented to sleep in dingy closets, and to paj^ for the sitting-room and the cupboard, which is their dormitor}', the price of a good villa and garden in the suburbs, or of a roomy house in the neg- lected squares of the town. The poorest mechanic in Spitalfields has a cistern and an unbounded supply of water at his command ; but the gentlemen of the inns of court, and the gentlemen of the universities, have their supply of this cosmetic fetched in jugs by laundresses and bedmakers, and live in abodes which were erected long before the custom of cleanliness and decency ob- tained among us. There are individuals still alive who sneer at the people, and speak of them with epithets of scorn. Gentle- men, there can be but little doubt that your ancestors were the Great Unwashed : and in the Temple especiall}-, it is pretty certain, that only under the greatest difficulties and restrictions, the virtue which has been pronounced to be next to godliness could have been practised at all. Old Grump, of the Norfolk Circuit, who had lived for more than thirty years in the chambers under those occupied b}'^ Warrington and Pendennis, and who used to be awakened b}' the roaring of the shower-baths which those gentlemen had erected in their apartments, — part of the ox)ntents of which PENDENNIS. 293 occasionaUy trickled through the roof into Mr. Grump's room, — declared that the practice was an absurd, newfangled, dandi- fied folly, and dail}' cui'sed the laundress who slopped the stair- case by which he had to pass. Grump, now much more than half a century old, had indeed never used the luxur}^ in ques- tion. He had done without water very well, and so had our fathers before him. Of all those knights and baronets, lords and gentlemen, bearing arms, whose escutcheons are painted upon the walls of the famous hall of the Upper Temple, was there no philanthropist good-natured enough to devise a set of Hummums for the benefit of the lawyers, his fellows and suc- cessors? The Temple historian makes no mention of such a scheme. There is Pump Court and fountain Court, with their hydrauhc apparatus, but one never heard of a bencher disport- ing in the fountain ; and can't but think how many a coun- sel learned in the law of old da3s might have benefited by the pump. Nevertheless, those venerable Inns which have the Lamb and Flag and the Winged Horse for their ensigns, have attrac- tions for persons who inhabit them, and a share of rough com- forts and freedom, which men always remember with pleasure. 1 don't know whether the student of law permits himself the refreshment of enthusiasm, or indulges in poetical reminiscences as he passes by histoi'ical chambers, and says, " Yonder Eldon lived — upon this site Coke mused upon Lyttleton — here Chitty toiled — here Barnwell and Alderson joined in their famous labors — here Byles composed his great work upon bills, and Smith compiled his immortal leading cases — here Gusta- vus still toils, with Solomon to aid him : " but the man of letters can't but love the place which has been inhabited b}' so man}' of his brethren, or peopled by their creations as real to us at this day as the authors whose children they were — and Sir Roger de Coverley walking in the Temple Garden, and dis- coursing with Mr. Spectator about the beauties in hoops and patches who are sauntering over the gi'ass, is just as lively a figure to me as old Samuel Johnson rolling tlu'ough the fog with the Scotch gentleman at his heels on their wa}' to Dr. Gold- smith's chambers in Brick Court ; or Harry Fielding, with inked rufl[les and a wet towel round his head, dashing off articles at midnight for the Covent Garden Journal, while the printer's boy is asleep in the passage. If we could but get the history of a single day as it passed in any one of those four-storied houses in the dingy court where our friends Pen and Warrington dwelt, some Temple Asmo- 294 PENDENNIS. deus might furnish us with a queer vokime. There may be a gi'eat parliamentary counsel on the ground-iloor, v/ho drives off to Belgravia at dinner-time, when his clerk, too, becomes a gentleman, and goes away to entertain his friends, and to take his pleasure. But a short time since he was hungiy and brief- less in some garret of the Inn ; lived by stealthy literature ; , hoped, and waited, and sickened, and no clients came; ex- ' hausted his own means and his friends' kindness ; had to remon- strate humbly with duns, and to implore the patience of poor creditors. Ruin seemed to be staring him in the face, when, behold, a turn of the wheel of fortune, and the lucky wretch in possession of one of those prodigious prizes which are some- times drawn in the great lottery of the Bar. Many a better lawyer than himself does not make a fifth part of the income of his clerk, who, a few months since, could scarcely get credit for blacking for his master's unpaid boots. On the first floor, per- haps, you will have a venerable man whose name is famous, who has lived for half a century in the Inn, whose brains are full of books, and whose shelves are stored with classical and legal lore. He has lived alone all these fifty years, alone and for himself, amassing learning, and compiling a fortune. He comes home now at night only from the club, where he has been dining frcel}', to the lonely chambers where he lives a godless old recluse. When he dies, his Inn will erect a tablet to his honor, and his heirs burn a part of his library. Would 3'ou like to have such a prospect foi' 3'our old age, to store up learn- ing and mone}', and end so? But we must not linger too long Dy Dr. Doomsday's door. Worthy Mr. Grump lives over him, who is also an ancient inhabitant of the Inn, and who, when Doomsda}' comes home to read Catullus, is sitting down with thi'ee steady seniors of his standing, to a steady rubber at whist, after a dinner at which they have consumed their three steady bottles of port. You maj' see the old boj's asleep at the 'Temple church of a Sunday. Attorneys seldom trouble them, and the}' have small fortunes of their own. On the other side of the third landing, where Pen and Warrington live, till long after midnight, sits Mr. Paley, who took the highest honors, and who is a fellow of his college, who will sit and read and note cases until two o'clock in the morning ; who will rise at seven and be at the pleader's chambers as soon as they are open, where he will work until an hour before dinner-time ; who will come home from Hall and read and note cases again till dawn next day, when perhaps Mr. Arthur Pendennis and his friend Mr. Warrington are returning from some of their wild expedi- PENDENNIS. 295 tions. How differently emploj-ed Mr. Paley has been ! He has not been throwing himself awav : he has onlv been brinmns; a great intellect laboriously down to the comprehension of a mean subject, and in his fierce grasp of that, resolutely excluding from his mind all higher thoughts, all better things, all the wis- dom of philosophers and historians, all the thoughts of poets ; all wit, fancy, reflection, art, love, truth altogether — so that he may master that enormous legend of the law, which he pro- poses to gain his livelihood by expounding. Warrington and Pale}' had been competitors for university- honors in former days, and had run each other hard ; and ever^-body said now that the former was wasting his time and energies, whilst all people praised Paley for his industr}-. There may be doubts, however, as to which was using his time best. The one could afford time to think, and the other never could. The one could have s^^mpathies and do kindnesses ; and the other must needs be al- ways selfish. He could not cultivate a friendship or do a charit}^ or admire a work of genius, or kindle at the sight of beaut}- or the sound of a sweet song — he had no time, and no eyes for anvthing but his law-books. All was dark outside his reading- lamp. Love, and Nature, and Art (which is the expression of our praise and sense of the beautiful world of God) were shut out from him. And as he turned off his lonely lamp at night, he never thought but that he had spent the'da}- profitabl}-, and went to sleep alike thankless and remorseless. But he shuddered when he met his old companion Warrington on the stairs, and shunned him as one that was doomed to perdi- tion. It may have been the sight of that cadaverous ambition and self-complacent meanness, which showed itself in Paley's yellow face, and twinkled in his narrow eyes, or it may have been a natural appetite for pleasure and jovialit}', of which it must be confessed Mr. Pen was exceedingly fond, which deteiTed that luckless 3'outh from pursuing his designs npon the Bench or the Woolsack with the ardor, or rather steadiness, which is requisite in gentlemen who would climb to tuose seats of honor. He enjoyed the Temple life with a great deal of relish : his worthy relatives thought he was reivding as became a regular student : and his uncle wrote home congratulatory letters to the kind widow at Fairoa'its, announcing that the lad had sown his wild oats, and was becoming quite stead}-. The truth is, that it was a new sort of excitement to Pen the Hfe in which he was now engaged, and haA'ing given up some of the dandified pretensions, and line-gentleman airs which he had contracted 296 PENDENNIS. among his aristocratic college acquaintances, of whom he now saw but little, the rough pleasures and amusements of a London bachelor were very novel and agreeable to him, and he enjoyed them all. Time was he would have envied the dandies their fine horses in Rotten Row, but he was contented now to walk in the Park and look at them. He was too young to succeed in London society without a better name and a larger fortune than he had, and too lazy to get on without these adjuncts. Old Pendennis fondly thought he was busied with law because he neglected the social advantages presented to him, and, hav- ing been at half a dozen balls and evening parties, retreated before their dulness and sameness ; and whenever anybody made inquiries of the worth}- Major about his nephew, the old gentleman said the ^oung rascal was reformed, and could not be got away from his books. But the Major would have been almost as much horrified as Mr. Paley was, had he known what was Mr. Pen's real course of life, and how much pleasure en- tered into his law studies. A long morning's reading, a walk in the Park, a pull on the river, a stretch up the hill to Hampstead, and a modest tavern dinner ; a bachelor night passed here or there, in jovialit}-, not vice (for Arthur Pendennis admired women so heartily that he could never bear the society of any of them that were not, in his fancj' at least, good and pure) ; a quiet evening at home, alone with a friend and a pipe or two, and a humble potation of British spirits, whereof Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, in- variably tested the quality ; — these were our }■ oung gentleman's pursuits, and it must be owned that his life was not unpleasant. In term-time, Mr. Pen showed a most praiseworthy regularit}^ in performing one part of the law-student's course of dut^-, and eating his dinners in Hall. Indeed, that Hall of the Upper Temple is a sight not uninteresting, and with the exception of some trifling improvements and anachronisms which have been introduced into the practice there, a man may sit down and fanc}' that he joins in a meal of the seventeenth centur}'. The bar have their messes, the students their tables apart ; the benchers sit at the high table on the raised platform, surrounded by pictures of judges of the law and portraits of royal person- ages who have honored its festivities with their presence and patronage. Pen looked about, on his first introduction, not a little amused with the scene which he witnessed. Among his comrades of the student class there were gentlemen of all ages, from sixty to seventeen ; stout gray-headed attoi'neys who were proceeding to take the superior dignity, — dandies and men- PENDENNIS. 297 about-town who wished for some reason to be barristers of seven years' standing — swartli}', black-eyed natives of the Colonies, who came to be called here before they practised in their own islands, — and man^' gentlemen of the Irish nation, who make a sojom'n in Middle Temple Lane before they return to the green countr}- of their birth. There were little squads of reading students who talked law all dinner-time ; there were rowing men, whose discourse was of sculling matches, the Red House, Vauxhall, and the Opera ; there were others great in politics, and orators of the students' debating clubs ; with all of which sets, except the first, whose talk was an almost unknown and a quite uninteresting language to him, Mr. Pen made a gradual acquaintance, and had many points of sympathy. The ancient and liberal Inn of the Upper Temple provides in its Hall, and for a most moderate price, an excellent whole- some dinner of soup, meat, tarts, and port wine or sherry, for the barristers and students who attend that place of refection. The parties are arranged in messes of four, each of which quar- tets has its piece of beef or leg of mutton, its sufficient apple- pie and its bottle of wine. But the honest habitues of the Hall, amongst the lower rank of students, who have a taste for good living, have many harmless arts by which they improve their banquet, and innocent "dodges" (if we may be permitted to use an excellent phrase that has become vernacular since the appearance of the last dictionaries) by which they strive to attain for themselves more delicate food than the common every-day roast meat of the students' tables. " Wait a bit," said Mr. Lowton, one of these Temple gour- mands. " Wait a bit," said Mr. Lowton, tugging at Pen's gown — "the tables are ver}- full, and there's only three benchers to eat ten side dishes — if we wait, perhaps we shall get something from their table." And Pen looked with some amusement, as did Mr. Lowton with ej-es of fond desire, towards the benchers' high table, where three old gentlemen were standing up before a dozen silver dish-covers, while the clerk was quavering out a grace. Lowton was great in the conduct of the dinner. His aim was to manage so as to be the first, or captain of the mess, and to secure for himself the thirteenth glass of the bottle of port wine. Thus he would have the command of the joint on which he operated his favorite cuts, and made rapid dexterous appropriations of gravy, which amused Pen infinitely. Poor Jack Lowton ! thy pleasures in life were very harmless ; an eager epicure, th}' desires did not go beyond eighteen-pence. 298 PENDENS IS. Pen was somewhat older than man}- of his fellow-students, and there was that about his style and appearance which, as w< have said, was rather haughty and impertinent, that stamped him as a man of ton — very unlike those pale students who were talking law to one another, and those ferocious dandies, in rowing shirts and astonishing pins and waistcoats, who rep- resented the idle part of the little communit}-. The humble and good-natured Lowton had felt attracted by Pen's superior looks and presence — and had made acquaintance with him at the mess b}' opening the conversation. "This is boiled-beef day, I believe, sir," said Lowton to Pen. " Upon my word, sir, I'm not aware," said Pen, hardly able to contain his laughter, but added, "I'm a stranger; this is my first term ; " on which Lowton began to point out to him the notabilities in the Hall. " That's Boose}' the bencher, the bald one sitting under the picture and aving soup; I wonder whether it's turtle? They often ave turtle. Next is Balls, the King's Counsel, and Swet- tenham — Hodge and Swettenham, you know. That's old ^rump, the senior of the bar ; they say he's dined here fort}' rears. Thev often send 'em down their fish from the benchers to the senior table. Do you see those four fellows seated opposite us? They are regular swells — tip-top fellows, I can tell 3'ou — Mr. Trail, the Bishop of Ealing's son. Honorable Fred. Ringwood, Lord Cinqbar's brother, you know. He'll have a good place, I bet an}- money : and Bob Suckling, who's always with him — a high fellow too. Ha ! ha ! " Here Lowton burst into a laugh. " What is it?" said Pen, still amused. " I say, I like to mess with those chaps," Lowton said, winking his 63^6 knowingl}', and pouring out his glass of wine. " And why ? " asked Pen. " Wh}' ! they don't come down here to dine you know, they only make believe to dine. They dine here, Law bless you ! They go to some of the swell clubs, or else to some grand din- ner party. You see their names in the ' Morning Post ' at all the fine parties in London. Why, I bet anything that Ring- wood has his cab, or Trail his brougham (he's a devil of a fel- low, and makes the bishop's mone}' spin, I can tell you) at the corner of Essex Street at this minute. They dine ! They won't dine these two hours, I dare say." " But why should you like to mess with them, if they don't PENDENXIS. 299 eat any dinner?" Pen asked, still puzzled. "There's plenty, isn't there?" "How green you are," said Lowton. "Excuse me, but j-ou are green. They don't drink any wine, don't 3'ou see, and a fellow gets the bottle to himself if he likes it when he messes with those three chaps. That's wh}' Corkoran got in with em. "Ah, Mr. Lowton, I see you arc a si}' fellow," Pen said, delighted with his acquaintance : on which the other modestly replied, that he had lived in London the better part of his life, and of course had his eyes about him ; and went on with his catalogue to Pen. *' There's a lot of Irish here," he said: "that Corkoran's one, and I can't sa}- I like him. You see that handsome chap with the blue neck-cloth, and pink shirt, and yellow waistcoat, that's another : that's Molloy Maloney, of Ball^maloney, and nephew to Major-Gencral Sir Hector O'Dowd, he, he," Lowton said, trying to imitate the Hibernian accent. "He's alwaj's bragging about his uncle ; and came into Hall in silver-striped trousers the da}' he had been presented. That other near him, with the long black hair, is a tremendous rebel. B}' Jove, sir, to hear him at the Forum it makes your blood freeze ; and the next is an Irishman, too. Jack Finucane, reporter of a news- paper. They all stick together, those Irish. It's your turn to fill 5'our glass. What? 30U won't have any port? Don't like port with 30ur dinner? Here's your health." And this worthy man found himself not the less attached to Pendennis because the latter disliked port wine at dinner. It was while Pen was taking his share of one of these din- ners with his acquaintance Lowton as the captain of his mess, that there came to join them a gentleman in a barrister's gown, who could not find a seat, as it appeared, amongst the persons of his own degree, and who strode over the table and took his place on the bench where Pen sat. He was dressed in old clothes and a faded gown, which hung behind him. and he wore a shirt which, though clean, was extremely ragged, and very different to the magnificent pink raiment of Mr. Molloy Maloney, who occupied a commanding position in the next mess. In order to notify their appearance at dinner, it is the custom of the gentlemen who eat in the Upper Temple Hall to write down their names upon slips of paper, which are provided for that pur^Ktse, with a pencil for each mess. Lowton wi'otc his name first, then came Arthur Pendennis, and the next was that of the gentleman in the old clothes. He smiled when he saw o 00 PENDENNIS. Pen's name, and looked at him. "We ought to know each other," he said. " We're both Boniface men ; my name's War- rington." " Are you St Warrington?" Pen said, delighted to see this hero. Warrington laughed — "Stunning Warrington — yes," he said. "I recollect 3'ou in your freshman's term. But j'ou appear to have quite cut me out." "The college talks about you still," said Pen, who had a generous admiration for talent and pluck. "The bargeman 3'ou thrashed, Bill Simes, don't you remember, wants you up again at Oxbridge. The Miss Notleys, the haberdashers — " " Hush ! " said Warrington — " glad to make your acquaint- ance, Pendennis. Heard a good deal about you." The 3'oung men were friends immediately, and at once deep in college-talk. And Pen, who had been acting rather the fine gentleman on a previous daj', when he pretended to Lowton that he could not drink port wine at dinner, seeing Warrington take his share with a great deal of gusto, did not scruple about helping himself any more, rather to the disappointment of hon- est Lowton. When the dinner was over, Warrington asked Arthur where he was going. "I thought of going home to dress, and hear Grisi in Norma," Pen said. " Are you going to meet an3'bod3' there?" he asked. Pen said, "No — onl}' to hear the music, of which he was very fond." "You had much better come home and smoke a pipe with me," said Warrington, — "a verj' short one. Come, I live close by in Lamb Court, and we'll talk over Boniface and old times." They went awa^' ; Lowton sighed after them. He knew that Warrington was a baronet's son, and he looked up with simple reverence to all the aristocracy. Pen and Warrington became sworn friends from that night. Warrington's cheerfulness and jovial temper, his good sense, his rough welcome, and his never- failing pipe of tobacco, charmed Pen, who found it more pleasant to dive into shilling taverns with him, than to dine in solitary state amongst the silent and polite frequenters of the Polyanthus. Ere long Pen gave up his lodgings in St. James's, to which he had migrated on quitting his hotel, and found it was much more economical to take up his abode with Warrington in Lamb Court, and furnish and occupj- his friend's vacant room there. ^ENl)EN^^s. 30\ For it must be said of Pen, that no man was more easily- led than he to do a thing, when it was a novelty, or when he had a mind to it. And Pidgeon, the 3-oath, and Flanagan the laun- dress, divided their allegiance now between Warrington and Pen. CHAPTER XXX. OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCES. Elated with the idea of seeing life, Pen went into a hundred queer London haunts. He liked to think he was consorting with all sorts of men — so he beheld coal-heavers in their tap- rooms ; boxers in their inn-parlors ; honest citizens disporting in the suburbs or on the river ; and he would have liked to hob and nob with celebrated pickpockets, or drink a pot of ale with a company of burglars and cracksmen, had chance afforded him an opportunity^ of making the acquaintance of this class of so- ciety. It was good to see the gravity with which Warrington listened to the Tutbury Pet or the Brighton Stunner at the Champion's Arms, and behold the interest which he took in the coal-heaving company assembled at the Fox-under-the-Hill. His acquaintance with the public-houses of the metropoUs and its neighborhood, and with the frequenters of their various par- lors, was prodigious. He was the personal friend of the land- lord and landlady, and welcome to the bar as to the club-room. He liked their society, he said, better than that of his own class, whose manners anno3ed him, and whose conversation bored him. "In society," he used to sa^^ " everybody is the same, wears the same dress, eats and drinks, and sa^'s the same things ; one young dandy at the club talks and looks just like another, one Miss at a ball exactly resembles another, whereas there's character here. I like to talk with the strongest man in Eng- land, or the man who can drink the most beer in England, or with that tremendous republican of a hatter, who thinks Thistle- wood was the greatest character in history. I like gin-and- water better than claret. I like a sanded floor in Carnaby Market better than a chalked one in Mayfair. I prefer Snobs, I own it." Indeed, this gentleman was a social republican ; and it never entered his head while conversing with Jack and Tom that he was in any respect their better ; although, per- haps, the deference which thev oaid him might secretly please him. 302 PENDENNIS. Pen followed liim then to these various resorts of men with great glee and assiduity. But he was considerably younger, and therefore much more pompous and stately' than Warring- ton ; in fact, a young prince in disguise, visiting the poor of his father's kingdom. They respected him as a high chap, a fine fellow, a regular young swell. He had somehow about him an air of imperious good-humor, and a royal frankness and majest}-, although he was only heir apparent to twopence-halfpenny, and but one in descent from a gallipot. If these positions are made for us, we acquiesce in them ver}^ easil}' ; and are always prett}^ read}' to assume a superiorit}- over those who are as good as ourselves. Pen's condescension at this time of his life was a fine thing to witness. Amongst men of ability this assumption and impertinence passes off with extreme 3'outh : but it is curi- ous to watch the conceit of a generous and clever lad — there is something almost touching in that early exhibition of sim- plicity and foil}-. So, after reading prett}- hard of a morning, and, I fear, not law merel}-, but politics and general history and literature, which were as necessary for the advancement and instruction of a young man as mere dry law, after applying with tolerable assi- duit}' to letters, to reviews, to elemental books of law, and, above all, to the newspaper, until the hour of dinner was di'awing nigh, these young gentlemen would sally out upon the town with great spirits and appetite, and bent upon enjoying a merry night as they had passed a pleasant forenoon. It was a jovial time, that of four-and-twenty, when ever}- muscle of mind and body was in healthy action, when the world was new as yet, and one moved over it spurred onwards by good spirits and the delight- ful capability to enjoy. If ever we feel young afterwards, it is with the comrades of that time : the tunes we hum in our old age, are those we learned then. Sometimes, perhaps, the fes- tivity of that period revives in our memory ; but how dingy the pleasure-garden has grown, how tattered the garlands look, how scant and old the compan}-, and what a number of the lights have gone out since that day ! Gray hairs have come on like daylight streaming in — daylight and a headache with it. Pleasure has gone to bed with the rouge on her cheeks. Well, friend, let us walk through the day, sober and sad, but friendly. I wonder what Laura and Helen would have said, could they have seen, as they might not unfrequently have done had they been up and in London, in the very early morning when the bridges began to blush in the sunrise, and the tranquil streets of the city to shine in the dawn, Mr. Pen and Mr. Warrington TENDENNIS. 303 rattling over the echoing flags towards the Temple, after one of their wild nights of carouse — nights wild, but not so wicked as such nights sometimes are, for AVarrington was a woman-hater ; and Pen, as we have said, too loft}- to stoop to a vulgar intrigue. Our young Prince of Fairoaks never could speak to one of the sex but with respectful courtesv, and shrank from a coarse word or gesture with instinctive delicacv — for though we have seen him fall in love with a fool, as his betters and inferiors have done, and as it is probable that he did more than once in his life, yet for the time of the delusion it was always as a Goddess that he considered her, and chose to wait upon her. Men serve women kneeling — when the}- get on their feet, the}- go away. That was what an acquaintance of Pen's said to him in his hard homely way ; — an old friend with whom he had fallen in again in London — no other than honest Mr. Bows of the Chat- teris Theatre, who was now employed as piano-forte player, to accompany the eminent lyrical talent which nightly delighted the public at the Fielding's Ilead in Covent Garden : and where was held the little club called the Back Kitchen. Numbers of Pen's friends frequented this very merry meet- ing. The Fielding's Head had been a house of entertainment, almost since the time when the famous author of " Tom Jones " presided as magistrate in the neighboring Bow Street ; his place was pointed out, and the chair said to have been his, still occu- pied by the president of the night's entertainment. The worthy Cutts, the landlord of the Fielding's Head, generally occupied this post when not disabled by gout or other illness. His jolly appearance and fine voice may be remembered by some of my male readers ; he used to sing profusely in the course of the harmonic meeting, and his songs were of what may be called the British Brandy and Water School of Song — such as '' The Good Old English Gentleman," " Dear Tom^this Brown Jug," and so forth — songs in which pathos and hospitality are blended, and the praises of good liquor and the social affections are chanted in a barytone voice. The charms of our women, the heroic deeds of our naval and military commanders, are often sung in the ballads of this school, and many a time in my youth have I admired how Cutts the singer, after he had worked us all up to patriotic enthusiasm, by describing the way in which the brave Abercrombie received his death-wound, or made us join him in tears, which he shed liberally himself, as in falter- mg accents he told " how autumn's lalling leaf proclaimed the old man he must die " — how Cutts the singer became at once Cutts the landlord, and, before the applause which we were 304 PENDENNIS. making with our fists on his table, in compliment to his heai't stirring melody, had died away, was calling, " Now, gentlemen, give your orders, the waiter's in the room — John, a champagne cup for Mr. Green. I think, sir, you said sausages and mashed potatoes. John, attend on the gentleman." " And I'll thank ye give me a glass of punch too, John, and take care the wather boils," a voice would cry not unfrequently, a well-known voice to Pen, which made the lad blush and start when he heard it first — that of the venerable Captain Costi- gan ; who was now established in London, and one of the great pillars of the harmonic meetings at the Fielding's Head. The Captain's manners and conversation brought very many young men to the place. He was a character, and his fame had begun to spread soon after his arrival in the metropolis, and especially after his daughter's marriage. He was great in his conversation to the friend for the time being (who was the neighbor drinking by his side), about "me daughter." He told of her marriage, and of the events previous and subsequent to that ceremony ; of the carriages she kept ; of Mirabel's ad- oration for her and for him ; of the hunther pounds which he was at perfect liberty to draw from his son-in law, whenever necessity urged him. And having stated that it was his firm intention to " dthraw next Sathurdaj-, I give 3'e me secred word and honor next Sathurday, the fourteenth, when 3^e'll see the money will be handed over to me at Coutts's, the very instant I present the cheque," the Captain would not unfrequentlj' propose to borrow half a crown of his friend until the arrival of that day of Greek Calends, when, on the honor of an officer and a gentleman, he would repee the thrifling obligetion. Sir Charles Mirabel had not that enthusiastic attachment to his father-in-law, of which the latter sometimes boasted (although in other stages of emotion Cos would inveigh, with tears in his eyes, against the ingratitude of the child of liis bosom, and the stinginess of the wealthy old man who had married her) ; but the pair hsid acted not unkindly towards Costigan ; had settled a small pension on him, which was paid regularly, and forestalled with even more regularity bj' poor Cos ; and the periods of the payments were always well known by his friends at the Fielding's Head, whither the honest Cap- tain took care to repair, bank-notes in hand, calling loudly for change in the midst of the full harmonic meeting. ' ' I think ye'll find that note won't be refused at the Bank of England, Cutts, my boy," Captain Costigan would say. "Bows, have a glass ? Ye needn't stint yourself to-night, anyhow ; and a PENDENNIS. 305 glass of punch will make ye pla}' con spirko." For he was lav- ishl}' free with his money when it came to him, and was scarcely known to button his breeches pocket, except when the coin was gone, or sometimes, indeed, when a creditor came by. It was m one of these moments of exultation that Pen found his old friend swaggering at the singers' table at the Back Kitchen of the Fielding's Head, and ordering glasses of brand}"- and- water for any of his acquaintances who made their appear- ance in the apartment. "Warrington, who was on confidential terms with the bass singer, made his way up to this quarter of the room, and Pen walked at his friend's heels. Pen started and blushed to see Costigan. He had just come from Lad}' Whiston's part}', where he had met and spoken with the Captain's daughter again for the first time after very old old days. He came up with outstretched hand, ver}' kindly and warmly to gTeet the old man ; still retaining a strong re- membrance of the time when Costigan's daughter had been everything in the world to him. For though this young gentle- man ma}' have been somewhat capricious in his attachments, and occasionally have transferred his affections from one woman to another, yet he always respected the place where Love had dwelt, and, like the Sultan of Turkey, desired that honors should be paid to the lady towards whom he had once thrown the royal pocket-handkerchief. The tipsy Captain returned the clasp of Pen's hand with all the strength of a palm which had become very shaky by the constant lifting up of weights of brandy-and-water, looked hard in Pen's face, and said, '^Grecious heavens, is it possible? Me dear boy, me dear fellow, me dear friend ; " and then with a look of muddled curiosity, fairly broke down with, " I know your face, me dear dear friend, but, bedad, I've forgot your name." Five years of constant punch had passed since Pen and Costigan met. Arthur was a good deal changed, and the Captain may surely be excused for forgetting him ; when a man at the actual moment sees things double, we may expect that his view of the past will be rather muzzy. Pen saw his condition and laughed, although, perhaps, he was somewhat mortified. "Don't you remember me, Cap- tain?" he said. " I am Pendennis — Arthur Pendennis, of Chatteris." The sound of the young man's friendly voice recalled and steadied Cos's tipsy remembrance, and he saluted Arthur, as soon as he knew him, with a loud volley of friendly greetings. Pen was his dearest bo}', his gallant young friend, his noble 20 306 PENDENNIS. collagian, whom he had held in his inmost heart ever since they had parted — how was his fawther, no, his mother, and his guardian, the General, the Major. "-I preshoom, from j'our appearance, that you've come into your prawpertee ; and, bedad, 3'ee'll spend it like a man of spirit — I'll go bail for that. No! not 3'et come into your estete? If ye want any thritie, heark ye, there's poor old Jack Costigan has got a guinea or two in his pocket — and, be heavens ! you shall never want, Awthur, me dear boy. What'll 3'e have ? John, come hither, and look aloive : give this gentleman a glass of punch, and I'll pay for't. — Your friend? I've seen him before. Permit me to have the honor of making meself known to 3'e, su', and re- questing 3-e'll take a glass of punch." " I don't env3' Sir Charles Mirabel his father-in-law," thought Pendennis. '' And how is my old friend, Mr. Bows, Captain? Have 3'ou an3" news of him, and do 3'ou see him still? " "No doubt he's very well," said the Captain, jingling his mone3', and whistling the air of a song — "The Little Doo- deen," — for the singing of which he was celebrated at the Fielding's Head. "Me dear boy — I've forgot 3'our name again — but me name's Costigan, Jack Costigan, and I'd loike ye to take as man3' tumblers of punch in me name as ever 3'e loike. Ye know me name ; I'm not ashamed of it." And so the Captain went maundering on. "It's pa3'-da3' with the General," said Mr. Hodgen, the bass singer, with whom Warrington was in deep conversation : " and he's a precious deal more than half-seas over. He has alread3- tried that ' Little Doodeen ' of his, and broke it, too, just before I sang ' King Death.' Have 3-ou heard my new song, 'The Body Snatcher,' Mr. Warrington? — angcored at St. Bartholomew's the other night — composed expressl3'' for me. Per'aps you or 3-our friend would like a copy of the song, sir ? John,' just 'ave the kindness to 'and over a ' Bod3^ Snatcher' 'ere, will 3^er? — There's a portrait of me, sir, as I sing it — as the Snatcher — considered rather like." "Thank you," said Warrington; "heard it nine times — know it b3^ heart, Hodgen." Here the gentleman who presided at the pianoforte began to play upon his instrument, and Pen, looking in the direction of the music, beheld that very Mr. Bows, for whom lie had been asking but now, and whose existence Costigan had momentarily forgotten. The little old man sat before the battered piano (which had injured its constitution wofull3^ by sitting up so many nights, and spoke with a voice, as it were, at once hoarse PENDENNIS. 307 and faint), and accompanied the singers, or plaj-ed with taste and grace in the intervals of the songs. Bows had seen and recollected Pen at once when the latter came into the room, and had remarked the eager warmth of the 30ung man's recognition of Costigan. lie now began to play an au", which Pen instantly remembered as one which used to be sung by the chorus of villagers in " The Stranger," just before Mrs. Haller came in. It shook Pen as he heard it. He remembered how his heart used to beat as that air was pla^'ed, and before the divine Emily made her entry. Nobody, save Arthur, took any notice of old Bows's playing : it was scarcely heard amidst the clatter of knives and forks, the calls for poached eggs and kidneys, and the tramp of guests and waiters. Pen went up and kindly shook the player by the hand at the end of his performance ; and Bows gTeeted Arthur with great respect and cordiality. ^* What, you haven't forgot the old tune, Mr. Pendennis?" he said; " I thought you'd remember it. I take it, it was the first tune of that sort 3'ou ever heard pla^-ed — wasn't it, sir? You were quite a young chap then. I fear the Captain's very bad to-night. He breaks out on a paj'-day ; and I shall have the deuce's own trouble in getting him home. "We live together. We still hang on, sir, in part- nership, though Miss Em — though my lady Mirabel has left the firm. — And so 3'ou remember old times, do 3'ou? Wasn't she a beauty, sir? — Your health and m}- service to you," — and he took a sip at the pewter measure of porter which stood by his side as he played. Pen had many opportunities of seeing his earl}- acquaintances afterwards, and of renewing his relations with Costigan and the old musician. As they sat thus in friendly colloquy, men of all sorts r.nd conditions entered and quitted the house of entertainment ; and Pen had the pleasure of seeing as many different persons of his race, as the most eager observer need desire to inspect. Health}" country tradesmen and farmers, in London for their business, came and recreated themselves with the jolly singing and suppers of the Back Kitchen, squads of young apprentices and assistants, the shutters being closed over the scene of their labors, came hither, for fresh air doubtless, — rakish young medical students, gallant, dashing, what is called "loudly" dressed, and (must it be owned?) somewhat dirty, — were here smoking and drinking, and vociferously applauding the songs ; a08 PENDENNIS — young universit}' bucks were to be found here, too, with that indescribable genteel simper which is only learned at the knees of Alma Mater ; — and handsome young guardsmen, and florid bucks from the St. James's street Clubs ; — nay, senators Eng- lish and Irish : and even members of the House of Peers. The bass singer had made an immense hit with his song of " The Body Snatcher," and the town rushed to listen to it. A curtain drew aside, and Mr. Hodgen appeared in the character of the Snatcher, sitting on a coflfln, with a flask of gin before him, with a spade, and a candle stuck in a skull. The song was sung with a really admirable terrific humor. The singer's voice went down so low, that its grumbles rumbled into the hearer's awe-stricken soul ; and in the chorus he clamped with his spade, and gave a demoniac "Ha ! ha ! " which caused the very glasses to quiver on the table, as with terror. None of the other singers, not even Cutts himself, as that high-minded man owned, could stand up before the Snatcher, and he com- monly used to retire to Mrs. Cutts's private apartments, or into the bar, before that fatal song extinguished him. Poor Cos's ditty, " The Little Doodeen," which Bows accompanied charm- ingly on the piano, was sung but to a few admirers, who might choose to remain after the ':remendous resurrectionist chant. The room was commonly emptied after that, or only left in pos- session of a very few and persevering votaries of pleasure. Whilst Pen and his friend were sitting here together one night, or rather morning, two habitues of the house entered almost together. "Mr. Hoolan and Mr. Doolan," whispered Warrington to Pen, saluting these gentlemen, and in the latter Pen recognized his friend of the Alacrity coach, who could not dine with Pen on the day on which the latter had invited him, being compelled by his professional duties to decline dinner- engagements on Fridays, he had stated, with his compliments to Mr. Pendennis. Doolan's paper, the " Dawn," was lying on the table much bestained by porter, and cheek-by-jowl with Hoolan's paper, which we shall call the " Day ; " the " Dawn" was liberal — the " Day " was ultra conservative. Many of our Journals are officered by Irish gentlemen, and their gallant brigade does the penning among us, as their ancestors used to transact the fight- ing in Europe ; and engage under many a flag, to be good friends when the battle is over. " Kidneys, John, and a glass of stout," says Hoolan. " How are you, Morgan? how's Mrs. Doolan?" " Doing pretty well, thank ye, Mick, my boy — faith she's PENDENNIS. 309 accustomed to it," said Doolan. " How's the lad}' that owug ye ? Maybe I'll step down Sunday, and have a glass of punch, Kilbum wa}-." " Don't bring Patscy with you, Morgan, for our Georg^-'s got the measles," said the friendly Mick, and the}- straightway fell to talk about matters connected with their trade — about the foreign mails — about w^io was correspondent at Paris, and who wrote from Madrid — about the expense the ' ' Morning Journal " was at in sending couriers, about the circulation of the " Even- ing Star," and so forth. Warrington, laughing, took the " Dawn," which was lying before him, and pointed to one of the leading articles in that journal, which commenced thus — " As rogues of note in former da3-s who had some wicked work to perform, — an enemy to put out of the wa}-, a quantity of false coin to be passed, a lie to be told or a murder to be done, — employed a professional perjurer or assassin to do the work, which they were themselves too notorious or too cowardly to execute ; our notorious contemporary, the ' Day,' engages smashers out of doors to utter forgeries against individuals, and calls in auxiliar}- cut-throats to qitirder the reputation of those who offend him. A black vizarded ruffian (whom we will unmask) , who signs the forged name of Trefoil, is at present one of the chief bravoes and bullies in our contemporar3''s establishment. He is the eunuch who brings the bowstring, and strangles at the order of the ' Day.' We can convict this cowardly slave, and propose to do so. The charge which he has brought against Lord Bangbanaglier, because he is a liberal Irish peer, and against the Board of Poor Law Guardians of the Bangbanagher Union, is," &c. "How did they like the article at your place, Mick?" asked Morgan; "when the Captain puts his hand to it he's a tremendous hand at a smasher. He w-rote the article in two hours — in — whew — you know where, while the bo}^ was waiting." " Our governor thinks the public don't mind a straw about these newspaper roW'S, and has told the Docther to stop answer- ing," said the other. " Them two talked it out together in my room. The Docther would have liked a turn, for he says it's such easy writing, and requires no reading up of a subject : but the governor put a stopper on him." "The taste for eloquence is going out, Mick," said Mor- gan. 'Deed then it is, Morgan," said Mick. " That was fine 310 PENDENNIS. writing when the Docther wrote in the ' Phaynix,' and he and Condy Rooney blazed awa}- at each other da}- after day." "And with powder and shot, too, as well as paper," said Morgan. "Faith, the Docther was out twice, and Condy Rooney winged his man." "They are talking about Doctor Boyne and Captain Shandon," Warrington said, " who are the two Irish con- troversialists of the ' Dawn ' and the ' Day,' Dr. Boyne being the Protestant champion, and Captain Shandon the liberal orator. They are the best friends iu the world, I believe, in spite of their newspaper controversies ; and though they cry out against the English for abusing their countrj', by Jove the}^ abuse it themselves more in a single article than we should take the pains to do in a dozen volumes. How are you, Doolan?" "Your servant, Mr. Warrington — Mr. Pendennis, I am delighted to have the honor of seeing ye again. The night's journey on the top of the Alacrity was one of the most agreeable I ever enjoyed in my life, and it was 3'our liveliness and urbanity that made the trip so charming. I have often thought over that happy night, sir, and talked over it to Mrs. Doolan. I have seen your elegant young friend, Mr. Foker, too, here, sir, not unfrequently. He is an occasional frequenter of this hostehy, and a right good one it is. Mr. Pendennis, when I saw you I was on the ' Tom and Jerry ' Weeklj- Paper ; I have now the honor to be sub-editor of the ' Dawn,' one of the best written papers of the empire " — and he bowed ver}^ slightly to Mr. Warrington. His speech was unctuous and measured, his courtesy oriental, his tone, when talking with the two Englishmen, quite different to that with which he spoke to his comrade. ' ' Wh}' the devil will the fellow compliment so ? " growled Warrington, with a sneer which he hardly took the pains to suppress. " Psha — who comes here? — all Parnassus js abroad to-night : here's Archer. We shall have some fun. Well, Archer, House up? " "Haven't been there. I have been," said Archer, with an air of m3'stery, " where I was wanted. Get me some supper, John — something substantial. I hate your gi-andees who give you nothing to eat. If it had been at Apsley House, it would have been quite different. The Duke knows what I like, and says to the Groom of the Chambers, ' Martin, you will have some cold beef, not too much done, and a pint bottle of pale ale, and some brown sherry, ready in my study as usual ; Archer PEN DENNIS. 311 is coming here this evening.' The Duke doesn't eat supper himsell\ but he likes to see a man enjoy a hearty meal, and he knows that I dine early. A man can't live upon air, be hanged to him." " Let me introduce you to m^- friend, Mr. Pendennis," NYarrington said, with great gravity. '' Pen, this is Mr. Ai'cher, wliom you have heard me talk about. You must know Pen's uncle, the Major, Archer, 30U who know every- body?" " Dined with him the da}- before yesterday at Gaunt House,'* Ai-cher said. • ' We were four — the French Ambassador, Steyne, and we two commoners." " AVliy, my uncle is in Scot — " Pen was going to break out, but Warrington pressed his foot under the table as a signal for him to be quiet. ' ' It was about the same business that I have been to the palace to-night," Archer went on simply, ''and where I've been kept four hours, in an ante-room, with nothing but yes- terday's ' Times,' which I knew ])y heart, as 1 wrote three ol the leading articles myself; and thougli the Lord Chamberlain came in four tiines. and once liolding the royal teacup and saucer in his hand, he did not so much as sa}' to me, ' Archer, will you have a cup of tea ? ' " "Indeed! what is in the wind now?" asked Warrington — and turning to Pen, added, " You know, I suppose, tliat when there is anything wrong at court the}' always send for Archer." "There is something wrong," said Mr. Archer, "and as the story will be all over the town in a day or two I don't mind telling it. At the last Chautilly races, where I rode Brian Boru for my old friend the Duke de St. Cloud — the old king said to me, ' Archer, I'm uneasy about Saint Cloud. I have arranged his marriage with the Princess IMarie Cunegonde ; the peace of Europe depends upon it — for Russia will declare war if che marriage does not take place, and the young fool is so inad about Madame Massena, iMarshal Massena's wife, that he actualh' refuses to be a party to the marriage.' Well, sir, I spoke to Saint Cloud, and having got him into prett}' good humor b}' winning the race, and a good bit of money into the bargain, he said to me, ' Archer, tell the Governor I'll think of it.'" "How do you say Governor in French?" asked Pen, who piqued himself on knowing that language. "Oh, we speak in English — I taught him when we wero 312 " PENUENNIS. boys, and I saved his life at Twickenliam, when he fell out of a punt," Archer said. " I shall never forget the Queen's looks as I brought him out of the water. She gave me this diamond ring, and always calls me Charles to this day." " Madame Massena must be rather an old woman, Archer," Warrington said. ' ' Dev'lish old — old enough to be his grandmother ; I told him so," Archer answered at once. "But those attachments for old women are the deuce and all. That's what the king feels : that's what shocks the poor Queen so much. They went away from Paris last Tuesday night, and are living at this present moment at Jau nay's hotel." " Has there been a private marriage. Archer?" asked War- rington. " Whether there has or not I don't know," Mr. Archer re- plied ; "all I know is that I was kept waiting four hours at the palace ; that I never saw a man in such a state of agitation as the King of Belgium when he came out to speak to me, and that I'm devilish hungry — and here comes some supper." " He has been pretty well to-night," said Warrington, as the pair went home together : " but I have known him in much gi-eater force, and keeping a whole room in a state of wonder. Put aside his archery practice, that man is both able and hon- est — a good man of business, an excellent friend, admirable to his family as husband, father, and son." " What is it makes him pull the long bow in that wonderful manner ? " " An amiable insanity," answered Warrington. " He never did anybody harm by his talk, or said evil of anybody. He is a stout politician too, and would never write a word or do au act against his party, as man}' of us do." " Of MS .' Who are we ? " asked Pen. " Of what profession is Mr. Archer?" " Of the Corporation of the Goosequill — of the Press, my boy " said Warrington ; "of the fourth estate." "• Are you, too, of the craft, then?" Pendennis said. "We will talk about that another time," answered the other. They were passing through the Strand as they talked, and by a newspaper office, which was all lighted up and bright. Reporters were coming out of the place, or rushing up to it in cabs ; there were lamps burning in the editors' rooms, and above where the compositors were at work : the windows of the building were in a blaze of gas. " Look at that, Pen," Warrington said. " There she is — FEXDENNIS. 313 the great engine — she never sleeps. She has her ambassadors in every quarter of the world — her couriers upon ever}' road. Her officers march along -n-ith armies, and her envoys walk into statesmen's cabinets. They are ubiquitous. Yonder jour- nal has an agent, at this minute, giving bribes at Madrid ; and another inspecting the price of potatoes in Covent Garden. Look ! here comes the Foreign Express galloping in. They will be able to give news to Downing Street to-morrow : funds will rise or fall, fortunes be made or lost ; Lord B. will get up, and, holding the paper in his hand, and seeing the noble mar- quis in his place, will make a great speech; and — and Mr. Doolan will be called away trom his supper at the Back Kitch- en ; for he is foreign sub-editor, and sees the mail on the news- paper sheet before he goes to his own." And so talking, the friends turned into their chambers, as the dawn was beginning to peep. CHAPTER XXXi. IN WHICH THE PRINTER'S DEVIL COMES TO THE DOOR. Pen, in the midst of his revels and enjo^'ments, humble as the}^ were, and moderate in cost if not in kind, saw an awful sword hanging over him which must drop down before long and put an end to his frolics and feasting. His mone\- was very nearh' spent. His club subscription had caiTied away a third part of it. He had paid for the chief articles of furniture with which he had supplied his httle bedroom : in fine, he was com(^ to the last five-pound note in his pocket-book, and could think of no method of providing a successor : for our friend had been bred up like a young prince as yet, or as a child in arms whom his mother feeds when it cries out. Warrington did not know what his comrade's means were. An onlv child, with a mother at her country house, and an old dand}' of an uncle who dined with a great man every day, Pen might have a large bank at his (X)minand for anything that the other knew. He had gold chains and a dressing-case fit for a lord. His habits were those of an aristocrat, — not that he was expensive upon any particular j)oint, for he dined and laughed over the pint of porter and the plate of beef from tlui cook's shop with perfect conient and good appetite, — but he 11 314 PENDENNia. could not adopt the pennj-wise precaittions of life. He could not give twopence to a waiter ; he could not refrain from taking a cab if he had a mind to do so, or if it rained, and as surel}' as he took the cab he overpaid the driver. He had a scorn for cleaned gloves and minor economies. Had he been bred to ten thousand a year he could scarcely' have been more free- handed ; and for a beggar^ with a sad stor}', or a couple of pretty piteous-faced children, he never could resist putting his hand into his pocket. It was a sumptuous nature, perhaps, that could not be brought to regard monc}' ; a natural generosity and kindness ; and possibly a petty vanity that was pleased with praise, even with the praise of waiters and cabmen. I doubt whether the wisest of us know what our own motives are, and whether some of the actions of which we are the very proudest will not surprise us when we trace them, as we shall one day, to their source. Warrington then did not know, and Pen had not thought proper to confide to his friend, his pecuniary history. That Pen had been wild and wickedly extravagant at college, the other was aware ; everj-body at college was extravagant and wild ; but how great the son's expenses had been, and how small the mother's means, were points which had not been as yet submitted to Mr. Warrington's examination. At last the story came out, while Pen was gi'iml}^ surve\dng the change for the last five-pound note, as it lay upon the tray from the public-house by Mr. Warrington's pot of ale. " It is the last rose of summer," said Pen ; "'its blooming companions have gone long ago ; and behold the last one of the garland has shed its leaves ; " and he told Warrington the whole story which we know of his mother's means, of his own follies, of Laura's generosity : during which time Warrington smoked his pipe and listened intent. " Impecuniosity will do you good," Pen's friend said, knock-, ing out the ashes at the end of the narration; " I don't know, an^'thing more wholesome for a man — for an honest man,« mind you — for another the mechcine loses its effect — than a state of tick. It is an alterative and a tonic ; it keeps your moral man in a perpetual state of excitement : as a man who is riding at a fence, or has his opponent's single stick before him, is forced to look his obstacle steadily in the face, and brace himself to repulse or overcome it ; a little necessity brings out your pluck if you have any, and nerves you to grapple with for- tune. You will discover what a number of things you can do without when you have no rponey to buy them. You won't PENDENNIS. 315 want new gloves and varnished boots, cau de Cologne, and cabs to ride in. You have been bred np as a molly-coddle, Pen, and spoilt by the women. A single man who has health and brains, and can't find a livelihood in tlie world doesn't deserve to stay there. Let him pay bis last halfpenn.y and jump over AVaterloo Bridge. Let hi^n steal a leg of mutton and be transported and get out of the country — he is not fit to live in it. Dixi ; I have spoken. Give us another pull at the pale ale." • ' You have certainly spoken ; but how is one to live ? " said Pen. •• There is beef and bread in plenty in England, but you must pu}' for it with work or money. And who will take my work ? and what woi'k can I do ? " Warrington burst out laughing. " Suppose we advertise in the • Tunes,' " he said, '' for an usher's place at a classical and commercial academj^ — A gentleman, B.A. of St. Boniface College, Oxbridge, and who was plucked for his d<^gree — " "Confound you," cried Pen. " — Wishes to give lessons in classics and mathematics, and the rudiments of the French language ; he can cut hair, attend to the younger pupils, and play a second on the piano with the daughters of the principal. Address A. P.. Lamb Court, Temple." " Go on," said Pen, growling. " Men take to all sorts of professions. Why, there is your friend Bloundell — BJoundell is a professional blackleg, and travels the continent, where he picks up young gentlemen of fashion and fleeces them. There is Bob O'Toole, with whona. I was at school, who drives the Ballynafad mail now, and carries honest Jack Fiuucane's own correspondence to that city. I know a man, su-, a doctor's son, like — well, don't be angr}-, I meant nothing offensive — a doctor's son, 1 say, who wa? walking the hospitals here, and quarrelled with his governor on questions of finance, and what did he do when he came to his last five-pound note? he let his mustachios grow, went into a provincial town, where he announced himself as Professor Spineto, chiropodist to the Emperor of All the Russias, and by a happ}- operation on the editor of the county newspaper, established himself in practice, and liAxd reputably' for three }ears. He has been reconciled to his famil}', and has now suc- ceeded to his father's gallipots." " Hang gallipots," cried Pen. " T can't drive a coach, cut corns, or cheat at cards. There's nothing else you propose." Yes ; there's our own correspondent," Warrington said. II 315 PENDENNIS. "Every man has his secrets, look you. Before 3'ou told me the story of j'our money-matters, I had no idea but that you were a gentleman of fortune, for, with your confounded airs and appearance, anybody would suppose j'ou to be so. Fi*om what 3'ou tell me about your mother's income, it is clear that you must not lay any more hands on it. You can't go on sponging upon the women. You must pay off that trump of a girl. Laura is her name ? — here's 3'our health, Laura ! — and carry a hod rather than ask for a shilling from home." " But how earn one? " asked Pen. "How do I live, think j^ou?" said the other. "On my younger brother's allowance, Pendennis? I have secrets of my own, my boy;" and here Warrington's countenance fell. "I made away with that allowance five years ago : If I had made awa3'with m3^self a little time before, it would have been better. I have pla3'ed oif m3' own bat, ever since. I don't want much money. When my purse is out, I go to work and fill it, and then lie idle like a serpent or an Indian, until I have digested the mass. Look, I begin to feel empt3'," Warrington said, and showed Pen a long lean purse, with but a few sovereigns at one end of it. " But how do you fill it? " said Pen. " I write," said Warrington. " I don't tell the world that I do so," he added, with a blush. "I do not choose that ques- tion should be asked : or, perhaps, I am an ass, and don't wish it to be said that George Warrington writes for bread. But I write in the Law Reviews : look here, these articles are mine," And he turned over some sheets. "I write in a newspaper now and then, of which a friend of mine is editor." And War- rington, going with Pendennis to the club one da3', called for a file of the " Dawn," and pointed with his finger silentl3' to one or two articles, which Pen read with delight. He had no difflcult3' in recognizing the style afterwards — the strong thoughts and curt periods, the sense, the satire, and the scholarship. " I am not up to this," said Pen, with a genuine admiration of his friend's powers. "I know ver3' little about politics or histor3', Warrington ; and have but a smattering of letters. I can't fl3^ upon such a wing as yours." " But you can on 3'our own, m3' bo3', which is lighter, and soars higher, perhaps," the other said, good-naturedly. " Those little scraps and verses which I have seen of 3'ours show me, what is rare in these days, a natural gift, sir. You needn't blush, you conceited young jackanapes. You have thought so PENDENNIS. 317 yonrself any time these ten years. You have got the sacred flame — a Uttle of the real poetical lire, sir, I think ; and all our oil-lamps are nothing, compared to that, though ever so well trimmed. You are a poet, Pen, my boy," and so speaking, Warrington stretched out his broad hand, and clapped Pen on the shoulder. Arthur was so delighted that the tears came into his eyes. " How kind 30U are to me, Warrington ! " he said. "I like you, old boy," said the other. "I was dev'lish lonely in chambers and wanted somebod}^ and the sight of your honest face somehow pleased me. I liked the wa3' you laughed at Lowton — that poor good little snob. And, in fine, the reason whj- 1 cannot tell — but so it is, young 'un. I'm alone in the world, sir ; and I wanted some one to keep me company ; " and a glance of extreme kindness and melanchol}' passed out of Warrington's dark eyes. Pen was too much pleased with his own thoughts to perceive the sadness of the friend who was complimenting him. "Thank 3'ou, Warrington," he said, "thank you for your friendship to me, and — and what you say about me. I have often thought I was a poet. I will be one — I think I am one, as 3'ou say so, though the world maj'n't. Is it — is it the Ariadne in Naxos which 3'ou liked (I was only eighteen M'hen I wrote it) , or the Prize Poem ? " Warrington burst into a roar of laughter. " Why, you young goose," he yelled out — "of all the miserable weak rub- bish 1 ever tried, Ariadne in Naxos is the most mawkish and disgusting. The Prize Poem is so pompous and feeble, that I'm positively surprised, sir, it didn't get the medal. You don't suppose that you are a serious poet, do you, and are going to cut out Milton and ^schylus ? Are you setting up to be a Pindar, you absurd little tom-tit, and fanc}' you have the strength and pinion which the Theban eagles bear, sailing with supreme dominion through the azure fields of air ? No, my bo3', I think you can write a magazine article, and turn out a pretty copy of verses ; that's what I think of you." " B3' Jove ! " said Pen, bouncing up and stamping his foot, " I'll show you that I am a better man than you think for." Warrington only laughed the more, and Wew twenty- four puffs rapidly out of his pipe by wa}- of reply to Pen. An opportunity for showing his skill presented itself before vor\' long. That eminent publisher, Mr. Bacon (formerly Bacon and Buuga}) of Paternoster Row, besides being the proprietor 318 PENDENNIS. of the "Legal Review," m which Mr- Warrington wrote, and of other periodicals of note and gravity, used to present to the world every year a beautiful gilt volume called the "Spring Annual," edited by the Lad}' Violet Lebas, and numbering amongst its contributors not only the most eminent, but the most fashionable, poets of our time. Young Lord Dodo's poems first appeared in this miscellany — the Honorable Percy Popjoy, whose chivalrous ballads have obtained him such a reputation — Bedwin Sands's J2astern Ghazuls, and many more of the works of our young nobles were first given to the world in the " Spring Annual," which has since shared the fate of other vernal blos- soms, and perished out of the world. The book was daintily illustrated with pictures of reigning beauties, or other prints of a tender and voluptuous character ; and, as these plates were prepared long beforehand, requiring much time in engraving, it was the eminent poets who had to write to the plates, and not the painters who illustrated the poems. One day, just when this volume was on the eve of publica- tion, it chanced that Mr. Warrington called in Paternoster Row to talk with Mr. Hack, Mr. Bacon's reader and general manager of publications — for Mr. Bacon, not having the least taste in poetry or in literature of any kind, wisely emplo3'ed the services of a professional gentleman. AVarrington, then, going into Mr. Hack's room on business of his own, found that gentleman with a bundle of proof plates and sheets of the ' ' Spring Annual " before him, and glanced at some of them. Percy Popjo}^ had written some verses to illustrate one of the pictures, which was called the Church Porch. A Spanish damsel was hastening to church with a large prayer-book ; a youth in a cloak was hidden in a niche watching this young woman. The picture was prett}' : but the great genius of Percy Popjoy had deserted him, for he had made the most execrable verses which ever were perpetrated b}' a young noble- man. Warrington burst out laughing as he read the poem : and Mr. Hack laughed too, but with rather a rueful face. — "It won't do," he said, "the public won't stand it. Bunga3's people are going to bring out a very good book, and have set up Miss Bunion against Lad}- Violet. We have most titles to be sure — but the verses are too bad. Lad}' Violet herself owns it ; she's busy with her own poem ; what's to be done ? We can't lose the plate. The governor gave sixty pounds for it ! " "I know a fellow who will do some verses, I think," said Warrington. " Let me take the plate home in my pocket : and PENDENNIS. 319 send to my chambers in the morning for the verses. You'll pay well, of course?" '^" Of course," said Mr. Hack; and "Warrington, having despatched his own business, went home to Mr. Pen, plate in hand. " Now, boy, here's a chance for you. Turn me off a copy of verses to this." " What's this? A Church Porch — A lady entering it, and a youth out of a wine-shop window ogling her. — AVhat the deuce am I to do with it ? " '• Try," said Warrington, " Earn your livelihood for once, you who long so to do it." " Well, I will try," said Pen. " And I'll go out to dinner," said Warrington, and left Mr. Pen in a brown study. When Warrington came home that night, at a very late hour, the verses were done. "There they are," said Pen. " I've screwed 'em out at last. I think they'll do." "I think they will," said W^arrington, after reading them; they ran as follows : — THE CHURCH PORCH. Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Sometimes I hover, And at the sacred gate. With longing eyes I wait. Expectant of lier. The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout And noise and humming: They've stopp'd the chiming bell, I hear the organ's swell — She's coming, she's coming' My lady comes at last. Timid and stepping fast. And hastening hither. With modest eyes downcast. She comes — she's here — she's past May Heaven go with her ! Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint, Pour out yoiu" praise or plaint Meekly and duly. I will not enter there. To sullj^ your pure i)rayer With thoughts unruly. 320 PENDENNIS. But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden places Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits, who wait And see through Heaven's gate Angels within it. "Have you got any more, young fellow?" asked War- rington. "We must make them give you a couple of guineas a page ; and if the verses are liked, why, j^ou'U get an entree into Bacon's magazines, and may turn a decent penny." Pen examined his portfolio and found another ballad which he thought might figure with advantage in the " Spring An- nual," and consigning these two precious documents to War- rington, the pair walked from the Temple, to the famous haunt of the Muses and their masters, Paternoster Row. Bacon's shop was an ancient low-browed building, with a few of the books published bj' the firm displayed in the windows, under a bust of my Lord of Verulam, and the name of Mr. Bacon in brass on the private door. Exactly opposite to Bacon's house was that of Mr. Bungay, which was newly painted and elaborately decorated in the style of the seventeenth century, so that j'ou might have fancied stately Mr. Evel3n passing over the thresh- old, or curious Mr. Pepj-s examining the books in the window. Warrington went into the shop of Mr. Bacon, but Pen stayed without. It was agreed that his ambassador should act for him entirel}' ; and the 3'oung fellow paced up and down the street in a very nervous condition, until he should learn the result of the negotiation. Man}' a poor devil before him has trodden those flags, with similar cares and anxieties at his heels, his bread and his fame dependent upon the sentence of his magnanimous patrons of the Row. Pen looked at all the wonders of all the shops ; and the strange variety of literature which they exhibit. In this were displayed black-letter vol- umes and books in the clear pale types of Aldus and Elzevir : in the next, 3-ou might see the ' ' Penn}' Horrific Register ; " the " Halfpenny Annals of Crime," and " History of the most celebrated Murderers of all Countries," " The Raff's Magazine," " The Larky Swell," and other publications of the penny press ; whilst at the next window, portraits of ill-favored individuals, with fac-similes of the venerated signatures of the Reverend Grimes Wapshot, the Reverend Elias Howie, and the works written and the sermons preached by them, showed the British Dissenter where he could find mental pabulum. Hard by would TENDENNIS. 321 i)e a little casement hung with cuiblcms, with medals and rosa- ries, with little paltry prints of saints gilt and painted, and books of controversial theolog}', by which the faithful of the Roman opinion might learn a short wa}' to deal with Protes- tants, at a penn}' apiece, or ninepence the dozen for distribu- tion ; whilst in the ver}' next window you might see " Come out of Rome," a sermon preached at the opening of the Shep- herd's Bush College, by John Thomas Lord Bishop of Ealing. Scarce an opinion but has its expositor and its place of exhibi- tion in this peaceful old Paternoster Row, under the toll of the bells of Saint Paul. Pen looked in at all the windows and shops, as a gentleman, who is going to have an interview with the dentist, examines the books on the waiting-room table. He remembered them afterwards. It seemed to him that Warrington would never come out ; and indeed the latter was engaged for some time in pleading his friend's cause. Pen's natural conceit would have swollen immensely if he could but have heard the report which Warrington gave of him. It happened that Mr. Bacon himself had occasion to descend to Mr. Hack's room whilst Warrington was talking there, and Warrington, knowing Bacon's weaknesses, acted upon them with great adroitness in his friend's behalf. In the first place, he put on his hat to speak to Bacon, and addressed him from the table on which he seated himself. Bacon liked to be treated with rudeness by a gentleman, and used to pass it on to his inferiors as boys pass the mark. " What ! not know Mr. Pen- dennis, Mr. Bacon?" Warrington said. •' You can't live much in the world, or you would know him. A man of propert}- in the West, of one of the most ancient families in England, re- lated to half the nobility in the empire — he's cousin to Lord Pontypool — he was one of the most distinguished men at Ox- bridge ; he dines at Gaunt House ever^'^ week." "Law bless me, 3'ou don't sa^' so, sir. Well — reall}' — Law bless me now," said Mr. Bacon. " I have just been showing Mr. Hack some of his verses, which he sat up last night, at m}' request, to write ; and Hack talks about giving him a copy of the book — the wliat-d'-you- call-'em." " Law bless me now, does he? The what-d'-you-call-'em. Indeed ! " " ' The Spring Annual' is its name, — as payment for these verses. You don't suppose that such a man as Mr. Arthur Pendennis gives up a dinner at Gaunt House for nothing? 21 322 PENDENNIS. You know, as weli as anybodj^, that the men of fashion want to be paid." " That they do, Mr. Warrington, sir," said the pubhsher. " I tell you he's a star ; he'll make a name, sir. He's a new man, sir." " They've said that of so many of those 3'oung swells, Mr. Warrington," the publisher interposed, with a sigh. " There was Lord Viscount Dodo, now ; I gave his Lordship a good bit of money for his poems, and only sold eighty copies. Mr. Popjoy's Hadgincourt, sir, fell dead." "Well, then, I'll take m}- man over to Bungay," Warring- ton said, and rose from the table. This threat was too much for Mr. Bacon, who was instantly read}' to accede to an}' rea- sonable proposal of Mr. Warrington's, and finally asked his manager what those proposals were? When he heard that the negotiation only related as yet to a couple of ballads, which Mr. Warrington offered for the "Spring Annual," Mr. Bacon said, "Law bless you, give him a cheque directly;" and with this paper Warrington went out to his friend, and placed it, grinning, in Pen's hands. Pen was as elated as if somebody had left him a fortune. He offered Warrington a dinner at Richmond instantl}'. " What should he go and buy for Laura and his mother? He must bu}- something for them." " They'll like the book better than anything else," said War- rington, " with the young one's name to the verses, printed among the swells." "Thank God! thank God!" cried Arthur, "I needn't be a charge upon the old mother. I can pa}- off Laura now. I can get my own living. I can make m}' own way." " I can marry the grand vizier's daughter: I can purchase a house in Belgrave Square ; I can build a fine castle in the air ; " said Warrington, pleased with the other's exultation. "Well, you may get bread and cheese. Pen: ana I own it tastes well, the bread which 3'ou earn yourself." The}' had a magnum of claret at dinner at the club that da}^, at Pen's charges. It was long since he had inf every man connected with the 22 3S8 PENDENNIS. Press, and was up to a thousand dodges, or ingenious economic contrivances, by which money could be saved to spirited cap- itaUsts, who were going to set up a paper. He at once dazzled and mystified Mr. Bungay, who was slow of comprehension, by the rapidity of the calculations which he exhibited on paper, as they sat in the box. And Bungay afterwards owned to his subordinate Mr. Trotter, that that Irishman seemed a clever fellow. And now ha^dng succeeded in making this impression upon Mr. Bungay, the faithful fellow worked round to the point which he had very near at heart, viz., the liberation from prison of his admired friend and chief, Captain JShandon. He knew to a shilling the amount of the detainers which were against the Captain at the porter's lodge of the Fleet ; and, indeed, pro- fessed to know all his debts, though this was impossible, for no man in England, certainly not the Captain himself, was ac- quainted with them. He pointed out what Shandon's engage- ments already were ; and how much better he would work if removed from confinement (though this Mr. Bungay denied, for, '' when the Captain's locked up," he said, " we are sure to find him at home ; whereas, when he's free, 3^ou can never catch hold of him ") ; finally, he so worked on Mr. Bungay's feehngs, by describing Mrs. Shandon pining away in the prison, and the child sickening there, that the publisher was induced to promise that, if Mrs. Shandon would come to him in the morning, he would see what could be done. And the colloquy ending at this time with the second round of brandy-and-water, although Fin- ucane, who had four guineas in his pocket, would have dis- charged the tavern reckoning with delight, Bungay said, " No, sir, — this is my affair, sir, if you please. James, take the bill, and eighteenpence for 3'ourself," and he handed over the necessary funds to the waiter. Thus it was that Finucane, who went to bed at the Temple after the dinner at Dick's, found himself actually vrith his week's salary intact upon Saturda}- morning. He gave Mrs. Shandon a wink so knowing and joyful, that that kind creature knew some good news was in store for her, and hastened to get her bonnet and shawl, when Fin asked if he might have the honor of taking her a walk, and giving her a little fresh air. And little Mary jumped for J03' at the idea of this holiday, for Finucane never neglected to give her a toy, or to take her to a show, and brought newspaper orders in his ix)cket for all sorts of London diversions to amuse the child. Indeed, he loved them with all his heart, and would cheerfully » PENDENNIS. 339 have dashed out his rambling brains to do them, or his adored Captain, a service. " Ma}' I go, Charlej'? or shall I sta}- with 3'ou, for you're poorly, dear, this morning? He's got a headache, Mr. P'inu- cane. He suffers from headaches, and I persuaded him to stay- in bed," Mrs. Shandon said. "Go alono- with vou, and Polly. Jack, take care of 'em. Hand me over the Burton's Anatom}-, and leave me to my abominable devices," Shandon said, with perfect good humor. He was writinsr, and not uncommonly took his Greek and Latin quotations (of which he knew the use as a pubUc writer) from that wonderful repertory- of learning. So Fin gave his arm to Mrs. Shandon, and Mary went skipping down the passages of the prison, and through the gate into the free air. From Fleet Street to Paternoster Row is not very far. As the three reached Mr. Bungay's shop, Mrs. Bungay- was also entering at the private door, holding in her hand a paper parcel and a manuscript volume bound in red, and, indeed, containing an account of her transactions with the butcher in the neighboring market. Mrs. Bungay was in a gorgeous shot silk dress, which flamed with red and purple ; she wore a yellow shawl, and had red flowers inside her bonnet, and a brilliant light blue parasol. Mrs. Shandon was in an old black watered silk ; her bonnet had never seen very brilliant da3"s of prosperit}' any more than its owner, but she could not help looking like a lady whatever her attire was. The two women curtsied to each other, each according to her fashion, " I hope j-ou're pretty well. Mum?" said Mrs. Bungay. " It's a ver}' fine da^'," said Mrs. Shandon. " Won't 30U step in, Mum?" said Mrs. Bungay, looking so hard at the child as almost to frio;hten her. "I — I came about business with Mi'. Bungay — I — I hope he's prett}' well?" said timid Mrs. Shandon. " If 3'ou go to see him in the counting-house, couldn't 3'ou — couldn't you leave your little gurl with me?" said Mrs. Bunga}', in a deep voice, and with a tragic look, as she held out one finger towards the child. "I want to sta}' with mamma," cried little Blary, burying her face in her mother's dress. " Go with this lad}-, Mar}', vay dear," said the mother. " I'll show 3'ou some pretty pictures," said Mrs. Bungay, with the voice of an ogress, "and some nice things besides; look here " — and opening her brown paper parcel, Mrs. Bungay displayed some choice sweet biscuits, such as her Bungay loved 340 PENDENNIS. after his wine. Little Mary followed after this attraction, the whole party entering at the private entrance, from which a side door led into Mr. Bungay's commercial apartments. Here, however, as the child was about to part from her mother, her courage again failed her, and again she ran to the maternal petticoat; upon which the kind and gentle Mrs. Shandon, seeing the look of disappointment in Mrs. Bungay's face, good- naturedly said, " If you will let me, I will come up too, and sit for a few minutes," and so the three females ascended the stairs together. A second biscuit charmed little Mary into perfect confidence, and in a minute or two she prattled' away without the least restraint. Faithful Finucane meanwhile found Mr. Bungay in a severer mood than he had been on the night previous, when two-thirds of a bottle of port, and two large glasses of brandj'-and-water, had warmed his soul into enthusiasm, and made him generous in his promises towards Captain Shandon. His impetuous wife had rebuked him on his return home. She had ordered that he should give no relief to the Captain ; he was a good- for-nothing fellow, whom no money would help ; she disapproved of the plan of the "Pall Mall Gazette," and expected that Bungay would only lose his money in it as they were losing over the way (she always called her brother's establishment " over the way,") by the " Whitehall Journal." Let Shandon stop in prison and do his work ; it was the best place for him. In vain Finucane pleaded and promised and implored, for his friend Bungay had had an hour's lecture in the morning and was inexorable. But what honest Jack failed to do below stairs in the count- ing-house, the pretty faces and manners of the mother and child were effecting in the drawing-room, where they were melting the fierce but really soft Mrs. Bungay. There was an artless sweetness in Mrs. Shandon's voice, and a winning frankness of manner, which made most people fond of her, and pity her : and taking courage by the rugged kindness with which her hostess received her, the Captain's lady told her story, and described her husband's goodness and virtues, and her child's failing health (she was obliged to part with two of them, she said, and send them to school, for she could not have them in that horrid place) — that Mrs. Bungay, though as grim as Lady Macbeth, melted under the influence of the simple tale, and said she would go down and speak to Bungay. Now in this household to speak was to command, with Mrs. Bungaj' ; and with Buugay. to hear was to obe3% PENDENNIS. 341 It was just when poor Finucane was in despair about his negotiation, that the majestic Mrs. Bungay descended upon her spouse, poUtel^^ requested Mr. Finucane to step up to his friends in her draTNing-room, Avhile she held a few minutes' conversation with Mr. B., and when the pair were alone the publisher's better half informed him of her intentions towards the Captain's lady. " What's in the wind now, my dear?" Maecenas aSked, sur- prised at his wife's altered tone. "You wouldn't hear of my doing anything for the Captain this morning : I wonder what has been a changing of .you." " The Capting is an Irishman," Mrs. Bungay rephed ; " and those Irish I have always said I couldn't abide. But his wife is a lady, as an}' one can see ; and a good woman, and a clergy- man's daughter, and a West of England woman, B., which I am m^'self, by m}- mother's side — and, O Marmaduke, didn't you remark her little gurl ? " •• Yes, Mrs. B., I saw the little girl." " And didn't you see how like she was to our angel, Bessy, Mr. B.?" — and Mrs. Bungay's thoughts flew back to a period eighteen 3'ears back, when Bacon and Bungay had just set up in business as small booksellers in a countr}' town, and when she had had a child, named Bessy, something like the little Mar\- who had just moved her compassion. '•Well, well, my dear," Mr. Bungay said, seeing the little eyes of his wife begin to twinkle and grow red ; " the Captain ain't in for much. There's only a hundred and thirty pound against him. Half the monev will take him out of the Fleet, Finucane says, and we'll pa}- him half salaries till he has made the account square. When the little 'un said, ' Why don't you take Par out of pizn?' I did feel it, Elizabeth, upon my honor I did, now." And the upshot of this conversation was, that Mr. and Mrs. Bunga}- both ascended to the drawing-room, and Mr. Bungay made a heav^' and clums}' speech, in which he announced to Mrs. Shandon, that, hearing sixt3'-five pounds would set her husband free, he was read}' to advance that sum of money, deducting it from the Captain's salary, and that he would give it to her on condition that she would personally settle with the creditors regarding her husband's liberation. I think this was the happiest day that Mrs. Shandon and Mr. Finucane had had for a long time. "Bedad, Bungay, you're a trump ! " roared out Fin, in an overpowering brogue and emotion. " Give us your fist, old boy ; and won't we send the ' Pall Ma'l Gazette ' up tx3 ten thousand a week, that's ail ! " 342 PENDENmS. and he jumped around the room, and tossed up Uttle Mary, with a hundred frantic antics. " If I could drive 30U anjwhere in m}' carriage, Mrs. Shan- don — I'm sure it's quite at 3'our service," Mrs. Bungay said, looking out at a one-horsed vehicle which had just driven up, and in which this lady took the air considerabl}' — and the two ladies, with little Mar}' between them (whose tiny hand Maecenas's wife kept fixed in her great grasp), with the delighted Mr. Finucane on the back seat, drove away from Paternoster Row, as the owner of the vehicle threw triumphant glances at the opposite windows at Bacon's. " It won't do the Captain any good," thought Bungay, going back to his desk and accounts, " but Mrs. B. becomes reglar upset when she thinks about her misfortune. The child would have been of age yesterday, if she'd lived. Bessy told me so ; " and he wondered how women did remember things. We are happj- to say that Mrs. Shandon sped with very good success upon her errand. She who had had to mollify creditors when she had no mone}'^ at all, and only tears and en- treaties wherewith to soothe them, found no difficulty in making them relent by means of a bribe of ten shillings in the pound ; and the next Sunda^'^ was the last, for some time at least, which the Captain spent in prison. CHAPTER XXXIV. A DINNER IN THE ROW. Upon the appointed day our two friends made their appear- ance at Mr. Bungay's door in Paternoster Row ; not the pub- lic entrance through which booksellers' bo3's issued with their sacks full of Bungay's volumes, and around which timid aspi- rants lingered with their virgin manuscripts ready for sale to Sultan Bungay, but at the private door of the house, whence the splendid Mrs. Bungay would come forth to step into her chaise and take her drive, settling herself on the cushions, and cast- mg looks of defiance at Mrs. Bacon's opposite windows — at Mrs. Bacon, who was as yet a chaiseless woman. On such occasions, when verj' much wroth at her sister-in- law's splendor, Mrs. Bacon would fling up the sash of her draw- »Ji»g-room window, and look out with her fom- children at the PENDENXIS. 343 chaise, as much as to say, " Look at these four darlings, Flora Bungay ! This is why I can't drive in my carriage ; j'ou would give a coach and four to have the same reason." And it was with these arrows out of her quiver that Emma Bacon shot Flora Bungay as she sat in her chariot envious and childless. As Pen and Wai'rington came to Bungay's door, a carriage and a cab drove up to Bacon's. Old Dr. Slocum descended heavily from the first ; the Doctor's equipage was as ponderous as his style, but both had a fine sonorous effect upon the pub- hshers in the Row. A couple of dazzling white waistcoats stepped out of the cab. Warrington laughed. " You see Bacon has his dinner-party too. That is Dr. Slocum, author of ' Memoirs of the Poison- ers.' You would hardly have recognized our friend Hoolan in that gallant white waistcoat. Doolan is one of Bungay's men, and, faith, here he comes." Indeed Messrs. Hoolan and Doolan had come from the Strand in the same cab, tossing up by the wa}- which should pa}* the shilling ; and Mr. D. stepped from the otlier side of the way, arraj'ed in black, with a large pair of white gloves which were spread out on his hands, and which the owner could not help regarding with pleasure. The house porter in an evening coat, and gentlemen with gloves as large as Doolan's, but of the famous Berlin web, were on the passage of Mr. Bungay's house to receive the guests' hats and coats, and bawl their names up the stair. Some of the latter had arrived when the three new %'isitors made their appearance ; but there was onh' Mrs. Bunga}', in red satin and a turban, to represent her own charming sex. She made curtsies to each new-comer as he entered the drawing- room, but her mind was evidently preoccupied bj* extraneous thoughts. The fact is, Mrs. Bacon's dinner-party was disturb- ing her, and as soon as she had received each individual of her own company. Flora Bungay flew back to the embrasure of the window, whence she could rake the carriages of Emma Bacon's friends as the}' came ratthng up the Row. The sight of Dr. Slocum's large carriage, with the gaunt job-horses, crashed Flora : none but hack cabs had driven up to her own door on that da}'. The}- were all literary gentlemen, though unknown as yet to Pen. There was Mr. Bole, tlie real editor of the magazine, of which ]Mr. Wagg was the nominal chief; Mr. Trotter, who, from having broke out on the world as a poet of a tragic and suicidal cast, had now subsided into one of Mr. Bungay's back shops as reader for that gentleman ; and C'aptain Sumph, an 344 PENDENNIS. ex-beau still about town, and related in some indistinct manner to Literature and the Peerage. He was said to have written a book once, to haA'e been a friend of Lord Byron, to be related to Lord Sumphington ; in fact, anecdotes of Byron formed his staple, and he seldom spoke but with the name of that poet or some of his contemporaries in his mouth, as thus : "I remem- ber poor Shelley at school being sent up for good for a copy of verses, ever^^ hne of which I wrote, by Jove ; " or, "I recollect, when I was at Missolonghi with Byron, offering to bet Gamba," and so forth. This gentleman. Pen remarked, was listened to with great attention by Mrs. Bungay ; his anecdotes of the aristocracy, of which he was a middle-aged member, delighted the publisher's lady ; and he was almost a greater man than the great Mr. Wagg himself in her eyes. Had he but come in his own carnage, Mrs. Bungay would have made her Bungaj' pur- chase an}^ given volume from his pen. Mr. Bungay went about to his guests as they arrived, and did the honors of liis house with much cordiality. "How are you, sir? Fine day, sir. Glad to see 30U year, sir. Flora, my love, let me ave the honor of introducing Mr. Warrington to you. Mr. Warrington, Mrs. Bungay ; Mr. Pendennis, Mrs. Bungay. Hope j-ou've brought good appetites with you, gen- tlemen. Tou, Doolan, I know ave, for j-ou've alwa3's ad a deuce of a twist." " Lor, Bungay ! " said Mrs. Bungay. "Faith, a man must be hard to please, Bunga}-, who can't eat a good dinner in this house," Doolan said, and he winked and stroked his lean chops with his large gloves ; and made ap- peals of friendship to Mrs. Bunga}-, which that honest woman refused with scorn from the timid man. "She couldn't abide that Doolan," she said in confidence to her friends. Indeed, all his flatteries failed to win her. As they talked, Mrs. Bunga}- surveying mankind from her window, a magnificent vision of an enormous gray cab-horse appeared, and neared rapidly. A pair of white reins, held by small white gloves, were visible behind it ; a face pale, but richly decorated with a chin-tuft, the head of an exiguous groom bob- bing over the cab-head — these bright things were revealed to the delighted Mrs. Bungay. "The Honorable Percy Popjoy 's quite punctual, I declare," she said, and sailed to the door to be in waiting at the nobleman's arrival. " It's Percy Popjoy," said Pen, looking out of window, and seeing an individual, in extremely lacquered boots, descend from the swinging call : and, in fact, it was that 3'oung noble- PENDENNIS. 345 man — Lord Falconet's eldest son, as we all verj' well know, who was come to dine with the publisher — his publisher of the Row. '' He was my fag at Eton," Warrington said. " I ought to have licked him a little more." He and Pen had had some bouts at the Oxbridge Union debates, in which Pen had had very much the better of Percy : who presently appeared, with his hat under his arm, and a look of indescribable good humor and fatuity in his round dimpled face, upon which Nature had burst out with a chin-tuft, but, exhausted with the effort, had left the rest of the countenance bare of hair. The temporar}' groom of the chambers bawled out, "The Honorable Percy Popjo}'," much to that gentleman's discom- posure at hearing his titles announced. " "What did the man want to take away m}- hat for, Bun- gaj'?" he asked of the publisher. " Can't do without my hat — want it to make my bow to Mrs. Bungay. How well you look, Mrs. Bunga3^, to-day. Haven't seen your carriage in the Park : why haven't you been there ? I missed 3'ou ; indeed, I did." " I'm afraid j'ou're a sad quiz," said Mrs. Bunga}'. "Quiz! Never made a joke in m^- — hullo! who's here? How d'3'e do, Pendennis ? How d'3'e do, Wan-ington ? These are old friends of mine, Mrs. Bunga3'. I sa3', how the doose did you come here?" he asked of the two 3'oung men, turning his lacquered heels upon Mrs. Bdnga3', who respected her hus- band's two young guests, now that she found the3'were intimate with a lord's son. " What ! do they know him ? " she asked rapidl3' of Mr. B. " High fellers, I tell 3'ou — the young one related to all the nobilit3-," said the pulilisher ; and both ran forward, smiling and bowing, to greet almost as great personages as the young lord — no less characters, indeed, than the great Mr. Wenham and the great Mr. Wagg, who were now announced. Mr. Wenham entered, wearing the usual demure look and stealtliy smile with which he commonly surveved the tips of his neat little shining boots, and which he but seldom brought to bear upon the person who addressed him. Wagg's white waist- coat, spread out, on the contrary, with profuse brillianc^y ; his burl3-, red face shone resplendent over it, lighted up with the thoughts of good jokes and a good dinner. He liked to make his entree into a drawing-room with a laugh, and, when he went away at night, to leave a joke ex{)l(>dii)g behind liim. No per- sonal calamities or distresses (of which that humorist had his 12 346 PENDENNIS. share in common with the unjociilar part of mankind) could al- together keep his humor down. Whatever his griefs might be, the thought of a dinner rallied his great soul ; and when he saw a lord, he saluted him with a pun. Wenham went up, then, with a smug smile and whisper, to Mrs. Bunga}', and looked at her from under his e3-es, and showed her the tips of his shoes. Waggsaid she looked charming, and pushed on straight at the young nobleman, whom he called Pop ; and to whom he instantl}- related a funny stor}-, seasoned with what the French call yros sel. He was delighted to see Pen, too, and shook hands with him, and slapped him on the back cordially ; for he was full of spirits and good humor. And he talked in a loud voice about their last place and occasion of meeting at Bayraouth ; and asked how their friends of Clavering Park were, and whether Sir Francis was not coming to London for the season ; and whether Pen had been to see Lady Rock- minster, who had arrived — fine old lady, Lady Rockminster ! These remarks Wagg made not for Pen's ear so much as for the edification of the company, whom he was glad to inform that he paid Aisits to gentlemen's country-seats, and was on intimate terms with the nobility. Wenham also shook hands with our young friend — all of which scenes Mrs. Bungay remarked with respectful pleasure, and communicated her ideas to Bunga}', afterwards, regarding the importance of Mr. Pendennis — ideas b}' which Pen profited much more than he was aware. Pen, who had read, and rather admired some of her works (and expected to find in Miss Bunion a person somewhat resem- bling her own description of herself in the ' ' Passion- Flowers," in which she stated that her 3'outh resembled — " A violet, shrinking meanly When blows the March wind keenly ; A timid fawn, on wild-wood lawn, Where oak-boughs rustle greenly, — " and that her maturer beaut}^ was something ver}' diflferent, cer- tainly, to the artless loveliness of her prime, but still exceedingly captivating and striking), beheld, rather to his surprise and amusement, a large and bony woman in a crumpled satin dress, who came creaking into the room with a step as heav}' as a grenadier's. Wagg instantly noted the straw which she brought in at the rumpled skirt of her dress, and would have stooped to pick it up, but Miss Bunion disarmed all criticism b}' observing this ornament herself, and, patting down her own large foot upoa PEXDEX]S1S. 347 it. so as to separate it from her robe, she stopped and picked up the straw, saying to Mrs. Bungay, that she was very sorry to be a little late, but that the omnibus was ver^' slow and what a comfort it was to get a ride all the way from Brom[)ton for sixpence. Nobody laughed at the poetess's speech, it was uttered so simply. Indeed, the worthy woman had not the least notion of being ashamed of an action incidental upon her poverty. ••Is that 'Passion-Flowers?'" Pen said to Wenham, by whom he was standing. ' ' Why, her picture in the volume represents her as a very well-looking young woman." ••You know passion-flowers, like all others, will run to seed," Wenham said; •"Miss Bunion's portrait was probably painted some years ago." •■' Well, I like her for not being ashamed of her poverty." " So do I,'' said Mr. Wenham, who would have starved rather than have come to dinner in an omnibus ; " but I don't think that she need flourish the straw about, do you, Mr. Pen- dennis? My dear Miss Bunion, how do 30U do? I was in a great lady's drawing-room this morning, and ever^'bod}- was charmed with your new volume. Those hues on the christening of Lady Fanny Fantail brought tears into the Duchess's e^'es. I said that I thought I should have the pleasure of meeting you to-day, and she begged me to thank you, and say how greatly she was pleased." This history, told in a bland, smiling manner, of a Duchess whom Wenham had met that very morning, too, quite put poor Wagg's dowager and baronet out of court, and placed Wen- ham be^'ond Wagg as a man of fashion. Wenham kept this inestimable advantage, and having the conversation to himself, ran on with a number of anecdotes regarding the aristocracy. He ti-ied to bring Mv. Popjoy into the conversation by making appeals to him, and saying, •• I was telling your father this morning," or, *' I think you were present at W. house the other night when the Duke said so and so," but Mr. Popjoy would not gratify him by joining in the talk, preferring to fall back into the window recess with ]Mrs. Bungay, and watch the cabs that drove up to the opposite door. At least, if he would not talk, the hostess hoped that those odious Ba- cons would see how she had secured the noble Percy Popjoy for her part}'. And now the bell of Saint Paul's tolled half an hour later than that for whicli Mr. Bungay had invited his party, and it was complete with the exception of two guests, who at lust; 348 PENDENNIS. made their appearance, and in whom Pen was pleased to recog nize Captain and Mrs. Shandon. When these two had made their greetings to the master and mistress of the liouse, and exchanged nods of more or less recognition with most of the people present, Pen and Warring- ton went up and shoolv hands very warmly with Mrs. Shandon, who, perhaps, was affected to meet them, and think where it was she had seen them but a few days before. Shandon was brushed up, and looked pretty smart, in a red velvet waistcoat, and a frill, into which his wife had stuck her best brooch. In spite of Mrs, Bungay's kindness, perhaps in consequence of it, Mrs. Shandon felt great terror and timidity in approaching her : indeed, she was more awful than ever in iier red satin and l/ird of paradise, and it was not until she had asked in her great voice about the dear little gurl, that the latter was somewhat encouraged, and ventured to speak. " Nice-looking woman," Popjoy whispered to Warrington. " Do introduce me to Captain Shandon, Warrington. I'm told he's a tremendous clever fellow ; and, dammy, I adore intellect, by Jove I do I " This was the truth : Heaven had not endowed young Mr. Popjoy with much intellect of his own, but had given him a generous faculty for admiring, if not for appre- ciating, the intellect of others. "And introduce me to Miss Bunion. I'm told she's ver}' clever too. She's rum to look at, certainly, but that don't matter. Damm}', I consider myself a literarj- man, and I wish to know all the clever fellows." So Mr. Popjoy and Mr. Shandon had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with one another ; and now the doors of the adjoin- ing dining-room being flung open, the party entered and took their seats at table. Pen found himself next to Miss Bunion on one side, and to Mr. Wagg — the truth is, Wagg fled alarmed from the vacant place by the poetess, and Pen was compelled to take it. The gifted being did not talk much during dinner, but Pen remarked that she ate, with a vast appetite, and never refused any of the supplies of wine which were oflTered to her b}- the butler. Indeed, Miss Bunion having considered Mr. Pen- dennis for a minute, who gave himself rather grand airs, and who was attired in an extremely fashionalile style, with his verj- best chains, shirt-studs, and cambric fronts, he was set down and not without reason, as a prig by the poetess ; who thought it was much better to attend to her dinner than to take an3' notice of him. She told him as much in after days with her usual candor. " I took you for one of the little May- PENDENNIS. 349 fair dandies," she said to Pen. "You looked as solemn as a little undertaker ; and as I disliked, beyond measure, the odious creature who was on the other side of me, I thought it was best to eat mv dinner and hold my tongue." '• And you did both very well, my dear Miss Bunion," Pen said with a laugh, '• Well, so I do, but I intend to talk to you the next time a great deal : for you are neither so solemn, nor so stupid, nor so pert as you look." *' Ah, Miss Bunion, how I pine for that 'next time' to come," Pen said, with an air of comical gallantry : — But we must return to the day, and the dinner at Paternoster Row. The repast was of the richest description — ' ' What I call of the florid Gothic st\le," Wagg whispered to Pen, who sat be- side the humorist, in his side-wing Aoice. The men in creaking shoes and Berlin gloves were numerous and solemn, carrying on rapid conversations' behind the guests, as they moved to and fro with the dishes. Doolan called out, "Waither,"to one of them, and blushed when he thought of his blunder. Mrs. Bungay's own footboy was lost amidst those large and black- coated attendants. ' ■ Look at that very bow-windowed man," Wagg said. ' ' He's an undertaker in Amen Corner, and attends funerals and din- ners. Cold meat and hot, don't you perceive? He's the sham butler here, and I observe, my dear JMr, Pendennis, as 3'ou will through life, that wherever there is a sham butler at a London dinner there is sham wine — this sheny is filthy. Bungay, my boy, where did 3'ou get this delicious brown sherrj- ? " '• I'm glad you like it, Mr. Wagg ; glass with you," said the publisher. "It's some I got from Alderman Benning's store, and gave a good figure for it, I can tell 3'ou. Mr. Pendennis, will you join us? Your 'ealth, gentlemen." '' The old rogue, where does he expect to go to? It came from the public-house," Wagg said. " It requires two men to cany off that sheny, 'tis so uncommonly strong. I wish I had a bottle of old Steyne's wine here, Pendennis : your uncle and I have had many a one. He sends it about to people where he is in the habit of dining. I remember at poor Rawdon Crawley's, Sir Pitt Crawley's brother — he was Governor of Coventry Island — Steyne's chef always came in the morning, and the butler arrived with the champagne from Gaunt House, in the ice-pails ready." '• How good this is ! " said Popjoy, good-naturedl}'. " You must have a cordon bleu in your kitchen." 350 FENDENNIS. (( O yes," Mrs. Bungay said, thinking he spoke of a jack- cliain very likely. " I mean a French chef," said the polite guest. " O 3-es, 3'our lordship," again said the lad}'. "Does your artist sa}- he's a Frenchman, Mrs. B?" called out Wagg. "Well, I'm sure I don't know," answered the publisher's (lady. " Because, if he does, he's a quizz'm yei-" ci'ied Mr. Wagg ; but nobody saw the pun, which disconcerted somewhat the bashful punster. "The dinner is from Griggs' in St. Paul's Churchyard; so is Bacon's," he whispered Pen. "Bungay writes to give half a crown a head more than Bacon, — so does Bacon. They would poison each other's ices if they could get near them ; and as for the made-dishes — they are poison. This — hum — ha — this Brimbor ion a la Sem'gne is delicious, Mrs. B." he said, helping himself to a dish which the under- taker handed to him. "Well, I'm glad you like it," Mrs. Bungay answered, blushing, and not knowing whether the name of the dish was actually that which Wagg gave to it, but dimly conscious that that individual was quizzing her. Accordingly she hated Mr. Wagg with female ardor ; and would have deposed him from his command over Mr. Bungay's periodical, but that his name was great in the trade, and his reputation in the land consid- erable. By the displacement of persons, Warrington had found him- self on the right hand of Mrs. Shandon, who sat in plain black silk and faded ornaments by the side of the florid publisher. The sad smile of the lady moved his rough heart to pity. No- body seemed to interest himself about her : she sat looking at her husband, who himself seemed rather abashed in the pres- ,ence of some of the company. Wenham and Wngg both knew Mm and His circumstances. He had worlced with the latter, and was immeasurably his superior in wit, genius, and acquire- ments ; but Wagg's star was brilliant in the world, and poor Shandon was unknown there. He could not speak before the noisy talk of the coarser and more successful man ; but drank his wine in silence, and as much of it as the people would give him. He was under surveillance. Bungay had warned the un- dertaker not to fill the Captain's glass too often or too full. It was a melancholy precaution that, and the more melancholy that it was necessary. Mrs. Shandon, too, cast alarmed glances across the table to see thfit her husband did |iot exceed, PENDENNIS. 351 Abashed by the failure of his first pun, for he was impudent and easil\' disconcerted, Wagg kept his conversation pretty much to Pen during the rest of dinner, and of coui'se chiefly spoke about their neighbors. " This is one of Bungay's grand field-days," he said. ''We are all Bungavians here. — Did vou read Popjoy's novel? It was an old magazine story written bv poor Buzzard 3'ears ago, and forgotten here until Mr. Trot- ter (that is Trotter with the large shirt-collar) fished it out and bethought him that it was applicable to the late elopement ; so Bob Avrote a few chapters apropos — Popjoy- permitted the use of his name, and I dare so.y supplied a page here and there — and ' Desperation, or the Fugitive Duchess ' made its appear- ance. The great fun is to examine Popjo}- about his own work, of which he doesn't know a word. — I say. Popjoy, what a capital passage that is in Volume Three, — where the Cardinal in disguise, after being converted by the Bishop of London, proposes marriage to the Duchess's daughter." " Glad you Uke it," Popjoy answered ; " it's a favorite bit of my own." "•There's no such thing in the whole book," whispered Wagg to Pen. "Invented it myself. Gad! it wouldn't be a bad plot for a high-Ciiurch novel." "I remember poor Byron, Hobhouse, Trelawney, and ray- self, dining with Cardinal Mezzocaldo, at Rome," Captain Sumph began, " and we had some Orvieto wine for dinner, which Byron liked ver}' much. And I remember how the Car- dinal regretted that he was a single man. We went to Civita Vecchia two da3's afterwards, where B3'ron's yacht was — and, b}- Jove, the Cardinal died within three weeks ; and Bj-ron was ver}' sorry, for he rather liked him." "A devilish interesting story, Sumph, indeed," Wagg said. "You should publish some of those stories, Captain Sumph, you really should. Such a volume would make our friend Bungaj's fortune," Shandon said. " Whv don't you ask Sumph to publish 'em in your new paper — the what-d'-ye-call-'em — haj', Shandon," bawled out Wagg. " Wh}' don't 30U ask him to publish 'em in j'our old maga- zine, the Tliiugumbob?" Shandon replied. " Is there going to be a new paper?" asked Wenhain, who knew perfectl}' well ; but was ashamed of his connection with the press. " Bunga}' going to bring out a paper?" cried I'opjo}', who, on the contrary, was proud of his literar3' reputation and ac 352 PENDENNIS. quaintances. "You must employ me. Mrs. Bungay, use your influence with him, and make him employ me. Prose or verse — what shall it be? Novels, poems, travels, or leading articles, begad. Anything or everything — only let Bungay pay me, and I'm ready — I am now, my dear Mrs. Bungay, begad now." "It's to be called the 'Small Beer Chronicle,'" growled Wagg, " and little Popjoy- is to be engaged for the intiu|tine department." " It is to be called the ' Pall Mall Gazette,' sir, and we shall be ver}' happy to have 3'ou with us," Shandon said. " 'Pall Mall Gazette ' — why ' Pall Mall Gazette '? " asked Wagg. " Because the editor was born at Dublin, the sub-editor at Cork, because the proprietor lives in Paternoster Row, and the paper is published in Catherine Street, Strand. Won't that reason suffice 3'ou, Wagg?" Shandon said; he was getting rather angry. " Everything must have a name. M3' dog Ponto has got a name. You've got a name, and a name which you deserve, more or less, bedad. Wh}' d'3'e grudge the name to our paper ? " " By any other name it would smell as sweet," said Wagg. " I'll have ye remember its name's not what-d'-ye-call-'em, Mr. Wagg," said Shandon. "You know its name well enough, and — and you know mine." "And I know 3'our address, too," said Wagg, but this was spoken in an undertone, and the good-natured Irishman was appeased almost in an instant after his ebullition of spleen, and asked Wagg to drink wine with him in a friendl}^ voice. When the ladies retired from the table, the taEi grew louder still ; and presently Wenham, in a courtly speech, proposed that everj'body should drink to the health of the new Journal, eulogizing highly the talents, wit, and learning, of its editor. Captain Shandon. It was his maxim never to lose the support of a newspaper man, and in the course of that evening, he went round and sainted ever}' literar}- gentleman present with a priv}' compliment specially addressed to him ; informing this one how great an impression had been made in Downing Street b}' his last article, and telling that one how profoundh' his good friend, the Duke of So and So, had been struck by the ability of the late numbers. The evening came to a close, and in spite of all the precau- tions to the contrary, poor Shandon reeled in his walk, and went home to his new lodgings, with his faithful wife by his PENDENNIS. 353 side, and the cabman on his box jeering at him. Wenham had a chariot of his own, wliich he put at Popjoy's service ; and the timid Miss Bunion seeing Mr. Wagg, who was her neighbor, about to depart, insisted upon a seat in his carriage, much to that gentleman's discomfiture. Fen and Warrington walked home together in the moon- light. '' And now," Warrington said, " that you have seen the men of letters, tell me, was I far wrong in saying that there are thousands of people in this tow^n, who don't waite books, who are, to the full, as clever and intellectual as people who do?" Pen was forced to confess that the literary personages with whom he had become acquainted had not said much, in the course of the night's conversation, that was worthy to be re- membered or quoted. In fact, not one word about literature had been said during the whole course of the night : — and it may be whispered to those uninitiated people who ai-e anxious to know the habits and make the acquaintance of men of letters, that there are no race of people who talk about books, or per haps, who read books, so little as literaiy men. CHAPTER XXXV. THE "pall mall GAZETTE." CoNSiDEKABLE succcss at first attended the new journal. It WSLS generall}- stated that an influential political party supported the paper ; and great names were cited amongst the contrib- utors to its columns. Was there any foundation for these rumors ? We are not at liberty to say whether they were well or ill founded ; but this much we ma}' divulge, that an article upon foreign policy, which was generally attributed to a noble Lord, whose connection with the Foreign Office is very well known, was in reality composed b}' Captain Shandon, in the parlor of the Bear and Staff jjublic-house near Whitehall Stairs, wliither the printer's boy had tracked him, and wdiere a literary ally of his, Mr. Bludyer, had a temporary residence ; and that a series of papers on finance questions, which were universally supposed to be written by a great Statesman of the House of Commons, w-ere in reality composed by Mr, George Warring- ton of the Upper Temple. 23 o 54 PENDENNIS. That there may have been some deaUngs between the " Pall Mall Gazette" and this influential party, is very possible. Perc}' Popjoj^ (whose father, Lord Falconet, was a member of the party) might be seen not unfrequently ascending the stairs to Warrington's chambers ; and some information appeared in the paper which gave it a character, and could onl^' be got from very peculiar sources. Several poems, feeble in thought, but loud and vigorous in expression, appeared in the "Pall Mall Gazette," with the signature of " P. P." ; and it must be owned that his novel was praised in the new journal in a very outrageous manner. In the political department of the paper Mr. Pen did not take an}' share ; but he was a most active literary contributor. The " Pall Mall Gazette " had its offices, as we have heard, in Catherine Street, in the Strand, and hither Pen often came with his manuscripts in his pocket, and with a great deal of bustle and pleasure ; such as a man feels at the outset of his literary' career, when to see himself in print is still a novel sen- sation, and he 3'et pleases himself to think that his writings are creating some noise in the world. Here it was that Mr. Jack Finucane, the sub-editor, com- piled with paste and scissors the journal of which he was super- visor. With an eagle e3'e he scanned all the paragraphs of ah the newspapers which had anything to do with the world of fashion over which he presided. He didn't let a death or a dinner-part}' of the aristocracy pass without having the event recorded in the columns of his journal ; and from the most recondite provincial prints, and distant Scotch and Irish news- papers, he fished out astonishing paragraphs and intelligence regarding the upper classes of society. It was a grand, nay, a touching sight, for a philosopher, to see Jack Finucane, Esquire, with a plate of meat from the cookshop, and a glass of porter from the public-house, for his meal, recounting the feasts of the great, as if he had been present at them ; and in tattered trousers and dingy shirt-sleeves, cheerfully describing and ar- ranging the most brilliant fetes of the world of fashion. The incongruity of Finucane's avocation, and his manners and ap- pearance, amused his new friend Pen. Since he left his own native village, where his rank probably was not very lofty, Jack had seldom seen any society but such as used the parlor of the taverns which he frequented, whei'cas from his writing you would have supposed that he dined with ambassadors, and that his common lounge was the bow-window of White's. Er- rors of description, it is true, occasionally slipped from his pen \ PENDENNIS. 355 but the ''Ballinafad Sentinel," of which he was own corre- suonvlent, sutTored by these, not tlie " Pall Mall Gazette," in winch Jack was not permitted to write much, his London chiefs thinking that the scissors and the paste were better wielded by him than the pen. Pen took a great deal of pains with the writing of his re-> views, and having a prett}' fair share of desultory reading, acquired in the early years of his life, an eager fancy and a keen sense of fun, his articles pleased his chief and the public, and he was proud to think that he deserved the money which he earned. We may be sure that the "Pall Mall Gazette" was taken in regularly- at Fairoaks, and read with delight by the two ladies there. It was received at Clavering Park, too, where we know there was a young lady of great literary tastes ; and old Doctor Portman himself, to whom the widow sent her paper after she had got her son's articles by heart, signified his approval of Pen's productions, saving that the lad had spirit, taste, and fancy, and wrote, if not like a scholar, at any rate like a gentleman. And what was the astonishment and delight of our friend Maior Pendennis, on walking into one of his clubs, the Regent, where Wenham, Lord Falconet, and some other gentlemen of good reputation and fashion were assembled, to hear them one day talking over a number of the " Pall Mall Gazette," and of an article which appeared in its columns, making some bitter fun of a book recently' published b}- the wife of a celebrated member of the opposition party. The book in question was a Book of Travels in Spain and Italy, by the Countess of Muff- borough, in which it was difficult to say which was the most wonderful, the French or the English, in which languages her ladyship wrote indifferently, and upon the blunders of which the ci'itic pounced with delighted mischief. The critic was no other than Pen : he jumped and danced round about his subject with the greatest jocularity and high spirits : he showed up the noble lady's faults with admirable mock gravit}' and decorum. There was not a word in the article which was not polite and gentleman-like ; and the unfortunate subject of the criticism was scarified and laughed at during the operation. Wenham's bilious countenance was puckered up with malign pleasure as he read tlie critique. Lady Muffborough had not asked him to her parties during the last j-ear. Lord Falconet gig- gled and laughed with all his Iieart ; Lord Muffborough and he had been rivals ever since they began life ; and these com- plimented Major Pendennis, who until now had scarcely paid 356 PENDENNIS. any attention to some hints which his Fairoaks correspondence threw out of " dear Arthur's constant and severe hterary occu- pations, which I fear ma}^ undermine the poor boy's health," and had thouglit any notice of Mr. Pen and his newspaper con- nections quite below his dignit}' as a Major and a gentleman. But when the oracular Wenham praised the bo3''s produc- tion ; when Lord Falconet, who had had the news from Percy Popjoy, approved of tlie genius of young Pen ; when the great Lord Ste^'ne himself, to whom the Major referred the article, laughed and sniggered over it, swore it was capital, and that the MutTborough would writhe under it, like a whale under a harpoon, the Major, as in duty Ijound, began to admire his nephew ver^^ much, said, " B}- gad, the young rascal had some stufl' in him, and would do something ; he had always said he would do something ; " and with a hand quite tremulous with pleasure, the old gentleman sat down to write to the widow at Fairoaks all that the great folks had said in praise of Pen ; and he wrote to the 3'oung rascal, too, asking when he would come and eat a chop with his old uncle, and saving that he was com- missioned to take him to dinner at Gaunt House, for Lord Steyne liked anybod}' who could entertain him, whether by his foil}-, wit, or hy his dulness, by his oddity, affectation, good spirits, or any other quality. Pen flung his letter across the table to Warrington ; perhaps he was disappointed that the other did not seem to be much affected b}' it. The courage of 3'oung critics is prodigious : they clamber up to the judgment seat, and, with scarce a hesitation, give their opinion upon works the most intricate or profound. Had Macaulay's History or Herschel's Astronomy been put before Pen at this period, he would have looked through the volumes, meditated his opinion over a cigar, and signified his august approval of either author, as if tlie critic had been their born superior and indulgent master and patron. By the help of the Biographic Universelle or tlie Bi-itish Museum, he would be able to take a rapid resume of a historical period, and allude to names, dates, and facts, in such a masterly', easy way, as to astonish his mamma at home, who wondered where her boy could have acquired such a prodigious store of reading, and himself, too, when he came to read over his articles two or three months after the}' had been composed, and when he had forgotten the subject and the books which he had consulted. At that period of his life Mr. Pen owns, that he would not have hesitated, at twenty-four hours' notice, to pass an opinion upon the greatest scholars, or to give a judgment upon the Encyclo- PENDENNIS ^ 357 pasdia. LuekUy he had Warrington to hiugh at him and to keep down his impertinence by a constant ami wholesome ridi- cule, or he might have become conceited beyond all sufferance , for Shandon liked the dash and fli[)pancy of his young aide-de- camp, and was, indeed, better pleased with Pen's light and brilliant flashes, than with the heavier metal which his elder coadjutor brought to bear. But though he might justly be blamed on the score of im- pertinence and a certain prematurity of judgment, Mr. Pen was a perfectly honest critic ; a great deal loo candid for Mr. Bungay's purposes, indeed, who grumbled sadly at his impar- tiality." Pen and his chief, the Captain, had a dispute upon this subject one day. ''In the name of common sense, Mr. Pendennis," Shandon asked, '-what have you been doing — praising one of Mr. Bacon's books? Bungay has been with me in a fury this morning, at seeing a Laudator}' article upon one of the works of the odious linn over the way." Pen's eyes opened with wide astonishment. '' Do you mean to saj'," he asked, ' ■ that we are to praise no books that Bacon publishes : or that, if the books are good, we are to say they are bad ? " " M3' good young friend — for what do 3'ou suppose a benevolent publisher undertakes a critical journal, to benefit his rival? " Shandon inquired. " To benefit himself certainly, but to tell the truth, too," Pen said — " rant ccdum^ to tell the truth." ''And my prospectus," said Shandon, with a laugh and a sneer; "do you consider that was a work of mathematical accuracy of statement ? " *' Pardon me, that is not the question," Pen said ; " and I don't think you very much care to argue it. I had some qualms of conscience about that same prospectus, and debated the matter with m}' friend Warrington. We agreed, however," Pen said, laughing, " that because the prospectus was rather declamatory and poetical, and the giant was painted upon the show-board rather larger than the original, who was inside the caravan, we need not be too scrupulous about this trifling inac- curacy-, but might do our part of the show, without loss of character or remorse of conscience. We are the fiddlers, and play our tunes oul}' ; you are the showman." "And leader of the van," said Shandon. "Well, I am glad that your conscience gave you leave to play for us." " Yes, but," said Pen, with a fine sense of the dignity of his position, " we are all party men in England, and I will stick to '358 PENDENNIS. in}^ party like a Briton. 1 will be as good-natured as you like to our own side, be is a fool wlio quarrels with bis own nest ; and I will bit the enemy as bard as you like — but with fair play, Captain, if you please. One can't teil all tbe truth, I suppose ; but one can tell nothing but the truth : and 1 would rather starve, by Jove, and never earn another penny by niv pen " (this redoubted instrument had now been in use ibr som't: six weeks, and Pen spoke of it with vast enthusiasm and respect) " than strike an opponent an unfair blow, or, if called upon to place him, rank him below bis honest desert." "Well, Mr. Pendennis, when we want Bacon smashed, we must get some other hammer to do it," Shandon said, with fatal good-nature ; and ver^- liliely tbougJit within himself, " A few years hence perhaps the joiuig gentleman won't be so squeamish." The veteran Condottiere himself was no lon work for his bread against time, or against his will, or in .^pite of his health, or of his indolence, or of his repugnance to the subject on which he is called to exert himself, just like any other daily toiler. When you want to make money by Pegasus (as he must, perhaps, who has no other salable prop- erty) , farewell poetry and aerial flights : Pegasus onl}- rises now like Mr. Green's balloon, at periods advertised beforehand, and when the spectators' money has been paid. Pegasus trots in harness, over the stony pavement, and pulls a cart or a cab behind him. Often Pegasus does his work with panting sidee 360 PENDENNIS. and trembling knees, and not seldom gets a cut of the whip from his driver. Do not let us, however, be too prodigal of our pit}- upon Pegasus. There is no reason why this animal should be ex- empt from labor, or illness, or decay, an}- more than any of the other creatures of God's world. If he gets the wiiip, Pegasus very often deserves it, and I for one am quite ready to protest with my friend, George Warrington, against the doctrine which some poetical sympathizers are inclined to put forward, viz., that men of letters, and what is called genius, are to be ex- empt from the prose duties of this daily, bread-wanting, tax- paying life, and are not to be made to work and pay like their neighbors. Well then, the " Pall Mall Gazette" being duly established, and Arthur Pendennis's merits recognized as a flippant, witty, and amusing critic, he worked away hard every week, preparing reviews of such works as came into his department, and writing his reviews with flippancy certainly, but with honesty, and to the best of his power. It might l)e that a liistorian of three- score, who had spent a quarter of a century in composing a work of which our young gentleman disposed in the course of a couple of days' reading at the British Museum, was not alto- gether fairly treated by such a facile critic ; or that a poet, who had been elaborating sublime sonnets and odes until he thought them fit for the public and for fame, was annoyed by two or three dozen pert lines in Mr. Pen's review, in which the poet's claims were settled by the critic, as if the latter were my lord on the bench, and the author a miserable little suitor trembling before him. The actors at the theatres complained of him wofully, too, and very likely he was too hard upon them. But there was not much harm done after all. It is diff'erent now, as we know ; but there were so few great historians, or great poets, or great actors, in Pen's time, that scarce an}- at all came up for judgment before his critical desk. Those who got a little whipping, got what in the main was good for them ; not that the judge was any better or wiser than the persons whom he sentenced, or indeed ever fancied himself so. Pen had a strong sense of humor and justice, and had not therefore an overweening respect for liis own works ; besides, he had his friend Warrington at his elbow — a terrible critic if the young man was disposed to be conceited and more savage over Pen than ever he was to those whom he tried at his literary assize. By these critical labors, and by occasional contributions to leading articles of the journal, when, without wounding his TENDENNIS. 361 paper, this eminent publicist could conscientiously speak his mind, Mr. Arthur Peudeuiiis gained the sum of four pounds four shillings weekly, and \\ith no small pains and labor. Like- wise he furnished Magazines and Reviews with articles of his composition, and is believed to have been (though on this score he never chooses to speak ) London correspondent of the " Chat- teris Champion," which at that time contained some very bril- liant and eloquent letters from the metropolis. By these labors the fortunate youth was enabled to earn a sum ver}- nearly equal to four hundred pounds a year ; and on the second Christmas after his arrival in London, he actually brought a hundred pounds to his mother, as a dividend upon the debt which he owed to Laura. That Mrs. Pendennis read ever}- word of her son's works, and considered him to be the profoundest thinker and most elegant writer of the day ; that she thought his retribution of the lunidred pounds an act of angelic virtue ; that she feared he was ruining his health by his labors, and was delighted when he told her of the society which he met, and of the great men of letters and fashion whom he saw, will be imag- ined by all readers who have seen son-worship amongst mothers, and that charming simplicit}' of love with which women in the country watch the career of their darlings in London. If John has held such and such a brief ; if Tom has been invited to such and such a ball ; or George has met this or that great and famous man at dinner ; what a delight there is in the hearts of mothers and sisters at home in Somersetshire ! How young Hopeful's letters are read and remembered ! Wliat a theme for village talk they give, and friendly congratulation ! In the second winter. Pen came for a verj' brief space, and cheered the widow's heart, and lightened up the lonely house at Fair- oaks. Helen had her son all to herself; Laura was awa^' on a visit to old Lady Rockminster ; the folks of Clavering Park were absent ; the verj' few old friends of the house, Doctor Portman at their head, called upon Mr. Pen, and treated him with marked respect ; between mother and son, it was all fond- ness, confidence, and affection. It was the happiest fortnight of the widow's whole life ; perhaps in the lives of both of them. The holiday was gone only too quickly ; and Pen was back in the busy world, and the gentle widow alone again. She sent Arthur's money to Laura : I don't know why this 3'oung lady took the opportunity of leaving home when Pen was coming thither, or wliether he was the more piqued or relieved by her absence. He was b^- this time, by his own merits and his uncle's intro- 362 PENDENNIS. diictions, pretty well introduced into London, and known both in literaiT and i)olite circles. Amongst the former his fashion- able reputation stood him in no little stead ; he was considered to be a gentleman of good present means and better expecta- tions, who wrote for his pleasure, than which there cannot be a greater recommendation to a young literary- aspirant. Bacon, Bungay, and Co. were proud to accept his articles ; IMr. Wen- ham asked him to dinner ; Mr. Wagg looked upon him with a favorable eye ; and they reported how they met him at the houses of persons of fashion, amongst whom he was pretty welcome, as they did not trouble themselves about his means, present or future ; as his appearance and address were good ; and as he had got a character for being a clever fellow. Finally, he was asked to one house, because he was seen at another house : and thus no small varieties of London life were pre- sented to the young man : he was made familiar with all sorts of people from Paternoster Row to Pimlico, and was as much at home at Mayfair dining-tables as at those tavern boards where some of his companions of the pen were accustomed to assemble. Full of high spirits and curiosity, easily adapting himself to all whom he met, the young fellow pleased himself in this strange variety and jumble of men, and made himself welcome, or at ease at least, wherever he went. He would breakfast, for instance, at Mr. Plover's of a morning, in companj' with a Peer, a Bishop, a parliamentary orator, two blue ladies of fashion, a popular preacher, the author of the last new novel, and the very latest lion imported from Egypt or from America ; and would quit this distinguished society for tlie back room at the newspaper office, wht/e pens and ink and the wet proof sheets were awaiting him. Here would be Finucane, the sub-editor, with the last news from the Row : and Shandon would come In presently, and giving a nod to Pen, would l)egin scribbling his leading article at the other end of the table, flanked by the pint of sherr}-, which, when the attendant boy beheld him, was always silently brought for the Captain : or Mr. Bludyer's roar- ing voice would be heard in the front room, where the truculent critic would impound the books on the counter in spite of the timid remonstrances of Mr. Midge, the publisher, and after looking through the volumes would sell them at his accustomed book-stall, and having drunken and dinecV upon the produce of the sale in a tavern box, would call for ink and paper, and proceed to "smash" the author of his dinner and the novel. Towards evening Mr. Pen would stroll in the direction of his PENDENNIS. 363 ciub, and take up "Wamngton there for a constitntionfil walk. This exercise freed the lungs, and gave an appetite Ibr dinner, after which Pen had the privilege to make his bow at some very pleasant houses which were open to him ; or the town before him for amusement. There was the Opera ; or the Eagle Tav- ern : or a ball to go to in Mny Fair ; or a quiet night with a cigar and a book and a long talk with Wui-rington ; or a won- derful new song at the Back Kitchen ; — at this time of his life Mr. Pen beheld all sorts of places and men ; and very likely did not know how much he enjoyed himself until long after, whea balls gave him no pleasure, neither did farces make him laugh ; nor did the tavern joke produce the least excitement in him ; nor did the loveliest dancer that ever showed her ankles cause him to stir from his chair after dinner. At his present mature age all these pleasures are over : and the times have passed away too. It is but a very very few years since - — buti the time is gone, and most of the men. Bhid3-er will no more bully authors or cheat landlords of their score. Shandon, the learned and thriftless, the witty and unwise, sleeps his last sleep. They buried honest Doolan the other day : never will he cringe or flatter, never pull long-bow or empty whiskey-noggin any more. The London season was now blooming in its full vigor, and the fiishionable newspapers abounded with information regard- ing the grand banquets, routs, and balls which were enlivening the polite world. Our gracious Sovereign was holding levees and drawing-rooms at St. James's : the liow- windows of the clubs were crowded with the heads of resj^ectable red-faced newspaper-reading gentlemen : along the Serpentine trailed thousands of carriages : squadrons of dandy horsemen tram- pled over Rotten Row : everybod}' was in town in a word ; and of course Major Arthur Pendennis, who was somebod}-, was not absent. With his head tied ui) in a smart bandana handkerchief, and his meagre carcass enveloped in a brilliant Turkish dressing- gown, the worth}' gentlemar, sat on a certain morning b}^ his fireside, letting his feet gentl}- simmer in a bath, whilst he took his early cup of tea, and perused his "• Morning Post." He could not have faced the day without his two hours' toilet, without his early cup of tea, without his "Morning Post." I suppose nobod}' in the world except Morgan, not even Mor- gan's master himself, knew how feeble and ancient the Major was growing, and what numberless little comforts he required. 364 PENDENNIS. If men sneer, as our babit is, at the artifices of an old beauty, at her paint, perfumes, ringlets ; at those innumerable^ and to us unknown stratagems with which she is said to remedy the ravages of time and reconstruct the charms whereof years have bereft her; the ladies, it is to be presumed, are not on their side altogether ignorant that men are vain as well as they, and that the toilets of old bucks are to the full as elaborate as their own. How is it that old Blushington keeps that constant little rose-tint on his cheeks ; and where does old Blondel get the prepa- ration which makes his silver hair pass for golden ? Have you ever seen Lord Hotspur get ofl" his horse when he thinks nobody is looking? Taken out of his stin-ups, his shiny boots can hardly totter up the steps of Hotspur House. He is a dasliing young nobleman still as you see the back of him in Rotten Row ; when 3'ou behold him on foot, what an old, old fellow ! Did you ever form to yourself any idea of Dick Lacy (Dick has been Dick these sixty Vears) in a natural state, and without his stays ? All these men are objects whom the observer of human life and manners may contemplate with as much profit as the most elderly Belgravian Venus, or inveterate Mayfair Jezebel. An old reprobate daddy-long-legs, who has never said his prayers (except perhaps in public) these fifty years : an old buck who still clings to as many of the habits of youth as his feeble grasp of health can hold by : who has given up the bottle, but sits with young fellows over it, and tells naughty stories upon toast and water — who has given up beauty, but still talks about it as wickedly as the youngest roue in company — such an old fellow, I say, if any parson in Pimlico or St. James's were to order the beadles to bring him into the middle aisle, and there set him in an arm-chair, and make a text of him, and preach about him to the congregation, could be turned to a wholesome use for once in his life, and might be surprised to find that some good thoughts came out of him. But we are wandering from our text, the honest Major, who sits all this while with his feet cooling in the bath : Morgan takes them out of that place of purification, and dries them daintily, and proceeds to set the old gentleman on his legs, with waistband and wig, starched cravat, and spotless boots and gloves. It was during these hours of the toilet that Morgan and his employer had their confidential conversations, for they did not meet much at other times of the day — the Major abhorring the society of his own chairs and tables in his lodgings ; and Morgan, his master's toilet over and letters delivered, had his time very much on his own hands. PEXDENNIS. 365 This spare time the active and well-mannered gentleman bestowed among the valets and butlers of the nobility, his acquaintance ; and Morgan Pendennis, as he was styled, for b}' such compound names gentlemen's gentlemen are called in their private circles, was a frequent and welcome guest at some of the verv highest tables in this town. He was a member of two influential clul)s in May Fair and Pimlico ; and he was thus enabled to know the whole gossip of the town, and entertain his master very agreeably during the two hours' toilet conver- sation. He knew a hundred tales and legends regarding persons of the very highest ton, whose valets canvass their august secrets, just, my dear madam, as our own parlor-maids and dependants in the kitchen discuss our characters, our stinginess and generosity, our pecuniary means or embarrassments, and our little domestic or connubial tiflJs and quarrels. If I leave this manuscript open on my table, I have not the slightest doubt Betty will read it, and they will talk it over in the lower regions to-night ; and to-morrow she will bring in my breakfast with a face of such entire imperturbable innocence, that no mortal could suppose her guilt}' of playing the spy. If you and the Captain have high words upon any subject, which is just possible, the circumstances of the quarrel, and the characters of both of you. will be discussed with impartial eloquence over the kitchen tea-table ; and if Mrs. Smith's maid should bj' chance be taking a dish of tea with yours, her presence will not undoubtedly act as a restraint upon the discussion in ques- tion ; her opinion will be given with candor ; and the next da}" her mistress will in'obably know that Captain and Mrs. Jones have been a quarrelling as usual. Nothing is secret. Take it as a rule that John knows everything : and as in our humble world so in the greatest : a duke is no more a hero to his valet- de-chamhre than you or I ; and his Grace's Man at his club, in company doubtless with other Men of equal social rank, talks over his master's character and attairs with the ingenuous truthfulness which befits gentlemen who are met together in confidence. Who is a niggard and screws up his money-boxes : who is in the hands of the money-lenders, and is putting his noble name on the back of bills of exchange : who is intimate with whose wife : who wants whom to marry her daughter, and which he won't, no not at any price : — all these facts gentle- men's confidential gentlemen discuss confidentially, and are known and examined by every person who has any claim to rank in genteel society. In a word, if old Pendennis himself was said to know everything, and was at once admirably scan- 366 PEN DENNIS. dalons and deliglitfully discreet, it is but justice to Morgan to saj', that a great deal of his master's ini'orination was supplied to that worthy man b}' his valet, who went out and foraged knowledge for him. Indeed, what more effectual plan is there to get a knowledge of London society, than to begin at the foundation — that is, at the kitchen floor? So Mr. Morgan and his employer conversed as the latter's toilet proceeded. There had been a Drawing-room on the day previous, and the Major read among the presentations that of Ladj' Clavering by Lady Rockminster, and of Miss Amory by her mother Lady Clavering, — and in a further part of the paper their dresses were described, with a precision and in a jargon which will puzzle and amuse the antiquary of future generations. The sight of these names carried Pendennis back to the countr}'. " How long have the Claverings been in Lon- don?" he asked ; " praj', Morgan, have 3'ou seen any of their people ? " " Sir Francis have sent away his foring man, sir," Mr. Morgan replied ; " and have took a friend of mine as own man, sir. Indeed he applied on my reckmendation. You may reck- lect Towler, sir, — tall red-aired man — but d>-es his air. Was groom of the chambers in Lord Levant's famly till his Lord- ship broke hup. It's a fall for Towler, sir ; but pore men can't be particklar," said the valet, with a pathetic voice. "Devilish hard on Towler, by gad!" said the Major, amused, " and not pleasant for Lord Levant — he, he ! " " Alwa\'s knew it was coming, sir. I spoke to you of it Michaelmas was four 3-ears : when her Ladyship put the dia- monds in pawn. It was Towler, sir, took 'em in two cabs to Dobree's — and a good deal of the plate went the same way. Don't you remember seeing of it at Blackwall, -nath the Levant arms and coronick, and Lord Levant settn oppsit to it at the Marquis of Steyne's dinner? Beg your pardon ; did I cut you, sir?" Morgan was now operating upon the Major's chin — he con- tinued the theme while strapping the skilful razor. " They've took a house in Grosvenor Place, and are coming out strong, sir. Her ladyship's going to give three parties, besides a dinner a week, sir. Her fortune won't stand it — can't stand it." "• Gad, she had a devilish good cook when I was at Fair- oaks," the jNIajor said, with very little compassion for the widow Amory's fortune. " Marobblan was his name, sir; — Marobblan's gone away, PENDENNIS. 367 sir," Morgan said, — and the Major, this time, with hearty sympathy, said, '^ he was devilish soitv to lose him." '• There's been a tremenjuous row about that Mosseer Ma- robblun," Morgan continued. " At a ball at Baymouth, sir, bless his impadence, he challenged Mr. Harthur to light a jewel, sir, which Mr. Harthur was very near knocking him down, and pitchin' him outawinder, and serve him right ; but Chevalier Strong, sir, came up and stopped the shindy- — I beg pardon, the holtercation, sir — them French cooks has as much pride and hinsolence as if they was real gentlemen." '' I heard something of that quarrel," said the Major ; " but Mu'obolant was not turned oft" for that?" ''No, sir — that arfair, sir, which Mr. Harthur forgave it him and beaved most handsome, was huslied hup : it was about Miss Hamory, sir, that he ad is dismissial. Those French fellers, they fauc}' ever^'body is in love with 'em ; and he climbed up the large grape-vine to her winder, sir, and was a trying to get in, when he was caught, sir ; and Mr. Strong came out, and the}' got the garden-engine and played on him, and there was no end of a row, sir." "■Confound his impudence! You don't mean to say Miss Amory encouraged him," cried the Major, amazed at a peculiar expression in Mr. Morgan's countenance. Morgan resumed his imperturbable demeanor. " Know nothing about it, sir. Servants don't know them kind of things the least. Most probbly there was nothing in it — so many lies is told about families — Marobblan went aM^ay, bag and baggage, saucepans, and pianna, and all — the feller ad a pianna, and wrote potr}' in French, and he took a lodging at Clavering, and he hankered about the primises. and it was said that Madame Fribsb}', the milliner, brought letters to Miss Hamory, though I don't believe a word about it ; nor that he tried to pison hisself with charcoal, which it was all a humbug betwigst him and Madame Fribsby ; and he was nearl}^ shot by the keeper in the park." In the course of that very day, it chanced that the Major had stationed himself in the great window of Bays's Club in St. James's Street, at the liouj* in the afternoon when you seo a half-score of respectable old bucks similarly recreating them- selves (Bays's is rather an old-fashioned place of resort now, and many of its members more than middle-aged ; but in the time of the T*rince Kegent, these old fellows occupied the same window, and were some of the very greatest dandies in this 368 PENDENNIS. empire) — Major Pendennis was looking from the gi-eat window, and spied liis nepliew Arthur waUiing down the street in com- pany with his friend Mr. Popjoy. ''Look!" said Popjoy to Pen, as tJiey passed, "did you ever pass Bays's at four o'clock, without seeing that collection of old fogies? It's a regular museum. They ought to be cast in wax, and set up at Madame Tussaud's — " " — In a chamber of old horrors by themselves," Pen said, laughing. ''—In the chamber of horrors! Gad, dooced good!" Pop cried. "They are old rogues, most of 'em, and no mis- take. There's old Blondel ; there's my uncle Colchicum, the most confounded old sinner in Europe ; there's — hullo ! there's somebody rapping the window and nodding at us." "It's my uncle, the Major," said Pen. "Is he an old sinner too ? " " Notorious old rogue," Pop said, wagging his head. ("Notowious old wogue," he pronounced the words, thereby rendering them much more emphatic.) " He's beckoning you in ; he wants to speak to you." " Come in too," Pen said. " —Can't," repUed the other. " Cut uncle Col. two years ago, about Mademoiselle Frangipane — Ta, ta," and the young sinner took leave of Pen, and the club of the elder criminals, and sauntered into Blacquiere's, an adjacent establishment, frequented b}- reprobates of his own age. Colchicum, Blondel, and the senior bucks had just been con- versing about the Clavering family, whose appearance in Lon- don had formed the subject of Major Pendennis's morning conversation with his valet. Mr. Blondel's house was next to that of Sir Francis Clavering, in Grosvenor Place : giving very good dinners himself, he had remarked some activity in his neighbor's kitchen. Sir Francis, indeed, had a new chef, who had come in more than once and dressed Mr. Blondel's dinner for him ; that gentleman having only a remarkably expert female artist permanently engaged in his establishment, and employ- ing such chefs of note as happened to be free on the occasion of his grand banquets. " They go to a devilish expense and see devilish bad company as yet, I hear," Mr. Blondel said, — " they scour the streets, by gad. to get people to dine with 'em. Champignon says it breaks his heart to serve up a dinner to their societ}-. What a shame it is that those low people should have money at all," cried ]Mr. Blondel, whose grandfather had been a reputable leather-breeches maker, and whose father had lent money to the Princea ' PENDEXNIS. 369 " I wish I had fallen in with the widow myself," sighed Lord Colchieuui, '"and not been laid up with that confounded gout at Leghorn. — I would have married tiie woman myself. — I'm told she has six hundred thousand pounds in the Threes." " Not quite so much as that, — I knew her family in India," Major Pendennis said. "I knew her family in India: her father was an enormousl}- rich old indigo-planter, — know all about her, — Clavering has the next estate to ours in the country-. — Ha! there's m}' nephew walking with" — ''With mine, — the infernal .young scamp," said Lord Colchicum, glowering at Popjo}- out of his heavy eyebrows ; and he turned away from the window as Major Pendennis tapped upon it. The Major was in high good-humor. The sun was bright, the air brisk and invigorating. He had determined upon a visit to Lady Clavering on that da}", and bethought him that Arthur would be a good companion for the walk across the Green Park to her ladyship's door. Master Pen was not displeased to accompan}' his iUastrious relative, who pointed out a dozen great men in their brief transit through St. James's Street, and got bows from a Duke, at a crossing, a Bishop (on a cob), and a Cabinet Minister with an umbrella. The Duke gave the elder Pendennis a finger of a pipe-clayed glove to shake, which the Major embraced with great veneration ; and all Pen's blood tingled, as he found himself in actual communication, as it were, with this famous man (for Pen had possession of the Major's left arm, whilst that gentleman's other wing was engaged witli his Grace's right), and he wished all Grey Friars' School, all Oxbridge LTniversitj-, all Paternoster Row and the Temple, and Laura and his mother at Fairoaks, could be standing on each side of the street, to see the meeting between him and his uncle, and the most famous duke in Christendom. " How do, Pendennis ? — fine day," were his Grace's remark- able words, and with a nod of his august head he passed on — in a blue frock-coat and spotless white duck trousers, in a white stock, with a shining l)uckle behind. Old Pendennis, whose likeness to his Grace has been re- marked, began to imitate him unconsciously', after they had parted, speaking with curt sentences, after the manner of the great man. We have all of us, no doubt, met with more than one military officer who has so imitated the manner of a certain Great Captain of the Age ; and has, perhaps, changed his own natural character and disposition, because Fate had endowed him with an aquiline nose. In like manner have we not seen many another man j^ride himself on having a tall forehead and 24 370 PENDENNIS. a supposed likeness to Mr. Canning ? many another go through life swelling with self-gratification on account of an imagined resemblance (we say " imagined," because that anybodj' should be really like that most beautiful and perfect of men is impossi- ble) to the great and revered George IV. : many tnird parties, who wore low necks to their dresses because they fancied that Lord B3ron and themselves were similar in appearance : and has not the g:-ave closed but lately upon poor Tom Bickerstaff, who, having no more imagination than Mr. Jostrph Hume, looked in the glass and fancied himself like Shakspeare? shaved his forehead so as farther to resemble the immortal bard, wrote tragedies incessantlj', and died perfectl3' cra^}- — actually per- ished of his forehead? These or similar freaks of vanit}' most people who have frequented the world must have seen in their experience. Pen laughed in his roguish sleeve at the manner in which his uncle began to imitate the great man from whom they had just parted : but Mr. Pen was as vain in ids own way, perhaps, as the elder gentleman, and strutted, with a very con- sequential air of his own, b}^ the Major's side. "Yes, my dear boy," said the old bachelor, as the}- saun- tered through the Green Park, where many poor children were disporting happih^, and errand boys were plaj'ing at toss half- pennjs and black sheep were grazing in the sunshine, and an actor was learning his part on a bench, and nursery maids and their charges sauntered here and there, and several couples were walking in a leisurely manner; "• 3'es, depend on it, my bo}' ; for a poor man, there is nothing like having good acquaintances. Who were those men, with whom 3'ou saw me in the bow-win- dow at Bays's? Two were Peers of the realm. Hobananob will be a Peer, as soon as his grand-uncle dies, and he has had his third seizure ; and of the other four, not one has less than his seven thousand a 3-ear. Did 3'ou see that dark blue brough- am, with that tremendous stepping horse, waiting at the door of the club? You'll know it again. It is Sir Hugh Trumping- ton's ; he was never known to walk in his life ; never appears in the streets on foot — never : and if he is going two doors off, to see his mother, the old dowager (to whom 1 shall certainl}'' introduce vou, for she receives some of the best compan3^ in London), gad, sir, he mounts his horse at No. 23, and dis mounts again at No. 25 a. He is now up stairs, at Ba3's's, playing piquet wdth Count Punter : he is the second-best pla3'er in England — as well he ma3' be ; for he pla3-s ever3- da3- of his life, except Sunda3's (for Sir Hugh is an uncommonly rehgious man), from half past three till half past seven, when he dresses for dinner." PENDEXNIS. 371 *' A ver}' pious manner of spending his time," Pen said, laughing, and thinliing that his uncle was falling into the twad- dling state. " Gad, sir, that is not the question. A man of his estate ma^' employ- his time as he chooses. When you are a baronet, a count}- member, with ten thousand acres of the best land in Cheshire, and such a place as Trum[)ington (though he never goes there), you may do as ^^ou like." '■ And so that was his brougham, sir, was it?" the nephew said, with almost a sneer. ''His brougham — O ay, yes I — and that brings me back to my point — revenons a nos moutons. Yes, begad! reve- , nons a nos moutons. Well, that brougham is mine if I choose, between four and seven. Just as much mine as if I jobbed it from Tilbur^^s, begad, for thirty pound a month. Sir Hugh is the best-natured fellow in the world ; and if it hadn't been so fine an afternoon as it is, you and I would have been in that brougham at this very minute, on our way to Grosvenor Place. That is the benefit of knowing rich men ; — I dine for nothing, sir; — I go into the country-, and I'm mounted for nothing. Other fellows keep hounds and gamekeepers for me. Sic vos Hon vobis, as we used to say at Grey Friars, hey? I'm of the opinion of my old friend Leech, of the Forty-fourth ; and a devilish good shrewd fellow he was, as most Scotchmen ai-e. Gad, sir. Leech used to say, ' He was so poor that he couldn't afl!brd to know a poor man.' " "You don't act up to your principles, uncle," Pen said, good-naturedly. "Up to my principles; how, sir?" the Major asked, rather testily. " You would have cut me in Saint James's Street, sir," Pen said, "were your practice not more benevolent than your theory ; you who live with dukes and magnates of the land, and would take no notice of a poor devil like me." B3' which speech we may see that Mr. Pen was getting on in the world, and could flatter as well as laugh in his sleeve. Major Pendennis was appeased instantly, and verj' much pleased. He tapped affectionately^ his nephew's arm on which he was leaning, and said, — "You, sir, you are my flesh and blood ! Hang it, sir, I've been very proud of 30U and verj- fond of you, but for your confounded follies and extravagances — and wild oats, sir, wiiich I hope 3-ou've sown. Yes, begad! I hope you've sown 'em ; I hope you've sown 'em, ])egad ! My object, Arthur, is io make a man of you — to see you well placed 372 PENDENNIS. in the world, as becomes one of your name and my own, sir. You have got yourself a little reputation by 3'our literary talents, which I am ver}" far from undervaluing, though in ni}' time, begad, poetr}' and genius and that sort of thing were devilish disreputable. There was poor Byron, for instance, who ruined himself, and contracted the worst habits b}- living with poets and newspaper-writers, and people of that kind. But the times are changed now — there's a run upon literature — clever fellows get into the best houses in town, begad ! Tempora mutanhir, sir, and, b}' Jove, I suppose whatever is is right, as Shakspeare says." Pen did not think fit to tell his uncle who was the author who had made use of that remarkable phrase, and here descend- ing from the Green Park, the pair made their way into Gros- venor Place, and to the door of the mansion occupied there by Sir Francis and Lady Clavering. The dining-room shutters of this handsome mansion were freshly gilded ; the knockers shone gorgeous upon the newly painted door ; the balcon^^ before the drawing-room bloomed with a portable garden of the most beautiful plants, and with flowers, white, and pink, and scarlet ; the windows of the upper room (the sacred chamber and dressing-room of ray lady, doubt- less), and even a prettj' little casement of the third story, which keen-sighted Mr. Pen presumed to belong to the virgin bedroom of Miss Blanche Amory, were similariy adorned with floral ornaments, and the whole exterior face of the house presented the most brilliant aspect which fresh new paint, shining plate glass, newly cleaned bricks, and spotless mortar, could offer to the beholder. "How Strong must have rejoiced in organizing all this splendor," thought Pen. He recognized the Chevalier's genius in the magnificence before him. " Lady Clavering is going out for her drive," the Major said. "We shall only have to leave our pasteboards, Arthur." He used the word "pasteboards," having heard it from some of the ingenious youth of the nobilit}' about town, and as a modern phrase suited to Pen's tender years. Indeed, as the two gentle- men reached the door, a landau drove up, a magnificent yellow carriage, lined with brocade or satin of a faint cream color, drawn by wonderful grey horses, with flaming ribbons, and harness blazins; all over with crests : no less than three of these heraldic emblems surmounted the coats of arms on the panels, and these shields contained a prodigious number of quarterings, betokening the antiquity and splendor of the houses of ClavirJ j^rrtix (Vicmlier!" cried the Sylpliidc, tossing up litr little head. '' 1 have a t'ellow-feeling with those who fall, remember," Pen said. '' I suffered mjself very much from doing so once." "•And you went home to Laura to console 3'ou,"' said Miss Amory. Pen winced. lie did not like the remembrance of the consolation which Laura had gi^x■n to him, nor was he very well pleased to fnid that his rebuff in tluit (quarter was known to the world : so as he had nothing to say in repl}-, he began to be immensely interested in the furniture round about him, nud to praise Lady Clavering's taste with all his might. "Me, don't praise me," said honest Lady Clavering, "it's all the upholsterer's doings and Captain Strong's ; they did it all while we was at the Park — and — and — Lady Hockminster has been here and says the salongs are very well," said Lady Clavering, with an air and tone of great deference. " M3' cousin Laura has been staying with her," Pen said. " It's not the dowager : it is t/te Lady Rockminster." "Indeed!" cried Major Pendennis, when he heard this gi-eat name of fashion. " If you have hei' ladyship's approval, Lady Clavering, you cannot be far Avrong. No, no, you cannot be far wrong. Lady Rockminster, I should say, Arthur, is the ver}' centre of the circle of fashion and taste. The rooms are beautiful indeed I " and the Major's voice hushed as he spoke of this great lady, and he looked round and surve3'ed the apart- ments awfully and respectfully, as if he had lieen at church. "Yes, Lady Rockminster has took us up," said Lady Clavering. " Taken us up, Mamma," cried Blanche, in a shrill voice. "Well, taken us up, then," said my lady, " it's very kind of her. anil I dare say we shall like it when we git used to it, only at first one don't fancy being took — well, taken up, at all. She is going to give our balls for us ; and wants to invite all our diners. But I won't stand that. I will have my old friends and 1 won't let her send all the cards out, and sit mum at the head of my own table. You must come to me, Arthur and Major — come, let me see, on the 14th. — It ain't one of our grjind dinners, Blanche," she said, looking round at her daughter, who bit her lips and frowned very savagely for a sylphide. The Major, with a smile and a bow, said he would much rather come to a quiet meeting than to a grand dinner. He had had enough of those large entertainments, and pi'eferred the simplicity of the home cifcle. " I always think a diinier's the best the second da.y," said FEXDEXXIS. 381 Lady C'lavering, tliinking to mend her first speech. " On the 1 4th we'll be quite a snug little part}* ; " at which second blun- der, Miss Blanche clasped her hands in despair, and said, '* O, Mamma, rous kes incorrigible." Major Pendennis vowed that he liked snug dinners of all things in the world, and confounded her ladyship's impudence for daring to ask such a man as him to a second day's dinner. But he was a man of an economical I urn of mind, and bethinking himself that he could throw ovc-r these people if anything better should offer, he accepted with the blandest air. As for Pen. he was not a diner-out of thirty years' standing as yet, and the itlca of a line feast in a line house was still perfectl3' welcome to him. " "What was that pretty little quarrel which engaged itself between your worship and Miss Amory?" the Major asked of Pen, as the}' walked away together. '* I thought you used to be au mieux in that quarter." "•Used to be," answered Pen, with a daVidified air, "is a vague phrase regarding a woman, ^^^as and is are two very different terms, sir, as regards women's hearts esi)ecially." '• p]gad, the}' change as we do," cried the elder. "When we took the Cape of Good Hope, I recollect there was a lady who talked of poisoning herself for your humble servant; an(l, begad, in three months, she ran away from her husljand with somebody else. Don't get yourself entangled with that ]Miss Amory. 8he is forward, affected, and underbred ; and her character is somewhat — never mind what. But don't think of her ; ten thousand pound won't do for yon. AVhat, my good fellow, is ten thousand pound? I would scarcely pay that girl's milliner's bill with the interest of the money." " You seem to be a connoisseur in millinery, Uncle," Pen sa'd. " 1 was, sir, I was," replied the senior ; " and the old war- horse, you know, never hears the sound of a trumpet. Ixit he begins to he, he! — you understand," — and he gave a killing though somewhat superaiuiuated leei" and bow to a carriage that passed them and entered the Park. ' Lady Catherine Martingale's carriage," he said, " mons'ous fine girls the daughters, though, gad, I remember their mother a tlK^iisand times handsomer. Xo, Arthur, my dear fellow, with your person and expectations, you ought to make a good coup in marriage some (lay or other ; and though T wouldn't have this rcqjeatcd at Fairoaks, 30U rogue, ha! ha! a reputa- tion for a little wiskeduess, and for being an homme dangereax, don't liiiit a young fellow with the women. The}' like it, sir — .^82 FEXDENXIS. they hate a milksop . . . young men must be young men, you know. But for marriage," continued the veteran moralist, " that is a very different matter. Marry a woman with money. I've told you before it is as easy to get a rich wife as a poor one ; and a doosed deal more comfortable to sit down to a well- cooked dinner, with your little entrees nicely served, than to have nothing but a damned cold leg of mutton between you and your wife. We shall have a good dinner on the 14th, ,when we dine with Sir Francis Clavering : stick to that, my bo}', in your relations with the family. Cultivate 'em, but keep 'em for dining. No more of your youthful follies and nonsense about love in a cottage." " It must be a cottage with a double coach-house, a cottage of gentility, sir," said Pen, quoting the hackneyed ballad of the Devil's Walk : but his uncle did not know that poem (though, perhaps, he might be leading Pen upon the ver}' promenade in question), and went on with his philosophical remarks, veiT much pleased with the aptness of the pupil to whom he addressed them. Indeed Arthur Pendennis was a clever fellow, who took his color very readily from his neighbor and found the adaptation only too easy. Warrington, the grumbler, growled out that Pen was becom- ing such a pupp3' that soon there would be no bearing him. But the truth is, the young man's success and dashing manners pleased his elder companion. He liked to see Pen gay and spirited, and brimful of health, and life, and hope ; as a man who has long since left off being amused with clown and harle- quin, still gets a pleasure in watching a child at a pantomime. Mr. Pen's former sulkiness disappeared with his better fortune : and he bloomed as the sun began to shine upon him. CHAPTER XXXVIII. IN WHICH COLONEL ALTAMONT APPEARS AND DISAPPEARS. On the day appointed. Major Pendennis. who had formed no better engagement, and Ai'thur, who desired none, arrived together to dine with Sir Francis Clavering. The only tenants of the drawing-room when Pen and his uncle reached it, were Sir Francis and his wife, and our friend Captain Strong, whom Arthur was very glad to see, though the Major looked very PENDENNIS. 383 sulkih' »l Strong, being by no means well pleased to sit down to dinner with Clavering's d house-steward, as he irreverently called Strong. But Mr. Welbore Welbore, Clavering's country neighbor and brother member of Parliament, speedil}- arriving, Pendennis the elder was somewhat appeased, lor Welbore, though perfectly dull, and taking no more part in the conver- sation at dinner than the footman behind his chair, was a respectable country gentleman of ancient family and seven thousand a year ; and the Major felt always at ease in such society. To these were added other persons of note : the Dowager Lad3' Rockminster, who had her reasons for being well w'ith the Clavering famil}'. and the Lady Agnes Foker, with her son Mr. Harry, our old acquaintance. Mr. Pynsent could not come, his parliamentary duties keeping him at the House, duties which sat upon the two other senators vcrj' lightly. Miss Blanche Amory was the last of the company who made her appearance. She was dressed in a killing white silk dress, which displayed her pearl}^ shoulders to the utmost advantage. Foker whispered to Pen, who regarded her with e3'es of evident admiration, that he considered her " a stuimer." She chose to be very gracious to Arthur upon this day, and held out her hand most cordialh', and talked about dear Fair- oaks, and asked for dear Laura and his mother, and said she was longing to go back to the countr}', and in fact was entirely simple, affectionate, and artless. Harry Foker thought he had never seen an3bod3' so amiable and delightful. Not accustomed much to thr; society of ladies, and ordinaril}- being dumb in their presence, he found that he could speak before Miss Amory, and became uncommonl}- livel}- and talkative, even before the dinner was announced and the party descended to the lower rooms. He would have longed to give his arm to the fair Blanche, and conduct her down the broad carpeted stair ; but she fell to the lot of Pen upon this occasion, Mr. Foker being appointed to escort Mrs. Welbore Welbore, in consequence of his superior rank as an earl's grandson. But though he was separated from the object of his desire during the passage down stairs, the delighted Fokci- Ibund him- self by Miss Amory's side at the dinner-table, and flattered himself that he had manoeuvred very well in securing that happy place. It may be that the move was not his, but that it was made by another person. Blanche had thus the two young men, one on each side of her, xnd eacli tried to render himself gallant and sigreeable. 384 PENDENNIS. Foker's mamma, from her place, surveying her darling boy. was surprised at his vivacity. Harry talked constantly to his fair neighbor about the topics of the day. "Seen Taglioni in tlie Sylphide, Miss Amor}'? Bring me that soupramc of Volile again, if you please (this was addressed to the attendant near him), very good: can't think where the souprames come from ; what becomes of the legs of the fowls. I wonder? She's clipping in the Sylphide, ain't she?" and he began very kindly to hum the pretty air which pervades that prettiest of all ballets, now laded into the past with that most beautiful and gracious of all dancers. Will the 3'oung folks ever see anything so charming, an^'thing so classic, anything . like Taglioni? i " Miss Amory is a sylph herself," said Mr. Peai. S " What a delightful tenor voice you have, Mr. Foker," said the young lad}'. " I am sure you have been well taught. I sing a little myself. I should like to sing with you." Pen remembered that words very similar had been addressed to himself by the young lady, and that she had liked to sing with him in former days. And sneering within himself, he wondered, with how many other gentlemen she had sung duets since his time ? But he did not think fit to put this awkward question aloud : and onh' said, with the very tenderest air which he could assume, " I should like to hear 3'ou sing again, Miss Blanche. I never heard a voice I liked so well as 3'ours, I think." " I thought you liked Laura's," said Miss Blanche. "Laura's is a contralto: and that voice is very often out, you know," Pen said, bitterly. " I have heard a great deal of music, in London," he continued. " I'm tired of those profes- sional people — the}' sing too loud — or I have grown too old or too blase. One grows old very soon, in London, Miss Amory. And like all old fellows, I only care for the songs I heard in my youth." " I like English music best. I don't care for foreign songs much. Get me some saddle of mutton," said Mr. Foker. " I adore English ballads of all things," said jNIiss Amory. " Sing me one of the old songs after dinner, will you?" said Pen, with an imploring voice. "Shall I sing 3'ou an English song, after dinner?" asked the S^iphide, turning to Mr. Foker. " 1 will, if you will prom- ise to come up soon ; " and she gave him a perfect broadside of her e3es. Pll come up aftfr diiiner, fast cnoiigii," he said simph'. (i PENDENNIS. 385 •I don't call' about much wine afterwards — I take my whack ,it dinner — I mean m\' share, you know; and when I have had as much as I want, I toddle up to tea. I'm a domestic character, Miss Amory — m\- liabits are simple — and when I'm pleased I'm generally in a good humor, ain't I, Pen? — that jell}-, if you please — not that one, the other with the cherries inside. How the doose do the}' get those cherries inside the jellies?" In this way the artless youth prattled on: and Miss Amory listened to him with inexhaustitile good-lumior. When the ladies took their departure for the u[)|)er regions, Blanche made the two young men promise faithfully to quit the table soon, and departed with kind glances to each. She dropped her gloves on Foker's side of the table, and her handkerchief on Pen's. Each had some little attention paid to him ; her politeness to Mr. Foker was perhaps a little more encouraging than her kindness to Arthur : but the benevolent little crea- ture did her best to make both the gentlemen happy. Foker caught her last glance as she rushed out of the door ; that bright look passed over Mr. Strong's broad white waistcoat, and shot straight at Harr}- Foker's. The door closed on the charmer : he sat down with a sigh, and swallowed a bumper of claret. As the dinner at which Pen and his uncle took their place'i, was not one of our grand parties, it had been served at a con- siderably- earlier hour than those ceremonial banquets of th-». London season, which custom has ordained shall scarcely take place before nine o'clock ; and the company being small, and Miss Blanche, anxious to betake herself to her piano in the drawing-room, giving constant hints to her mother to retreat, — Lady Clavering made that signal very speedily, so that it was quite daylight yet when the ladies reached the upper apart- ments, from tlie flower-embroidered balconies of wliich they could command a view of the two Parks, of the i)Oor couples and children still sauntering in the one, and of the equi[)ages of ladies and the horses of dandies passing through the arch of the other. The sun, in a word, had not set behind the elms of Kensington Gardens, and was still gilding the statue erected by the ladies of England in honor of his (J race the Duke of Wellington, when Lady Clavering and her female friends left the fjentlemen drinking wine. The windows of the dining-room were opened to let m the fresh air, and afforded to the passers-by in the street a pleasant or, perhaps, tantalizing view of six gentlemen in white waisi- 25 386 PENDENNIS. coats, with a quantity of decanters and a variety of fruits before Lliem — little boys, as they passed and jumped up at the area railings, and took a peep, said to one another, "Mi hi, Jim, shouldn't you Uke to be there, and have a cut of that there pine-apple?" — the horses and carriages of the nobilitj- and gentr}' passed by, conveying them to Belgravian toilets : the policeman, with clamping feet, patrolled up and down before the mansion : the shades of evening began to fall : the gasman came and lighted the lamps before Sir Francis's door : the but- ler entered the dining-room, and illuminated the antique gothic chandelier over the antique carved oak dining-table : so that from outside the house 30U looked inwards upon a night scene of feasting and wax candles ; and from within you beheld a vis- ion of a calm summer evening, and the wall of Saint James's Park, and the sky above, in which a star or two was just begin- ning to twinkle. Jeames, with folded legs, leaning against the door-pillar of his master's abode, looked forth musingh' upon the latter tran- quil sight ; whilst a spectator, chnging to the raiUngs, examined the former scene. Policeman X, passing, gave his attention to neither, but fixed it upon the individual holding by the rail- ings, and gazing into Sir Francis Clavering's dining-room, where Strong was laughing and talking away, making the conversation for the part}-. The man at the railings was very gorgeously attired with chains, jewellery, and waistcoats, which the illumination from the house lighted up to great advantage ; his boots were shiny ; he had brass buttons to his coat, and large white wristbands over his knuckles ; and indeed looked so grand, that X imag- ined he beheld a member of Parliament, or a person of consid- eration before him. Whatever his rank, however, the M.P., or person of consideration, was considerably excited by wine ; for he lurched and reeled somewhat in his gait, and his hat was cocked over his wild and bloodshot eyes in a manner which no sober hat ever could assume. His copious black hair was evi- dently surreptitious, and his whiskers of the Tvrian purple. As Strong's laughter, following after one of his own gro$ mots, came ringing out of window, this gentleman without laughed and sniggered in the queerest wa}- likewise, and he slapped his thigh and winked at Jeames pensive in the portico, as much as to say, " Plush, my boy, isn't that a good story?" Jeames's attention had been gradually drawn from the moon in the heavens to this sublunary scene ; and he was puz- zled and alarmed by the appearance of the man in shiny boots. PENDENNIS. 38"/ •* A holtercation," he rcmarKed. afterwards, in the servants' hall — a "holtercation with a feller in the streets is never no good ; and indeed, he was not hired for any such purpose." So, naving surveyed the man for some time, w'ho went on laughing, reeling, nodding his head with tips}" knowingness, Jcanies looked out of the portico, and softl}- called " Pleace- nian." and beckoned to that oHiccr. X marched up resolute, with one Berlin glove stuck in his. belt-side, and Jeames simply [)ointcd with his index finger to the individual who was laughing against the railings. Not one single word more than '* rieaceman," did he sa}-, but stood there in the calm summer evening, pointing calmly : a grand sight. X advanced to the individual and said, "Now, sir, will you have the kindness to move hon ? " The individual, who was in perfect good-humor, did not appear to hear one word which Policeman X uttered, but nod- ded, and waggled his grinning head at Strong, until his hat almost fell from his head over the area railings. " Now, sir, move on, do you hear?" cries X, in a much more peremptory tone, and he touched the stranger gently with one of the fingers inclosed in the gauntlets of the Berlin woof. He of the man}- rings instantl}- started, or rather staggered back, into what is called an attitude of self-defence, and in that position began the operation which is entitled " squaring," at Policeman X, and showed himself brave and warlike, if un- stead}-. "- IIuUo ! keep your hands off a gentleman," he said, with an oath which need not be repeated. " Move on out of this," said X, •' and don't be a blocking up the pavement, staring into gentlemen's dining-rooms." "•Not stare — ho, ho, — not stare — that is a good one," replied the other, with a satiric laugh and sneer, — " Who's to prevent me from staring, looking at my friends, if I like? not 30U, old highlows." ' " Friends ! 1 dessa}-. Move on," answered X. " If you touch me, Pll pitch into you, I will," roared the other. " I tell you I know 'em all — That's Sir Francis Clav- ering, Baronet, M.P. — I know him, and he knows me — and that's Strong, and that's the j'oung chap that made the row at the ball. I say. Strong, Strong I " " It's that d Altarnont," cried Sir Francis within, with a start and a giiilt}^ look ; and Strong also, with a look of an- no}ance, got up from the table and ran out to the intruder. •588 PEXDEXNTS A gentleman in a white waistcoat, running out from a din ing-room bare-headed, a poHceman, and an individual decently attired, engaged in almost fisticuffs on the pavement, were enough to make a crowd, even in that quiet neighborhood, at half past eight o'clock in the evening, and a small mob began to assemble before Sir Francis Clavering's door. " For God's sake, come in," Strong said, seizing his acquaintance's arm. '' Send for a cab, James, if you please," he added in an under voice to that domestic; and carrying the excited gentleman out of the street, the outer door was closed upon him, and the small crowd began to move away. Mr. Strong had intended to convey the stranger into Sir Francis's private sitting-room, where the hats of the male guests were awaiting them, and having there soothed his friend by bland conversation, to ha\e carried him off as soon as the cab arrived — but the new-comer was in a great state of wrath at the indignity which had been put upon him ; and when Strong would have led him into the second door, said in a tipsy voice, " That ain't the door — that's the dining-room door — where the drink's going on — and I'll go and have some, by Jove ; I'll go and have some." At this audacity the butler stood aghast in the hall, and placed himself before the dooi- : but it opened behind him, and the master of the house made his ap- pearance, with anxious looks. "I tvill have some,— by I will," the intruder was roaring out, as Sir Francis came forward. "Hullo! Claver- ing, I say I'm come to have some wine with 30U ; hay I old boy — hay, old corkscrew? Get us a bottle of the yellow seal. you old thief — the very best — a hundred rupees a' dozen, and no mistake." The host reflected a moment over his company. There is only Welbore, Pendennis, and those two lads, he thought ~ and with a forced laugh and piteous look, he said, — ''"^Vell, Altamont, come in. I am very glad to see you, I'm sure." ) Colonel Altamont, for the intelligent reader has doubtless long ere this discovered in the stranger His Excellency the Ambassador of the Nawaub of Lncknow, reeled into the dining- room, with a triumphant look towards Jeames, the footman, which seemed to say, " There, sir, what do you think of that? J^oiv, am I a gentleman or no?" and sanlc down into the first \aeant chair. Sir Fi-ancis Clavering timidly stammered out the Colonel's name to his guest Mr. NVelbore* Welbore. and his Fxcellency began drinking wine fortliwith and gazing round upon the compan}-, now with tlie most wonderful frowns, and TEN DENNIS. 389 anon wilh the blandest sniik's, ainl liki.ii|ip<'(l rciiiarkss encomi- astic of the drink which lie was imbibing. •• Very singular man. Has resided long in a native court in India," Strong said, wilh great gravity, the Chevalier's presence of mind never deserting him — "in those Indian courts they get very singular habits." '•"Very," said Major Pendennis, dryly, and wondering what in goodness' name was the company into whith he h.id got. Mr. Foker was pleased with the new-comer. "It's the man who would sing the Malay song at the Back Kitchen." he whispered to Pen. ''Try this pine, sir," he then said to Colonel Altamont, " it's uncommonly fine." "Pines — I've seen 'em feed pigs on pines," said the Colo- nel. "'AH the Nawaub of Lucknow's pigs are fed on pines," Strong whispered to Major Pendennis. "Oh, of course," the Major answered. Sir Francis Clav- ering was, in the meanwhile, endeavoring to make an excuse to his brother guest, for the new-comer's condition, and mut- tered something regaixling Altamont, that he was an extraor- dinary character, very eccentric, very — had Indian habits — didn't understand the rules of English society : to which old Welbore, a shrewd old gentleman, who drank his wine with gi-eat regularity, said, "that seemed pretty clear." Then, the Colonel seeing Pen's honest face, regarded it for a while with as much steadiness as became his condition ; and said, "I know 3'ou, too, young fellow. I remember j'ou. Bay mouth ball, by jingo. Wanted to fight the Frenchman, /remember 3'ou ; " and he laughed, and he squared with his fists, and seemed hugely amused in the drunken depths of his mind, as these recollections passed, or, rather, reelecl across it. " Mr. Pendennis. you remember Colonel Altamont, at Bay- mouth?" Strong said : upon which Pen, bowing rather stiffly, said, '"he had the pleasure of remembering that circumstance perfectly." '• W'/uii's Iiis name?" cried the Colonel. Strong named Mr. Pendennis again. " Pendennis I — Pendennis be hanged!" Altamont roared out to the surprise of ever}- one, and thumping with his fisl on the table. '• My name is also Pendennis, sir," said the Major, whose dignity was exceedingly mortified by the evening's events — that he, Major Pendennis, should have been asked to such a party, and that a drunken man should have been introduced tc 390 PENDENXIS. It. •' M}- name is Pendennis, and T will bo obliged to you not to curse it too loudly." The tipsy man turned round to look at him, and as he looked, it appeared as if Colonel Altamont suddenh' grew sober. He put his hand across his forehead, and in doing so, displaced somewhat the black wig which he wore ; and his eyea stared fiercely at the Major, who. in his turn, like a resolute old warrior us he was, looked at his opponent verj' keenly and steadily. At the end of the mutual inspection, Altamont began to button up his brass-buttoned coat, and rising up from his chair suddenl}-, and to the company's astonishment, reeled towards the door, and issued from it, followed by Strong : all that the latter heard him utter was — ' ' Captain Beak ! Cap- tain Beak, by jingo ! " There had not passed above a quarter of an hour from his strange appearance to his equally' sudden departure. The two young men and the Baronet's other guest wondered at the scene, and could find no explanation for it. Clavering seemed exceedingi}' pale and agitated, and turned with looks of almost terror towards Major Pendennis The latter had been eying his host keeuh' for a minute or two. '' Do you know him?" asked Sir Francis of the Major. "I am sure I have seen the fellow," the Major replied, looking as if he, too, was puzzled. " Yes, I have it. He was a deserter from the Horse Artillery, who got into the Nawaub's service. I remember his face quite well." "Oh!" said Clavering, with a sigh which indicated im- mense relief of mind, and the Major looked at him with a twinkle of his sharp old e^'es. The cab which Strong had de- sired to be called, drove away with the Chevalier and Colonel Altamont ; coffee was brought to the remaining gentlemen, and they went up stairs to the ladies in the drawing-room, Foker declaring confidentially to Pen that "this was the rummest go he ever saw," which decision Pen said, laughing, " showed great discrimination on Mr. Foker's part." Then, according to her promise. Miss Amory made music for the 3'oung men. Foker was enraptured with her perform- ance, and kindly joined in the airs which she sang, when he happened to be acquainted with them. Pen affected to talk aside with others of the part}-, but Blanche brought hira quickly to the piano, b}' singing some of his own words, those which we have given in a previous number, indeed, and which the Sylphide had herself, she said, set to music. I don't know whether the air was hers, or how much of it was arranged for PENDENNIS. 391 her by Signor Twankidillo, from whom she took lessons -. "but good or bad, original or otherwise, it dehghted Mr. Pen, who remained by her side, and turned the leaves now for her most assiduously — " Gad I how I wish I could write verses like you. Pen," Foker sighed afterwards to iiis companion. "-If I could do 'em, wouldn't I, that's all? But I never was a dab at writ- ing you see, and Pm son-y I was so idle when I was at school." No mention was made before the ladies of the curious little scene which had been transacted below^ stairs ; although Pen was just on the point of describing it to Miss Amor3', when that young lad}- inquired for Captain Strong, who she wished should join her in a duet. But chancing to look up towards Sir Francis Clavering, Arthur saw a peculiar expression of alarm in the baronet's ordinaril}- vacuous face, and discreetly held his tongue. It was rather a dull evening. Welbore went to sleep, as he alwa3's did at music and aftc dinner : nor did Major Pendennis entertain the ladies with copious anecdotes and endless little scandalous stories, as his wont was, but sat silent for the most part, and appeared to be listening to the music, and watching the fair young performer. The hour of departure having arrived, the Major rose, re- gretting that so delightful an evening should have passed awaj' so quickl}^ and addressed a particular!}' fine compliment to Miss Amory, upon her splendid talents as a singer. '"Your daughter. Lady Clavering," he said to that lady, " is a perfect nightingale — a perfect nightingale, begad ! I have scarcely ever heard anything equal to her, and her pronunciation of every language — begad, of every language — seems to me to be perfect ; and the best houses in London must open before a young lady who has such talents, and, allow an old fellow to say. Miss Amory, such a face." Blanche was as much astonished by these compliments as Pen was, to whom his uncle, a little time since, had beer, speaking in very disparaging terms of the Sylph. The Majcr and the two young men walked home together, after INIr. Foker had placed his mother in her carriage, and procured a light for an enormous cigar. The young gentleman's company or his tobacco did not appear to be agreeable to Major Pendennis, who eyed him askance several times, and with a look which plainly indicated that he wished Mi-. Foker would take his leave ; but Foker hung on resolutely to the uncle and nephew, even until they came to the former's door in Bury Street, where the Major wislied the lads good night. 392 PENDENWiS. "And I say, Pen," he said in a confidential wliisper, call- ing his nephew back, *•• inind .yoii make a point of calling in Grosvenov Place to-morrow. They've been uncommonly civil ; mons'ously civil and kind." Pen promised and wondered, and the Major's door having been closed upon him by Morgan, Foker took Pen's arm, and walked with him ibr some time silently puffing his cigar. At last, when they had reached Charing Cross on Arthur's way home to the Temple, Harry Foker relieved himself, and broke out with that eulogium upon poetry, and those regrets regard- ing a misspent youth which have just been mentioned. And all the way along the Strand, and up to the door of Pen's very staircase, m Lamb Court, Temple, young Harry Foker did not :ease to speak about singing and P>Wnehe Ainor\-. — , UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. ^ISfiGGI SEP 1963 t^\ FormL9-50»i-9,'60(B3610&4)444 I'i f'H UC SOUTHERf\i REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 380 256 5CoOO vol UNIVERSITY of CALIFORNnr AT LOS ANGELIiJa LIBRARY