A Crisis
Meanwhile they were wondering at Fairoaks that the Major had not
returned. Dr. Portman and his lady, on their way home to Clavering,
stopped at Helen’s lodge-gate, with a brief note for her from Major
Pendennis, in which he said he should remain at Chatteris another day,
being anxious to have some talk with Messrs. Tatham, the lawyers, whom
he would meet that afternoon; but no mention was made of the
transaction in which the writer had been engaged during the morning.
Indeed the note was written at the pause after the first part of the
engagement, and when the Major had decidedly had the worst of the
battle.
Pen did not care somehow to go into the town whilst his uncle was
there. He did not like to have to fancy that his guardian might be
spying at him from that abominable Dean’s grass-plat, whilst he was
making love in Miss Costigan’s drawing-room; and the pleasures of a
walk (a delight which he was very rarely permitted to enjoy) would have
been spoiled if he had met the man of the polished boots on that
occasion. His modest love could not show in public by any outward
signs, except the eyes (with which the poor fellow ogled and gazed
violently to be sure), but it was dumb in the presence of third
parties; and so much the better, for of all the talk which takes place
in this world, that of love-makers is surely, to the uninitiated, the
most silly. It is the vocabulary without the key; it is the lamp
without the flame. Let the respected reader look or think over some old
love-letters that he (or she) has had and forgotten, and try them over
again. How blank and meaningless they seem! What glamour of infatuation
was it which made that nonsense beautiful? One wonders that such puling
and trash could ever have made one happy. And yet there were dates when
you kissed those silly letters with rapture—lived upon six absurd lines
for a week, and until the reactionary period came, when you were
restless and miserable until you got a fresh supply of folly.
That is why we decline to publish any of the letters and verses which
Mr. Pen wrote at this period of his life, out of mere regard for the
young fellow’s character. They are too spooney and wild. Young ladies
ought not to be called upon to read them in cold blood. Bide your time,
young women; perhaps you will get and write them on your own account
soon. Meanwhile we will respect Mr. Pen’s first outpourings, and keep
them tied up in the newspapers with Miss Fotheringay’s string, and
sealed with Captain Costigan’s great silver seal.
The Major came away 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 anything in the shape of a
gentleman to carry it, I have the greatest mind in life not to baulk
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 behaviour, but stated that the affair was a very
ugly and disagreeable one, and that it was by no means over yet.
He enjoined Doctor and Mrs. Portman to say nothing about the business
at Fairoaks; whither he contented himself with despatching the note we
have before mentioned. And then he returned to his hotel, where he
vented his wrath upon Mr. Morgan his valet, “dammin and cussin upstairs
and downstairs,” as that gentleman observed to Mr. Foker’s man, in
whose company he partook of dinner in the servants’ room of the George.
The servant 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.
Major Pendennis had some business, as he had stated, respecting a lease
of the widow’s, about which he was desirous of consulting old Mr.
Tatham, the lawyer, who had been his brother’s man of business, and who
had a branch-office at Clavering, where he and his son attended market
and other days 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, “O,
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
off the embroidered tarboosh or fez (it had been worked by the fondest
of mothers) and advanced, bowing to the gentlemen and smiling on them
graciously. Mr. Tatham had never seen so splendid an apparition 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 my
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 humour, and it smoothed the wrinkles under
Pendennis’s head of hair.
“I have had an interview with that Irishman (you may speak before my
friend, Mr. Tatham here, who knows all the affairs of the family), and
it has not, I own, been very satisfactory. He won’t believe that my
nephew is poor: he says we are both liars: he did me the honour to hint
that I was a coward, as I took leave. And I thought when you 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 patronise 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?”—Mr. Tatham,
who never entered the walls of a theatre, had heard nothing: and Major
Pendennis had to recount the story of his nephew’s loves to the lawyer,
Mr. Foker coming in with appropriate comments in his usual familiar
language.
Tatham was lost in wonder at the narrative. Why had not Mrs. Pendennis
married a serious man, he thought—Mr. Tatham was a widower—and kept
this unfortunate boy from perdition? As for Mr. Costigan’s daughter, he
would say nothing: her profession was sufficient to characterise her.
Mr. Foker here interposed to say he had known some uncommon good people
in the booths, as he called the Temple of the Muses. Well, it might be
so, Mr. Tatham hoped so—but the father, Tatham knew personally—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
ascertain the truth of the statements which you made him.—We have a
writ out against him and another disreputable 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 crying to Mr. Skinner,—crying in
the shop, sir,—and we have not proceeded against him or the other, as
neither were worth powder and shot.”
It was whilst Mr. Tatham was engaged in telling this 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 honour 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 my friend Captain Costigan,”—but here the man with the
bass voice paused, faltered, and turned pale—he caught sight of the red
and well-remembered face of Mr. Tatham.
“Hullo, Garbetts, speak up!” cried Mr. 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 Banquo’s ghost appears upon him, gasped some
inarticulate words, and fled out of the room.
The Major’s gravity was also 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 serious 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, Mr. Tatham—may send
the bailiffs to separate the men;” and Mr. Tatham promised to do so.
The Major was by no means sorry at the ludicrous issue of the quarrel.
“It seems to me, sir,” he said to Mr. Foker, “that you always arrive to
put me into good-humour.”
Nor was this the only occasion on which 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 pay the General a visit, and hear from
his own lips what had occurred in the conversation, in the morning,
with Mr. Pendennis. Captain 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 knew it too, and liked to take out his courage, and,
as it were, give it an airing in company.
Costigan then was absent, but Miss Fotheringay was at home washing the
tea-cups whilst Mr. Bows sate opposite to her.
“Just done breakfast I see—how do?” said Mr. Foker, popping in his
little funny head.
“Get out, you funny 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 rapidity, 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-humoured
slap. Pen used to tremble as he kissed her hand. Pen would have died of
a slap.
These preliminaries over, the three began to talk; Mr. Foker amused his
companions by recounting to them the scene which he had just witnessed
of the discomfiture of Mr. Garbetts, by which they learned, for the
first time, how far the General had carried his wrath against Major
Pendennis. Foker spoke strongly in favour of the Major’s character for
veracity and honour, 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 young woman as Miss Foth.
He touched delicately upon the delicate marriage question, 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, nodding his little head. “Couldn’t do. Didn’t like
to put my hand 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 sadly.
“Poor little beggar,” said Bows, with his hands in his pockets, and
stealing up a queer look at Miss Fotheringay. Perhaps he thought and
wondered at the way 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
Miss Fotheringay 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, only she couldn’t send away
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 likely
the large image of Lieutenant Sir Derby Oaks entered into her mind at
that instant.
After praising Major Pendennis, whom Miss Costigan declared to be a
proper gentleman entirely, smelling of lavender, and as neat as a
pin,—and who was pronounced by 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 very evening at dinner
at his apartment at the George. “He agreed to dine with me, and I think
after the—after the little shindy 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 may 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 beyond the Rule of
Three. Now, for lobster-salad and champagne in an honourable manner,
Miss Costigan would have gone anywhere—and Major Pendennis actually
found himself at seven o’clock seated at a dinner-table in company with
Mr. Bows, a professional fiddler, and Miss Costigan, whose father had
wanted to blow his brains out a few hours before.
To make the happy meeting complete, Mr. Foker, who knew Costigan’s
haunts, despatched Stoopid to the club at the Magpie, where the General
was in the act of singing a pathetic song, and brought him off to
supper. To find his daughter and Bows seated at the board was a
surprise indeed—Major Pendennis laughed, and cordially held out his
hand, which the General Officer grasped avec effusion as the French
say. In fact he was considerably inebriated, and had already been
crying over his own song before he joined the little party at the
George. He burst into tears more than once, during the entertainment,
and called the Major his dearest friend. Stoopid and Mr. Foker walked
home with him: the Major gallantly giving his arm to Miss Costigan. He
was received with great friendliness when he called the next day, when
many civilities passed between the gentlemen. On taking leave he
expressed his anxious desire to serve Miss Costigan on any occasion in
which he could be useful to her, and he shook hands with Mr. Foker most
cordially and gratefully, and said that gentleman had done him the very
greatest service.
“All right,” said Mr. Foker: and they 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 had passed it. But he engaged Mr. Smirke to stop to
dinner; and any person accustomed to watch his manner might have
remarked that there was something constrained in his hilarity and
talkativeness, and that he was unusually gracious and watchful in his
communications 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 was going to say something 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 everybody there with great cordiality. The post
used to arrive commonly about the end of this meal. When John, the old
servant, entered, and discharged the bag of its letters and papers, the
Major looked hard at Pen as the lad got his—Arthur blushed, and put his
letter down. He knew the hand, it was that of old Costigan, and he did
not care to read it in public. Major Pendennis 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
dislike to him; and as the door closed on her, he took Mrs. Pendennis’s
hand, and giving her a look full of meaning, pointed to the letter
under the newspaper which Pen was pretending to read. “Will you come
into the drawing-room?” he said. “I want to speak to you.” 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. I dictated it myself yesterday. There are a
few lines from the lady, too, bidding him farewell. It is all over.”
Helen ran back to 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 kindness with which Arthur had treated his
daughter, but that he was only now made aware of Mr. Pendennis’s
peecupiary circumstances. They were such that marriage was at present
out of the question, and considering the great disparity in the age of
the two, a future union was impossible. Under these circumstances, and
with the deepest regret and esteem for him, Mr. Costigan bade Arthur
farewell, and suggested that he should cease visiting, for some time at
least, at his house.
A few lines from Miss Costigan were enclosed. She acquiesced in the
decision of her Papa. She pointed out that she was many years older
than Arthur, and that an engagement 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 eyes. He looked up wildly, and saw his
mother and uncle regarding him with sad faces. Helen’s, indeed, was
full of tender maternal anxiety.
“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.”
“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 away.
“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 family, 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 you 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 years older than
you 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, crumpling up the
paper.
“Won’t you take my word of honour? Her letters were written by a
confidant of hers, who writes better than she can—look here. Here’s one
from the lady to your 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 say 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? Nonsense, sir. Be a
man, and remember that your mother is a lady. She was never made to
associate with that tipsy 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, wisely
judging that they were best alone.
He had won a complete victory. He actually had brought away Pen’s
letters in his portmanteau from Chatteris: having complimented Mr.
Costigan, when he returned them, by 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 day, they came upon Emily on her father’s arm. She
passed without any nod of recognition. Foker felt poor Pen trembling on
his arm.
His uncle wanted him to travel, to quit the country 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 Fotheringay 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 fetching 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 dreary journal of his despair and
passion. Have not other gentlemen been baulked in love besides Mr. Pen?
Yes, indeed: but few die of the malady.