The happy Village again
Early in this history, we have had occasion to speak of the little town
of Clavering, near which Pen’s paternal home of Fairoaks stood, and of
some of the people who inhabite the place; and as the society there was
by no means amusing or pleasant, our reports concerning it were not
carried to any very great length. Mr. Samuel Huxter, the gentleman
whose acquaintance we lately made at Vauxhall, was one of the choice
spirits of the little town, when he visited it during his vacation, and
enlivened the tables of his friends there, by the wit of Bartholomew’s
and the gossip of the fashionable London circles which he frequented.
Mr. Hobnell, the young gentleman whom Pen had thrashed in consequence
of the quarrel in the Fotheringay affair, was, whilst a pupil at the
Grammar School at Clavering, made very welcome at the tea-table of Mrs.
Huxter, Samuel’s mother, and was free of the surgery, where he knew the
way to the tamarind-pots, and could scent his pocket-handkerchief with
rose-water. And it was at this period of his life that he formed an
attachment for Miss Sophy Huxter, whom, on his father’s demise, he
married, and took home to his house of the Warren, at a few miles from
Clavering.
The family had possessed and cultivated an estate there for many years,
as yeomen and farmers. Mr. Hobnell’s father pulled down the old
farmhouse; built a flaring new whitewashed mansion, with capacious
stables; and a piano in the drawing-room; kept a pack of harriers; and
assumed the title of Squire Hobnell. When he died, and his son reigned
in his stead, the family might be fairly considered to be established
as county gentry. And Sam Huxter, at London, did no great wrong in
boasting about his brother-in-law’s place, his hounds, horses, and
hospitality, to his admiring comrades at Bartholomew’s. Every year, at
a time commonly when Mrs. Hobnell could not leave the increasing duties
of her nursery, Hobnell came up to London for a lark, had rooms at the
Tavistock, and he and Sam indulged in the pleasures of the town
together. Ascot, the theatres, Vauxhall, and the convivial taverns in
the joyous neighbourhood of Covent Garden, were visited by the
vivacious squire, in company with his learned brother. When he was in
London, as he said, he liked to do as London does, and to “go it a
bit,” and when he returned to the west, he took a new bonnet and shawl
to Mrs. Hobnell, and relinquished, for country sports and occupations
during the next eleven months, the elegant amusements of London life.
Sam Huxter kept up a correspondence with his relative, and supplied him
with choice news of the metropolis, in return for the baskets of hares,
partridges, and clouted cream which the squire and his good-natured
wife forwarded to Sam. A youth more brilliant and distinguished they
did not know. He was the life and soul of their house, when he made his
appearance in his native place. His songs, jokes, and fun kept the
Warren in a roar. He had saved their eldest darling’s life, by taking a
fish-bone out of her throat: in fine, he was the delight of their
circle.
As ill-luck would have it, Pen again fell in with Mr. Huxter, only
three days after the rencontre at Vauxhall. Faithful to his vow, he had
not been to see little Fanny. He was trying to drive her from his mind
by occupation, or other mental excitement. He laboured, though not to
much profit, incessantly in his rooms; and, in his capacity of critic
for the Pall Mall Gazette, made woeful and savage onslaught on a poem
and a romance which came before him for judgment. These authors slain,
he went to dine alone at the lonely club of the Polyanthus, where the
vast solitudes frightened him, and made him only the more moody. He had
been to more theatres for relaxation. The whole house was roaring with
laughter and applause, and he saw only an ignoble farce that made him
sad. It would have damped the spirits of the buffoon on the stage to
have seen Pen’s dismal face. He hardly knew what was happening; the
scene and the drama passed before him like a dream or a fever. Then he
thought he would go to the Back Kitchen, his old haunt with
Warrington—he was not a bit sleepy yet. The day before he had walked
twenty miles in search after rest, over Hampstead Common and Hendon
lanes, and had got no sleep at night. He would go to the Back Kitchen.
It was a sort of comfort to him to think he should see Bows. Bows was
there, very calm, presiding at the old piano. Some tremendous comic
songs were sung, which made the room crack with laughter. How strange
they seemed to Pen! He could only see Bows. In an extinct volcano, such
as he boasted that his breast was, it was wonderful how he should feel
such a flame! Two days’ indulgence had kindled it; two days’ abstinence
had set it burning in fury. So, musing upon this, and drinking down one
glass after another, as ill luck would have it, Arthur’s eyes lighted
upon Mr. Huxter, who had been to the theatre, like himself, and, with
two or three comrades, now entered the room. Huxter whispered to his
companions, greatly to Pen’s annoyance. Arthur felt that the other was
talking about him. Huxter then worked through the room, followed by his
friends, and came and took a place opposite Pen, nodding familiarly to
him, and holding him out a dirty hand to shake.
Pen shook hands with his fellow-townsman. He thought he had been
needlessly savage to him on the last night when they had met. As for
Huxter, perfectly at good-humour with himself, and the world, it never
entered his mind that he could be disagreeable to anybody; and the
little dispute, or “chaff,” as he styled it, of Vauxhall, was a trifle
which he did not in the least regard.
The disciple of Galen having called for “four stouts,” with which he
and his party refreshed themselves, began to think what would be the
most amusing topic of conversation with Pen, and hit upon that precise
one which was most painful to our young gentleman.
“Jolly night at Vauxhall—wasn’t it?” he said, and winked in a very
knowing way.
“I’m glad you liked it,” poor Pen said, groaning in spirit.
“I was dev’lish cut—uncommon—been dining with some chaps at Greenwich.
That was a pretty bit of muslin hanging on your arm—who was she?” asked
the fascinating student.
The question was too much for Arthur. “Have I asked you any questions
about yourself, Mr. Huxter?” he said.
“I didn’t mean any offence—beg pardon—hang it, you cut up quite
savage,” said Pen’s astonished interlocutor.
“Do you remember what took place between us the other night?” Pen
asked, with gathering wrath. “You forget? Very probably. You were
tipsy, as you observed just now, and very rude.”
“Hang it, sir, I asked your pardon,” Huxter said, looking red.
“You did certainly, and it was granted with all my heart. I am sure.
But if you recollect, I begged that you would have the goodness to omit
me from the list of your acquaintance for the future; and when we met
in public, that you would not take the trouble to recognise me. Will
you please to remember this, hereafter? and as the song is beginning,
permit me to leave you to the unrestrained enjoyment of the music.”
He took his hat, and making a bow to the amazed Mr. Huxter left the
table, as Huxter’s comrades, after a pause of wonder, set up such a
roar of laughter at Huxter, as called for the intervention of the
president of the room; who bawled out, “Silence, gentlemen; do have
silence for the Body Snatcher!” which popular song began as Pen left
the Back Kitchen. He flattered himself that he had commanded his temper
perfectly. He rather wished that Huxter had been pugnacious. He would
have liked to fight him or somebody. He went home. The day’s work, the
dinner, the play, the whisky-and-water, the quarrel,—nothing soothed
him. He slept no better than on the previous night.
A few days afterwards, Mr. Sam Huxter wrote home a letter to Mr.
Hobnell in the country, of which Mr. Arthur Pendennis formed the
principal subject. Sam described Arthur’s pursuits in London, and his
confounded insolence of behaviour to his old friends from home. He said
he was an abandoned criminal, a regular Don Juan, a fellow who, when he
did come into the country, ought to be kept out of honest people’s
houses. He had seen him at Vauxhall, dancing with an innocent girl in
the lower ranks of life, of whom he was making a victim. He had found
out from an Irish gentleman (formerly in the army), who frequented a
club of which he, Huxter, was member, who the girl was, on whom this
conceited humbug was practising his infernal arts; and he thought he
should warn her father, etc. etc.,—the letter then touched on general
news, conveyed the writer’s thanks for the last parcel and the rabbits,
and hinted his extreme readiness for further favours.
About once a year, as we have stated, there was occasion for a
christening at the Warren, and it happened that this ceremony took
place a day after Hobnell had received the letter of his brother-in-law
in town. The infant (a darling little girl) was christened Myra
Lucretia, after its two godmothers, Miss Portman and Mrs. Pybus of
Clavering, and as of course Hobnell had communicated Sam’s letter to
his wife, Mrs. Hobnell imparted its horrid contents to her two gossips.
A pretty story it was, and prettily it was told throughout Clavering in
the course of that day.
Myra did not—she was too much shocked to do so—speak on the matter to
her mamma, but Mrs. Pybus had no such feelings of reserve. She talked
over the matter not only with Mrs. Portman, but with Mr. and the
Honourable Mrs. Simcoe, with Mrs. Glanders, her daughters being to that
end ordered out of the room, with Madame Fribsby, and, in a word, with
the whole of the Clavering society. Madame Fribsby looking furtively up
at her picture of the dragoon, and inwards into her own wounded memory,
said that men would be men, and as long as they were men would be
deceivers; and she pensively quoted some lines from Marmion, requesting
to know where deceiving lovers should rest? Mrs. Pybus had no words of
hatred, horror, contempt, strong enough for a villain who could be
capable of conduct so base. This was what came of early indulgence, and
insolence, and extravagance, and aristocratic airs (it is certain that
Pen had refused to drink tea with Mrs. Pybus), and attending the
corrupt and horrid parties in the dreadful modern Babylon! Mrs. Portman
was afraid that she must acknowledge that the mother’s fatal partiality
had spoiled this boy, that his literary successes had turned his head,
and his horrid passions had made him forget the principles which Doctor
Portman had instilled into him in early life. Glanders, the atrocious
Captain of Dragoons, when informed of the occurrence by Mrs. Glanders,
whistled and made jocular allusions to it at dinner-time; on which Mrs.
Glanders called him a brute, and ordered the girls again out of the
room, as the horrid Captain burst out laughing. Mr. Simcoe was calm
under the intelligence; but rather pleased than otherwise; it only
served to confirm the opinion which he had always had of that wretched
young man: not that he knew anything about him—not that he had read one
line of his dangerous and poisonous works; Heaven forbid that he
should: but what could be expected from such a youth, and such
frightful, such lamentable, such deplorable want of seriousness? Pen
formed the subject for a second sermon at the Clavering chapel-of-ease:
where the dangers of London, and the crime of reading or writing
novels, were pointed out on a Sunday evening to a large and warm
congregation. They did not wait to hear whether he was guilty or not.
They took his wickedness for granted: and with these admirable
moralists, it was who should fling the stone at poor Pen.
The next day Mrs. Pendennis, alone and almost fainting with emotion and
fatigue, walked or rather ran to Dr. Portman’s house to consult the
good Doctor. She had had an anonymous letter;—some Christian had
thought it his or her duty to stab the good soul who had never done
mortal a wrong—an anonymous letter with references to Scripture,
pointing out the doom of such sinners and a detailed account of Pen’s
crime. She was in a state of terror and excitement pitiable to witness.
Two or three hours of this pain had aged her already. In her first
moment of agitation she had dropped the letter, and Laura had read it.
Laura blushed when she read it; her whole frame trembled, but it was
with anger. “The cowards,” she said.—It isn’t true.—No, mother, it
isn’t true.”
“It is true, and you’ve done it, Laura,” cried out Helen fiercely. “Why
did you refuse him when he asked you? Why did you break my heart and
refuse him? It is you who led him into crime. It is you who flung him
into the arms of this—this woman.—Don’t speak to me.—Don’t answer me. I
will never forgive you, never. Martha, bring me my bonnet and shawl.
I’ll go out. I won’t have you come with me. Go away. Leave me, cruel
girl; why have you brought this shame on me?” And bidding her daughter
and her servants keep away from her, she ran down the road to
Clavering.
Doctor Portman, glancing over the letter, thought he knew the
handwriting, and, of course, was already acquainted with the charge
made against poor Pen. Against his own conscience, perhaps (for the
worthy Doctor, like most of us, had a considerable natural aptitude for
receiving any report unfavourable to his neighbours), he strove to
console Helen; he pointed out that the slander came from an anonymous
quarter, and therefore must be the work of a rascal; that the charge
might not be true—was not true, most likely—at least, that Pen must be
heard before he was condemned; that the son of such a mother was not
likely to commit such a crime, etc. etc.
Helen at once saw through his feint of objection and denial. “You think
he has done it,” she said,—“you know you think he has done it. Oh, why
did I ever leave him, Doctor Portman, or suffer him away from me? But
he can’t be dishonest—pray God, not dishonest—you don’t think that, do
you? Remember his conduct about that other—person—how madly he was
attached to her. He was an honest boy then—he is now. And I thank
God—yes, I fall down on my knees and thank God he paid Laura. You said
he was good—you did yourself. And now—if this woman loves him—and you
know they must—if he has taken her from her home, or she tempted him,
which is most likely—why still, she must be his wife and my daughter.
And he must leave the dreadful world and come back to me—to his mother,
Doctor Portman. Let us go away and bring him back—yes—bring him
back—and there shall be joy for the—the sinner that repenteth. Let us
go now, directly, dear friend—this very——”
Helen could say no more. She fell back and fainted. She was carried to
a bed in the house of the pitying Doctor, and the surgeon was called to
attend her. She lay all night in an alarming state. Laura came to her,
or to the rectory rather; for she would not see Laura. And Doctor
Portman, still beseeching her to be tranquil, and growing bolder and
more confident of Arthur’s innocence as he witnessed the terrible grief
of the poor mother, wrote a letter to Pen warning him of the rumours
that were against him and earnestly praying that he would break off and
repent of a connexion so fatal to his best interests and his soul’s
welfare.
And Laura?—was her heart not wrung by the thought of Arthur’s crime and
Helen’s estrangement? Was it not a bitter blow for the innocent girl to
think that at one stroke she should lose all the love which she cared
for in the world?