Which accounts perhaps for Chapter LXI.
The information regarding the affairs of the Clavering family, which
Major Pendennis had acquired through Strong, and by his own personal
interference as the friend of the house, was such as almost made the
old gentleman pause in any plans which he might have once entertained
for his nephew’s benefit. To bestow upon Arthur a wife with two such
fathers-in-law, as the two worthies whom the guileless and unfortunate
Lady Clavering had drawn in her marriage ventures, was to benefit no
man. And though the one, in a manner, neutralised the other, and the
appearance of Amory or Altamont in public would be the signal for his
instantaneous withdrawal and condign punishment,—for the fugitive
convict had cut down the officer in charge of him,—and a rope would be
inevitably his end; if he came again under British authorities; yet, no
guardian would like to secure for his ward a wife, whose parent was to
be got rid of in such a way; and the old gentleman’s notion always had
been that Altamont, with the gallows before his eyes, would assuredly
avoid recognition; while, at the same time, by holding the threat of
his discovery over Clavering, the latter, who would lose everything by
Amory’s appearance, would be a slave in the hands of the person who
knew so fatal a secret.
But if the Begum paid Clavering’s debts many times more, her wealth
would be expended altogether upon this irreclaimable reprobate; and her
heirs, whoever they might be, would succeed but to an emptied treasury;
and Miss Amory, instead of bringing her husband a good income and a
seat in Parliament, would bring to that individual her person only, and
her pedigree with that lamentable note of sus. per coll. at the name of
the last male of her line.
There was, however, to the old schemer revolving these things in his
mind, another course yet open; the which will appear to the reader who
may take the trouble to peruse a conversation, which presently ensued,
between Major Pendennis and the honourable Baronet, the Member for
Clavering.
When a man, under pecuniary difficulties, disappears from among his
usual friends and equals,—dives out of sight, as it were, from the
flock of birds in which he is accustomed to sail, it is wonderful at
what strange and distant nooks he comes up again for breath. I have
known a Pall Mall lounger and Rotten Row buck, of no inconsiderable
fashion, vanish from amongst his comrades of the Clubs and the Park,
and be discovered, very happy and affable, at an eighteenpenny ordinary
in Billingsgate: another gentleman, of great learning and wit, when
outrunning the constable (were I to say he was a literary man, some
critics would vow that I intended to insult the literary profession),
once sent me his address at a little public-house called the “Fox under
the Hill,” down a most darksome and cavernous archway in the Strand.
Such a man, under such misfortunes, may have a house, but he is never
in his house; and has an address where letters may be left; but only
simpletons go with the hopes of seeing him.—Only a few of the faithful
know where he is to be found, and have the clue to his hiding-place.
So, after the disputes with his wife, and the misfortunes consequent
thereon, to find Sir Francis Clavering at home was impossible. “Ever
since I hast him for my book, which is fourteen pound, he don’t come
home till three o’clock, and purtends to be asleep when I bring his
water of a mornin’, and dodges hout when I’m downstairs,” Mr. Lightfoot
remarked to his friend Morgan; and announced that he should go down to
my Lady, and be butler there, and marry his old woman. In like manner,
after his altercations with Strong, the Baronet did not come near him,
and fled to other haunts, out of the reach of the Chevalier’s
reproaches;—out of the reach of conscience, if possible, which many of
us try to dodge and leave behind us by changes of scene and other
fugitive stratagems.
So, though the elder Pendennis, having his own ulterior object, was
bent upon seeing Pen’s country neighbour and representative in
Parliament, it took the Major no inconsiderable trouble and time before
he could get him into such a confidential state and conversation, as
were necessary for the ends which the Major had in view. For since the
Major had been called in as family friend, and had cognisance of
Clavering’s affairs, conjugal and pecuniary, the Baronet avoided him:
as he always avoided all his lawyers and agents when there was an
account to be rendered, or an affair of business to be discussed
between them; and never kept any appointment but when its object was
the raising of money. Thus, previous to catching this most shy and
timorous bird, the Major made more than one futile attempt to hold
him;—on one day it was a most innocent-looking invitation to dinner at
Greenwich, to meet a few friends; the Baronet accepted, suspected
something, and did not come; leaving the Major (who indeed proposed to
represent in himself the body of friends) to eat his whitebait
alone:—on another occasion the Major wrote and asked for ten minutes’
talk, and the Baronet instantly acknowledged the note, and made the
appointment at four o’clock the next day at Bays’s precisely (he
carefully underlined the “precisely”); but though four o’clock came, as
in the course of time and destiny it could not do otherwise, no
Clavering made his appearance. Indeed, if he had borrowed twenty pounds
of Pendennis, he could not have been more timid, or desirous of
avoiding the Major; and the latter found that it was one thing to seek
a man, and another to find him.
Before the close of that day in which Strong’s patron had given the
Chevalier the benefit of so many blessings before his face and curses
behind his back, Sir Francis Clavering, who had pledged his word and
his oath to his wife’s advisers to draw or accept no more bills of
exchange, and to be content with the allowance which his victimised
wife still awarded him, had managed to sign his respectable name to a
piece of stamped paper, which the Baronet’s friend, Mr. Moss Abrams,
had carried off, promising to have the bill “done” by a party with
whose intimacy Mr. Abrams was favoured. And it chanced that Strong
heard of this transaction at the place where the writings had been
drawn,—in the back-parlour, namely, of Mr. Santiago’s cigar-shop, where
the Chevalier was constantly in the habit of spending an hour in the
evening.
“He is at his old work again,” Mr. Santiago told his customer. “He and
Moss Abrams were in my parlour. Moss sent out my boy for a stamp. It
must have been a bill for fifty pound. I heard the Baronet tell Moss to
date it two months back. He will pretend that it is an old bill, and
that he forgot it when he came to a settlement with his wife the other
day. I dare say they will give him some more money now he is clear.” A
man who has the habit of putting his unlucky name to “promises to pay”
at six months, has the satisfaction of knowing, too, that his affairs
are known and canvassed, and his signature handed round among the very
worst knaves and rogues of London.
Mr. Santiago’s shop was close by St. James’s Street and Bury Street,
where we have had the honour of visiting our friend Major Pendennis in
his lodgings. The Major was walking daintily towards his apartment, as
Strong, burning with wrath and redolent of Havanna, strode along the
same pavement opposite to him.
“Confound these young men: how they poison everything with their
smoke,” thought the Major. “Here comes a fellow with mustachios and a
cigar. Every fellow who smokes and wears mustachios is a low fellow.
Oh! it’s Mr. Strong.—I hope you are well, Mr. Strong?” and the old
gentleman, making a dignified bow to the Chevalier, was about to pass
into his house; directing towards the lock of the door, with trembling
hand, the polished door-key.
We have said that, at the long and weary disputes and conferences
regarding the payment of Sir Francis Clavering’s last debts, Strong and
Pendennis had both been present as friends and advisers of the
Baronet’s unlucky family. Strong stopped and held out his hand to his
brother negotiator, and old Pendennis put out towards him a couple of
ungracious fingers.
“What is your good news?” said Major Pendennis, patronising the other
still further, and condescending to address to him an observation; for
old Pendennis had kept such good company all his life, that he vaguely
imagined he honoured common men by speaking to them. “Still in town,
Mr. Strong? I hope I see you well.”
“My news is bad news, sir,” Strong answered; “it concerns our friends
at Tunbridge Wells, and I should like to talk to you about it.
Clavering is at his old tricks again, Major Pendennis.”
“Indeed! Pray do me the favour to come into my lodging,” cried the
Major with awakened interest; and the pair entered and took possession
of his drawing-room. Here seated, Strong unburthened himself of his
indignation to the Major, and spoke at large of Clavering’s
recklessness and treachery. “No promises will bind him, sir,” he said.
“You remember when we met, sir, with my lady’s lawyer, how he wouldn’t
be satisfied with giving his honour, but wanted to take his oath on his
knees to his wife, and rang the bell for a Bible, and swore perdition
on his soul if he ever would give another bill. He has been signing one
this very day, sir: and will sign as many more as you please for ready
money: and will deceive anybody, his wife or his child, or his old
friend, who has backed him a hundred times. Why, there’s a bill of his
and mine will be due next week.”
“I thought we had paid all.”
“Not that one,” Strong said, blushing. “He asked me not to mention it,
and—and—I had half the money for that, Major; And they will be down on
me. But I don’t care for it; I’m used to it. It’s Lady Clavering that
riles me. It’s a shame that that good-natured woman, who has paid him
out of gaol a score of times, should be ruined by his heartlessness. A
parcel of bill-stealers boxers, any rascals, get his money; and he
don’t scruple to throw an honest fellow over. Would you believe it,
sir, he took money of Altamont—you know whom I mean.”
“Indeed? of that singular man, who I think came tipsy once to Sir
Francis’s house?” Major Pendennis said, with impenetrable countenance.
“Who is Altamont, Mr. Strong?”
“I am sure I don’t know, if you don’t know,” the Chevalier answered,
with a look of surprise and suspicion.
“To tell you frankly,” said the Major, “I have my suspicions—I
suppose—mind, I only suppose—that in our friend Clavering’s a life—who,
between you and me, Captain Strong, we must own about as loose a fish
as any in my acquaintance—there are, no doubt, some queer secrets and
stories which he would not like to have known: none of us would. And
very likely this fellow, who calls himself Altamont, knows some story
against Clavering, and has some hold on him, and gets money out of him
on the strength of his information. I know some of the best men of the
best families in England who are paying through the nose in that way.
But their private affairs are no business of mine, Mr. Strong; and it
is not to be supposed that because I go and dine with a man, I pry into
his secrets, or am answerable for all his past life. And so with our
friend Clavering, I am most interested for his wife’s sake, and her
daughter’s, who is a most charming creature: and when her ladyship
asked me, I looked into her affairs, and tried to set them straight;
and shall do so again, you understand, to the best of my humble power
and ability, if I can make myself useful. And if I am called upon—you
understand, if I am called upon—and—by the way, this Mr. Altamont, Mr.
Strong? How is this Mr. Altamont? I believe you are acquainted with
him. Is he in town?”
“I don’t know that I am called upon to know where he is, Major
Pendennis,” said Strong, rising and taking up his hat in dudgeon, for
the Major’s patronising manner and impertinence of caution offended the
honest gentleman not a little.
Pendennis’s manner altered at once from a tone of hauteur to one of
knowing good-humour. “Ah, Captain Strong, you are cautious too, I see;
and quite right, my good sir, quite right. We don’t know what ears
walls may have, sir, or to whom we may be talking; and as a man of the
world, and an old soldier,—an old and distinguished soldier, I have
been told, Captain Strong,—you know very well that there is no use in
throwing away your fire; you may have your ideas, and I may put two and
two together and have mine. But there are things which don’t concern
him that many a man had better not know, eh, Captain? and which I, for
one, won’t know until I have reason for knowing them: and that I
believe is your maxim too. With regard to our friend the Baronet, I
think with you, it would be most advisable that he should be checked in
his imprudent courses; and most strongly reprehend any man’s departure
from his word, or any conduct of his which can give any pain to his
family, or cause them annoyance in any way. That is my full and frank
opinion, and I am sure it is yours.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Strong, drily.
“I am delighted to hear it; delighted that an old brother soldier
should agree with me so fully. And I am exceedingly glad of the lucky
meeting which has procured me the good fortune of your visit. Good
evening. Thank you. Morgan, show the door to Captain Strong.”
And Strong, preceded by Morgan, took his leave of Major Pendennis; the
Chevalier not a little puzzled at the old fellow’s prudence; and the
valet, to say the truth, to the full as much perplexed at his master’s
reticence. For Mr. Morgan, in his capacity of accomplished valet, moved
here and there in a house as silent as a shadow; and, as it so
happened, during the latter part of his master’s conversation with his
visitor, had been standing very close to the door, and had overheard
not a little of the talk between the two gentlemen, and a great deal
more than he could understand.
“Who is that Altamont? know anything about him and Strong?” Mr. Morgan
asked of Mr. Lightfoot, on the next convenient occasion when they met
at the Club.
“Strong’s his man of business, draws the Governor’s bills, and indosses
’em, and does his odd jobs and that; and I suppose Altamont’s in it
too,” Mr. Lightfoot replied. “That kite-flying, you know, Mr. M.,
always takes two or three on ’em to set the paper going. Altamont put
the pot on at the Derby, and won a good bit of money. I wish the
Governor could get some somewhere, and I could get my book paid up.”
“Do you think my Lady would pay his debts again?” Morgan asked. “Find
out that for me, Lightfoot, and I’ll make it worth your while, my boy.”
Major Pendennis had often said with a laugh, that his valet Morgan was
a much richer man than himself: and, indeed, by long course of careful
speculation, this wary and silent attendant had been amassing a
considerable sum of money, during the year which he had passed in the
Major’s service, where he had made the acquaintance of many other
valets of distinction, from whom he had learned the affairs of their
principals. When Mr. Arthur came into his property, but not until then,
Morgan had surprised the young gentleman, by saying that he had a
little sum of money, some fifty or a hundred pound, which he wanted to
lay out to advantage; perhaps the gentlemen in the Temple, knowing
about affairs and business and that, could help a poor fellow to a good
investment? Morgan would be very much obliged to Mr. Arthur, most
grateful and obliged indeed, if Arthur could tell him of one. When
Arthur laughingly replied, that he knew nothing about money matters,
and knew no earthly way of helping Morgan, the latter, with the utmost
simplicity, was very grateful, very grateful indeed, to Mr. Arthur, and
if Mr. Arthur should want a little money before his rents was paid,
perhaps he would kindly remember that his uncle’s old and faithful
servant had some as he would like to put out: and be most proud if he
could be useful anyways to any of the family.
The Prince of Fairoaks, who was tolerably prudent and had no need of
ready money, would as soon have thought of borrowing from his uncle’s
servant as of stealing the valet’s pocket-handkerchief, and was on the
point of making some haughty reply to Morgan’s offer, but was checked
by the humour of the transaction. Morgan a capitalist! Morgan offering
to lend to him—The joke was excellent. On the other hand, the man might
be quite innocent, and the proposal of money a simple offer of
good-will. So Arthur withheld the sarcasm that was rising to his lips,
and contented himself by declining Mr. Morgan’s kind proposal. He
mentioned the matter to his uncle, however, and congratulated the
latter on having such a treasure in his service.
It was then that the Major said that he believed Morgan had been
getting devilish rich for a devilish long time; in fact, he had bought
the house in Bury Street, in which his master was a lodger and had
actually made a considerable sum of money, from his acquaintance with
the Clavering family and his knowledge obtained through his master that
the Begum would pay all her husband’s debts, by buying up as many of
the Baronet’s acceptances as he could raise money to purchase. Of these
transactions the Major, however, knew no more than most gentlemen do of
their servants, who live with us all our days and are strangers to us,
so strong custom is, and so pitiless the distinction between class and
class.
“So he offered to lend you money, did he?” the elder Pendennis remarked
to his nephew. “He’s a dev’lish sly fellow, and a dev’lish rich fellow;
and there’s many a nobleman would like to have such a valet in his
service, and borrow from him too. And he ain’t a bit changed, Monsieur
Morgan. He does his work just as well as ever—he’s always ready to my
bell—steals about the room like a cat—he’s so dev’lishly attached to
me, Morgan!”
On the day of Strong’s visit, the Major bethought him of Pen’s story,
and that Morgan might help him, and rallied the valet regarding his
wealth with that free and insolent way which so high-placed a gentleman
might be disposed to adopt towards so unfortunate a creature.
“I hear that you have got some money to invest, Morgan,” said the
Major.
“It’s Mr. Arthur has been telling, hang him,” thought the valet.
“I’m glad my place is such a good one.”
“Thank you, sir—I’ve no reason to complain of my place, nor of my
master,” replied Morgan, demurely.
“You’re a good fellow: and I believe you are attached to me; and I’m
glad you get on well. And I hope you’ll be prudent, and not be taking a
public-house or that kind of thing.”
A public-house, thought Morgan—me in a public-house!—the old
fool!—Dammy, if I was ten years younger I’d set in Parlyment before I
died, that I would.—“No, thank you kindly, sir. I don’t think of the
public line, sir. And I’ve got my little savings pretty well put out,
sir.”
“You do a little in the discounting way, eh, Morgan?”
“Yes, sir, a very little—I—I beg your pardon, sir—might I be so free as
to ask a question——”
“Speak on, my good fellow,” the elder said, graciously.
“About Sir Francis Clavering’s paper, sir? Do you think he’s any longer
any good, sir? Will my Lady pay on ’em, any more, sir?”
“What, you’ve done something in that business already?”
“Yes, sir, a little,” replied Morgan, dropping down his eyes. “And I
don’t mind owning, sir, and I hope I may take the liberty of saying,
sir, that a little more would make me very comfortable if it turned out
as well as the last.”
“Why, how much have you netted by him, in Gad’s name?” asked the Major.
“I’ve done a good bit, sir, at it: that I own, sir. Having some
information, and made acquaintance with the fam’ly through your
kindness, I put on the pot, sir.”
“You did what?”
“I laid my money on, sir—I got all I could, and borrowed, and bought
Sir Francis’s bills; many of ’em had his name, and the gentleman’s as
is just gone out, Edward Strong, Esquire, sir: and of course I know of
the blow-hup and shindy as is took place in Grosvenor Place, sir: and
as I may as well make my money as another, I’d be very much obleeged to
you if you’d tell me whether my Lady will come down any more.”
Although Major Pendennis was as much surprised at this intelligence
regarding his servant, as if he had heard that Morgan was a disguised
Marquis, about to throw off his mask and assume his seat in the House
of Peers; and although he was of course indignant at the audacity of
the fellow who had dared to grow rich under his nose, and without his
cognisance; yet he had a natural admiration for every man who
represented money and success, and found himself respecting Morgan, and
being rather afraid of that worthy, as the truth began to dawn upon
him.
“Well, Morgan,” said he, “I mustn’t ask how rich you are; and the
richer the better for your sake, I’m sure. And if I could give you any
information that could serve you, I would speedily help you. But
frankly, if Lady Clavering asks me whether she shall pay any more of
Sir Francis’s debts, I shall advise and I hope she won’t, though I fear
she will—and that is all I know. And so you are aware that Sir Francis
is beginning again in his—eh—reckless and imprudent course?”
“At his old games, sir—can’t prevent that gentleman. He will do it.”
“Mr. Strong was saying that a Mr. Moss Abrams was the holder of one of
Sir Francis Clavering’s notes. Do you know anything of this Mr. Abrams;
or the amount of the bill?”
“Don’t know the bill, know Abrams quite well, sir.”
“I wish you would find out about it for me. And I wish you would find
out where I can see Sir Francis Clavering, Morgan.”
And Morgan said, “Thank you, sir, yes, sir, I will, sir;” and retired
from the room, as he had entered it, with his usual stealthy respect
and quiet humility; leaving the Major to muse and wonder over what he
had just heard.
The next morning the valet informed Major Pendennis that he had seen
Mr. Abrams; what was the amount of the bill that gentleman was desirous
to negotiate; and that the Baronet would be sure to be in the
back-parlour of the Wheel of Fortune Tavern that day at one o’clock.
To this appointment Sir Francis Clavering was punctual, and as at one
o’clock he sate in the parlour of the tavern in question, surrounded by
spittoons, Windsor chairs, cheerful prints of boxers, trotting horses,
and pedestrians, and the lingering of last night’s tobacco fumes—as the
descendant of an ancient line sate in this delectable place
accommodated with an old copy of Bell’s Life in London, much blotted
with beer, the polite Major Pendennis walked into the apartment.
“So it’s you, old boy?” asked the Baronet, thinking that Mr. Moss
Abrams had arrived with the money.
“How do you do, Sir Francis Clavering? I wanted to see you, and
followed you here,” said the Major, at sight of whom the other’s
countenance fell.
Now that he had his opponent before him, the Major was determined to
make a brisk and sudden attack upon him, and went into action at once.
“I know,” he continued, “who is the exceedingly disreputable person for
whom you took me, Clavering; and the errand which brought you here.”
“It ain’t your business, is it?” asked the Baronet, with a sulky and
deprecatory look. “Why are you following me about and taking the
command, and meddling in my affairs, Major Pendennis? I’ve never done
you any harm, have I? I’ve never had your money. And I don’t choose to
be dodged about in this way, and domineered over. I don’t choose it,
and I won’t have it. If Lady Clavering has any proposal to make to me,
let it be done in the regular way, and through the lawyers. I’d rather
not have you.”
“I am not come from Lady Clavering,” the Major said, “but of my own
accord, to try and remonstrate with you, Clavering, and see if you can
be kept from ruin. It is but a month ago that you swore on your honour,
and wanted to get a Bible to strengthen the oath, that you would accept
no more bills, but content yourself with the allowance which Lady
Clavering gives you. All your debts were paid with that proviso, and
you have broken it; this Mr. Abrams has a bill of yours for sixty
pounds.”
“It’s an old bill. I take my solemn oath it’s an old bill,” shrieked
out the Baronet.
“You drew it yesterday, and you dated it three months back purposely.
By Gad, Clavering, you sicken me with lies, I can’t help telling you
so. I’ve no patience with you, by Gad. You cheat everybody, yourself
included. I’ve seen a deal of the world, but I never met your equal at
humbugging. It’s my belief you had rather lie than not.”
“Have you come here, you old—old beast, to tempt me to—to pitch into
you, and—and knock your old head off?” said the Baronet, with a
poisonous look of hatred at the Major.
“What, sir?” shouted out the old Major, rising to his feet and clasping
his cane, and looking so fiercely, that the Baronet’s tone instantly
changed towards him.
“No, no,” said Clavering, piteously, “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean
to be angry, or say anything unkind, only you’re so damned harsh to me,
Major Pendennis. What is it you want of me? Why have you been hunting
me so? Do you want money out of me too? By Jove, you know I’ve not got
a shilling,”—and so Clavering, according to his custom, passed from a
curse into a whimper.
Major Pendennis saw, from the other’s tone, that Clavering knew his
secret was in the Major’s hands.
“I’ve no errand from anybody, or no design upon you,” Pendennis said,
“but an endeavour, if it’s not too late, to save you and your family
from utter ruin, through the infernal recklessness of your courses. I
knew your secret——”
“I didn’t know it when I married her; upon my oath I didn’t know it
till the d——d scoundrel came back and told me himself; and it’s the
misery about that which makes me so reckless, Pendennis; indeed it is,”
the Baronet cried, clasping his hands.
“I knew your secret from the very first day when I saw Amory come drunk
into your dining-room in Grosvenor Place. I never forget faces. I
remember that fellow in Sydney a convict, and he remembers me. I know
his trial, the date of his marriage, and of his reported death in the
bush. I could swear to him. And I know that you are no more married to
Lady Clavering than I am. I’ve kept your secret well enough, for I’ve
not told a single soul that I know it,—not your wife, not yourself till
now.”
“Poor Lady C., it would cut her up dreadfully,” whimpered Sir Francis;
“and it wasn’t my fault, Major; you know it wasn’t.”
“Rather than allow you to go on ruining her as you do; I will tell her,
Clavering, and tell all the world too; that is what I swear I will do,
unless I can come to some terms with you, and put some curb on your
infernal folly. By play, debt, and extravagance of all kind, you’ve got
through half your wife’s fortune, and that of her legitimate heirs,
mind—her legitimate heirs. Here it must stop. You can’t live together.
You’re not fit to live in a great house like Clavering; and before
three years’ more were over would not leave a shilling to carry on.
I’ve settled what must be done. You shall have six hundred a year; you
shall go abroad and live on that. You must give up Parliament, and get
on as well as you can. If you refuse, I give you my word I’ll make the
real state of things known to-morrow; I’ll swear to Amory, who, when
identified, will go back to the country from whence he came, and will
rid the widow of you and himself together. And so that boy of yours
loses at once all title to old Spell’s property, and it goes to your
wife’s daughter. Ain’t I making myself pretty clearly understood?”
“You wouldn’t be so cruel to that poor boy, would you, Pendennis?”
asked the father, pleading piteously; “hang it, think about him. He’s a
nice boy: though he’s dev’lish wild, I own he’s dev’lish wild.”
“It’s you who are cruel to him,” said the old moralist. “Why, sir,
you’ll ruin him yourself inevitably in three years.”
“Yes, but perhaps I won’t have such dev’lish bad luck, you know;—the
luck must turn: and I’ll reform, by Gad, I’ll reform. And if you were
to split on me, it would cut up my wife so; you know it would, most
infernally.”
“To be parted from you,” said the old Major, with a sneer; “you know
she won’t live with you again.”
“But why can’t Lady C. live abroad, or at Bath, or at Tunbridge, or at
the doose, and I go on here?” Clavering continued. “I like being here
better than abroad, and I like being in Parliament. It’s dev’lish
convenient being in Parliament. There’s very few seats like mine left;
and if I gave it to ’em, I should not wonder the ministry would give me
an island to govern, or some dev’lish good thing; for you know I’m a
gentleman of dev’lish good family, and have a handle to my name,
and—and that sort of thing, Major Pendennis. Eh, don’t you see? Don’t
you think they’d give me something dev’lish good if I was to play my
cards well? And then, you know, I’d save money, and be kept out of the
way of the confounded hells and rouge et noir—and—and so I’d rather not
give up Parliament, please.” For at one instant to hate and defy a man,
at the next to weep before him, and at the next to be perfectly
confidential and friendly with him, was not an unusual process with our
versatile-minded Baronet.
“As for your seat in Parliament,” the Major said, with something of a
blush on his cheek, and a certain tremor, which the other did not see,
“you must part with that, Sir Francis Clavering, to—to me.”
“What! are you going into the House, Major Pendennis?”
“No—not I; but my nephew, Arthur, is a very clever fellow and would
make a figure there: and when Clavering had two members, his father
might very likely have been one; and—and should like Arthur to be
there,” the Major said.
“Dammy, does he know it, too?” cried out Clavering.
“Nobody knows anything out of this room,” Pendennis answered; “and if
you do this favour for me, I hold my tongue. If not, I’m a man of my
word, and will do what I have said.”
“I say, Major,” said Sir Francis, with a peculiarly humble smile
“You—You couldn’t get me my first quarter in advance, could you, like
the best of fellows? You can do anything with Lady Clavering; and, upon
my oath, I’ll take up that bill of Abrams’. The little dam scoundrel, I
know he’ll do me in the business—he always does; and if you could do
this for me, we’d see, Major.”
“And I think your best plan would be to go down in September to
Clavering to shoot, and take my nephew with you, and introduce him.
Yes, that will be the best time. And we will try and manage about the
advance.” (Arthur may lend him that, thought old Pendennis. Confound
him, a seat in Parliament is worth a hundred and fifty pounds.) “And,
Clavering, you understand, of course, my nephew knows nothing about
this business. You have a mind to retire: he is a Clavering man and a
good representative for the borough; you introduce him, and your people
vote for him—you see.”
“When can you get me the hundred and fifty, Major? When shall I come
and see you? Will you be at home this evening or to-morrow morning?
Will you have anything here? They’ve got some dev’lish good bitters in
the bar. I often have a glass of bitters, it sets one up so.”
The old Major would take no refreshment; but rose and took his leave of
the Baronet, who walked with him to the door of the Wheel of Fortune,
and then strolled into the bar, where he took a glass of gin and
bitters with the landlady there: and a gentleman connected with the
ring (who boarded at the Wheel of F.) coming in, he and Sir Francis
Clavering and the landlord talked about the fights and the news of the
sporting world in general; and at length Mr. Moss Abrams arrived with
the proceeds of the Baronet’s bill, from which his own handsome
commission was deducted, and out of the remainder Sir Francis “stood” a
dinner at Greenwich to his distinguished friend, and passed the evening
gaily at Vauxhall.
Meanwhile Major Pendennis, calling a cab in Piccadilly, drove to Lamb
Court, Temple, where he speedily was closeted with his nephew in deep
conversation.
After their talk they parted on very good terms, and it was in
consequence of that unreported conversation, whereof the reader
nevertheless can pretty well guess the bearing, that Arthur expressed
himself as we have heard in the colloquy with Warrington, which is
reported in the last chapter.
When a man is tempted to do a tempting thing, he can find a hundred
ingenious reasons for gratifying his liking; and Arthur thought very
much that he would like to be in Parliament, and that he would like to
distinguish himself there, and that he need not care much what side he
took, as there was falsehood and truth on every side. And on this and
on other matters he thought he would compromise with his conscience,
and that Sadduceeism was a very convenient and good-humoured profession
of faith.