Shows how Arthur had better have taken a Return-ticket
The train carried Arthur only too quickly to Tunbridge, though he had
time to review all the circumstances of his life as he made the brief
journey; and to acknowledge to what sad conclusions his selfishness and
waywardness had led him. “Here is the end of hopes and aspirations,”
thought he, “of romance and ambitions! Where I yield or where I am
obstinate, I am alike unfortunate; my mother implores me, and I refuse
an angel! Say I had taken her; forced on me as she was, Laura would
never have been an angel to me. I could not have given her my heart at
another’s instigation; I never could have known her as she is had I
been obliged to ask another to interpret her qualities and point out
her virtues. I yield to my uncle’s solicitations, and accept on his
guarantee Blanche, and a seat in Parliament, and wealth, and ambition,
and a career; and see!—fortune comes and leaves me the wife without the
dowry, which I had taken in compensation of a heart. Why was I not more
honest, or am I not less so? It would have cost my poor old uncle no
pangs to accept Blanche’s fortune whencesoever it came; he can’t even
understand, he is bitterly indignant, heart-stricken, almost, at the
scruples which actuate me in refusing it. I dissatisfy everybody. A
maimed, weak, imperfect wretch, it seems as if I am unequal to any
fortune. I neither make myself nor any one connected with me happy.
What prospect is there for this poor little frivolous girl, who is to
take my obscure name and share my fortune? I have not even ambition to
excite me, or self-esteem enough to console myself, much more her, for
my failure. If I were to write a book that should go through twenty
editions, why, I should be the very first to sneer at my reputation.
Say I could succeed at the Bar, and achieve a fortune by bullying
witnesses and twisting evidence; is that a fame which would satisfy my
longings, or a calling in which my life would be well spent? How I wish
I could be that priest opposite, who never has lifted his eyes from his
breviary, except when we were in Reigate tunnel, when he could not see;
or that old gentleman next him, who scowls at him with eyes of hatred
over his newspaper. The priest shuts his eyes to the world, but has his
thoughts on the book, which is his directory to the world to come. His
neighbour hates him as a monster, tyrant, persecutor, and fancies
burning martyrs, and that pale countenance looking on, and lighted up
by the flame. These have no doubts; these march on trustfully, bearing
their load of logic.”
“Would you like to look at the paper, sir?” here interposed the stout
gentleman (it had a flaming article against the order of the
black-coated gentleman who was travelling with them in the carriage),
and Pen thanked him and took it, and pursued his reverie, without
reading two sentences of the journal.
“And yet, would you take either of those men’s creeds, with its
consequences?” he thought. “Ah me! you must bear your own burthen,
fashion your own faith, think your own thoughts, and pray your own
prayer. To what mortal ear could I tell all, if I had a mind? or who
could understand all? Who can tell another’s shortcomings, lost
opportunities, weigh the passions which overpower, the defects which
incapacitate reason?—what extent of truth and right his neighbour’s
mind is organised to perceive and to do?—what invisible and forgotten
accident, terror of youth, chance or mischance of fortune, may have
altered the whole current of life? A grain of sand may alter it, as the
flinging of a pebble may end it. Who can weigh circumstances, passions,
temptations, that go to our good and evil account, save One, before
whose awful wisdom we kneel, and at whose mercy we ask absolution? Here
it ends,” thought Pen; “this day or to-morrow will wind up the account
of my youth; a weary retrospect, alas! a sad history, with many a page
I would fain not look back on! But who has not been tired or fallen,
and who has escaped without scars from that struggle?” And his head
fell on his breast, and the young man’s heart prostrated itself humbly
and sadly before that Throne where sits wisdom, and love, and pity for
all, and made its confession. “What matters about fame or poverty!” he
thought. “If I marry this woman I have chosen, may I have strength and
will to be true to her, and to make her happy. If I have children, pray
God teach me to speak and to do the truth among them, and to leave them
an honest name. There are no splendours for my marriage. Does my life
deserve any? I begin a new phase of it; a better than the last may it
be, I pray Heaven!”
The train stopped at Tunbridge as Pen was making these reflections; and
he handed over the newspaper to his neighbour, of whom he took leave,
while the foreign clergyman in the opposite corner still sate with his
eyes on his book. Pen jumped out of the carriage then, his carpet-bag
in hand, and briskly determined to face his fortune.
A fly carried him rapidly to Lady Clavering’s house from the station;
and, as he was transported thither, Arthur composed a little speech,
which he intended to address to Blanche, and which was really as
virtuous, honest, and well-minded an oration as any man of his turn of
mind, and under his circumstances, could have uttered. The purport of
it was—“Blanche, I cannot understand from your last letter what your
meaning is, or whether my fair and frank proposal to you is acceptable
or no. I think you know the reason which induces me to forgo the
worldly advantages which a union with you offered, and which I could
not accept without, as I fancy, being dishonoured. If you doubt of my
affection, here I am ready to prove it. Let Smirke be called in, and
let us be married out of hand; and with all my heart I purpose to keep
my vow, and to cherish you through life, and to be a true and a loving
husband to you.”
From the fly Arthur sprang out then to the hall-door, where he was met
by a domestic whom he did not know. The man seemed to be surprised at
the approach of the gentleman with the carpet-bag, which he made no
attempt to take from Arthur’s hands. “Her Ladyship’s not at home, sir,”
the man remarked.
“I am Mr. Pendennis,” Arthur said. “Where is Lightfoot?”
“Lightfoot is gone,” answered the man. “My Lady is out, and my orders
was——”
“I hear Miss Amory’s voice in the drawing-room,” said Arthur. “Take the
bag to a dressing-room, if you please;” and, passing by the porter, he
walked straight towards that apartment, from which, as the door opened,
a warble of melodious notes issued.
Our little Siren was at her piano singing with all her might and
fascinations. Master Clavering was asleep on the sofa, indifferent to
the music; but near Blanche sat a gentleman who was perfectly
enraptured with her strain, which was of a passionate and melancholy
nature.
As the door opened, the gentleman started up with Hullo! the music
stopped, with a little shriek from the singer; Frank Clavering woke up
from the sofa, and Arthur came forward and said, “What, Foker! how do
you do, Foker?” He looked at the piano, and there, by Miss Amory’s
side, was just such another purple-leather box as he had seen in
Harry’s hand three days before, when the heir of Logwood was coming out
of a jeweller’s shop in Waterloo Place. It was opened, and curled round
the white satin cushion within was, oh, such a magnificent serpentine
bracelet, with such a blazing ruby head and diamond tail!
“How de-do, Pendennis?” said Foker. Blanche made many motions of the
shoulders, and gave signs of unrest and agitation. And she put her
handkerchief over the bracelet, and then she advanced, with a hand
which trembled very much, to greet Pen.
“How is dearest Laura?” she said. The face of Foker looking up from his
profound mourning—that face, so piteous and puzzled, was one which the
reader’s imagination must depict for himself; also that of Master Frank
Clavering, who, looking at the three interesting individuals with an
expression of the utmost knowingness, had only time to ejaculate the
words, “Here’s a jolly go!” and to disappear sniggering.
Pen, too, had restrained himself up to that minute; but looking still
at Foker, whose ears and cheeks tingled with blushes, Arthur burst out
into a fit of laughter, so wild and loud, that it frightened Blanche
much more than any the most serious exhibition.
“And this was the secret, was it? Don’t blush and turn away, Foker, my
boy. Why, man, you are a pattern of fidelity. Could I stand between
Blanche and such constancy—could I stand between Miss Amory and fifteen
thousand a year?”
“It is not that, Mr. Pendennis,” Blanche said, with great dignity. “It
is not money, it is not rank, it is not gold that moves me; but it is
constancy, it is fidelity, it is a whole trustful loving heart offered
to me, that I treasure—yes, that I treasure!” And she made for her
handkerchief, but, reflecting what was underneath it, she paused. “I do
not disown, I do not disguise—my life is above disguise—to him on whom
it is bestowed, my heart must be for ever bare—that I once thought I
loved you,—yes, thought I was beloved by you, I own! How I clung to
that faith! How I strove, I prayed, I longed to believe it! But your
conduct always—your own words so cold, so heartless, so unkind, have
undeceived me. You trifled with the heart of the poor maiden! You flung
me back with scorn the troth which I had plighted! I have explained
all—all to Mr. Foker.”
“That you have,” said Foker, with devotion, and conviction in his
looks.
“What, all?” said Pen, with a meaning look at Blanche. “It is I am in
fault, is it? Well, well, Blanche, be it so. I won’t appeal against
your sentence, and bear it in silence. I came down here looking to very
different things, Heaven knows, and with a heart most truly and kindly
disposed towards you. I hope you may be happy with another, as, on my
word, it was my wish to make you so; and I hope my honest old friend
here will have a wife worthy of his loyalty, his constancy, and
affection. Indeed they deserve the regard of any woman—even Miss
Blanche Amory. Shake hands, Harry; don’t look askance at me. Has
anybody told you that I was a false and heartless character?”
“I think you’re a——” Foker was beginning, in his wrath, when Blanche
interposed.
“Henry, not a word!—I pray you let there be forgiveness!”
“You’re an angel, by Jove, you’re an angel!” said Foker, at which
Blanche looked seraphically up to the chandelier.
“In spite of what has passed, for the sake of what has passed, I must
always regard Arthur as a brother,” the seraph continued; “we have
known each other years, we have trodden the same fields, and plucked
the same flowers together. Arthur! Henry! I beseech you to take hands
and to be friends! Forgive you!—I forgive you, Arthur, with my heart I
do. Should I not do so for making me so happy?”
“There is only one person of us three whom I pity, Blanche,” Arthur
said, gravely, “and I say to you again, that I hope you will make this
good fellow, this honest and loyal creature, happy.”
“Happy! O Heavens!” said Harry. He could not speak. His happiness
gushed out at his eyes. “She don’t know—she can’t know how fond I am of
her, and—and who am I? a poor little beggar, and she takes me up and
says she’ll try and I—I—love me. I ain’t worthy of so much happiness.
Give us your hand, old boy, since she forgives you after your heartless
conduct, and says she loves you. I’ll make you welcome. I tell you I’ll
love everybody who loves her. By——, if she tells me to kiss the ground
I’ll kiss it. Tell me to kiss the ground! I say, tell me. I love you
so. You see I love you so.”
Blanche looked up seraphically again. Her gentle bosom heaved. She held
out one hand as if to bless Harry, and then royally permitted him to
kiss it. She took up the pocket-handkerchief and hid her own eyes, as
the other fair hand was abandoned to poor Harry’s tearful embrace.
“I swear that is a villain who deceives such a loving creature as
that,” said Pen.
Blanche laid down the handkerchief, and put hand No. 2 softly on
Foker’s head, which was bent down kissing and weeping over hand No. 1.
“Foolish boy?” she said, “it shall be loved as it deserves: who could
help loving such a silly creature!”
And at this moment Frank Clavering broke in upon the sentimental trio.
“I say, Pendennis!” he said.
“Well, Frank!”
“The man wants to be paid, and go back. He’s had some beer.”
“I’ll go back with him,” cried Pen. “Good-bye, Blanche. God bless you,
Foker, old friend. You know, neither of you want me here.” He longed to
be off that instant.
“Stay—I must say one word to you. One word in private, if you please,”
Blanche said. “You can trust us together, can’t you, Henry?” The tone
in which the word Henry was spoken, and the appeal, ravished Foker with
delight. “Trust you!” said he. “Oh, who wouldn’t trust you! Come along,
Franky, my boy.”
“Let’s have a cigar,” said Frank, as they went into the hall.
“She don’t like it,” said Foker, gently.
“Law bless you—she don’t mind. Pendennis used to smoke regular,” said
the candid youth.
“It was but a short word I had to say,” said Blanche to Pen, with great
calm, when they were alone. “You never loved me, Mr. Pendennis.”
“I told you how much,” said Arthur. “I never deceived you.”
“I suppose you will go back and marry Laura,” continued Blanche.
“Was that what you had to say?” said Pen.
“You are going to her this very night, I am sure of it. There is no
denying it. You never cared for me.”
“Et vous?”
“Et moi, c’est different. I have been spoilt early. I cannot live out
of the world, out of excitement. I could have done so, but it is too
late. If I cannot have emotions, I must have the world. You would offer
me neither one nor the other. You are blase in everything, even in
ambition. You had a career before you, and you would not take it. You
give it up!—for what?—for a betise, for an absurd scruple. Why would
you not have that seat, and be such a puritain? Why should you refuse
what is mine by right, by right, entendez-vous?”
“You know all, then?” said Pen.
“Only within a month. But I have suspected ever since
Baymouth—n’importe since when. It is not too late. He is as if he had
never been; and there is a position in the world before you yet. Why
not sit in Parliament, exert your talent, and give a place in the world
to yourself, to your wife? I take celui-la. Il est bon. Il est riche.
Il est—vous le connaissez autant que moi enfin. Think you that I would
not prefer un homme qui fera parler de moi? If the secret appears I am
rich a millions. How does it affect me? It is not my fault. It will
never appear.”
“You will tell Harry everything, won’t you?”
“Je comprends. Vous refusez,” said Blanche, savagely. “I will tell
Harry at my own time, when we are married. You will not betray me, will
you? You, having a defenceless girl’s secret, will not turn upon her
and use it? S’il me plait de le cacher, mon secret; pourquoi le
donnerai je? Je l’aime, mon pauvre pere, voyez-vous? I would rather
live with that man than with you fades intriguers of the world. I must
have emotions—il m’en donne. Il m’ecrit. Il ecrit tres-bien,
voyez-vous—comme un pirate—comme un Bohemien—comme un homme. But for
this I would have said to my mother—Ma mere! quittons ce lache mari,
cette lache societe—retournons a mon pere.”
“The pirate would have wearied you like the rest,” said Pen.
“Eh! Il me faut des emotions,” said Blanche. Pen had never seen her or
known so much about her in all the years of their intimacy as he saw
and knew now: though he saw more than existed in reality. For this
young lady was not able to carry out any emotion to the full; but had a
sham enthusiasm, a sham hatred, a sham love, a sham taste, a sham
grief, each of which flared and shone very vehemently for an instant,
but subsided and gave place to the next sham emotion.