Exeunt Omnes
Our characters are all a month older than they were when the
last-described adventures and conversations occurred, and a great
number of the personages of our story have chanced to reassemble at the
little country town where we were first introduced to them. Frederic
Lightfoot, formerly maitre d’hotel in the service of Sir Francis
Clavering, of Clavering Park, Bart., has begged leave to inform the
nobility and gentry of ———shire that he has taken that well-known and
comfortable hotel, the Clavering Arms, in Clavering, where he hopes for
the continued patronage of the gentlemen and families of the county.
“This ancient and well-established house,” Mr. Lightfoot’s manifesto
states, “has been repaired and decorated in a style of the greatest
comfort. Gentlemen hunting with the Dumplingbeare hounds will find
excellent stabling and loose-boxes for horses at the Clavering Arms. A
commodious billiard-room has been attached to the hotel, and the
cellars have been furnished with the choicest wines and spirits,
selected, without regard to expense, by C. L. Commercial gentlemen will
find the Clavering Arms a most comfortable place of resort: and the
scale of charges has been regulated for all, so as to meet the
economical spirit of the present times.”
Indeed, there is a considerable air of liveliness about the old inn.
The Clavering arms have been splendidly repainted over the gateway. The
coffee-room windows are bright and fresh, and decorated with Christmas
holly; the magistrates have met in petty sessions in the card-room of
the old Assembly. The farmers’ ordinary is held as of old, and
frequented by increased numbers, who are pleased with Mrs. Lightfoot’s
cuisine. Her Indian curries and Mulligatawny soup are especially
popular: Major Stokes, the respected tenant of Fairoaks Cottage,
Captain Glanders, H.P., and other resident gentry, have pronounced in
their favour, and have partaken of them more than once both in private
and at the dinner of the Clavering Institute, attendant on the
incorporation of the reading-room, and when the chief inhabitants of
that flourishing little town met together and did justice to the
hostess’s excellent cheer. The chair was taken by Sir Francis
Clavering, Bart., supported by the esteemed rector, Dr. Portman; the
vice chair being ably filled by Barker, Esq. (supported by the Rev. J.
Simcoe and the Rev. S. Jowls), the enterprising head of the ribbon
factory in Clavering, and chief director of the Clavering and Chatteris
Branch of the Great Western Railway, which will be opened in another
year, and upon the works of which the engineers and workmen are now
busily engaged.
“An interesting event, which is likely to take place in the life of our
talented townsman, Arthur Pendennis, Esq., has, we understand, caused
him to relinquish the intentions which he had of offering himself as a
candidate for our borough: and rumour whispers” (says the Chatteris
Champion, Clavering Agriculturist, and Baymouth Fisherman,—that
independent county paper, so distinguished for its unswerving
principles and loyalty to the British oak, and so eligible a medium for
advertisements)—rumour states, says the C. C. C. A. and B. F., “that
should Sir Francis Clavering’s failing health oblige him to relinquish
his seat in Parliament, he will vacate it in favour of a young
gentleman of colossal fortune and related to the highest aristocracy of
the empire, who is about to contract a matrimonial alliance with an
accomplished and lovely lady, connected by the nearest ties with the
respected family at Clavering Park. Lady Clavering and Miss Amory have
arrived at the Park for the Christmas holidays; and we understand that
a large number of the aristocracy are expected, and that festivities of
a peculiarly interesting nature will take place there at the
commencement of the new year.”
The ingenious reader will be enabled, by the help of the above
announcement, to understand what has taken place during the little
break which has occurred in our narrative. Although Lady Rockminster
grumbled a little at Laura’s preference for Pendennis over Bluebeard,
those who are aware of the latter’s secret will understand that the
young girl could make no other choice, and the kind old lady who had
constituted herself Miss Bell’s guardian was not ill pleased that she
was to fulfil the great purpose in life of young ladies and marry. She
informed her maid of the interesting event that very night, and of
course Mrs. Beck, who was perfectly aware of every single circumstance,
and kept by Martha, of Fairoaks, in the fullest knowledge of what was
passing, was immensely surprised and delighted. “Mr. Pendennis’s income
is so much; the railroad will give him so much more, he states; Miss
Bell has so much, and may probably have a little more one day. For
persons in their degree, they will be able to manage very well. And I
shall speak to my nephew Pynsent, who I suspect was once rather
attached to her,—but of course that was out of the question (‘Oh! of
course, my lady; I should think so indeed!’)—not that you know anything
whatever about it, or have any business to think at all on the
subject,—I shall speak to George Pynsent, who is now chief secretary of
the Tape and Sealing Wax Office, and have Mr. Pendennis made something.
And, Beck, in the morning you will carry down my compliments to Major
Pendennis, and say that I shall pay him a visit at one o’clock.”—“Yes,”
muttered the old lady, “the Major must be reconciled, and he must leave
his fortune to Laura’s children.”
Accordingly, at one o’clock, the Dowager Lady Rockminster appeared at
Major Pendennis’s, who was delighted, as may be imagined, to receive so
noble a visitor. The Major had been prepared, if not for the news which
her Ladyship was about to give him, at least with the intelligence that
Pen’s marriage with Miss Amory was broken off. The young gentleman
bethinking him of his uncle, for the first time that day it must be
owned, and meeting his new servant in the hall of the hotel, asked
after the Major’s health from Mr. Frosch; and then went into the
coffee-room of the hotel, where he wrote a half-dozen lines to acquaint
his guardian with what had occurred. “Dear uncle,” he said, “if there
has been any question between us, it is over now. I went to Tunbridge
Wells yesterday, and found that somebody else had carried off the prize
about which we were hesitating. Miss A., without any compunction for
me, has bestowed herself upon Harry Foker, with his fifteen thousand a
year. I came in suddenly upon their loves, and found and left him in
possession.
“And you’ll be glad to hear, Tatham writes me, that he has sold three
of my fields at Fairoaks to the Railroad Company, at a great figure. I
will tell you this, and more when we meet; and am always your
affectionate,—A. P.”
“I think I am aware of what you were about to tell me,” the Major said,
with a most courtly smile and bow to Pen’s ambassadress. “It was a very
great kindness of your Ladyship to think of bringing me the news. How
well you look! How very good you are! How very kind you have always
been to that young man!”
“It was for the sake of his uncle,” said Lady Rockminster, most
politely.
“He has informed me of the state of affairs, and written me a nice
note,—yes, a nice note,” continued the old gentleman; “and I find he
has had an increase to his fortune,—yes; and, all things considered, I
don’t much regret that this affair with Miss Amory is manquee, though I
wished for it once, in fact, all things considered, I am very glad of
it.”
“We must console him, Major Pendennis,” continued the lady; “we must
get him a wife.” The truth then came across the Major’s mind, and he
saw for what purpose Lady Rockminster had chosen to assume the office
of ambassadress.
It is not necessary to enter into the conversation which ensued, or to
tell at any length how her Ladyship concluded a negotiation which, in
truth, was tolerably easy. There could be no reason why Pen should not
marry according to his own and his mother’s wish; and as for Lady
Rockminster, she supported the marriage by intimations which had very
great weight with the Major, but of which we shall say nothing, as her
ladyship (now, of course, much advanced in years) is still alive, and
the family might be angry; and, in fine, the old gentleman was quite
overcome by the determined graciousness of the lady, and her fondness
for Laura. Nothing, indeed, could be more bland and kind than Lady
Rockminster’s whole demeanour, except for one moment when the Major
talked about his boy throwing himself away, at which her ladyship broke
out into a little speech, in which she made the Major understand, what
poor Pen and his friends acknowledge very humbly, that Laura was a
thousand times too good for him. Laura was fit to be the wife of a
king,—Laura was a paragon of virtue and excellence. And it must be
said, that when Major Pendennis found that a lady of the rank of the
Countess of Rockminster seriously admired Miss Bell, he instantly began
to admire her himself.
So that when Herr Frosch was requested to walk upstairs to Lady
Rockminster’s apartments, and inform Miss Bell and Mr. Arthur Pendennis
that the Major would receive them, and Laura appeared blushing and
happy as she hung on Pen’s arm, the Major gave a shaky hand to one and
the other, with unaffected emotion and cordiality, and then went
through another salutation to Laura, which caused her to blush still
more. Happy blushes! bright eyes beaming with the light of love! The
story-teller turns from this group to his young audience, and hopes
that one day their eyes may all shine so.
Pen having retreated in the most friendly manner, and the lovely
Blanche having bestowed her young affections upon a blushing bridegroom
with fifteen thousand a year, there was such an outbreak of happiness
in Lady Clavering’s heart and family as the good Begum had not known
for many a year, and she and Blanche were on the most delightful terms
of cordiality and affection. The ardent Foker pressed onwards the happy
day, and was as anxious as might be expected to abridge the period of
mourning which had put him in possession of so many charms and amiable
qualities, of which he had been only, as it were, the heir-apparent,
not the actual owner, until then. The gentle Blanche, everything that
her affianced lord could desire, was not averse to gratify the wishes
of her fond Henry. Lady Clavering came up from Tunbridge. Milliners and
jewellers were set to work and engaged to prepare the delightful
paraphernalia of Hymen. Lady Clavering was in such a good humour, that
Sir Francis even benefited by it, and such a reconciliation was
effected between this pair, that Sir Francis came to London, sate at
the head of his own table once more, and appeared tolerably flush of
money at his billiard-rooms and gambling-houses again. One day, when
Major Pendennis and Arthur went to dine in Grosvenor Place, they found
an old acquaintance established in the quality of major-domo, and the
gentleman in black, who, with perfect politeness and gravity, offered
them their choice of sweet or dry champagne, was no other than Mr.
James Morgan. The Chevalier Strong was one of the party; he was in high
spirits and condition, and entertained the company with accounts of his
amusements abroad.
“It was my Lady who invited me,” said Strong to Arthur, under his
voice—“that fellow Morgan looked as black as thunder when I came in. He
is about no good here. I will go away first, and wait for you and Major
Pendennis at Hyde Park Gate.”
Mr. Morgan helped Major Pendennis to his great-coat when he was
quitting the house; and muttered something about having accepted a
temporary engagement with the Clavering family.
“I have got a paper of yours, Mr. Morgan,” said the old gentleman.
“Which you can show, if you please, to Sir Francis, sir, and perfectly
welcome,” said Mr. Morgan, with downcast eyes. “I’m very much obliged
to you, Major Pendennis, and if I can pay you for all your kindness I
will.”
Arthur overheard the sentence, and saw the look of hatred which
accompanied it, suddenly cried out that he had forgotten his
handkerchief, and ran upstairs to the drawing-room again. Foker was
still there; still lingering about his siren. Pen gave the siren a look
full of meaning, and we suppose that the siren understood meaning
looks, for when, after finding the veracious handkerchief of which he
came in quest, he once more went out, the siren, with a laughing voice,
said, “Oh, Arthur—Mr. Pendennis—I want you to tell dear Laura
something!” and she came out to the door.
“What is it?” she asked, shutting the door.
“Have you told Harry? Do you know that villain Morgan knows all?”
“I know it,” she said.
“Have you told Harry?”
“No, no,” she said. “You won’t betray me?”
“Morgan will,” said Pen.
“No, he won’t,” said Blanche. “I have promised him—n’importe. Wait
until after our marriage—Oh, until after our marriage—Oh, how wretched
I am,” said the girl, who had been all smiles, and grace, and gaiety
during the evening.
Arthur said, “I beg and implore you to tell Harry. Tell him now. It is
no fault of yours. He will pardon you anything. Tell him to-night.”
“And give her this—Il est la—with my love, please; and I beg your
pardon for calling you back; and if she will be at Madame Crinoline’s
at half-past three, and if Lady Rockminster can spare her, I should so
like to drive with her in the park;” and she went in, singing and
kissing her little hand, as Morgan the velvet-footed came up the
carpeted stair.
Pen heard Blanche’s piano breaking out into brilliant music as he went
down to join his uncle; and they walked away together. Arthur briefly
told him what he had done. “What was to be done?” he asked.
“What is to be done, begad?” said the old gentleman. “What is to be
done but to leave it alone? Begad, let us be thankful,” said the old
fellow, with a shudder, “that we are out of the business, and leave it
to those it concerns.”
“I hope to Heaven she’ll tell him,” said Pen.
“Begad, she’ll take her own course,” said the old man. “Miss Amory is a
dev’lish wide-awake girl, sir, and must play her own cards; and I’m
doosid glad you are out of it—doosid glad, begad. Who’s this smoking?
Oh, it’s Mr. Strong again. He wants to put in his oar, I suppose. I
tell you, don’t meddle in the business, Arthur.”
Strong began once or twice, as if to converse upon the subject, but the
Major would not hear a word. He remarked on the moonlight on Apsley
House, the weather, the cabstands—anything but that subject. He bowed
stiffly to Strong, and clung to his nephew’s arm, as he turned down St.
James’s Street, and again cautioned Pen to leave the affair alone. “It
had like to have cost you so much, sir, that you may take my advice,”
he said.
When Arthur came out of the hotel, Strong’s cloak and cigar were
visible a few doors off. The jolly Chevalier laughed as they met. “I’m
an old soldier, too,” he said. “I wanted to talk to you, Pendennis. I
have heard of all that has happened, and all the chops and changes that
have taken place during my absence. I congratulate you on your
marriage, and I congratulate you on your escape, too,—you understand
me. It was not my business to speak, but I know this, that a certain
party is as arrant a little—well—well, never mind what. You acted like
a man and a trump, and are well out of it.”
“I have no reason to complain,” said Pen. “I went back to beg and
entreat poor Blanche to tell Foker all: I hope, for her sake, she will;
but I fear not. There is but one policy, Strong, there is but one.”
“And lucky he that can stick to it,” said the Chevalier. “That rascal
Morgan means mischief. He has been lurking about our chambers for the
last two months: he has found out that poor mad devil Amory’s secret.
He has been trying to discover where he was: he has been pumping Mr.
Bolton, and making old Costigan drunk several times. He bribed the Inn
porter to tell him when we came back: and he has got into Clavering’s
service on the strength of his information. He will get very good pay
for it, mark my words, the villain.”
“Where is Amory?” asked Pen.
“At Boulogne, I believe. I left him there, and warned him not to come
back. I have broken with him, after a desperate quarrel, such as one
might have expected with such a madman. And I’m glad to think that he
is in my debt now, and that I have been the means of keeping him out of
more harms than one.”
“He has lost all his winnings, I suppose,” said Pen.
“No: he is rather better than when he went away, or was a fortnight
ago. He had extraordinary luck at Baden: broke the bank several nights,
and was the fable of the place. He lied himself there with a fellow by
the name of Bloundell, who gathered about him a society of all sorts of
sharpers, male and female, Russians, Germans, French, English. Amory
got so insolent, that I was obliged to thrash him one day within an
inch of his life. I couldn’t help myself; the fellow has plenty of
pluck, and I had nothing for it but to hit out.”
“And did he call you out?” said Pen.
“You think if I had shot him I should have done nobody any harm? No,
sir; I waited for his challenge, but it never came and the next time I
met him he begged my pardon, and said, ‘Strong, I beg your pardon; you
whopped me and you served me right.’ I shook hands: but I couldn’t live
with him after that. I paid him what I owed him the night before,” said
Strong with a blush, “I pawned everything to pay him, and then I went
with my last ten florins, and had a shy at the roulette. If I had lost,
I should have let him shoot me in the morning. I was weary of my life.
By Jove, sir, isn’t it a shame that a man like me, who may have had a
few bills out, but who never deserted a friend, or did an unfair
action, shouldn’t be able to turn his hand to anything to get bread? I
made a good night, sir, at roulette, and I’ve done with that. I’m going
into the wine business. My wife’s relations live at Cadiz. I intend to
bring over Spanish wine and hams; there’s a fortune to be made by it,
sir,—a fortune—here’s my card. If you want any sherry or hams,
recollect Ned Strong is your man.” And the Chevalier pulled out a
handsome card, stating that Strong and Company, Shepherd’s Inn, were
sole agents of the celebrated Diamond Manzanilla of the Duke of
Garbanzos, Grandee of Spain of the First Class; and of the famous
Toboso hams, fed on acorns only in the country of Don Quixote. “Come
and taste ’em, sir,—come and try ’em at my chambers. You see, I’ve an
eye to business, and by Jove this time I’ll succeed.”
Pen laughed as he took the card. “I don’t know whether I shall be
allowed to go to bachelors’ parties,” he said. “You know I’m going
to——”
“But you must have sherry, sir. You must have sherry.”
“I will have it from you, depend on it,” said the other. “And I think
you are very well out of your other partnership. That worthy Altamont
and his daughter correspond, I hear,” Pen added after a pause.
“Yes; she wrote him the longest rigmarole letters, that I used to read:
the sly little devil; and he answered under cover to Mrs. Bonner. He
was for carrying her off the first day or two, and nothing would
content him but having back his child. But she didn’t want to come, as
you may fancy; and he was not very eager about it.” Here the Chevalier
burst out in a laugh. “Why, sir, do you know what was the cause of our
quarrel and boxing match? There was a certain widow at Baden, a Madame
la Baronne de la Cruche-cassee, who was not much better than himself,
and whom the scoundrel wanted to marry; and would, but that I told her
he was married already. I don’t think that she was much better than he
was. I saw her on the pier at Boulogne the day I came to England.”
And now we have brought up our narrative to the point, whither the
announcement in the Chatteris Champion had already conducted us.
It wanted but very, very few days before that blissful one when Foker
should call Blanche his own; the Clavering folks had all pressed to see
the most splendid new carriage in the whole world, which was standing
in the coach-house at the Clavering Arms; and shown, in grateful return
for drink, commonly, by Mr. Foker’s head-coachman. Madame Fribsby was
occupied in making some lovely dresses for the tenants’ daughters, who
were to figure as a sort of bridesmaids’ chorus at the breakfast and
marriage ceremony. And immense festivities were to take place at the
Park upon this delightful occasion.
“Yes, Mr. Huxter, yes; a happy tenantry, its country’s pride, will
assemble in the baronial hall, where the beards will wag all. The ox
shall be slain, and the cup they’ll drain; and the bells shall peal
quite genteel; and my father-in-law, with the tear of sensibility
bedewing his eye, shall bless us at his baronial porch. That shall be
the order of proceedings, I think, Mr. Huxter; and I hope we shall see
you and your lovely bride by her husband’s side; and what will you
please to drink, sir? Mrs. Lightfoot, madam, you will give to my
excellent friend and body-surgeon, Mr. Huxter, Mr. Samuel Huxter,
M.R.C.S., every refreshment that your hostel affords, and place the
festive amount to my account; and Mr. Lightfoot, sir, what will you
take? though you’ve had enough already, I think; yes, ha.”
So spoke Harry Foker in the bar of the Clavering Arms. He had
apartments at that hotel, and had gathered a circle of friends round
him there. He treated all to drink who came. He was hail-fellow with
every man. He was so happy! He danced round Madame Fribsby, Mrs.
Lightfoot’s great ally, as she sate pensive in the bar. He consoled
Mrs. Lightfoot, who had already begun to have causes of matrimonial
disquiet; for the truth must be told, that young Lightfoot, having now
the full command of the cellar, had none over his own unbridled
desires, and was tippling and tipsy from morning till night. And a
piteous sight it was for his fond wife to behold the big youth reeling
about the yard and coffee-room, or drinking with the farmers and
tradesmen his own neat wines and carefully selected stock of spirits.
When he could find time, Mr. Morgan the butler came from the Park, and
took a glass at the expense of the landlord of the Clavering Arms. He
watched poor Lightfoot’s tipsy vagaries with savage sneers. Mrs.
Lightfoot felt always doubly uncomfortable when her unhappy spouse was
under his comrade’s eye. But a few months married, and to think he had
got to this! Madame Fribsby could feel for her. Madame Fribsby could
tell her stories of men every bit as bad. She had had her own woes too,
and her sad experience of men. So it is that nobody seems happy
altogether; and that there’s bitters, as Mr. Foker remarked, in the cup
of every man’s life. And yet there did not seem to be any in his, the
honest young fellow! It was brimming over with happiness and
good-humour.
Mr. Morgan was constant in his attentions to Foker. “And yet I don’t
like him somehow,” said the candid young man to Mrs. Lightfoot. “He
always seems as if he was measuring me for my coffin somehow.
Pa-in-law’s afraid of him; pa-in-law’s, ahem! never mind, but
ma-in-law’s a trump, Mrs. Lightfoot.”
“Indeed my Lady was,” and Mrs. Lightfoot owned, with a sigh, that
perhaps it had been better for her had she never left her mistress.
“No, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell; the reason why I cannot tell,”
continued Mr. Foker; “and he wants to be taken as my head man. Blanche
wants me to take him. Why does Miss Amory like him so?”
“Did Miss Blanche like him so?” The notion seemed to disturb Mrs.
Lightfoot very much; and there came to this worthy landlady another
cause for disturbance. A letter, bearing the Boulogne postmark, was
brought to her one morning, and she and her husband were quarrelling
over it as Foker passed down the stairs by the bar, on his way to the
Park. His custom was to breakfast there, and bask a while in the
presence of Armida; then, as the company of Clavering tired him
exceedingly, and he did not care for sporting, he would return for an
hour or two to billiards and the society of the Clavering Arms; then it
would be time to ride with Miss Amory, and, after dining with her, he
left her and returned modestly to his inn.
Lightfoot and his wife were quarrelling over the letter. What was that
letter from abroad? Why was she always having letters from abroad? Who
wrote ’em?—he would know. He didn’t believe it was her brother. It was
no business of his? It was a business of his; and, with a curse, he
seized hold of his wife, and dashed at her pocket for the letter.
The poor woman gave a scream; and said, “Well, take it.” Just as her
husband seized on the letter, and Mr. Foker entered at the door, she
gave another scream at seeing him, and once more tried to seize the
paper. Lightfoot opened it, shaking her away, and an enclosure dropped
down on the breakfast-table.
“Hands off, man alive!” cried little Harry, springing in. “Don’t lay
hands on a woman, sir. The man that lays his hand upon a woman, save in
the way of kindness, is a—hallo! it’s a letter for Miss Amory. What’s
this, Mrs. Lightfoot?”
Mrs. Lightfoot began, in piteous tones of reproach to her husband,—“You
unmanly! to treat a woman so who took you off the street. Oh, you
coward, to lay your hand upon your wife! Why did I marry you? Why did I
leave my Lady for you? Why did I spend eight hundred pound in fitting
up this house that you might drink and guzzle?”
“She gets letters, and she won’t tell me who writes letters,” said Mr.
Lightfoot, with a muzzy voice; “it’s a family affair, sir. Will you
take anything, sir?”
“I will take this letter to Miss Amory, as I am going to the Park,”
said Foker, turning very pale; and taking it up from the table, which
was arranged for the poor landlady’s breakfast, he went away.
“He’s comin’—dammy, who’s a-comin’? Who’s J. A., Mrs. Lightfoot—curse
me, who’s J. A.?” cried the husband.
Mrs. Lightfoot cried out, “Be quiet, you tipsy brute, do,” and running
to her bonnet and shawl, threw them on, saw Mr. Foker walking down the
street, took the by-lane which skirts it, and ran as quickly as she
could to the lodge-gate, Clavering Park. Foker saw a running figure
before him, but it was lost when he got to the lodge-gate. He stopped
and asked, “Who was that who had just come in? Mrs. Bonner, was it?” He
reeled almost in his walk: the trees swam before him. He rested once or
twice against the trunks of the naked limes.
Lady Clavering was in the breakfast-room with her son, and her husband
yawning over his paper. “Good morning, Harry,” said the Begum. “Here’s
letters, lots of letters; Lady Rockminster will be here on Tuesday
instead of Monday, and Arthur and the Major come to-day; and Laura is
to go to Dr. Portman’s, and come to church from there: and—what’s the
matter, my dear? What makes you so pale, Harry?”
“Where is Blanche!” asked Harry, in a sickening voice—“not down yet?”
“Blanche is always the last,” said the boy, eating muffins; “she’s a
regular dawdle, she is. When you’re not here, she lays in bed till
lunch-time.”
“Be quiet, Frank,” said the mother.
Blanche came down presently, looking pale, and with rather an eager
look towards Foker; then she advanced and kissed her mother, and had a
face beaming with her very best smiles on when she greeted Harry.
“How do you do, sir?” she said, and put out both her hands.
“I’m ill,” answered Harry. “I—I’ve brought a letter for you, Blanche.”
“A letter, and from whom is it, pray? Voyons,” she said.
“I don’t know—I should like to know,” said Foker.
“How can I tell until I see it?” asked Blanche.
“Has Mrs. Bonner not told you?” he said, with a shaking voice;—“there’s
some secret. You give her the letter, Lady Clavering.”
Lady Clavering, wondering, took the letter from poor Foker’s shaking
hand, and looked at the superscription. As she looked at it, she too
began to shake in every limb, and with a scared face she dropped the
letter, and running up to Frank, clutched the boy to her, and burst out
with a sob—“Take that away—it’s impossible, it’s impossible.”
“What is the matter?” cried Blanche, with rather a ghastly smile; “the
letter is only from—from a poor pensioner and relative of ours.”
“It’s not true, it’s not true,” screamed Lady Clavering. “No, my
Frank—is it, Clavering?”
Blanche had taken up the letter, and was moving with it towards the
fire, but Foker ran to her and clutched her arm—“I must see that
letter,” he said; “give it me. You shan’t burn it.”
“You—you shall not treat Miss Amory so in my house,” cried the Baronet;
“give back the letter, by Jove!”
“Read it—and look at her,” Blanche cried, pointing to her mother;
“it—it was for her I kept the secret! Read it, cruel man!”
And Foker opened and read the letter:—
“I have not wrote, my darling Betsy, this three weeks; but this is to
give her a father’s blessing, and I shall come down pretty soon as
quick as my note, and intend to see the ceremony, and my son-in-law. I
shall put up at Bonner’s. I have had a pleasant autumn, and am staying
here at an hotel where there is good company, and which is kep’ in good
style. I don’t know whether I quite approve of your throwing over Mr.
P. for Mr. F., and don’t think Foker’s such a pretty name, and from
your account of him he seems a muff, and not a beauty. But he has got
the rowdy, which is the thing. So no more, my dear little Betsy, till
we meet, from your affectionate father, J. Amory Altamont.”
“Read it, Lady Clavering; it is too late to keep it from you now,” said
poor Foker; and the distracted woman, having cast her eyes over it,
again broke out into hysterical screams, and convulsively grasped her
son.
“They have made an outcast of you, my boy,” she said. “They’ve
dishonoured your old mother; but I’m innocent, Frank; before God, I’m
innocent. I didn’t know this, Mr. Foker; indeed, indeed, I didn’t.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” said Foker, going up and kissing her hand.
“Generous, generous Harry!” cried out Blanche, in an ecstasy. But he
withdrew his hand, which was upon her side, and turned from her with a
quivering lip. “That’s different,” he says.
“It was for her sake—for her sake, Harry.” Again Miss Amory is in an
attitude.
“There was something to be done for mine,” said Foker. “I would have
taken you, whatever you were. Everything’s talked about in London. I
knew that your father had come to—to grief. You don’t think it was—it
was for your connexion I married you? D—— it all! I’ve loved you with
all my heart and soul for two years, and you’ve been playing with me,
and cheating me,” broke out the young man, with a cry. “Oh, Blanche,
Blanche, it’s a hard thing, a hard thing!” and he covered his face with
his hands, and sobbed behind them.
Blanche thought, “Why didn’t I tell him that night when Arthur warned
me?”
“Don’t refuse her, Harry,” cried out Lady Clavering. “Take her, take
everything I have. It’s all hers, you know, at my death. This boy’s
disinherited.”—(Master Frank, who had been looking as scared at the
strange scene, here burst into a loud cry.) “Take every shilling. Give
me just enough to live, and to go and hide my head with this child, and
to fly from both. Oh, they’ve both been bad, bad men. Perhaps he’s here
now. Don’t let me see him. Clavering, you coward, defend me from him.”
Clavering started up at this proposal. “You ain’t serious, Jemima? You
don’t mean that?” he said. “You won’t throw me and Frank over? I didn’t
know it, so help me ——. Foker, I’d no more idea of it than the
dead—until the fellow came and found me out, the d——d escaped convict
scoundrel.”
“The what?” said Foker. Blanche gave a scream.
“Yes,” screamed out the Baronet in his turn, “yes, a d——d runaway
convict—a fellow that forged his father-in-law’s name—a d——d attorney,
and killed a fellow in Botany Bay, hang him—and ran into the Bush,
curse him; I wish he’d died there. And he came to me, a good six years
ago, and robbed me; and I’ve been ruining myself to keep him, the
infernal scoundrel! And Pendennis knows it, and Strong knows it, and
that d——d Morgan knows it, and she knows it, ever so long; and I never
would tell it, never: and I kept it from my wife.”
“And you saw him, and you didn’t kill him, Clavering, you coward?” said
the wife of Amory. “Come away, Frank; your father’s a coward. I am
dishonoured, but I’m your old mother, and you’ll—you’ll love me, won’t
you?”
Blanche, eploree, went up to her mother; but Lady Clavering shrank from
her with a sort of terror. “Don’t touch me,” she said; “you’ve no
heart; you never had. I see all now. I see why that coward was going to
give up his place in Parliament to Arthur; yes, that coward! and why
you threatened that you would make me give you half Frank’s fortune.
And when Arthur offered to marry you without a shilling, because he
wouldn’t rob my boy, you left him, and you took poor Harry. Have
nothing to do with her, Harry. You’re good, you are. Don’t marry
that—that convict’s daughter. Come away, Frank, my darling; come to
your poor old mother. We’ll hide ourselves; but we’re honest, yes, we
are honest.”
All this while a strange feeling of exultation had taken possession of
Blanche’s mind. That month with poor Harry had been a weary month to
her. All his fortune and splendour scarcely sufficed to make the idea
of himself supportable. She was wearied of his simple ways, and sick of
coaxing and cajoling him.
“Stay, mamma; stay, madam!” she cried out, with a gesture which was
always appropriate, though rather theatrical; “I have no heart, have I?
I keep the secret of my mother’s shame. I give up my rights to my
half-brother and my bastard brother, yes, my rights and my fortune. I
don’t betray my father, and for this I have no heart. I’ll have my
rights now, and the laws of my country shall give them to me. I appeal
to my country’s laws—yes, my country’s laws! The persecuted one returns
this day. I desire to go to my father.” And the little lady swept round
her hand, and thought that she was a heroine.
“You will, will you?” cried out Clavering, with one of his usual oaths.
“I’m a magistrate, and dammy, I’ll commit him. Here’s a chaise coming;
perhaps it’s him. Let him come.”
A chaise was indeed coming up the avenue; and the two women shrieked
each their loudest, expecting at that moment to see Altamont arrive.
The door opened, and Mr. Morgan announced Major Pendennis and Mr.
Pendennis, who entered, and found all parties engaged in this fierce
quarrel. A large screen fenced the breakfast-room from the hall; and it
is probable that, according to his custom, Mr. Morgan had taken
advantage of the screen to make himself acquainted with all that
occurred.
It had been arranged on the previous day that the young people should
ride; and at the appointed hour in the afternoon, Mr. Foker’s horses
arrived from the Clavering Arms. But Miss Blanche did not accompany him
on this occasion. Pen came out and shook hands with him on the
door-steps; and Harry Foker rode away, followed by his groom in
mourning. The whole transactions which have occupied the most active
part of our history were debated by the parties concerned during those
two or three hours. Many counsels had been given, stories told, and
compromises suggested; and at the end, Harry Foker rode away, with a
sad “God bless you!” from Pen. There was a dreary dinner at Clavering
Park, at which the lately installed butler did not attend; and the
ladies were both absent. After dinner, Pen said, “I will walk down to
Clavering and see if he is come.” And he walked through the dark
avenue, across the bridge and road by his own cottage,—the once quiet
and familiar fields of which were flaming with the kilns and forges of
the artificers employed on the new railroad works; and so he entered
the town, and made for the Clavering Arms.
It was past midnight when he returned to Clavering Park. He was
exceedingly pale and agitated. “Is Lady Clavering up yet?” he asked.
Yes, she was in her own sitting-room. He went up to her, and there
found the poor lady in a piteous state of tears and agitation.
“It is I,—Arthur,” he said, looking in; and entering, he took her hand
very affectionately and kissed it. “You were always the kindest of
friends to me, dear Lady Clavering,” he said. “I love you very much. I
have got some news for you.”
“Don’t call me by that name,” she said, pressing his hand. “You were
always a good boy, Arthur; and it’s kind of you to come now,—very kind.
You sometimes look very like your ma, my dear.”
“Dear good Lady Clavering,” Arthur repeated, with particular emphasis,
“something very strange has happened.”
“Has anything happened to him?” gasped Lady Clavering. “Oh, it’s horrid
to think I should be glad of it—horrid!”
“He is well. He has been and is gone, my dear lady. Don’t alarm
yourself;—he is gone, and you are Lady Clavering still.”
“Is it true? what he sometimes said to me,” she screamed out,—“that
he——”
“He was married before he married you,” said Pen. “He has confessed it
to-night. He will never come back.” There came another shriek from Lady
Clavering, as she flung her arms round Pen, and kissed him, and burst
into tears on his shoulder.
What Pen had to tell, through a multiplicity of sobs and interruptions,
must be compressed briefly, for behold our prescribed limit is reached,
and our tale is coming to its end. With the Branch Coach from the
railroad, which had succeeded the old Alacrity and Perseverance, Amory
arrived, and was set down at the Clavering Arms. He ordered his dinner
at the place under his assumed name of Altamont; and, being of a jovial
turn, he welcomed the landlord, who was nothing loth, to a share of his
wine. Having extracted from Mr. Lightfoot all the news regarding the
family at the Park, and found, from examining his host, that Mrs.
Lightfoot, as she said, had kept his counsel, he called for more wine
of Mr. Lightfoot; and at the end of this symposium, both, being greatly
excited, went into Mrs. Lightfoot’s bar.
She was there taking tea with her friend, Madame Fribsby; and Lightfoot
was by this time in such a happy state as not to be surprised at
anything which might occur, so that, when Altamont shook hands with
Mrs. Lightfoot as an old acquaintance, the recognition did not appear
to him to be in the least strange, but only a reasonable cause for
further drinking. The gentlemen partook then of brandy-and-water, which
they offered to the ladies, not heeding the terrified looks of one or
the other.
Whilst they were so engaged, at about six o’clock in the evening, Mr.
Morgan, Sir Francis Clavering’s new man, came in, and was requested to
drink. He selected his favourite beverage, and the parties engaged in
general conversation.
After a while Mr. Lightfoot began to doze. Mr. Morgan had repeatedly
given hints to Mrs. Fribsby to quit the premises; but that lady,
strangely fascinated, and terrified it would seem, or persuaded by Mrs.
Lightfoot not to go, kept her place. Her persistence occasioned much
annoyance to Mr. Morgan, who vented his displeasure in such language as
gave pain to Mrs. Lightfoot, and caused Mr. Altamont to say, that he
was a rum customer, and not polite to the sex.
The altercation between the two gentlemen became very painful to the
women, especially to Mrs. Lightfoot, who did everything to soothe Mr.
Morgan; and, under pretence of giving a pipe-light to the stranger, she
handed him a paper on which she had privily written the words, “He
knows you. Go.” There may have been something suspicious in her manner
of handing, or in her guest’s of reading, the paper; for when he got up
a short time afterwards, and said he would go to bed, Morgan rose too,
with a laugh, and said it was too early to go to bed.
The stranger then said he would go to his bedroom. Morgan said he would
show him the way.
At this the guest said, “Come up. I’ve got a brace of pistols up there
to blow out the brains of any traitor or skulking spy,” and glared so
fiercely upon Morgan, that the latter, seizing hold of Lightfoot by the
collar, and waking him, said, “John Amory, I arrest you in the Queen’s
name. Stand by me, Lightfoot. This capture is worth a thousand pounds.”
He put forward his hand as if to seize his prisoner, but the other,
doubling his fist, gave Morgan with his left hand so fierce a blow on
the chest, that it knocked him back behind Mr. Lightfoot. That
gentleman, who was athletic and courageous, said he would knock his
guest’s head off, and prepared to do so, as the stranger, tearing off
his coat, and cursing both of his opponents, roared to them to come on.
But with a piercing scream Mrs. Lightfoot flung herself before her
husband, whilst with another and louder shriek Madame Fribsby ran to
the stranger, and calling out “Armstrong, Johnny Armstrong!” seized
hold of his naked arm, on which a blue tattooing of a heart and M. F.
were visible.
The ejaculation of Madame Fribsby seemed to astound and sober the
stranger. He looked down upon her, and cried out, “it’s Polly, by
Jove.”
Mrs. Fribsby continued to exclaim, “This is not Amory. This is Johnny
Armstrong, my wicked—wicked husband, married to me in St. Martin’s
Church, mate on board an Indiaman, and he left me two months after, the
wicked wretch. This is John Armstrong—here’s the mark on his arm which
he made for me.”
The stranger said, “I am John Armstrong, sure enough, Polly. I’m John
Armstrong, Amory, Altamont—and let ’em all come on, and try what they
can do against a British sailor. Hurray, who’s for it?”
Morgan still called out, “Arrest him!” But Mrs. Lightfoot said, “Arrest
him! arrest you, you mean spy! What! stop the marriage and ruin my
lady, and take away the Clavering Arms from us?”
“Did he say he’d take away the Clavering Arms from us?” asked Mr.
Lightfoot, turning round. “Hang him, I’ll throttle him.”
“Keep him, darling, till the coach passes to the up train. It’ll be
here now directly.”
“D—— him, I’ll choke him if he stirs,” said Lightfoot. And so they kept
Morgan until the coach came, and Mr. Amory or Armstrong went away back
to London.
Morgan had followed him: but of this event Arthur Pendennis did not
inform Lady Clavering, and left her invoking blessings upon him at her
son’s door, going to kiss him as he was asleep. It had been a busy day.
We have to chronicle the events of but one day more, and that was a day
when Mr. Arthur, attired in a new hat, a new blue frock-coat and blue
handkerchief, in a new fancy waistcoat, new boots, and new shirt-studs
(presented by the Right Honourable the Countess Dowager of
Rockminster), made his appearance at a solitary breakfast-table, in
Clavering Park, where he could scarce eat a single morsel of food. Two
letters were laid by his worship’s plate; and he chose to open the
first, which was in a round clerk-like hand, in preference to the
second more familiar superscription.
Note 1 ran as follows:—
“Garbanzos Wine Company, Shepherd’s Inn.—Monday.
“My Dear Pendennis,—In congratulating you heartily upon the event which
is to make you happy for life, I send my very kindest remembrances to
Mrs. Pendennis, whom I hope to know even longer than I have already
known her. And when I call her attention to the fact, that one of the
most necessary articles to her husband’s comfort is pure sherry, I know
I shall have her for a customer for your worship’s sake.
“But I have to speak to you of other than my own concerns. Yesterday
afternoon, a certain J. A. arrived at my chambers from Clavering, which
he had left under circumstances of which you are doubtless now aware.
In spite of our difference, I could not but give him food and shelter
(and he partook freely both of the Garbanzos Amontillado and the Toboso
ham), and he told me what had happened to him, and many other
surprising adventures. The rascal married at sixteen, and has
repeatedly since performed that ceremony—in Sydney, in New Zealand, in
South America, in Newcastle, he says, first, before he knew our poor
friend the milliner. He is a perfect Don Juan.
“And it seemed as if the commendatore had at last overtaken him, for,
as we were at our meal, there came three heavy knocks at my outer door,
which made our friend start. I have sustained a siege or two here, and
went to my usual place to reconnoitre. Thank my stars I have not a bill
out in the world, and besides, those gentry do not come in that way. I
found that it was your uncle’s late valet, Morgan, and a policeman (I
think a sham policeman), and they said they had a warrant to take the
person of John Armstrong, alias Amory, alias Altamont, a runaway
convict, and threatened to break in the oak.
“Now, sir, in my own days of captivity I had discovered a little
passage along the gutter into Bows and Costigan’s window, and I sent
Jack Alias along this covered way, not without terror of his life, for
it had grown very cranky; and then, after a parley, let in Mons. Morgan
and friend.
“The rascal had been instructed about that covered way, for he made for
the room instantly, telling the policeman to go downstairs and keep the
gate; and he charged up my little staircase as if he had known the
premises. As he was going out of the window we heard a voice that you
know, from Bows’s garret, saying, ‘Who are ye, and hwhat the divvle are
ye at? You’d betther leave the gutther; bedad there’s a man killed
himself already.’
“And as Morgan, crossing over and looking into the darkness, was trying
to see whether this awful news was true, he took a broomstick, and with
a vigorous dash broke down the pipe of communication—and told me this
morning, with great glee, that he was reminded of that ’aisy sthratagem
by remembering his dorling Emilie, when she acted the pawrt of Cora in
the Plee—and by the bridge in Pezawro, bedad.’ I wish that scoundrel
Morgan had been on the bridge when the General tried his ‘sthratagem.’
“If I hear more of Jack Alias I will tell you. He has got plenty of
money still, and I wanted him to send some to our poor friend the
milliner; but the scoundrel laughed, and said he had no more than he
wanted, but offered to give anybody a lock of his hair. Farewell—be
happy! and believe me always truly yours, E. Strong.”
“And now for the other letter,” said Pen. “Dear old fellow!” and he
kissed the seal before he broke it.
“Warrington, Tuesday.
“I must not let the day pass over without saying a God bless you, to
both of you. May Heaven make you happy, dear Arthur, and dear Laura. I
think, Pen, that you have the best wife in the world; and pray that, as
such, you will cherish her and tend her. The chambers will be lonely
without you, dear Pen; but if I am tired, I shall have a new home to go
to in the house of my brother and sister. I am practising in the
nursery here, in order to prepare for the part of Uncle George.
Farewell! make your wedding tour, and come back to your affectionate G.
W.”
Pendennis and his wife read this letter together after Doctor Portman’s
breakfast was over, and the guests were gone; and when the carriage was
waiting amidst the crowd at the Doctor’s outer gate. But the wicket led
into the churchyard of St. Mary’s, where the bells were pealing with
all their might, and it was here, over Helen’s green grass, that Arthur
showed his wife George’s letter. For which of those two—for grief was
it or for happiness, that Laura’s tears abundantly fell on the paper?
And once more, in the presence of the sacred dust, she kissed and
blessed her Arthur.
There was only one marriage on that day at Clavering Church; for in
spite of Blanche’s sacrifices for her dearest mother, honest Harry
Foker could not pardon the woman who had deceived her husband, and
justly argued that she would deceive him again. He went to the Pyramids
and Syria, and there left his malady behind him, and returned with a
fine beard, and a supply of tarbooshes and nargillies, with which he
regales all his friends. He lives splendidly, and, through Pen’s
mediation, gets his wine from the celebrated vintages of the Duke of
Garbanzos.
As for poor Cos, his fate has been mentioned in an early part of this
story. No very glorious end could be expected to such a career. Morgan
is one of the most respectable men in the parish of St. James’s, and in
the present political movement has pronounced himself like a man and a
Briton. And Bows,—on the demise of Mr. Piper, who played the organ at
Clavering, little Mrs. Sam Hunter, who has the entire command of Doctor
Portman, brought Bows down from London to contest the organ-loft, and
her candidate carried the chair. When Sir Francis Clavering quitted
this worthless life, the same little indefatigable canvasser took the
borough by storm, and it is now represented by Arthur Pendennis, Esq.
Blanche Amory, it is well known, married at Paris, and the saloons of
Madame la Comtesse de Montmorenci de Valentinois were amongst the most
suivis of that capital. The duel between the Count and the young and
fiery Representative of the Mountain, Alcide de Mirobo, arose solely
from the latter questioning at the Club the titles borne by the former
nobleman. Madame de Montmorenci de Valentinois travelled after the
adventure: and Bungay bought her poems, and published them, with the
Countess’s coronet emblazoned on the Countess’s work.
Major Pendennis became very serious in his last days, and was never so
happy as when Laura was reading to him with her sweet voice, or
listening to his stories. For this sweet lady is the friend of the
young and the old: and her life is always passed in making other lives
happy.
“And what sort of a husband would this Pendennis be?” many a reader
will ask, doubting the happiness of such a marriage and the fortune of
Laura. The querists, if they meet her, are referred to that lady
herself, who, seeing his faults and wayward moods—seeing and owning
that there are men better than he—loves him always with the most
constant affection. His children or their mother have never heard a
harsh word from him; and when his fits of moodiness and solitude are
over, welcome him back with a never-failing regard and confidence. His
friend is his friend still,—entirely heart-whole. That malady is never
fatal to a sound organ. And George goes through his part of godpapa
perfectly, and lives alone. If Mr. Pen’s works have procured him more
reputation than has been acquired by his abler friend, whom no one
knows, George lives contented without the fame. If the best men do not
draw the great prizes in life, we know it has been so settled by the
Ordainer of the lottery. We own, and see daily, how the false and
worthless live and prosper, while the good are called away, and the
dear and young perish untimely,—we perceive in every man’s life the
maimed happiness, the frequent falling, the bootless endeavour, the
struggle of Right and Wrong, in which the strong often succumb and the
swift fail: we see flowers of good blooming in foul places, as, in the
most lofty and splendid fortunes, flaws of vice and meanness, and
stains of evil; and, knowing how mean the best of us is, let us give a
hand of charity to Arthur Pendennis, with all his faults and
shortcomings, who does not claim to be a hero, but only a man and a
brother.
THE END