IN WHICH PEN IS KEPT WAITING AT THE DOOR, WHILE THE READER IS INFORMED
WHO LITTLE LAURA WAS.
[Illustration]
Once upon a time, then, there was a young gentleman of Cambridge
University who came to pass the long vacation at the village where
young Helen Thistlewood was living with her mother, the widow of the
lieutenant slain at Copenhagen.--This gentleman--whose name was the
Reverend Francis Bell--was nephew to Mrs. Thistlewood, and by consequence,
own cousin to Miss Helen, so that it was very right that he should take
lodgings in his aunt's house, who lived in a very small way; and there
he passed the long vacation, reading with three or four pupils who
accompanied him to the village. Mr. Bell was fellow of a college, and
famous in the University for his learning and skill as a tutor.
His two kinswomen understood pretty early that the reverend gentleman
was engaged to be married, and was only waiting for a college living
to enable him to fulfill his engagement. His intended bride was the
daughter of another parson, who had acted as Mr. Bell's own private
tutor in Bell's early life, and it was while under Mr. Coacher's roof,
indeed, and when only a boy of seventeen or eighteen years of age, that
the impetuous young Bell had flung himself at the feet of Miss Martha
Coacher, whom he was helping to pick peas in the garden. On his knees,
before those peas and her, he pledged himself to an endless affection.
Miss Coacher was by many years the young fellow's senior; and her
own heart had been lacerated by many previous disappointments in the
matrimonial line. No less than three pupils of her father had trifled
with those young affections. The apothecary of the village had
despicably jilted her. The dragoon officer, with whom she had danced so
many times during that happy season which she passed at Bath with her
gouty grandmamma, one day gayly shook his bridle-rein, and galloped
away, never to return. Wounded by the shafts of repeated ingratitude,
can it be wondered at that the heart of Martha Coacher should pant
to find rest somewhere? She listened to the proposals of the gawky,
gallant, honest boy, with great kindness and good-humor; at the end of
his speech she said, "Law, Bell, I'm sure you are too young to think of
such things;" but intimated that she too would revolve them in her own
virgin bosom. She could not refer Mr. Bell to her mamma, for Mr. Coacher
was a widower, and being immersed in his books, was of course unable
to take the direction of so frail and wondrous an article as a lady's
heart, which Miss Martha had to manage for herself.
A lock of her hair, tied up in a piece of blue ribbon, conveyed to the
happy Bell the result of the Vestal's conference with herself. Thrice
before had she snipt off one of her auburn ringlets, and given them
away. The possessors were faithless, but the hair had grown again; and
Martha had indeed occasion to say that men were deceivers, when she
handed over this token of love to the simple boy.
Number 6, however, was an exception to former passions--Francis Bell was
the most faithful of lovers. When his time arrived to go to college, and
it became necessary to acquaint Mr. Coacher of the arrangements that had
been made, the latter cried, "God bless my soul, I hadn't the least idea
what was going on!" as was indeed very likely, for he had been taken in
three times before in precisely a similar manner; and Francis went to
the University resolved to conquer honors, so as to be able to lay them
at the feet of his beloved Martha.
This prize in view made him labor prodigiously. News came, term after
term, of the honors he won. He sent the prize-books for his college
essays to old Coacher, and his silver declamation cup to Miss Martha.
In due season he was high among the Wranglers, and a fellow of his
college; and during all the time of these transactions a constant tender
correspondence was kept up with Miss Coacher, to whose influence, and
perhaps with justice, he attributed the successes which he had won.
By the time, however, when the Rev. Francis Bell, M.A., and fellow and
tutor of his college, was twenty-six years of age, it happened that Miss
Coacher was thirty-four, nor had her charms, her manners, or her temper
improved since that sunny day in the spring-time of life when he found
her picking peas in the garden. Having achieved his honors, he relaxed
in the ardor of his studies, and his judgment and taste also perhaps
became cooler. The sunshine of the pea-garden faded away from Miss
Martha, and poor Bell found himself engaged--and his hand pledged to
that bond in a thousand letters--to a coarse, ill-tempered, ill-favored,
ill-mannered, middle-aged woman.
It was in consequence of one of many altercations (in which Martha's
eloquence shone, and in which therefore she was frequently pleased
to indulge) that Francis refused to take his pupils to Bearleader's
Green, where Mr. Coacher's living was, and where Bell was in the
habit of spending the summer; and he bethought him that he would pass
the vacation at his aunt's village, which he had not seen for many
years--not since little Helen was a girl and used to sit on his knee.
Down then he came and lived with them. Helen was grown a beautiful
young woman now. The cousins were nearly four months together, from June
to October. They walked in the summer evenings; they met in the early
morn. They read out of the same book when the old lady dozed at night
over the candles. What little Helen knew, Frank taught her. She sang to
him: she gave her artless heart to him. She was aware of all his story.
Had he made any secret?--had he not shown the picture of the woman to
whom he was engaged, and with a blush--her letters, hard, eager, and
cruel?--The days went on and on, happier and closer, with more kindness,
more confidence, and more pity. At last one morning in October came when
Francis went back to college, and the poor girl felt that her tender
heart was gone with him.
Frank too wakened up from the delightful midsummer-dream to the
horrible reality of his own pain. He gnashed and tore at the chain
which bound him. He was frantic to break it and be free. Should he
confess?--give his savings to the woman to whom he was bound, and beg
his release?--there was time yet--he temporized. No living might fall in
for years to come. The cousins went on corresponding sadly and fondly:
the betrothed woman, hard, jealous, and dissatisfied, complaining
bitterly, and with reason, of her Francis's altered tone.
At last things came to a crisis, and the new attachment was discovered.
Francis owned it, cared not to disguise it, rebuked Martha with her
violent temper and angry imperiousness, and, worst of all, with her
inferiority and her age.
Her reply was, that if he did not keep his promise she would carry his
letters into every court in the kingdom--letters in which his love was
pledged to her ten thousand times; and, after exposing him to the world
as the perjurer and traitor he was, she would kill herself.
Frank had one more interview with Helen, whose mother was dead then, and
who was living companion with old Lady Pontypool--one more interview,
where it was resolved that he was to do his duty; that is, to redeem his
vow; that is, to pay a debt cozened from him by a sharper; that is, to
make two honest people miserable. So the two judged their duty to be,
and they parted.
The living fell in only too soon; but yet Frank Bell was quite a gray
and worn-out man when he was inducted into it, Helen wrote him a letter
on his marriage, beginning "My dear cousin," and ending "always truly
yours." She sent him back the other letters, and the lock of his
hair--all but a small piece. She had it in her desk when she was talking
to the major.
Bell lived for three or four years in his living, at the end of which
time, the Chaplainship of Coventry Island falling vacant, Frank applied
for it privately, and having procured it, announced the appointment to
his wife. She objected, as she did to every thing. He told her bitterly
that he did not want _her_ to come: so she went. Bell went out in
Governor Crawley's time, and was very intimate with that gentleman in
his later years. And it was in Coventry Island, years after his own
marriage, and five years after he had heard of the birth of Helen's
boy, that his own daughter was born.
She was not the daughter of the first Mrs. Bell, who died of island
fever very soon after Helen Pendennis and her husband, to whom Helen had
told every thing, wrote to inform Bell of the birth of their child. "I
was old, was I?" said Mrs. Bell the first; "I was old, and her inferior,
was I? but I married you, Mr. Bell, and kept you from marrying her?" and
hereupon she died. Bell married a colonial lady, whom he loved fondly.
But he was not doomed to prosper in love; and, this lady dying in
child-birth, Bell gave up too: sending his little girl home to Helen
Pendennis and her husband, with a parting prayer that they would
befriend her.
The little thing came to Fairoaks from Bristol, which is not very far
off, dressed in black, and in company of a soldier's wife, her nurse,
at parting from whom she wept bitterly. But she soon dried up her grief
under Helen's motherly care.
Round her neck she had a locket with hair, which Helen had given, ah,
how many years ago! to poor Francis, dead and buried. This child was all
that was left of him, and she cherished, as so tender a creature would,
the legacy which he had bequeathed to her. The girl's name, as his dying
letter stated, was Helen Laura. But John Pendennis, though he accepted
the trust, was always rather jealous of the orphan; and gloomily
ordered that she should be called by her own mother's name; and not
by that first one which her father had given her. She was afraid of
Mr. Pendennis, to the last moment of his life. And it was only when her
husband was gone that Helen dared openly to indulge in the tenderness
which she felt for the little girl.
Thus it was that Laura Bell became Mrs. Pendennis's daughter. Neither
her husband nor that gentleman's brother, the major, viewed her with
very favorable eyes. She reminded the first of circumstances in his
wife's life which he was forced to accept, but would have forgotten much
more willingly: and as for the second, how could he regard her? She was
neither related to his own family of Pendennis, nor to any nobleman
in this empire, and she had but a couple of thousand pounds for her
fortune.
And now let Mr. Pen come in, who has been waiting all this while.
Having strung up his nerves, and prepared himself, without at the door,
for the meeting, he came to it, determined to face the awful uncle. He
had settled in his mind that the encounter was to be a fierce one, and
was resolved on bearing it through with all the courage and dignity of
the famous family which he represented. And he flung open the door and
entered with the most severe and warlike expression, armed _cap-a-pie_
as it were, with lance couched and plumes displayed, and glancing at
his adversary, as if to say, "Come on, I'm ready."
The old man of the world, as he surveyed the boy's demeanor, could
hardly help a grin at his admirable, pompous simplicity. Major Pendennis
too, had examined his ground; and finding that the widow was already
half won over to the enemy, and having a shrewd notion that threats and
tragic exhortations would have no effect upon the boy, who was inclined
to be perfectly stubborn and awfully serious, the major laid aside the
authoritative manner at once, and with the most good-humored natural
smile in the world, held out his hands to Pen, shook the lad's passive
fingers gayly, and said, "Well Pen, my boy, tell us all about it."
Helen was delighted with the generosity of the major's good humor.
On the contrary, it quite took aback and disappointed poor Pen, whose
nerves were strung up for a tragedy, and who felt that his grand
_entree_ was altogether balked and ludicrous. He blushed and winced with
mortified vanity and bewilderment. He felt immensely inclined to begin
to cry--"I--I--I didn't know that you were come till just now," he said:
"is--is--town very full, I suppose?"
If Pen could hardly gulp his tears down, it was all the major could do
to keep from laughter. He turned round and shot a comical glance at
Mrs. Pendennis, who too felt that the scene was at once ridiculous and
sentimental. And so, having nothing to say, she went up and kissed Mr.
Pen: as he thought of her tenderness and soft obedience to his wishes,
it is very possible too the boy was melted.
"What a couple of fools they are," thought the old guardian. "If I
hadn't come down, she would have driven over in state to pay a visit
and give her blessing to the young lady's family."
"Come, come," said he still grinning at the couple, "let us have as
little sentiment as possible, and Pen, my good fellow, tell us the
whole story."
Pen got back at once to his tragic and heroical air. "The story is,
sir," said he, "as I have written it to you before. I have made the
acquaintance of a most beautiful and most virtuous lady; of a high
family, although in reduced circumstances: I have found the woman
in whom I know that the happiness of my life is centered; I feel
that I never, never can think about any woman but her. I am aware of
the difference of our ages and other difficulties in my way. But my
affection was so great that I felt I could surmount all these;--that
we both could: and she has consented to unite her lot with mine, and
to accept my heart and my fortune."
"How much is that, my boy?" said the major. "Has any body left you some
money? I don't know that you are worth a shilling in the world."
"You know what I have is his," cried out Mrs. Pendennis.
"Good heavens, madam, hold your tongue!" was what the guardian was
disposed to say; but he kept his temper, not without a struggle. "No
doubt, no doubt," he said. "You would sacrifice any thing for him. Every
body knows that. But it is, after all, then, your fortune which Pen is
offering to the young lady; and of which he wishes to take possession
at eighteen."
"I know my mother will give me any thing," Pen said, looking rather
disturbed.
"Yes, my good fellow, but there is reason in all things. If your mother
keeps the house, it is but fair that she should select her company.
When you give her house over her head, and transfer her banker's
account to yourself for the benefit of Miss What-d'-you-call-'em--Miss
Costigan--don't you think you should at least have consulted my sister
as one of the principal parties in the transaction? I am speaking to
you, you see, without the least anger or assumption of authority, such
as the law and your father's will give me over you for three years to
come--but as one man of the world to another,--and I ask you, if you
think that, because you can do what you like with your mother, therefore
you have a right to do so! As you are her dependent, would it not have
been more generous to wait before you took this step, and at least to
have paid her the courtesy to ask her leave?"
Pen held down his head, and began dimly to perceive that the action on
which he had prided himself as a most romantic, generous instance of
disinterested affection, was perhaps a very selfish and headstrong piece
of folly.
"I did it in a moment of passion," said Pen, floundering; "I was not
aware what I was going to say or to do" (and in this he spoke with
perfect sincerity). "But now it is said, and I stand to it. No; I
neither can nor will recall it. I'll die rather than do so. And I--I
don't want to burthen my mother," he continued. "I'll work for myself.
I'll go on the stage and act with her. She--she says I should do well
there."
"But will she take you on those terms?" the major interposed. "Mind, I
do not say that Miss Costigan is not the most disinterested of women:
but, don't you suppose, now, fairly, that your position as a young
gentleman of ancient birth and decent expectations, forms a part of
the cause why she finds your addresses welcome?"
"I'll die, I say, rather than forfeit my pledge to her," said Pen,
doubling his fists and turning red.
"Who asks you, my dear friend?" answered the imperturbable guardian. "No
gentleman breaks his word, of course, when it has been given freely. But
after all, you can wait. You owe something to your mother, something to
your family--something to me as your father's representative."
"Oh, of course," Pen said, feeling rather relieved.
"Well, as you have pledged your word to her, give us another, will you,
Arthur?"
"What is it?" Arthur asked.
"That you will make no private marriage--that you won't be taking a trip
to Scotland, you understand."
"That would be a falsehood. Pen never told his mother a falsehood,"
Helen said.
Pen hung down his head again, and his eyes filled with tears of shame.
Had not this whole intrigue been a falsehood to that tender and
confiding creature who was ready to give up all for his sake? He gave
his uncle his hand.
"No, sir--on my word of honor, as a gentleman," he said, "I will never
marry without my mother's consent!" and giving Helen a bright parting
look of confidence and affection unchangeable, the boy went out of the
drawing-room into his own study.
"He's an angel--he's an angel," the mother cried out, in one of her
usual raptures.
"He comes of a good stock, ma'am," said her brother-in-law--"of a good
stock on both sides." The major was greatly pleased with the result of
his diplomacy--so much so, that he once more saluted the tips of Mrs.
Pendennis's glove, and dropping the curt, manly, and straightforward
tone in which he had conducted the conversation with the lad, assumed
a certain drawl which he always adopted when he was most conceited and
fine.
"My dear creature," said he, in that his politest tone, "I think it
certainly as well that I came down, and I flatter myself that last
_botte_ was a successful one. I tell you how I came to think of it.
Three years ago my kind friend Lady Ferrybridge sent for me in the
greatest state of alarm about her son Gretna, whose affair you remember,
and implored me to use my influence with the young gentleman, who was
engaged in an _affaire de coeur_ with a Scotch clergyman's daughter,
Miss MacToddy. I implored, I entreated gentle measures. But Lord
Ferrybridge was furious, and tried the high hand. Gretna was sulky and
silent, and his parents thought they had conquered. But what was the
fact, my dear creature? The young people had been married for three
months before Lord Ferrybridge knew any thing about it. And that was
why I extracted the promise from Master Pen."
"Arthur would never have done so," Mrs. Pendennis said.
"He hasn't--that is one comfort," answered the brother-in-law.
Like a wary and patient man of the world, Major Pendennis did not press
poor Pen any farther for the moment, but hoped the best from time, and
that the young fellow's eyes would be opened before long to see the
absurdity of which he was guilty. And having found out how keen the
boy's point of honor was, he worked kindly upon that kindly feeling
with great skill, discoursing him over their wine after dinner, and
pointing out to Pen the necessity of a perfect uprightness and openness
in all his dealings, and entreating that his communications with his
interesting young friend (as the major politely called Miss Fotheringay)
should be carried on with the knowledge, if not approbation, of Mrs.
Pendennis. "After all, Pen," the major said, with a convenient frankness
that did not displease the boy, while it advanced the interests of the
negotiator, "you must bear in mind that you are throwing yourself away.
Your mother might submit to your marriage, as she would to any thing
else you desired, if you did but cry long enough for it: but be sure of
this, that it can never please her. You take a young woman off the
boards of a country theater and prefer her, for such is the case, to one
of the finest ladies in England. And your mother will submit to your
choice, but you can't suppose that she will be happy under it. I have
often fancied, _entre nous_, that my sister had it in her eye to make a
marriage between you and that little ward of hers--Flora, Laura--what's
her name? And I always determined to do my small endeavor to prevent
any such match. The child has but two thousand pounds, I am given to
understand. It is only with the utmost economy and care that my sister
can provide for the decent maintenance of her house, and for your
appearance and education as a gentleman; and I don't care to own to
you that I had other and much higher views for you. With your name and
birth, sir--with your talents, which I suppose are respectable, with
the friends whom I have the honor to possess, I could have placed you
in an excellent position--a remarkable position for a young man of
such exceeding small means, and had hoped to see you, at least, try
to restore the honors of our name. Your mother's softness stopped one
prospect, or you might have been a general, like our gallant ancestor
who fought at Ramillies and Malplaquet. I had another plan in view: my
excellent and kind friend, Lord Bagwig, who is very well disposed toward
me, would, I have little doubt, have attached you to his mission at
Pumpernickel, and you might have advanced in the diplomatic service.
But, pardon me for recurring to the subject; how is a man to serve a
young gentleman of eighteen, who proposes to marry a lady of thirty,
whom he has selected from a booth in a fair?--well, not a fair--a barn.
That profession at once is closed to you. The public service is closed
to you. Society is closed to you. You see, my good friend, to what you
bring yourself. You may get on at the bar, to be sure, where I am given
to understand that gentlemen of merit occasionally marry out of their
kitchens; but in no other profession. Or you may come and live down
here--down here, _mon Dieu!_ forever" (said the major, with a dreary
shrug, as he thought with inexpressible fondness of Pall Mall), "where
your mother will receive the Mrs. Arthur that is to be, with perfect
kindness; where the good people of the county won't visit you; and
where, by Gad, sir, I shall be shy of visiting you myself, for
I'm a plain-spoken man, and I own to you that I like to live with
gentlemen for my companions; where you will have to live, with
rum-and-water-drinking gentlemen-farmers, and drag through your life
the young husband of an old woman, who, if she doesn't quarrel with
your mother, will at least cost that lady her position in society, and
drag her down into that dubious caste into which you must inevitably
fall. It is no affair of mine, my good sir. I am not angry. Your
downfall will not hurt me farther than that it will extinguish the hopes
I had of seeing my family once more taking its place in the world. It
is only your mother and yourself that will be ruined. And I pity you
both from my soul. Pass the claret: it is some I sent to your poor
father; I remember I bought it at poor Lord Levant's sale. But of
course," added the major, smacking the wine, "having engaged yourself,
you will do what becomes you as a man of honor, however fatal your
promise may be. However, promise us on our side, my boy, what I set out
by entreating you to grant--that there shall be nothing clandestine,
that you will pursue your studies, that you will only visit your
interesting friend at proper intervals. Do you write to her much?"
Pen blushed and said, "Why, yes, he had written."
"I suppose verses, eh! as well as prose? I was a dab at verses myself. I
recollect when I first joined, I used to write verses for the fellows in
the regiment; and did some pretty things in that way. I was talking to
my old friend General Hobbler about some lines I dashed off for him in
the year 1806, when we were at the Cape, and, Gad, he remembered every
line of them still; for he'd used 'em so often, the old rogue, and had
actually tried 'em on Mrs. Hobbler, sir--who brought him sixty thousand
pounds. I suppose you've tried verses, eh, Pen?"
Pen blushed again, and said, "Why, yes, he had written verses."
"And does the fair one respond in poetry or prose?" asked the major,
eying his nephew with the queerest expression, as much as to say,
"O Moses and green spectacles! what a fool the boy is."
Pen blushed again. She had written, but not in verse, the young lover
owned, and he gave his breast-pocket the benefit of a squeeze with his
left arm, which the major remarked, according to his wont.
"You have got the letters there, I see," said the old campaigner,
nodding at Pen, and pointing to his own chest (which was manfully wadded
with cotton by Mr. Stultz). "You know you have. I would give twopence to
see 'em."
"Why," said Pen, twiddling the stalks of the strawberries, "I--I," but
this sentence never finished; for Pen's face was so comical and
embarrassed, as the major watched it, that the elder could contain his
gravity no longer, and burst into a fit of laughter, in which chorus Pen
himself was obliged to join after a minute: when he broke out fairly
into a guffaw.
It sent them with great good humor into Mrs. Pendennis's drawing-room.
She was pleased to hear them laughing in the hall as they crossed it.
"You sly rascal!" said the major, putting his arm gayly on Pen's
shoulder, and giving a playful push at the boy's breast-pocket. He
felt the papers crackling there, sure enough. The young fellow was
delighted--conceited--triumphant--and, in one word, a spoony.
The pair came to the tea-table in the highest spirits. The major's
politeness was beyond expression. He had never tasted such good tea, and
such bread was only to be had in the country. He asked Mrs. Pendennis
for one of her charming songs. He then made Pen sing, and was delighted
and astonished at the beauty of the boy's voice: he made his nephew
fetch his map and drawings, and praised them as really remarkable
works of talent in a young fellow: he complimented him on his French
pronunciation: he flattered the simple boy as adroitly as ever lover
flattered a mistress: and when bed time came, mother and son went to
their several rooms perfectly enchanted with the kind major.
* * * * *
When they had reached those apartments, I suppose Helen took to her
knees as usual: and Pen read over his letters before going to bed just
as if he didn't know every word of them by heart already. In truth,
there were but three of those documents: and to learn their contents
required no great effort of memory.
In No. 1, Miss Fotheringay presents grateful compliments to Mr.
Pendennis, and in her papa's name and her own begs to thank him for his
_most beautiful presents_. They will always be _kept carefully_; and
Miss F. and Captain C. will never forget the _delightful evening_ which
they passed on _Tuesday last_.
* * * * *
No. 2, said--Dear sir, we shall have a small quiet party of _social
friends_ at our _humble board_, next Tuesday evening, at an _early tea_,
when I shall wear the _beautiful scarf_ which, with its _accompanying
delightful verses_, I shall _ever, ever cherish_; and papa bids me say
how happy he will be if you will join "_the feast of reason and the
flow of soul_" in our _festive little party_, as I am sure will be your
_truly grateful_ Emily Fotheringay.
* * * * *
No. 3 was somewhat more confidential, and showed that matters had
proceeded rather far. You were _odious_ yesterday night, the letter
said, Why did you not come to the stage-door? Papa could not escort me
on account of his eye; he had an accident, and fell down over a loose
carpet on the stair on Sunday night. I saw you looking at Miss Diggle
all night; and you were so _enchanted_ with Lydia Languish you scarcely
once looked at Julia. I could have _crushed_ Bingley, I was so _angry_.
I play _Ella Rosenberg_ on Friday: will you come then? _Miss Diggle
performs_--ever your E. F.
* * * * *
These three letters Mr. Pen used to read at intervals, during the day
and night, and embrace with that delight and fervor which such beautiful
compositions surely warranted. A thousand times at least he had kissed
fondly the musky satin paper, made sacred to him by the hand of Emily
Fotheringay. This was all he had in return for his passion and flames,
his vows and protests, his rhymes and similes, his wakeful nights and
endless thoughts, his fondness, fears, and folly. The young wiseacre had
pledged away his all for this: signed his name to endless promissory
notes, conferring his heart upon the bearer; bound himself for life, and
got back twopence as an equivalent. For Miss Costigan was a young lady
of such perfect good conduct and self-command, that she never would have
thought of giving more, and reserved the treasures of her affection
until she could transfer them lawfully at church.
Howbeit, Mr. Pen was content with what tokens of regard he had got, and
mumbled over his three letters in a rapture of high spirits, and went to
sleep delighted with his kind old uncle from London, who must evidently
yield to his wishes in time; and, in a word, in a preposterous state of
contentment with himself and all the world.