WHICH HAD VERY NEARLY BEEN THE LAST OF THE STORY.
Doctor Portman's letter was sent off to its destination in London, and
the worthy clergyman endeavored to sooth down Mrs. Pendennis into some
state of composure until an answer should arrive, which the doctor
tried to think, or, at any rate, persisted in saying, would be
satisfactory as regarded the morality of Mr. Pen. At least Helen's
wish of moving upon London and appearing in person to warn her son of
his wickedness, was impracticable for a day or two. The apothecary
forbade her moving even so far as Fairoaks for the first day, and it
was not until the subsequent morning that she found herself again back
on her sofa at home, with the faithful, though silent Laura, nursing
at her side.
Unluckily for himself and all parties, Pen never read that homily
which Doctor Portman addressed to him, until many weeks after the
epistle had been composed; and day after day, the widow waited for her
son's reply to the charges against him; her own illness increasing
with every day's delay. It was a hard task for Laura to bear the
anxiety; to witness her dearest friend's suffering: worst of all, to
support Helen's estrangement, and the pain caused to her by that
averted affection. But it was the custom of this young lady to the
utmost of her power, and by means of that gracious assistance which
Heaven awarded to her pure and constant prayers, to do her duty. And,
as that duty was performed quite noiselessly--while, the
supplications, which endowed her with the requisite strength for
fulfilling it, also took place in her own chamber, away from all
mortal sight,--we, too, must be perforce silent about these virtues of
hers, which no more bear public talking about, than a flower will bear
to bloom in a ball-room. This only we will say-that a good woman is
the loveliest flower that blooms under Heaven; and that we look with
love and wonder upon its silent grace, its pure fragrance, its
delicate bloom of beauty. Sweet and beautiful!--the fairest and the
most spotless!--is it not pity to see them bowed down or devoured by
Grief or Death inexorable--wasting in disease-pining with long pain-or
cut off by sudden fate in their prime? _We_ may deserve grief--but
why should these be unhappy?--except that we know that Heaven chastens
those whom it loves best; being pleased, by repeated trials, to make
these pure spirits more pure.
So Pen never got the letter, although it was duly posted and
faithfully discharged by the postman into his letter-box in Lamb
Court, and thence carried by the laundress to his writing-table with
the rest of his lordship's correspondence; into which room, have we
not seen a picture of him, entering from his little bedroom adjoining,
as Mrs. Flanagan, his laundress, was in the act of drinking his gin?
Those kind readers who have watched Mr. Arthur's career hitherto, and
have made, as they naturally would do, observations upon the moral
character and peculiarities of their acquaintance, have probably
discovered by this time what was the prevailing fault in Mr. Pen's
disposition, and who was that greatest enemy, artfully indicated in
the title-page, with whom he had to contend. Not a few of us, my
beloved public, have the very same rascal to contend with: a scoundrel
who takes every opportunity of bringing us into mischief, of plunging
us into quarrels, of leading us into idleness and unprofitable
company, and what not. In a word, Pen's greatest enemy was himself:
and as he had been pampering, and coaxing, and indulging that
individual all his life, the rogue grew insolent, as all spoiled
servants will be; and at the slightest attempt to coerce him, or make
him do that which was unpleasant to him, became frantically rude and
unruly. A person who is used to making sacrifices--Laura, for
instance, who had got such a habit of giving up her own pleasure for
others-can do the business quite easily; but Pen, unaccustomed as he
was to any sort of self-denial, suffered woundily when called on to
pay his share, and savagely grumbled at being obliged to forego any
thing he liked.
He had resolved in his mighty mind then that he would not see Fanny;
and he wouldn't. He tried to drive the thoughts of that fascinating
little person out of his head, by constant occupation, by exercise, by
dissipation, and society. He worked, then, too much; he walked and
rode too much; he ate, drank, and smoked too much; nor could all the
cigars and the punch of which he partook drive little Fanny's image
out of his inflamed brain, and at the end of a week of this discipline
and self-denial our young gentleman was in bed with a fever. Let the
reader who has never had a fever in chambers pity the wretch who is
bound to undergo that calamity.
A committee of marriageable ladies, or of any Christian persons
interested in the propagation of the domestic virtues, should employ a
Cruikshank, or a Leech, or some other kindly expositor of the follies
of the day, to make a series of designs representing the horrors of a
bachelor's life in chambers, and leading the beholder to think of
better things, and a more wholesome condition. What can be more
uncomfortable than the bachelor's lonely breakfast?--with the black
kettle in the dreary fire in Midsummer; or, worse still, with the fire
gone out at Christmas, half an hour after the laundress has quitted
the sitting-room? Into this solitude the owner enters shivering, and
has to commence his day by hunting for coals and wood: and before he
begins the work of a student, has to discharge the duties of a
housemaid, vice Mrs. Flanagan, who is absent without leave. Or, again,
what can form a finer subject for the classical designer than the
bachelor's shirt--that garment which he wants to assume just at
dinner-time, and which he finds without any buttons to fasten it? Then
there is the bachelor's return to chambers after a merry Christmas
holiday, spent in a cozy country-house, full of pretty faces, and kind
welcomes and regrets. He leaves his portmanteau at the barber's in the
court: he lights his dismal old candle at the sputtering little lamp
on the stair: he enters the blank familiar room, where the only tokens
to greet him, that show any interest in his personal welfare, are the
Christmas bills, which are lying in wait for him, amicably spread out
on his reading-table. Add to these scenes an appalling picture of
bachelor's illness, and the rents in the Temple will begin to fall
from the day of the publication of the dismal diorama. To be well in
chambers is melancholy, and lonely and selfish enough; but to be ill
in chambers--to pass nights of pain and watchfulness--to long for the
morning and the laundress--to serve yourself your own medicine by your
own watch--to have no other companion for long hours but your own
sickening fancies and fevered thoughts: no kind hand to give you drink
if you are thirsty, or to smooth the hot pillow that crumples under
you--this indeed, is a fate so dismal and tragic, that we shall not
enlarge upon its horrors; and shall only heartily pity those bachelors
in the Temple who brave it every day.
This lot befell Arthur Pendennis after the various excesses which we
have mentioned, and to which he had subjected his unfortunate brains.
One night he went to bed ill, and next the day awoke worse. His only
visitor that day, besides the laundress, was the Printer's Devil, from
the "Pall Mall Gazette Office," whom the writer endeavored, as best he
could, to satisfy. His exertions to complete his work rendered his
fever the greater: he could only furnish a part of the quantity of
"copy" usually supplied by him; and Shandon being absent, and
Warrington not in London to give a help, the political and editorial
columns of the "Gazette" looked very blank indeed; nor did the
sub-editor know how to fill them. Mr. Finucane rushed up to Pen's
Chambers, and found that gentleman so exceedingly unwell, that the
good-natured Irishman set to work to supply his place, if possible,
and produced a series of political and critical compositions, such as
no doubt greatly edified the readers of the periodical in which he and
Pen were concerned. Allusions to the greatness of Ireland, and the
genius and virtue of the inhabitants of that injured country, flowed
magnificently from Finucane's pen; and Shandon, the Chief of the
paper, who was enjoying himself placidly at Boulogne-sur-mer, looking
over the columns of the journal, which was forwarded to him, instantly
recognized the hand of the great sub-editor, and said, laughing, as he
flung over the paper to his wife, "Look here, Mary, my dear, here is
Jack at work again." Indeed, Jack was a warm friend, and a gallant
partisan, and when he had the pen in hand, seldom let slip an
opportunity of letting the world know that Rafferty was the greatest
painter in Europe, and wondering at the petty jealousy of the Academy,
which refused to make him an R. A.: of stating that it was generally
reported at the West End, that Mr. Rooney, M. P. was appointed
Governor of Barataria; or of introducing into the subject in hand,
whatever it might be, a compliment to the Round Towers, or the Giant's
Causeway. And besides doing Pen's work for him, to the best of his
ability, his kind-hearted comrade offered to forego his Saturday's and
Sunday's holiday, and pass those days of holiday and rest as
nurse-tender to Arthur, who, however, insisted, that the other should
not forego his pleasure, and thankfully assured him that he could bear
best his malady alone.
Taking his supper at the Back-Kitchen on the Friday night, after
having achieved the work of the paper, Finucane informed Captain
Costigan of the illness of their young friend in the Temple; and
remembering the fact two days afterward, the captain went to Lamb
Court and paid a visit to the invalid on Sunday afternoon. He found
Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, in tears in the sitting-room, and got a
bad report of the poor dear young gentleman within. Pen's condition
had so much alarmed her, that she was obliged to have recourse to the
stimulus of brandy to enable her to support the grief which his
illness occasioned. As she hung about his bed, and endeavored to
minister to him, her attentions became intolerable to the invalid, and
he begged her peevishly not to come near him. Hence the laundress's
tears and redoubled grief, and renewed application to the bottle,
which she was accustomed to use as an anodyne. The captain rated the
woman soundly for her intemperance, and pointed out to her the fatal
consequences which must ensue if she persisted in her imprudent
courses. Pen, who was by this time in a very fevered state, was yet
greatly pleased to receive Costigan's visit. He heard the well-known
voice in his sitting-room, as he lay in the bedroom within, and called
the captain eagerly to him, and thanked him for coming, and begged him
to take a chair and talk to him. The captain felt the young man's
pulse with great gravity--(his own tremulous and clammy hand growing
steady for the instant while his finger pressed Arthur's throbbing
vein)--the pulse was beating very fiercely--Pen's face was haggard
and hot--his eyes were bloodshot and gloomy; his "bird," as the
captain pronounced the word, afterward giving a description of his
condition, had not been shaved for nearly a week. Pen made his visitor
sit down, and, tossing and turning in his comfortless bed, began to
try and talk to the captain in a lively manner, about the
Back-Kitchen, about Vauxhall and when they should go again, and about
Fanny--how was little Fanny?
[Illustration]
Indeed how was she? We know how she went home very sadly on the
previous Sunday evening, after she had seen Arthur light his lamp in
his chambers, while he was having his interview with Bows. Bows came
back to his own rooms presently, passing by the Lodge door, and
looking into Mrs. Bolton's, according to his wont, as he passed, but
with a very melancholy face. She had another weary night that night.
Her restlessness wakened her little bedfellows more than once. She
daren't read more of Walter Lorraine: Father was at home, and would
suffer no light. She kept the book under her pillow, and felt for it
in the night. She had only just got to sleep, when the children began
to stir with the morning, almost as early as the birds. Though she was
very angry with Bows, she went to his room at her accustomed hour in
the day, and there the good-hearted musician began to talk to her.
"I saw Mr. Pendennis last night, Fanny," he said.
"Did you? I thought you did," Fanny answered, looking fiercely at the
melancholy old gentleman.
"I've been fond of you ever since we came to live in this place," he
continued. "You were a child when I came; and you used to like me,
Fanny, until three or four days ago: until you saw this gentleman."
"And now, I suppose, you are going to say ill of him," said Fanny.
"Do, Mr. Bows--that will make me like you better."
"Indeed I shall do no such thing," Bows answered; "I think he is a
very good and honest young man."
"Indeed, you know that if you said a word against him, I would never
speak a word to you again--never!" cried Miss Fanny; and clenched her
little hand, and paced up and down the room. Bows noted, watched, and
followed the ardent little creature with admiration and gloomy
sympathy. Her cheeks flushed, her frame trembled; her eyes beamed
love, anger, defiance. "You would like to speak ill of him," she said;
"but you daren't--you know you daren't!"
"I knew him many years since," Bows continued, "when he was almost as
young as you are, and he had a romantic attachment for our friend the
captain's daughter--Lady Mirabel that is now."
Fanny laughed. "I suppose there was other people, too, that had a
romantic attachment for Miss Costigan," she said: "I don't want to
hear about 'em."
"He wanted to marry her; but their ages were quite disproportionate:
and their rank in life. She would not have him because he had no
money. She acted very wisely in refusing him; for the two would have
been very unhappy, and she wasn't a fit person to go and live with his
family, or to make his home comfortable. Mr. Pendennis has his way to
make in the world, and must marry a lady of his own rank. A woman who
loves a man will not ruin his prospects, cause him to quarrel with his
family, and lead him into poverty and misery for her gratification. An
honest girl won't do that, for her own sake, or for the man's."
Fanny's emotion, which but now had been that of defiance and anger,
here turned to dismay and supplication. "What do I know about
marrying, Bows?" she said; "When was there any talk of it? What has
there been between this young gentleman and me that's to make people
speak so cruel? It was not my doing; nor Arthur's--Mr. Pendennis's
--that I met him at Vauxhall. It was the captain took me and
ma there. We never thought of nothing wrong, I'm sure. He came and
rescued us, and was so very kind. Then he came to call and ask after
us: and very, very good it was of such a grand gentleman to be so
polite to humble folks like us! And yesterday ma and me just went to
walk in the Temple Gardens, and--and"--here she broke out with that
usual, unanswerable female argument of tears--and cried, "Oh! I wish I
was dead! I wish I was laid in my grave; and had never, never
seen him!"
"He said as much himself, Fanny," Bows said; and Fanny asked through
her sobs, Why, why should he wish he had never seen her? Had she ever
done him any harm? Oh, she would perish rather than do him any harm.
Whereupon the musician informed her of the conversation of the day
previous, showed her that Pen could not and must not think of her as a
wife fitting for him, and that she, as she valued her honest
reputation, must strive too to forget him. And Fanny, leaving the
musician, convinced but still of the same mind, and promising that she
would avoid the danger which menaced her, went back to the Porter's
Lodge, and told her mother all. She talked of her love for Arthur, and
bewailed, in her artless manner, the inequality of their condition,
that set barriers between them. "There's the Lady of Lyons," Fanny
said; "Oh, ma! how I did love Mr. Macready when I saw him do it; and
Pauline, for being faithful to poor Claude, and always thinking of
him; and he coming back to her, an officer, through all his dangers!
And if every body admires Pauline--and I'm sure every body does, for
being so true to a poor man--why should a gentleman be ashamed of
loving a poor girl? Not that Mr. Arthur loves me--Oh, no, no! I ain't
worthy of him; only a princess is worthy of such a gentleman as him.
Such a poet!--writing so beautifully, and looking so grand! I'm sure
he's a nobleman, and of ancient family, and kep out of his estate.
Perhaps his uncle has it. Ah, if I might, oh, how I'd serve him, and
work for him, and slave for him, that I would. I wouldn't ask for more
than that, ma--just to be allowed to see him of a morning; and
sometimes he'd say 'How d'you do, Fanny?' or, 'God bless you Fanny!'
as he said on Sunday. And I'd work, and work; and I'd, sit up all
night, and read, and learn, and make myself worthy of him. The captain
says his mother lives in the country, and is a grand lady there. Oh,
how I wish I might go and be her servant, ma! I can do plenty of
things, and work very neat; and--and sometimes he'd come home, and I
should see him!"
The girl's head fell on her mother's shoulder as she spoke, and she
gave way to a plentiful outpouring of girlish tears, to which the
matron, of course, joined her own. "You mustn't think no more of him,
Fanny," she said. "If he don't come to you, he's a horrid,
wicked man."
"Don't call him so, mother," Fanny replied. "He's the best of men, the
best and the kindest. Bows says he thinks he is unhappy at leaving
poor little Fanny. It wasn't his fault, was it, that we met?--and it
ain't his that I mustn't see him again. He says I mustn't--and I
mustn't, mother. He'll forget me, but I shall never forget him. No!
I'll pray for him, and love him always--until I die--and I shall die,
I know I shall--and then my spirit will always go and be with him."
"You forget your poor mother, Fanny, and you'll break my heart by
goin' on so," Mrs. Bolton said. "Perhaps you will see him. I'm sure
you'll see him. I'm sure he'll come to-day. If ever I saw a man
in love, that man is him. When Emily Budd's young man first came about
her, he was sent away by old Budd, a most respectable man, and
violoncello in the orchestra at the Wells; and his own family wouldn't
hear of it neither. But he came back. We all knew he would. Emily
always said so; and he married her; and this one will come back too;
and you mark a mother's words, and see if he don't, dear."
At this point of the conversation Mr. Bolton entered the Lodge for his
evening meal. At the father's appearance, the talk between mother and
daughter ceased instantly. Mrs. Bolton caressed and cajoled the surly
undertaker's aid-de-camp, and said, "Lor, Mr. B., who'd have thought to
see you away from the Club of a Saturday night. Fanny, dear, get your
pa some supper. What will you have, B.? The poor gurl's got a
gathering in her eye, or somethink in it--_I_ was looking at it
just now as you came in." And she squeezed her daughter's hand as a
signal of prudence and secrecy; and Fanny's tears were dried up
likewise; and by that wondrous hypocrisy and power of disguise which
women practice, and with which weapons of defense nature endows them,
the traces of her emotion disappeared; and she went and took her work,
and sat in the corner so demure and quiet, that the careless male
parent never suspected that any thing ailed her.
Thus, as if fate seemed determined to inflame and increase the poor
child's malady and passion, all circumstances and all parties round
about her urged it on. Her mother encouraged and applauded it; and the
very words which Bows used in endeavoring to repress her flame only
augmented this unlucky fever. Pen was not wicked and a seducer: Pen
was high-minded in wishing to avoid her. Pen loved her: the good and
the great, the magnificent youth, with the chains of gold and the
scented auburn hair! And so he did; or so he would have loved her five
years back, perhaps, before the world had hardened the ardent and
reckless boy--before he was ashamed of a foolish and imprudent
passion, and strangled it as poor women do their illicit children, not
on account of the crime, but of the shame, and from dread that the
finger of the world should point to them.
What respectable person in the world will not say he was quite right
to avoid a marriage with an ill-educated person of low degree, whose
relations a gentleman could not well acknowledge, and whose manners
would not become her new station?--and what philosopher would not tell
him that the best thing to do with these little passions if they
spring up, is to get rid of them, and let them pass over and cure
them: that no man dies about a woman, or vice versâ: and that one or
the other having found the impossibility of gratifying his or her
desire in the particular instance, must make the best of matters,
forget each other, look out elsewhere, and choose again? And yet,
perhaps, there may be something said on the other side. Perhaps Bows
was right in admiring that passion of Pen's, blind and unreasoning as
it was, that made him ready to stake his all for his love; perhaps, if
self-sacrifice is a laudable virtue, mere worldly self-sacrifice is
not very much to be praised;--in fine, let this be a reserved point
to be settled by the individual moralist who chooses to debate it.
So much is certain, that with the experience of the world which Mr.
Pen now had, he would have laughed at and scouted the idea of marrying
a penniless girl out of a kitchen. And this point being fixed in his
mind, he was but doing his duty as an honest man, in crushing any
unlucky fondness which he might feel toward poor little Fanny.
So she waited and waited in hopes that Arthur would come. She waited
for a whole week, and it was at the end of that time that the poor
little creature heard from Costigan of the illness under which Arthur
was suffering.
It chanced on that very evening after Costigan had visited Pen, that
Arthur's uncle, the excellent major, arrived in town from Buxton,
where his health had been mended, and sent his valet Morgan to make
inquiries for Arthur, and to request that gentleman to breakfast with
the major the next morning. The major was merely passing through
London on his way to the Marquis of Steyne's house of Stillbrook,
where he was engaged to shoot partridges.
Morgan came back to his master with a very long face. He had seen Mr.
Arthur; Mr. Arthur was very bad indeed; Mr. Arthur was in bed with a
fever. A doctor ought to be sent to him; and Morgan thought his case
most alarming.
Gracious goodness! this was sad news indeed. He had hoped that Arthur
could come down to Stillbrook: he had arranged that he should go, and
procured an invitation for his nephew from Lord Steyne. He must go
himself; he couldn't throw Lord Steyne over; the fever might be
catching: it might be measles: he had never himself had the measles;
they were dangerous when contracted at his age. Was any body with
Mr. Arthur?
Morgan said there was somebody a nussing of Mr. Arthur.
The major then asked, had his nephew taken any advice? Morgan said he
had asked that question, and had been told that Mr. Pendennis had had
no doctor.
Morgan's master was sincerely vexed at hearing of Arthur's calamity.
He would have gone to him, but what good could it do Arthur that he,
the major, should catch a fever? His own ailments rendered it absolutely
impossible that he should attend to any body but himself. But
the young man must have advice--the best advice; and Morgan was
straightway dispatched with a note from Major Pendennis to his friend
Doctor Goodenough, who by good luck happened to be in London and at
home, and who quitted his dinner instantly, and whose carriage was in
half an hour in Upper Temple Lane, near Pen's chambers. The major had
asked the kind-hearted physician to bring him news of his nephew at
the Club where he himself was dining, and in the course of the night
the doctor made his appearance. The affair was very serious: the
patient was in a high fever: he had had Pen bled instantly: and would
see him the first thing in the morning. The major went disconsolate
to bed with this unfortunate news. When Goodenough came to see him
according to his promise the next day, the doctor had to listen for a
quarter of an hour to an account of the major's own maladies, before
the latter had leisure to hear about Arthur.
He had had a very bad night--his--his nurse said; at one hour he had
been delirious. It might end badly: his mother had better be sent for
immediately. The major wrote the letter to Mrs. Pendennis with the
greatest alacrity, and at the same time with the most polite
precautions. As for going himself to the lad, in his state it was
impossible. "Could I be of any use to him, my dear doctor?" he asked.
The doctor, with a peculiar laugh, said, No: he didn't think the major
could be of any use; that his own precious health required the most
delicate treatment, and that he had best go into the country and stay:
that he himself would take care to see the patient twice a day, and do
all in his power for him.
The major declared upon his honor, that if he could be of any use he
would rush to Pen's chambers. As it was, Morgan should go and see that
every thing was right. The doctor must write to him by every post to
Stillbrook; it was but forty miles distant from London, and if any
thing happened he would come up at any sacrifice.
Major Pendennis transacted his benevolence by deputy and by post.
"What else could he do," as he said? "Gad, you know, in these cases,
it's best not disturbing a fellow. If a poor fellow goes to the bad,
why, Gad, you know, he's disposed of. But in order to get well (and in
this, my dear doctor, I'm sure that you will agree with me), the best
way is to keep him quiet--perfectly quiet."
Thus it was the old gentleman tried to satisfy his conscience; and he
went his way that day to Stillbrook by railway (for railways have
sprung up in the course of this narrative, though they have not quite
penetrated into Pen's country yet), and made his appearance in his
usual trim order and curly wig, at the dinner-table of the Marquis of
Steyne. But we must do the major the justice to say, that he was very
unhappy and gloomy in demeanor. Wagg and Wenham rallied him about his
low spirits; asked whether he was crossed in love? and otherwise
diverted themselves at his expense. He lost his money at whist after
dinner, and actually trumped his partner's highest spade. And the
thoughts of the suffering boy, of whom he was proud, and whom he loved
after his manner, kept the old fellow awake half through the night,
and made him feverish and uneasy.
On the morrow he received a note in a handwriting which he did not
know: it was that of Mr. Bows, indeed, saying, that Mr. Arthur
Pendennis had had a tolerable night; and that as Dr. Goodenough had
stated that the major desired to be informed of his nephew's health,
he, R. B., had sent him the news per rail.
The next day he was going out shooting, about noon, with some of the
gentlemen staying at Lord Steyne's house; and the company, waiting
for the carriages, were assembled on the terrace in front of the
house, when a fly drove up from the neighboring station, and a
gray-headed, rather shabby old gentleman, jumped out, and asked for
Major Pendennis? It was Mr. Bows. He took the major aside and spoke to
him; most of the gentlemen round about saw that something serious had
happened, from the alarmed look of the major's face.
Wagg said, "It's a bailiff come down to nab the major;" but nobody
laughed at the pleasantry.
"Hullo! What's the matter, Pendennis?" cried Lord Steyne, with his
strident voice; "any thing wrong?"
"It's--it's my boy that's _dead_," said the major, and burst into a
sob--the old man was quite overcome.
"Not dead, my lord; but very ill when I left London," Mr. Bows said,
in a low voice.
A britzka came up at this moment as the three men were speaking. The
peer looked at his watch. "You've twenty minutes to catch the
mail-train. Jump in, Pendennis; and drive like h--, sir, do
you hear?"
The carriage drove off swiftly with Pendennis and his companions, and
let us trust that the oath will be pardoned to the Marquis of Steyne.
The major drove rapidly from the station to the Temple, and found a
traveling carriage already before him, and blocking up the narrow
Temple Lane. Two ladies got out of it, and were asking their way of
the porters; the major looked by chance at the panel of the carriage,
and saw the worn-out crest of the eagle looking at the sun, and the
motto, "nec tenui pennâ," painted beneath. It was his brother's old
carriage, built many, many years ago. It was Helen and Laura that were
asking their way to poor Pen's room.
He ran up to them; hastily clasped his sister's arm and kissed her
hand; and the three entered into Lamb-court, and mounted the long,
gloomy stair.
They knocked very gently at the door, on which Arthur's name was
written, and it was opened by Fanny Bolton.