TEMPTATION
[Illustration]
Easy and frank-spoken as Pendennis commonly was with Warrington, how
came it that Arthur did not inform the friend and depository of all
his secrets, of the little circumstances which had taken place at the
villa near Tunbridge Wells? He talked about the discovery of his old
tutor Smirke, freely enough, and of his wife, and of his Anglo-Norman
church, and of his departure from Clapham to Rome; but, when asked
about Blanche, his answers were evasive or general; he said she was a
good-natured, clever little thing--that, rightly guided, she might
make no such bad wife after all; but that he had for the moment no
intention of marriage, that his days of romance were over, that he was
contented with his present lot, and so forth.
In the mean time there came occasionally to Lamb Court, Temple, pretty
little satin envelopes, superscribed in the neatest handwriting, and
sealed with one of those admirable ciphers, which, if Warrington had
been curious enough to watch his friend's letters, or indeed if the
cipher had been decipherable, would have shown George that Mr. Arthur
was in correspondence with a young lady whose initials were B. A. To
these pretty little compositions Mr. Pen replied in his best and
gallantest manner; with jokes, with news of the town, with points of
wit, nay, with pretty little verses very likely, in reply to the
versicles of the Muse of "Mes Larmes." Blanche we know rhymes with
"branch," and "stanch," and "launch," and no doubt a gentleman of
Pen's ingenuity would not forego these advantages of position, and
would ring the pretty little changes upon these pleasing notes. Indeed
we believe that those love-verses of Mr. Pen's, which had such
a pleasing success in the "Roseleaves," that charming Annual edited by
Lady Violet Lebas, and illustrated by portraits of the female nobility
by the famous artist Pinkney, were composed at this period of our
hero's life; and were first addressed to Blanche, per post, before
they figured in print, _cornets_ as it were to Pinkney's
pictorial garland.
"Verses are all very well," the elder Pendennis said, who found Pen
scratching down one of these artless effusions at the Club as he was
waiting for his dinner; "and letter-writing if mamma allows it, and
between such old country friends of course there may be a
correspondence, and that sort of thing--but mind, Pen, and don't
commit yourself, my boy. For who knows what the doose may happen? The
best way is to make your letters safe. I never wrote a letter in all
my life that would commit me, and demmy, sir, I have had some
experience of women." And the worthy gentleman, growing more garrulous
and confidential with his nephew as he grew older, told many affecting
instances of the evil results consequent upon this want of caution to
many persons in "society;"--how from using too ardent expressions in
some poetical notes to the widow Naylor, young Spoony had subjected
himself to a visit of remonstrance from the widow's brother, Colonel
Flint; and thus had been forced into a marriage with a woman old
enough to be his mother: how when Louisa Salter had at length
succeeded in securing young Sir John Bird, Hopwood, of the Blues,
produced some letters which Miss S. had written to him, and caused a
withdrawal on Bird's part, who afterward was united to Miss Stickney,
of Lyme Regis, &c. The major, if he had not reading, had plenty of
observation, and could back his wise saws with a multitude of modern
instances, which he had acquired in a long and careful perusal of the
great book of the world.
Pen laughed at the examples, and blushing a little at his uncle's
remonstrances, said that he would bear them in mind and be cautious.
He blushed, perhaps, because he _had_ borne them in mind; because he
_was_ cautious: because in his letters to Miss Blanche he had from
instinct or honesty perhaps refrained from any avowals which might
compromise him. "Don't you remember the lesson I had, sir, in Lady
Mirabel's--Miss Fotheringay's affair? I am not to be caught again,
uncle," Arthur said with mock frankness and humility. Old Pendennis
congratulated himself and his nephew heartily on the latter's prudence
and progress, and was pleased at the position which Arthur was taking
as a man of the world.
No doubt, if Warrington had been consulted, his opinion would have
been different; and he would have told Pen that the boy's foolish
letters were better than the man's adroit compliments and slippery
gallantries; that to win the woman he loves, only a knave or a coward
advances under cover, with subterfuges, and a retreat secured behind
him: but Pen spoke not on this matter to Mr. Warrington, knowing
pretty well that he was guilty, and what his friend's verdict
would be.
Colonel Altamont had not been for many weeks absent on his foreign
tour, Sir Francis Clavering having retired meanwhile into the
country pursuant to his agreement with Major Pendennis, when the ills
of fate began to fall rather suddenly and heavily upon the sole
remaining partner of the little firm of Shepherd's Inn. When Strong,
at parting with Altamont, refused the loan proffered by the latter in
the fullness of his purse and the generosity of his heart, he made
such a sacrifice to conscience and delicacy as caused him many an
after-twinge and pang; and he felt--it was not very many hours in his
life he had experienced the feeling--that in this juncture of his
affairs he had been too delicate and too scrupulous. Why should a
fellow in want refuse a kind offer kindly made? Why should a thirsty
man decline a pitcher of water from a friendly hand, because it was a
little soiled? Strong's conscience smote him for refusing what the
other had fairly come by, and generously proffered: and he thought
ruefully, now it was too late, that Altamont's cash would have been as
well in his pocket as in that of the gambling-house proprietor at
Baden or Ems, with whom his Excellency would infallibly leave his
Derby winnings. It was whispered among the tradesmen,
bill-discounters, and others who had commercial dealings with Captain
Strong, that he and the baronet had parted company, and that the
captain's "paper" was henceforth of no value. The tradesmen,
who had put a wonderful confidence in him hitherto--for who could
resist Strong's jolly face and frank and honest demeanor?--now began
to pour in their bills with a cowardly mistrust and unanimity. The
knocks at the Shepherd's Inn Chambers' door were constant, and
tailors, bootmakers, pastrycooks who had furnished dinners, in their
own persons, or by the boys their representatives, held levees on
Strong's stairs. To these were added one or two persons of a less
clamorous but far more sly and dangerous sort--the young clerks of
lawyers, namely, who lurked about the Inn, or concerted with Mr.
Campion's young man in the chambers hard by, having in their dismal
pocketbooks copies of writs to be served on Edward Strong, requiring
him to appear on an early day next term before our Sovereign Lady the
Queen, and answer to, &c., &c.
[Illustration]
From this invasion of creditors, poor Strong, who had not a guinea in
his pocket, had, of course, no refuge but that of the Englishman's
castle, into which he retired, shutting the outer and inner door upon
the enemy, and not quitting his stronghold until after nightfall.
Against this outer barrier the foe used to come and knock and curse in
vain, while the chevalier peeped at them from behind the little
curtain which he had put over the orifice of his letter-box; and had
the dismal satisfaction of seeing the faces of furious clerk and fiery
dun, as they dashed up against the door and retreated from it. But as
they could not be always at his gate, or sleep on his staircase, the
enemies of the chevalier sometimes left him free.
Strong, when so pressed by his commercial antagonists, was not quite
alone in his defense against them, but had secured for himself an ally
or two. His friends were instructed to communicate with him by a
system of private signals: and they thus kept the garrison from
starving by bringing in necessary supplies, and kept up Strong's heart
and prevented him from surrendering, by visiting him and cheering him
in his retreat. Two of Ned's most faithful allies were Huxter and Miss
Fanny Bolton: when hostile visitors were prowling about the Inn,
Fanny's little sisters were taught a particular cry or _jödel_, which
they innocently whooped in the court: when Fanny and Huxter came up to
visit Strong, they archly sang this same note at his door; when that
barrier was straightway opened, the honest garrison came out smiling,
the provisions and the pot of porter were brought in, and, in the
society of his faithful friends, the beleaguered one passed a
comfortable night. There are some men who could not live under this
excitement, but Strong was a brave man, as we have said, who had seen
service and never lost heart in peril.
But besides allies, our general had secured for himself, under
difficulties, that still more necessary aid--a retreat. It has been
mentioned in a former part of this history, how Messrs. Costigan and
Bows lived in the house next door to Captain Strong, and that the
window of one of their rooms was not very far off the kitchen-window
which was situated in the upper story of Strong's chambers. A leaden
water-pipe and gutter served for the two; and Strong, looking out from
his kitchen one day, saw that he could spring with great ease up to
the sill of his neighbor's window, and clamber up the pipe which
communicated from one to the other. He had laughingly shown this
refuge to his chum, Altamont; and they had agreed that it would be as
well not to mention the circumstance to Captain Costigan, whose duns
were numerous, and who would be constantly flying down the pipe into
their apartments if this way of escape were shown to him.
But now that the evil days were come, Strong made use of the passage,
and one afternoon burst in upon Bows and Costigan with his jolly face,
and explained that the enemy was in waiting on his staircase, and that
he had taken this means of giving them the slip. So while Mr. Marks's
aid-de-camps were in waiting in the passage of No. 3, Strong walked
down the steps of No. 4, dined at the Albion, went to the play, and
returned home at midnight, to the astonishment of Mrs. Bolton and
Fanny, who had not seen him quit his chambers and could not conceive
how he could have passed the line of sentries.
Strong bore this siege for some weeks with admirable spirit and
resolution, and as only such an old and brave soldier would, for the
pains and privations which he had to endure were enough to depress any
man of ordinary courage; and what vexed and "riled" him (to use his
own expression) was the infernal indifference and cowardly ingratitude
of Clavering, to whom he wrote letter after letter, which the baronet
never acknowledged by a single word, or by the smallest remittance,
though a five-pound note, as Strong said, at that time would have been
a fortune to him.
But better days were in store for the chevalier, and in the midst of
his despondency and perplexities there came to him a most welcome aid,
"Yes, if it hadn't been for this good fellow here," said Strong; "for
a good fellow you are, Altamont, my boy, and hang me if I don't stand
by you as long as I live; I think, Pendennis, it would have been all
up with Ned Strong. It was the fifth week of my being kept a prisoner,
for I couldn't be always risking my neck across that water-pipe, and
taking my walks abroad through poor old Cos's window, and my spirit
was quite broken, sir--dammy, quite beat, and I was thinking of
putting an end to myself, and should have done it in another week,
when who should drop down from heaven but Altamont!"
"Heaven ain't exactly the place, Ned," said Altamont. "I came from
Baden-Baden," said he, "and I'd had a deuced lucky month there,
that's all."
"Well, sir, he took up Marks's bill, and he paid the other fellows
that were upon me, like a man, sir, that he did," said Strong,
enthusiastically.
"And I shall be very happy to stand a bottle of claret for this
company, and as many more as the company chooses," said Mr. Altamont,
with a blush. "Hallo! waiter, bring us a magnum of the right sort, do
you hear? And we'll drink our healths all round, sir--and may every
good fellow like Strong find another good fellow to stand by him at a
pinch. That's _my_ sentiment, Mr. Pendennis, though I don't like your
name." "No! And why?" asked Arthur.
Strong pressed the colonel's foot under the table here; and Altamont,
rather excited, filled up another bumper, nodded to Pen, drank off his
wine, and said, "_He_ was a gentleman, and that was sufficient, and
they were all gentlemen."
The meeting between these "all gentlemen" took place at Richmond,
whither Pendennis had gone to dinner, and where he found the chevalier
and his friend at table in the coffee-room. Both of the latter were
exceedingly hilarious, talkative, and excited by wine; and Strong, who
was an admirable story-teller, told the story of his own siege, and
adventures, and escapes with great liveliness and humor, and described
the talk of the sheriff's officers at his door, the pretty little
signals of Fanny, the grotesque exclamations of Costigan when the
chevalier burst in at his window, and his final rescue by Altamont, in
a most graphic manner, and so as greatly to interest his hearers.
"As for me, it's nothing," Altamont said. "When a ship's paid off, a
chap spends his money, you know. And it's the fellers at the black and
red at Baden-Baden that did it. I won a good bit of money there, and
intend to win a good bit more, don't I, Strong? I'm going to take him
with me. I've got a system. I'll make his fortune, I tell you. I'll
make your fortune, if you like--dammy, every body's fortune. But what
I'll do, and no mistake, boys, I promise you. I'll put in for that
little Fanny. Dammy, sir, what do you think she did? She had two
pound, and I'm blest if she didn't go and lend it to Ned Strong!
Didn't she, Ned? Let's drink her health."
"With all my heart," said Arthur, and pledged this toast with the
greatest cordiality.
Mr. Altamont then began, with the greatest volubility, and at great
length, to describe his system. He said that it was infallible, if
played with coolness; that he had it from a chap at Baden, who had
lost by it, it was true, but because he had not capital enough; if he
could have stood one more turn of the wheel, he would have all his
money back; that he and several more chaps were going to make a bank,
and try it; and that he would put every shilling he was worth into it,
and had come back to this country for the express purpose of fetching
away his money, and Captain Strong; that Strong should play for him;
that he could trust Strong and his temper much better than he could
his own, and much better than Bloundell-Bloundell or the Italian that
"stood in." As he emptied his bottle, the colonel described at full
length all his plans and prospects to Pen, who was interested in
listening to his story, and the confessions of his daring and lawless
good-humor.
"I met that queer fellow Altamont the other day," Pen said to his
uncle, a day or two afterward.
"Altamont? What Altamont? There's Lord Westport's son," said the
major.
"No, no; the fellow who came tipsy into Clavering's dining-room one
day when we were there," said the nephew, laughing; "and he said he
did not like the name of Pendennis, though he did me the honor to
think that I was a good fellow."
"I don't know any man of the name of Altamont, I give you my honor,"
said the impenetrable major; "and as for your acquaintance, I think
the less you have to do with him the better, Arthur."
Arthur laughed again. "He is going to quit the country, and make his
fortune by a gambling system. He and my amiable college acquaintance,
Bloundell, are partners, and the colonel takes out Strong with him as
aid-de-camp. What is it that binds the chevalier and Clavering,
I wonder?"
"I should think, mind you, Pen, I should think, but of course I have
only the idea, that there has been something in Clavering's previous
life which gives these fellows, and some others, a certain power over
him; and if there should be such a secret, which is no affair of ours,
my boy, dammy, I say, it ought to be a lesson to a man to keep himself
straight in life, and not to give any man a chance over him."
"Why, I think _you_ have some means of persuasion over Clavering,
uncle, or why should he give me that seat in Parliament?"
"Clavering thinks he ain't fit for Parliament!" the major answered.
"No more he is. What's to prevent him from putting you or any body
else into his place if he likes? Do you think that the Government or
the Opposition would make any bones about accepting the seat if he
offered it to them? Why should you be more squeamish than the first
men, and the most honorable men, and men of the highest birth and
position in the country, begad?" The major had an answer of this kind
to most of Pen's objections, and Pen accepted his uncle's replies, not
so much because he believed them, but because he wished to believe
them. We do a thing--which of us has not? not because "every body does
it," but because we like it; and our acquiescence, alas! proves not
that every body is right, but that we and the rest of the world are
poor creatures alike.
At his next visit to Tunbridge, Mr. Pen did not forget to amuse Miss
Blanche with the history which he had learned at Richmond of the
chevalier's imprisonment, and of Altamont's gallant rescue. And after
he had told his tale in his usual satirical way, he mentioned with
praise and emotion little Fanny's generous behavior to the chevalier,
and Altamont's enthusiasm in her behalf.
Miss Blanche was somewhat jealous, and a good deal piqued and curious
about Fanny. Among the many confidential little communications which
Arthur made to Miss Amory in the course of their delightful rural
drives and their sweet evening walks, it may be supposed that our hero
would not forget a story so interesting to himself and so likely to be
interesting to her, as that of the passion and care of the poor little
Ariadne of Shepherd's Inn. His own part in that drama he described, to
do him justice, with becoming modesty; the moral which he wished to
draw from the tale being one in accordance with his usual satirical
mood, viz., that women get over their first loves quite as easily as
men do (for the fair Blanche, in their _intimes_ conversations, did
not cease to twit Mr. Pen about his notorious failure in his own
virgin attachment to the Fotheringay), and, number one being
withdrawn, transfer themselves to number two without much difficulty.
And poor little Fanny was offered up in sacrifice as an instance to
prove this theory. What griefs she had endured and surmounted, what
bitter pangs of hopeless attachment she had gone through, what time it
had taken to heal those wounds of the tender little bleeding heart,
Mr. Pen did not know, or perhaps did not choose to know; for he was at
once modest and doubtful about his capabilities as a conqueror of
hearts, and averse to believe that he had executed any dangerous
ravages on that particular one, though his own instance and argument
told against himself in this case; for if, as he said, Miss Fanny was
by this time in love with her surgical adorer, who had neither good
looks, nor good manners, nor wit, nor any thing but ardor and fidelity
to recommend him, must she not in her first sickness of the
love-complaint, have had a serious attack, and suffered keenly for a
man, who had certainly a number of the showy qualities which Mr.
Huxter wanted?
"You wicked, odious creature," Miss Blanche said, "I believe that you
are enraged with Fanny for being so impudent as to forget you, and
that you are actually jealous of Mr. Huxter." Perhaps Miss Amory was
right, as the blush which came in spite of himself and tingled upon
Pendennis's cheek (one of those blows with which a man's vanity is
constantly slapping his face), proved to Pen that he was angry to
think he had been superseded by such a rival. By such a fellow as
that! without any conceivable good quality! Oh, Mr. Pendennis!
(although this remark does not apply to such a smart fellow as you) if
Nature had not made that provision for each sex in the credulity of
the other, which sees good qualities where none exist, good looks in
donkeys' ears, wit in their numskulls, and music in their bray, there
would not have been near so much marrying and giving in marriage as
now obtains, and as is necessary for the due propagation and
continuance of the noble race to which we belong!
"Jealous or not," Pen said, "and, Blanche, I don't say no, I should
have liked Fanny to have come to a better end than that. I don't like
histories that end in that cynical way; and when we arrive at the
conclusion of the story of a pretty girl's passion, to find such a
figure as Huxter's at the last page of the tale. Is all life a
compromise, my lady fair, and the end of the battle of love an ignoble
surrender? Is the search for the Cupid which my poor little Psyche
pursued in the darkness--the god of her soul's longing--the God of the
blooming cheek and rainbow pinions--to result in Huxter, smelling of
tobacco and gallypots? I wish, though I don't see it in life, that
people could be like Jenny and Jessamy, or my lord and lady Clementina
in the storybook and fashionable novels, and at once under the
ceremony, and, as it were, at the parson's benediction, become
perfectly handsome and good and happy ever after."
"And don't you intend to be good and happy, pray, Monsieur
le Misanthrope--and are you very discontented with your lot--and will
your marriage be a compromise "--(asked the author of "Mes Larmes,"
with a charming _moue_)--"and is your Psyche an odious vulgar wretch?
You wicked, satirical creature, I can't abide you! You take the hearts
of young things, play with them, and fling them away with scorn. You
ask for love and trample on it. You--you make me cry, that you do,
Arthur, and--and don't--and I _won't_ be consoled in that way--and I
think Fanny was quite right in leaving such a heartless creature."
"Again, I don't say no," said Pen, looking very gloomily at Blanche,
and not offering by any means to repeat the attempt at consolation,
which had elicited that sweet monosyllable "don't" from the young
lady. "I don't think I have much of what people call heart; but I
don't profess it. I made my venture when I was eighteen, and lighted
my lamp and went in search of Cupid. And what was my discovery of
love!--a vulgar dancing woman. I failed, as every body does, almost
every body; only it is luckier to fail before marriage than after."
_"Merci du choix, Monsieur"_ said the Sylphide, making a courtesy.
"Look, my little Blanche," said Pen, taking her hand, and with his
voice of sad good-humor; "at least I stoop to no flatteries."
"Quite the contrary," said Miss Blanche.
"And tell you no foolish lies, as vulgar men do. Why should you and I,
with our experience, ape romance and dissemble passion? I do not
believe Miss Blanche Amory to be peerless among the beautiful, nor the
greatest poetess, nor the most surpassing musician, any more than I
believe you to be the tallest woman in the whole world--like the
giantess whose picture we saw as we rode through the fair yesterday.
But if I don't set you up as a heroine, neither do I offer you your
very humble servant as a hero. But I think you are--well, there, I
think you are very sufficiently good-looking."
_"Merci,"_ Miss Blanche said, with another courtesy.
"I think you sing charmingly. I'm sure you're clever. I hope and
believe that you are good-natured, and that you will be
companionable."
"And so, provided I bring you a certain sum of money and a seat in
Parliament, you condescend to fling to me your royal
pocket-handkerchief," said Blanche. _"Que dhonneur!_ We used to call
your Highness the Prince of Fairoaks. What an honor to think that I am
to be elevated to the throne, and to bring the seat in Parliament as
backsheesh to the sultan! I am glad I am clever, and that I can play
and sing to your liking; my songs will amuse my lord's leisure."
"And if thieves are about the house," said Pen, grimly pursuing the
simile, "forty besetting thieves in the shape of lurking cares and
enemies in ambush and passions in arms, my Morgiana will dance round
me with a tambourine, and kill all my rogues and thieves with a smile.
Won't she?" But Pen looked as if he did not believe that she would.
"Ah, Blanche," he continued after a pause, "don't be angry; don't be
hurt at my truth-telling. Don't you see that I always take you at your
word? You say you will be a slave and dance--I say, dance. You say, 'I
take you with what you bring;' I say, 'I take you with what you
bring.' To the necessary deceits and hypocrisies of our life, why add
any that are useless and unnecessary? If I offer myself to you because
I think we have a fair chance of being happy together, and because by
your help I may get for both of us a good place and a not
undistinguished name, why ask me to feign raptures and counterfeit
romance, in which neither of us believe? Do you want me to come wooing
in a Prince Prettyman's dress from the masquerade warehouse, and to
pay you compliments like Sir Charles Grandison? Do you want me to make
you verses as in the days when we were--when we were children? I will
if you like, and sell them to Bacon and Bungay afterward. Shall I feed
my pretty princess with _bonbons_."
"_Mais j'adore les bonbons, moi_," said the little Sylphide, with a
queer, piteous look.
"I can buy a hatful at Fortnum and Mason's for a guinea. And it shall
have its bonbons, its pootty little sugar-plums, that it shall," Pen
said, with a bitter smile. "Nay, my dear, nay my dearest little
Blanche, don't cry. Dry the pretty eyes, I can't bear that;" and he
proceeded to offer that consolation which the circumstance required,
and which the tears, the genuine tears of vexation, which now sprang
from the angry eyes of the author of "Mes Larmes" demanded.
The scornful and sarcastic tone of Pendennis quite frightened and
overcame the girl. "I--I don't want your consolation. I--I never
was--so--spoken to bef--by any of my--my--by any body"--she sobbed
out, with much simplicity.
"_Any body!_" shouted out Pen, with a savage burst of laughter, and
Blanche blushed one of the most genuine blushes which her cheek had
ever exhibited, and she cried out, "O, Arthur, _vous êtes un homme
terrible!_" She felt bewildered, frightened, oppressed, the worldly
little flirt who had been playing at love for the last dozen years of
her life, and yet not displeased at meeting a master.
"Tell me, Arthur," she said, after a pause in this strange
love-making. "Why does Sir Francis Clavering give up his seat in
Parliament?"
"_Au fait_, why does he give it to me?" asked Arthur, now blushing in
his turn.
"You always mock me, sir," she said. "If it is good to be in
Parliament, why does Sir Francis go out?"
"My uncle has talked him over. He always said that you were not
sufficiently provided for. In the--the family disputes, when your
mamma paid his debts so liberally, it was stipulated, I suppose, that
you--that is, that I--that is, upon my word, I don't know why he goes
out of Parliament," Pen said, with rather a forced laugh. "You see,
Blanche, that you and I are two good little children, and that this
marriage has been arranged for us by our mammas and uncles, and that
we must be obedient, like a good little boy and girl."
So, when Pen went to London, he sent Blanche a box of bonbons, each
sugar plum of which was wrapped up in ready-made French verses, of the
most tender kind; and, besides, dispatched to her some poems of his
own manufacture, quite as artless and authentic; and it was no wonder
that he did not tell Warrington what his conversations with Miss Amory
had been, of so delicate a sentiment were they, and of a nature so
necessarily private.
And if, like many a worse and better man, Arthur Pendennis, the
widow's son, was meditating an apostasy, and going to sell himself
to--we all know whom--at least the renegade did not pretend to be a
believer in the creed to which he was ready to swear. And if every
woman and man in this kingdom, who has sold her or himself for money
or position, as Mr. Pendennis was about to do, would but purchase a
copy of his memoirs, what tons of volumes the Publishers would
sell!