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