The History of Pendennis, Volume 2

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER XVI.

  FANNY'S OCCUPATION'S GONE.

  Good Helen, ever since her son's illness, had taken, as we have seen,entire possession of the young man, of his drawers and closets and allwhich they contained: whether shirts that wanted buttons, or stockingsthat required mending, or, must it be owned? letters that lay amongthose articles of raiment, and which of course it was necessary thatsomebody should answer during Arthur's weakened and incapablecondition. Perhaps Mrs. Pendennis was laudably desirous to have someexplanations about the dreadful Fanny Bolton mystery, regarding whichshe had never breathed a word to her son, though it was present in hermind always, and occasioned her inexpressible anxiety and disquiet.She had caused the brass knocker to be screwed off the inner door ofthe chambers, whereupon the postman's startling double rap would, asshe justly argued, disturb the rest of her patient, and she did notallow him to see any letter which arrived, whether from boot-makerswho importuned him, or hatters who had a heavy account to make upagainst next Saturday, and would be very much obliged if Mr. ArthurPendennis would have the kindness to settle, &c. Of these documents,Pen, who was always free-handed and careless, of course had his share,and though no great one, one quite enough to alarm his scrupulous andconscientious mother. She had some savings; Pen's magnificentself-denial, and her own economy amounting from her great simplicityand avoidance of show to parsimony almost, had enabled her to put bya little sum of money, a part of which she delightedly consecrated tothe paying off the young gentleman's obligations. At this price, manya worthy youth and respected reader would hand over his correspondenceto his parents; and, perhaps, there is no greater test of a man'sregularity and easiness of conscience, than his readiness to face thepostman. Blessed is he who is made happy by the sound of the rat-tat!The good are eager for it: but the naughty tremble at the soundthereof. So it was very kind of Mrs. Pendennis doubly to spare Pen thetrouble of hearing or answering letters during his illness.

  There could have been nothing in the young man's chests of drawers andwardrobes which could be considered as inculpating him in any way, norany satisfactory documents regarding the Fanny Bolton affair foundthere, for the widow had to ask her brother-in-law if he knew anything about the odious transaction; and the dreadful intrigue aboutwhich her son was engaged. When they were at Richmond one day, and Penwith Warrington had taken a seat on a bench on the terrace, the widowkept Major Pendennis in consultation, and laid her terrors andperplexities before him, such of them at least (for as is the wont ofmen and women, she did not make _quite_ a clean confession, and Isuppose no spendthrift asked for a schedule of his debts, no lady offashion asked by her husband for her dress-maker's bills ever sent inthe whole of them yet)--such, we say, of her perplexities, at least,as she chose to confide to her director for the time being.

  When, then, she asked the major what course she ought to pursue, aboutthis dreadful--this horrid affair, and whether he knew any thingregarding it? the old gentleman puckered up his face, so that youcould not tell whether he was smiling or not; gave the widow one queerlook with his little eyes; cast them down to the carpet again, andsaid, "My dear, good creature, I don't know any thing about it; and Idon't wish to know any thing about it; and, as you ask me my opinion,I think you had best know nothing about it too. Young men will beyoung men; and, begad, my good ma'am, if you think our boy is a Jo--"

  "Pray, spare me this," Helen broke in, looking very stately.

  "My dear creature, I did not commence the conversation, permit me tosay," the major said, bowing very blandly.

  "I can't bear to hear such a sin--such a dreadful sin--spoken of insuch a way," the widow said, with tears of annoyance starting from hereyes. "I can't bear to think that my boy should commit such a crime. Iwish he had died, almost, before he had done it. I don't know how Isurvive it myself; for it is breaking my heart, Major Pendennis, tothink that his father's son--my child--whom I remember so good--oh,so good, and full of honor!--should be fallen so dreadfully low, asto--as to--"

  "As to flirt with a little grisette? my dear creature," said themajor. "Egad, if all the mothers in England were to break their heartsbecause--Nay, nay; upon my word and honor, now, don't agitateyourself--don't cry. I can't bear to see a woman's tears--I nevercould--never. But how do we know that any thing serious has happened?Has Arthur said any thing?"

  "His silence confirms it," sobbed Mrs. Pendennis, behind herpocket-handkerchief.

  "Not at all. There are subjects, my dear, about which a young fellowcan not surely talk to his mamma," insinuated the brother-in-law.

  "She has written to him" cried the lady, behind the cambric.

  "What, before he was ill? Nothing more likely."

  "No, since;" the mourner with the batiste mask gasped out; "notbefore; that is, I don't think so--that is, I--"

  "Only since; and you have--yes, I understand. I suppose when he wastoo ill to read his own correspondence, you took charge of it,did you?"

  "I am the most unhappy mother in the world," cried out the unfortunateHelen.

  "The most unhappy mother in the world, because your son is a man andnot a hermit! Have a care, my dear sister. If you have suppressed anyletters to him, you may have done yourself a great injury; and, if Iknow any thing of Arthur's spirit, may cause a difference between himand you, which you'll rue all your life--a difference that's adev'lish deal more important, my good madam, than the little--little--trumpery cause which originated it."

  "There was only one letter," broke out Helen--"only a very littleone--only a few words. Here it is--O--how can you, how can youspeak so?"

  When the good soul said only "a very little one," the major could notspeak at all, so inclined was he to laugh, in spite of the agonies ofthe poor soul before him, and for whom he had a hearty pity and likingtoo. But each was looking at the matter with his or her peculiar eyesand view of morals, and the major's morals, as the reader knows, werenot those of an ascetic.

  "I recommend you," he gravely continued, "if you can, to seal it up--those letters ain't unfrequently sealed with wafers--and to put itamong Pen's other letters, and let him have them when he calls forthem. Or if we can't seal it, we mistook it for a bill."

  "I can't tell my son a lie," said the widow. It had been put silentlyinto the letter-box two days previous to their departure from theTemple, and had been brought to Mrs. Pendennis by Martha. She hadnever seen Fanny's handwriting of course; but when the letter was putinto her hands, she knew the author at once. She had been on the watchfor that letter every day since Pen had been ill. She had opened someof his other letters because she wanted to get at that one. She hadthe horrid paper poisoning her bag at that moment. She took it out andoffered it to her brother-in-law.

  "_Arthur Pendennis, Esq._," he read in a timid little sprawlinghandwriting, and with a sneer on his face. "No, my dear, I won'tread any more. But you, who have read it, may tell me what the lettercontains--only prayers for his health in bad spelling, yousay--and a desire to see him? Well--there's no harm in that. And asyou ask me"--here the major began to look a little queer for his ownpart, and put on his demure look--"as you ask me, my dear, forinformation, why, I don't mind telling you that--ah--that--Morgan, myman, has made some inquiries regarding this affair, and that--myfriend Doctor Goodenough also looked into it--and it appears that thisperson was greatly smitten with Arthur; that he paid for her and tookher to Vauxhall Gardens, as Morgan heard from an old acquaintance ofPen's and ours, an Irish gentleman, who was very nearly once havingthe honor of being the--from an Irishman, in fact;--that the girl'sfather, a violent man of intoxicated habits, has beaten her mother,who persists in declaring her daughter's entire innocence to herhusband on the one hand, while on the other she told Goodenough thatArthur had acted like a brute to her child. And so you see the storyremains in a mystery. Will you have it cleared up? I have but to askPen, and he will tell me at once--he is as honorable a man asever lived."

  "Honorable!" said the widow, with bitter scorn. "O, brother, what isthis you call honor? If my b
oy has been guilty, he must marry her. Iwould go down on my knees and pray him to do so."

  "Good God! are you mad?" screamed out the major; and rememberingformer passages in Arthur's history and Helen's, the truth came acrosshis mind that, were Helen to make this prayer to her son, he _would_marry the girl: he was wild enough and obstinate enough to commit anyfolly when a woman he loved was in the case. "My dear sister, have youlost your senses?" he continued (after an agitated pause, during whichthe above dreary reflection crossed him), and in a softened tone."What right have we to suppose that any thing has passed between thisgirl and him? Let's see the letter. Her heart is breaking; pray, pray,write to me--home unhappy--unkind father--your nurse--poor littleFanny--spelt, as you say, in a manner to outrage all sense of decorum.But, good heavens! my dear, what is there in this? only that thelittle devil is making love to him still. Why she didn't come into hischambers until he was so delirious that he didn't know her.Whatd'youcallem, Flanagan, the laundress, told Morgan, my man, so. Shecame in company of an old fellow, an old Mr. Bows, who came mostkindly down to Stillbrook and brought me away--by the way, I left himin the cab, and never paid the fare; and dev'lish kind it was of him.No, there's nothing in the story."

  "Do you think so? Thank Heaven--thank God!" Helen cried. "I'll takethe letter to Arthur and ask him now. Look at him there. He's on theterrace with Mr. Warrington. They are talking to some children. My boywas always fond of children. He's innocent, thank God--thank God! Letme go to him."

  Old Pendennis had his own opinion. When he briskly took the not guiltyside of the case, but a moment before, very likely the old gentlemanhad a different view from that which he chose to advocate, and judgedof Arthur by what he himself would have done. If she goes to Arthur,and he speaks the truth, as the rascal will, it spoils all, hethought. And he tried one more effort.

  "My dear, good soul," he said, taking Helen's hand and kissing it, "asyour son has not acquainted you with this affair, think if you haveany right to examine it. As you believe him to be a man of honor, whatright have you to doubt his honor in this instance? Who is hisaccuser? An anonymous scoundrel who has brought no specific chargeagainst him. If there were any such, wouldn't the girl's parents havecome forward? He is not called upon to rebut, nor you to entertain ananonymous accusation; and as for believing him guilty because a girlof that rank happened to be in his rooms acting as nurse to him, begadyou might as well insist upon his marrying that dem'd old Irishgin-drinking laundress, Mrs. Flanagan."

  The widow burst out laughing through her tears--the victory was gainedby the old general.

  "Marry Mrs. Flanagan, by Ged," he continued, tapping her slender hand."No. The boy has told you nothing about it, and you know nothing aboutit. The boy is innocent--of course. And what, my good soul, is thecourse for us to pursoo? Suppose he is attached to this girl--don'tlook sad again, it's merely a supposition--and begad a young fellowmay have an attachment, mayn't he?--Directly he gets well he will beat her again."

  "He must come home! We must go directly to Fairoaks," the widow criedout.

  "My good creature, he'll bore himself to death at Fairoaks. He'll havenothing to do but to think about his passion there. There's no placein the world for making a little passion into a big one, and where afellow feeds on his own thoughts, like a dem'd lonely country-housewhere there's nothing to do. We must occupy him: amuse him: we musttake him abroad: he's never been abroad except to Paris for a lark. Wemust travel a little. He must have a nurse with him, to take greatcare of him, for Goodenough says he had a dev'lish narrow squeak of it(don't look frightened), and so you must come and watch: and I supposeyou'll take Miss Bell, and I should like to ask Warrington to come.Arthur's dev'lish fond of Warrington. He can't do without Warrington.Warrington's family is one of the oldest in England, and he is one ofthe best young fellows I ever met in my life. I like him exceedingly."

  "Does Mr. Warrington know any thing about this--this affair?" askedHelen. "He had been away, I know, for two months before it happened:Pen wrote me so."

  "Not a word--I--I've asked him about it. I've pumped him. He neverheard of the transaction, never; I pledge you my word," cried out themajor, in some alarm. "And, my dear, I think you had much best nottalk to him about it--much best not--of course not: the subject ismost delicate and painful."

  The simple widow took her brother's hand and pressed it. "Thank you,brother," she said. "You have been very, very kind to me. You havegiven me a great deal of comfort. I'll go to my room, and think ofwhat you have said. This illness and these--these--emotions--haveagitated me a great deal; and I'm not very strong, you know. But I'llgo and thank God that my boy is innocent. He _is_ innocent. Isn'the, sir?"

  "Yes, my dearest creature, yes," said the old fellow, kissing heraffectionately, and quite overcome by her tenderness. He looked afterher as she retreated, with a fondness which was rendered more piquant,as it were, by the mixture of a certain scorn which accompanied it."Innocent!" he said; "I'd swear, till I was black in the face, he wasinnocent, rather than give that good soul pain."

  Having achieved this victory, the fatigued and happy warrior laidhimself down on the sofa, and put his yellow silk pocket-handkerchiefover his face, and indulged in a snug little nap, of which the dreams,no doubt, were very pleasant, as he snored with refreshing regularity.The young men sate, meanwhile, dawdling away the sunshiny hours on theterrace, very happy, and Pen, at least, very talkative. He wasnarrating to Warrington a plan for a new novel, and a new tragedy.Warrington laughed at the idea of his writing a tragedy? By Jove, hewould show that he could; and he began to spout some of the linesof his play.

  The little solo on the wind instrument which the major was performingwas interrupted by the entrance of Miss Bell. She had been on a visitto her old friend, Lady Rockminster, who had taken a summer villa inthe neighborhood; and who, hearing of Arthur's illness, and hismother's arrival at Richmond, had visited the latter; and, for thebenefit of the former, whom she didn't like, had been prodigal ofgrapes, partridges, and other attentions. For Laura the old lady had agreat fondness, and longed that she should come and stay with her; butLaura could not leave her mother at this juncture. Worn out byconstant watching over Arthur's health, Helen's own had suffered veryconsiderably; and Doctor Goodenough had had reason to prescribe forher as well as for his younger patient.

  Old Pendennis started up on the entrance of the young lady. Hisslumbers were easily broken. He made her a gallant speech--he had beenfull of gallantry toward her of late. Where had she been gatheringthose roses which she wore on her cheeks? How happy he was to bedisturbed out of his dreams by such a charming reality! Laura hadplenty of humor and honesty; and these two caused her to have on herside something very like a contempt for the old gentleman. Itdelighted her to draw out his worldlinesses, and to make the oldhabitue of clubs and drawing-rooms tell his twaddling tales aboutgreat folks, and expound his views of morals.

  Not in this instance, however, was she disposed to be satirical. Shehad been to drive with Lady Rockminster in the Park, she said; and shehad brought home game for Pen, and flowers for mamma. She looked verygrave about mamma. She had just been with Mrs. Pendennis. Helen wasvery much worn, and she feared she was very, very ill. Her largeeyes filled with tender marks of the sympathy which she felt in herbeloved friend's condition. She was alarmed about her. "Could not thatgood--that dear Dr. Goodenough cure her?"

  "Arthur's illness, and _other_ mental anxiety," the major slowly said,"had, no doubt, shaken Helen." A burning blush upon the girl's faceshowed that she understood the old man's allusions. But she looked himfull in the face and made no reply. "He might have spared me that,"she thought. "What is he aiming at in recalling that shame to me?"That he had an aim in view is very possible. The old diplomatistseldom spoke without some such end. Dr. Goodenough had talked to him,he said, about their dear friend's health, and she wanted rest andchange of scene--yes, change of scene. Painful circumstances which hadoccurred must be forgotten and never alluded to; he begged pardon foreven hinti
ng at them to Miss Bell--he never should do so again--nor,he was sure, would she. Every thing must be done to soothe and comforttheir friend, and his proposal was that they should go abroad for theautumn to a watering-place in the Rhine neighborhood, where Helenmight rally her exhausted spirits, and Arthur try and become a newman. Of course, Laura would not forsake her mother?

  Of course not. It was about Helen, and Helen only--that is, aboutArthur too for her sake that Laura was anxious. She would go abroad orany where with Helen.

  And Helen having thought the matter over for an hour in her room, hadby that time grown to be as anxious for the tour as any school-boy,who has been reading a book of voyages, is eager to go to sea. Whithershould they go? the farther the better--to some place so remote thateven recollection could not follow them thither: so delightful thatPen should never want to leave it--any where so that he could behappy. She opened her desk with trembling fingers and took out herbanker's book, and counted up her little savings. If more was wanted,she had the diamond cross. She would borrow from Laura again. "Let usgo--let us go," she thought; "directly he can bear the journey let usgo away. Come, kind Doctor Goodenough--come quick, and give us leaveto quit England."

  The good doctor drove over to dine with them that very day. "If youagitate yourself so," he said to her, "and if your heart beats so, andif you persist in being so anxious about a young gentleman who isgetting well as fast as he can, we shall have you laid up, and MissLaura to watch you: and then it will be her turn to be ill, and Ishould like to know how the deuce a doctor is to live who is obligedto come and attend you all for nothing? Mrs. Goodenough is alreadyjealous of you, and says, with perfect justice, that I fall in lovewith my patients. And you must please to get out of the country assoon as ever you can, that I may have a little peace in my family."

  When the plan of going abroad was proposed to Arthur, it was receivedby that gentleman with the greatest alacrity and enthusiasm. He longedto be off at once. He let his mustaches grow from that very moment, inorder, I suppose, that he might get his mouth into training for aperfect French and German pronunciation; and he was seriouslydisquieted in his mind because the mustaches, when they came, were ofa decidedly red color. He had looked forward to an autumn at Fairoaks;and perhaps the idea of passing two or three months there did notamuse the young man. "There is not a soul to speak to in the place,"he said to Warrington. "I can't stand old Portman's sermons, andpompous after-dinner conversation. I know all old Glanders's storiesabout the Peninsular war. The Claverings are the only Christian peoplein the neighborhood, and they are not to be at home before Christmas,my uncle says: besides, Warrington, I want to get out of the country.While you were away, confound it, I had a temptation, from which I amvery thankful to have escaped, and which I count that even my illnesscame very luckily to put an end to." And here he narrated to hisfriend the circumstances of the Vauxhall affair, with which the readeris already acquainted.

  Warrington looked very grave when he heard this story. Putting themoral delinquency out of the question, he was extremely glad forArthur's sake that the latter had escaped from a danger which mighthave made his whole life wretched; "which certainly," said Warrington,"would have occasioned the wretchedness and ruin of the other party.And your mother--and your friends--what a pain it would have been tothem!" urged Pen's companion, little knowing what grief and annoyancethese good people had already suffered.

  "Not a word to my mother!" Pen cried out, in a state of great alarm,"She would never get over it. An _esclandre_ of that sort would killher, I do believe. And," he added, with a knowing air, and as if, likea young rascal of a Lovelace, he had been engaged in what are called_affairs de coeur_, all his life; "the best way, when a danger of thatsort menaces, is not to face it, but to turn one's back on itand run."

  "And were you very much smitten?" Warrington asked.

  "Hm!" said Lovelace. "She dropped her h's, but she was a dear littlegirl."

  O Clarissas of this life, O you poor little ignorant vain foolishmaidens! if you did but know the way in which the Lovelaces speak ofyou: if you could but hear Jack talking to Tom across the coffee-roomof a Club; or see Ned taking your poor little letters out of hiscigar-case and handing them over to Charley, and Billy, and Harryacross the mess-room table, you would not be so eager to write, or soready to listen! There's a sort of crime which is not complete unlessthe lucky rogue boasts of it afterward; and the man who betrays yourhonor in the first place, is pretty sure, remember that, to betrayyour secret too.

  "It's hard to fight, and it's easy to fall," Warrington said gloomily."And as you say, Pendennis, when a danger like this is imminent, thebest way is to turn your back on it and run."

  After this little discourse upon a subject about which Pen would havetalked a great deal more eloquently a month back, the conversationreverted to the plans for going abroad, and Arthur eagerly pressed his friend to be of the party. Warrington was a part of the family--apart of the cure. Arthur said he should not have half the pleasurewithout Warrington.

  But George said no, he couldn't go. He must stop at home and takePen's place. The other remarked that that was needless, for Shandonwas now come back to London, and Arthur was entitled to a holiday.

  "Don't press me," Warrington said, "I can't go. I've particularengagements. I'm best at home. I've not got the money to travel,that's the long and short of it, for traveling costs money, you know."

  This little obstacle seemed fatal to Pen. He mentioned it to hismother: Mrs. Pendennis was very sorry; Mr. Warrington had beenexceedingly kind; but she supposed he knew best about his affairs. Andthen, no doubt, she reproached herself, for selfishness in wishing tocarry the boy off and have him to herself altogether.

  * * * * *

  "What is this I hear from Pen, my dear Mr. Warrington?" the majorasked one day, when the pair were alone, and after Warrington'sobjection had been stated to him. "Not go with us? We can't hear ofsuch a thing--Pen won't get well without you. I promise you, I'm notgoing to be his nurse. He must have somebody with him that's strongerand gayer and better able to amuse him than a rheumatic old fogy likeme. I shall go to Carlsbad very likely, when I've seen you peoplesettle down. Traveling costs nothing nowadays--or so little! And--andpray, Warrington, remember that I was your father's very old friend,and if you and your brother are not on such terms as to enable youto--to anticipate you younger brother's allowance, I beg you to makeme your banker, for hasn't Pen been getting into your debt these threeweeks past, during which you have been doing what he informs me is hiswork, with such exemplary talent and genius, begad?"

  Still, in spite of this kind offer and unheard-of generosity on thepart of the major, George Warrington refused, and said he would stayat home. But it was with a faltering voice and an irresolute accentwhich showed how much he would like to go, though his tongue persistedin saying nay.

  But the major's persevering benevolence was not to be balked in thisway. At the tea-table that evening, Helen happening to be absent fromthe room for the moment, looking for Pen who had gone to roost, oldPendennis returned to the charge, and rated Warrington for refusing tojoin in their excursion. "Isn't it ungallant, Miss Bell?" he said,turning to that young lady. "Isn't it unfriendly? Here we have beenthe happiest party in the world, and this odious, selfish creaturebreaks it up!"

  Miss Bell's long eye-lashes looked down toward her tea-cup: andWarrington blushed hugely but did not speak. Neither did Miss Bellspeak: but when he blushed she blushed too.

  "_You_ ask him to come, my dear," said the benevolent old gentleman,"and then perhaps he will listen to you--" "Why should Mr.Warrington listen to me?" asked the young lady, putting her query toher tea-spoon, seemingly, and not to the major.

  "Ask him; you have not asked him," said Pen's artless uncle.

  "I should be very glad, indeed, if Mr. Warrington would come,"remarked Laura to the tea-spoon.

  "Would you?" said George.

  She looked up and said, "Yes." Their eyes met. "I will go
any whereyou ask me, or do any thing," said George, lowly, and forcing out thewords as if they gave him pain.

  Old Pendennis was delighted; the affectionate old creature clapped hishands and cried "Bravo! bravo! It's a bargain--a bargain, begad! Shakehands on it, young people!" And Laura, with a look full of tenderbrightness, put out her hand to Warrington. He took hers: his faceindicated a strange agitation. He seemed to be about to speak, when,from Pen's neighboring room Helen entered, looking at them as thecandle which she held lighted her pale, frightened face.

  Laura blushed more red than ever and withdrew her hand.

  "What is it?" Helen asked.

  "It's a bargain we have been making, my dear creature," said the majorin his most caressing voice. "We have just bound over Mr. Warringtonin a promise to come abroad with us."

  "Indeed!" Helen said.