CHAPTER LV. 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 amongstthose articles of raiment, and which of course it was necessary thatsomebody should answer during Arthur's weakened and incapable condition.Perhaps Mrs. Pendennis was laudably desirous to have some explanationsabout the dreadful Fanny Bolton mystery, regarding which she had neverbreathed a word to her son, though it was present in her mind always,and occasioned her inexpressible anxiety and disquiet. She had causedthe brass knocker to be screwed off the inner door of the chambers,where upon the postman's startling double rap would, as she justlyargued, disturb the rest of her patient, and she did not allow him tosee any letter which arrived, whether from bootmakers who importunedhim, or hatters who had a heavy account to make up against nextSaturday, and would be very much obliged if Mr. Arthur Pendennis wouldhave the kindness to settle, etc. Of these documents, Pen, who wasalways freehanded and careless, of course had his share, and though nogreat one, one quite enough to alarm his scrupulous and conscientiousmother. She had some savings; Pen's magnificent self-denial, and her owneconomy, amounting from her great simplicity and avoidance of show toparsimony almost, had enabled her to put by a little sum of money, apart of which she delightedly consecrated to the paying off theyoung gentleman's obligations. At this price, many a worthy youth andrespected reader would hand over his correspondence to his parents; andperhaps there is no greater test of a man's regularity and easiness ofconscience, than his readiness to face the postman. Blessed is he who ismade happy by the sound of the rat-tat! The good are eager for it: butthe naughty tremble at the sound thereof. So it was very kind of Mrs.Pendennis doubly to spare Pen the trouble of hearing or answeringletters during his illness.
There could have been nothing in the young man's chest of drawers andwardrobes which could be considered as inculpating him in any way,nor any satisfactory documents regarding the Fanny Bolton affair foundthere, for the widow had to ask her brother-in-law if he knew anythingabout the odious transaction, and the dreadful intrigue about whichher son was engaged. When they were at Richmond one day, and Pen withWarrington had taken a seat on a bench on the terrace, the widow keptMajor Pendennis in consultation, and laid her terrors and perplexitiesbefore him, such of them at least (for as is the wont of men and women,she did not make quite a clean confession, and I suppose no spendthriftasked for a schedule of his debts, no lady of fashion asked by herhusband for her dressmaker's bills, ever sent in the whole of themyet)--such, we say, of her perplexities, at least, as she chose toconfide to her Director for the time being.
When, then, she asked the Major what course she ought to pursue,about this dreadful--this horrid affair, and whether he knew anythingregarding it? the old gentleman puckered up his face, so that you couldnot tell whether he was smiling or not; gave the widow one queer lookwith his little eyes; cast them down to the carpet again, and said, "Mydear, good creature, I don't know anything about it; and I don't wish toknow anything about it; and, as you ask me my opinion, I think you hadbest know nothing about it too. Young men will be young men; begad, and,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 in sucha way," the widow said, with tears of annoyance starting from her eyes."I can't bear to think that my boy should commit such a crime. I wish hehad died, almost, before he had done it. I don't know how I survive itmyself; for it is breaking my heart, Major Pendennis, to think that hisfather's son--my child--whom I remember so good--oh, so good, and fullof honour!--should be fallen so dreadfully low, as to--as to----"
"As to flirt with a little grisette, my dear creature?" said theMajor. "Egad, if all the mothers in England were to break theirhearts because--Nay, nay; upon my word and honour, 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 anything serious has happened? HasArthur said anything?"
"His silence confirms it," sobbed Mrs. Pendennis, behind herpocket-handkerchief.
"Not at all. There are subjects, my dear, about which a young fellowcannot 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; "not before;that is, I don't think so--that is, I----"
"Only since; and you have--yes, I understand. I suppose when he was tooill 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 anything of Arthur's spirit, may cause a difference between him andyou, which you'll rue all your life--a difference that's a dev'lish dealmore important, my good madam, than the little--little--trumpery causewhich originated it."
"There was only one letter," broke out Helen,--"only a very littleone--only a few words. Here it is--Oh--how can you, how can you speakso?"
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 views 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 itup--those letters ain't unfrequently sealed with wafers--and to put itamongst Pen's other letters, and let him have them when he calls forthem Or if we'll 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 had neverseen Fanny's handwriting, of course; but when the letter was put intoher hands she knew the author at once. She had been on the watch forthat letter every day since Pen had been ill. She had opened some of hisother letters because she wanted to get at that one. She had the horridpaper poisoning her bag at that moment. She took it out and offered itto her brother-in-law.
"Arther 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, you say--and adesire to see him? Well--there's no harm in that. And as you ask me--"Here the Major began to look a little queer for his own part, and put onhis demure look--"as you ask me, my dear, for information, why, I don'tmind telling you that--ah--that--Morgan, my man, has made some inquiriesregarding this affair, and that--my friend Doctor Goodenough alsolooked into it--and it appears that this person was greatly smitten withArthur; that he paid for her and took her to Vauxhall Gardens, as Morganheard from an old acquaintance of Pen's and ours, an Irish gentleman,who was very nearly once having the honour of being the--from anIrishman, in fact;--that the girl's father, a violent man of intoxicatedhabits, has beaten her mother, who persists in declaring her daughter'sentire innocence to her husband on the one hand, while on the other shetold Goodenough, that Arthur has acted like a brute to her child. And soyou see the story remains in a mystery. Will you have it cleared up? Ihave but to ask Pen, and he will tell me at once--he is as honourable aman as ever lived."
"Honourable!" said the widow with bitter scorn. "Oh, brother, what isthis you call honour? If my boy 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 remembering formerpassages in Arthur's history and Helen's, the truth came across hismind that, were Helen to make this prayer to her son, he would marry thegirl: he was wild enough and obstinate enough to commit any folly whena woman he loved was in the case. "My dear sister, have you lost yoursenses?" he continued (after an agitated pause, during which the abovedreary reflection crossed him); and in a softened tone, "What right havewe to suppose that anything has passed between this girl and him? Let'ssee the letter. Her heart is breaking; pray, pray, write to me--homeunhappy--unkind father--your nurse--poor little Fanny--spelt, as yousay, in a manner to outrage all sense of decorum. But, good heavens! mydear, what is there in this? only that the little devil is making loveto him still. Why, she didn't come into his chambers until he was sodelirious that he didn't know her. What-d'you-call-'em, Flanagan,the laundress, told Morgan, my man, so. She came in company of an oldfellow, an old Mr. Bows, who came most kindly down to Stillbrook andbrought me away--by the way, I left him in the cab, and never paidthe fare; and dev'lish kind it was of him. No, there's nothing in thestory."
"Do you think so? Thank Heaven--thank God!" Helen cried. "I'll take theletter to Arthur and ask him now. Look at him there. He's on the terracewith Mr. Warrington. They are talking to some children. My boy wasalways fond of children. He's innocent, thank God--thank God! Let me goto 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 judged ofArthur by what he himself would have done. If she goes to Arthur, and hespeaks the truth, as the rascal will, it spoils all, he thought. And hetried 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 honour, whatright have you to doubt his honour in this instance? Who is his accuser?An anonymous scoundrel who has brought no specific charge against him.If there were any such, wouldn't the girl's parents have come forward?He is not called upon to rebut, nor you to entertain an anonymousaccusation; and as for believing him guilty because a girl of that rankhappened to be in his rooms acting as nurse to him, begad you mightas well insist upon his marrying that dem'd old Irish gin-drinkinglaundress, 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 pursue? Suppose he is attached to this girl--don't looksad again, it's merely a supposition--and begad a young fellow mayhave an attachment, mayn't he?--Directly he gets well he will be at heragain."
"He must come home! We must go off directly to Fairoaks," the widowcried out.
"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 place inthe world for making a little passion into a big one, and where a fellowfeeds on his own thoughts, like a dem'd lonely country-house wherethere's nothing to do. We must occupy him: amuse him: we must takehim abroad: he's never been abroad except to Paris for a lark. We musttravel a little. He must have a nurse with him, to take great care ofhim, for Goodenough says he had a dev'lish narrow squeak of it (don'tlook frightened), and so you must come and watch: and I suppose you'lltake 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 anything about this--this affair?" askedHelen. "He had been away, I know, for two months before it happened; Penwrote me so."
"Not a word--I--I've asked him about it. I've pumped him. He never heardof the transaction, never; I pledge you my word," cried out the Major,in some alarm. "And, my dear, I think you had much best not talk to himabout it--much best not--of course not: the subject is most delicate andpainful."
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 have givenme a great deal of comfort. I'll go to my room, and think of what youhave said. This illness and these--these emotions--have agitated me agreat deal; and I'm not very strong, you know. But I'll go and thank Godthat my boy is innocent. He is innocent. Isn't he, 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 was narratingto Warrington a plan for a new novel, and a new tragedy. Warringtonlaughed at the idea of his writing a tragedy? By Jove, he would showthat he could; and he began to spout some of the lines of 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 in theneighbourhood; and who, hearing of Arthur's illness, and his mother'sarrival at Richmond, had visited the latter; and, for the benefit of theformer, whom she didn't like, had been prodigal of grapes, partridges,and other attentions. For Laura the old lady had a great fondness, andlonged that she should come and stay with her; but Laura could not leaveher mother at this juncture. Worn out by constant watching overArthur's health, Helen's own had suffered very considerably; and DoctorGoodenough had had reason to prescribe for her as well as for hisyounger patient.
Old Pendennis started up on the entrance of the young lady. His slumberswere easily broken. He made her a gallant speech--he had been full ofgallantry towards her of late. Where had she been gathering those roseswhich she wore on her cheeks? How happy he was to be disturbed out ofhis dreams by such a charming reality! Laura had plenty of humour andhonesty; and these two caused her to have on her side something verylike a contempt for the old gentleman. It delighted her to draw out hisworldlinesses, and to make the old habitue of clubs and drawing-roomstell his twaddling tales about great folks, and expound his views ofmorals.
Not in this instance, however, was she disposed to be satirical. She hadbeen to drive with Lady Rockminster in the Park, she said; and she hadbrought home game for Pen, and flowers for mamma. She looked very graveabout mamma. She had just been with Mrs. Pendennis. Helen was very muchworn, and she feared she was very, very ill. Her large eyes filled withtender marks of the sympathy which she felt in her beloved friend'scondition. She was alarmed about her. Could not that good--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 allusion. But she looked himfull in the face and made no reply. "He might have spared me that," shethought. "What is he aiming at in recalling that shame to me?"
That he had an aim in view is very possible. The old diplomatist seldomspoke without some such end. Doctor Goodenough had talked to him, hesaid, about their dear friend's health, and she wanted rest and changeof scene--yes, change of scene. Painful circumstances which had occurredmust be forgotten and never alluded to; he begged pardo
n for evenhinting at them to Miss Bell--he never should do so again--nor, he wassure, would she. Everything must be done to soothe and comfort theirfriend, and his proposal was that they should go abroad for the autumnto a watering-place in the Rhine neighbourhood, where Helen might rallyher exhausted spirits, and Arthur try and become a new man. 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 oranywhere with Helen.
And Helen having thought the matter over for an hour in her room, had bythat time grown to be as anxious for the tour as any schoolboy, who hasbeen reading a book of voyages, is eager to go to sea. Whither shouldthey go? the farther the better--to some place so remote that evenrecollection could not follow them thither: so delightful that Penshould never want to leave it--anywhere so that he could be happy. Sheopened her desk with trembling fingers and took out her banker's book,and counted up her little savings. If more was wanted, she had thediamond cross. She would borrow from Laura again. "Let us go--let usgo," she thought; "directly he can bear the journey let us go away.Come, kind Doctor Goodenough--come quick, and give us leave to quitEngland."
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,and if 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 I shouldlike to know how the deuce a doctor is to live who is obliged to comeand attend you all for nothing? Mrs. Goodenough is already jealousof you, and says, with perfect justice, that I fall in love with mypatients. And you must please to get out of the country as soon as everyou can, that I may have a little peace in my family."
When the plan of going abroad was proposed, it was received by thatgentleman with the greatest alacrity and enthusiasm. He longed to be offat once. He let his mustachios grow from that very moment, in order, Isuppose, that he might get his mouth into training for a perfect Frenchand German pronunciation; and he was seriously disquieted in his mindbecause the mustachios, when they came, were of a decidedly red colour.He had looked forward to an autumn at Fairoaks; and perhaps the idea ofpassing two or three months there did not amuse the young man. "Thereis not a soul to speak to in the place," he said to Warrington. "I can'tstand old Portman's sermons, and pompous after-dinner conversation. Iknow all old Glanders's stories about the Peninsular war. The Claveringsare the only Christian people in the neighbourhood, and they are not tobe at home before Christmas, my uncle says: besides, Warrington, I wantto get out of the country. Whilst you were away, confound it, I had atemptation, from which I am very thankful to have escaped, and which Icount that even my illness came very luckily to put an end to." And herehe narrated to his friend the circumstances of the Vauxhall affair, withwhich the reader is already acquainted.
Warrington looked very grave when he heard this story. Putting the moraldelinquency out of the question, he was extremely glad for Arthur'ssake that the latter had escaped from a danger which might have madehis whole life wretched; "which certainly," said Warrington, "would haveoccasioned the wretchedness and ruin of the other party. And your motherand--and your friends--what a pain it would have been to them!" urgedPen's companion, little knowing what grief and annoyance these goodpeople 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 kill her,I do believe. And," he added, with a knowing air, and as if, like ayoung rascal of a Lovelace, he had been engaged in what are calledaffaires 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 it and 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 messroom 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 afterwards; and the man who betrays yourhonour in the first place, is pretty sure, remember that, to betray yoursecret too.
"It's hard to fight, and it's easy to fall," said Warring gloomily. "Andas you say, Pendennis, when a danger like this is imminent, the best wayis 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 hisfriend to be of the party. Warrington was a part of the family--a partof the cure. Arthur said he should not have half the pleasure withoutWarrington.
But George said no, he couldn't go. He must stop at home and take Pen'splace. The other remarked that that was needless, for Shandon was nowcome 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'sthe long and short of it--for travelling costs money, you know."
This little obstacle seemed fatal to Pen. He mentioned it to his mother:Mrs. Pendennis was very sorry; Mr. Warrington had been exceedingly kind;but she supposed he knew best about his affairs. And then, no doubt, shereproached herself, for selfishness in wishing to carry the boy off andhave him to herself altogether.
"What is this I hear from Pen, my dear Mr. Warrington?" the Major askedone day, when the pair were alone and after Warrington's objection hadbeen stated to him. "Not go with us? We can't hear of such a thing--Penwon't get well without you. I promise you, I'm not going to be hisnurse. He must have somebody with him that's stronger and gayer andbetter able to amuse him than a rheumatic old fogy like me. I shallgo to Carlsbad very likely, when I've seen you people settle down.Travelling costs nothing nowadays--or so little! And--and, pray,Warrington, remember that I was your father's very old friend, and ifyou and your brother are not on such terms as to--to enable you to--toanticipate your younger brother's allowance, I beg you to make me yourbanker, for hasn't Pen been getting into your debt these three weekspast, during which you have been doing what he informs me is his work,with such exemplary talent and genius, begad?"
Still, in spite of this kind offer and unheard-of generosity on the partof the Major, George Warrington refused, and said he would stay at home.But it was with a faltering voice and an irresolute accent which showedhow much he would like to go, though his tongue persisted in saying nay.
But the Major's persevering benevolence was not to be baulked 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 refusingto join in their excursion. "Isn't it ungallant, Miss Bell?" he said,turning to that young lady. "Isn't it unfriendly? Here we have been thehappiest party in the world, and this odious selfish creature breaks itup!"
Miss Bell's long eyelashes looked down towards her teacup: 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, "andthen perhaps he will listen to you----"
"Why should Mr. Warrington listen to me?" asked the young lady, puttingthe query to her teaspoon 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," remarkedLaura to the teaspoon.
"Would you?" said George.
She looked up and said, "Yes." Their eyes met. "I will go anywhere youask me, or do any
thing," said George, lowly, and forcing out the wordsas 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 fromPen's neighbouring room Helen entered, looking at them as the candlewhich 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. Warrington ina promise to come abroad with us."
"Indeed!" Helen said.
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