of his free will. I will not have a shilling more than her ori-
ginal fortune.'*
"Have the kindness to ring the bell, '* said the old gentle«
man. "I have done my best, and said my say; and I 'm a
dev'lish old fellow. And — and — it don't matter. And —
and Shakspeare was right — and Cardinal Wolsey — begad —
'and had I but served my God as I 've served you' — yes, on
ray knees, by Jove , to my own nephew — I mightn't have
been — Goodnight, Sir, you needn't trouble yourself to call
again."
Arthur took his hand, which the old man left to him; it
was quite passive and clammy. He looked very much oldened;
and it seemed as if the contest and defeat had quite broken
him.
On the next day he kept his bed, and refused to see his
nephew.
CHAPTER XXVII.
In which the decks begin to clear.
When Pen , arrayed in his dressing-gown , walked up, ac-
cording to custom, to Warrington's chambers next morning,
to inform his friend of the issue of the last night's interview
with his uncle ; and to ask , as usual, for George's advice and
opinion, Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, was the only person
whom Arthur found in the dear old chambers. George had
taken a carpet-bag, and was gone. His address was to his
brother's house, in Suffolk. Packages addressed to the news-
Pendennis. III. 24
370
paper and review for which he wrote lay on the table , awaiting
delivery.
"I found him at the table, when I came, the dear gentle-
man!" Mrs. Flanagan said, "writing at his papers, and one
of the candles was burned out; and hard as his bed is, he
wasn't in it all night , Sir."
Indeed, having sat at the Club until the brawl there became
intolerable to him, George had walked home, and had passed
the night finishing some work on which he was employed , and
to the completion of which he bent himself with all his might.
The labour was done , and the night was worn away somehow,
and the tardy November dawn came and looked in on the
young man as he sate over his desk. In the next day's paper,
or quarter's review, many of us very likely admired the work
of his genius, the variety of his illustration, the fierce vigour
of his satire, the depth of his reason. There Avas no hint in
his writing of the other thoughts which occupied him, and
always accompanied him in his work — a tone more melancholy
than was customary, a satire more bitter and impatient than
that which he afterwards showed, may have marked the
writings of this period of his life to the very few persons who
knew his style or his name. We have said before, could we
know the man's feelings as well as the author's thoughts — how
interesting most books would be! — more interesting than
merry. I suppose harlequin's face behind his mask is always
grave , if not melancholy — certainly each man who lives by
the pen, and happens to read this , must remember , if he will,
his own experiences, and recall many solemn hours of solitude
and labour. What a constant care sate at the side of the desk
and accompanied him ! Fever or sickness were lying possibly
in the next room: a sick child might be there, with a wife
watching over it terrified and in prayer: or grief might be
bearing him down, and the cruel mist before the eyes render-
571
ing the paper scarce visible as he wrote on it, and the inexor-
able necessity drove on the pen. What man among us has not
had nights and hours like these? But to the manly heart —
severe as these pangs are , they are endurable : long as the
night seems the dawn comes at last, and the wounds heal, and
the fever abates, and rest comes, and you can afford to look
back on the past misery with feelings that are anything but
bitter.
Two or three books for reference, fragments of torn up
manuscript, drawers open, pens and inkstand, lines half vi-
sible on the blotting paper, a bit of sealing wax twisted and
bitten and broken into sundry pieces — such relics as these
were about the table , and Pen flung himself down in George's
empty chair — noting things according to his wont, or in spite
of himself. There was a gap in the book-case (next to the
old College Plato, with the Boniface Arms), where Helen's
Bible used to be. He has taken that with him, thought
Pen. He knew why his friend was gone. Dear, dear old
George !
Pen rubbed his hand over his eyes. O, how much wiser,
how much better, how much nobler he is than I, bethought.
Where was such a friend , or such a brave heart? Where shall
I ever hear such a frank voice, and kind laughter? Where
shall I ever see such a true gentleman? No wonder she loved
him. God bless him. What was I compared to him? What
could she do else but love him? To the end of our days we
will be her brothers , as fate wills that we can be no more.
We '11 be her knights, and wait on her : and when we 're old,
we '11 say how we loved her. Dear, dear old George !
When Pen descended to his own chambers, his eye fell on
the letter-box of his outer door, which he had previously over-
looked, and there was a little note to A. P. , Esq. , in George's
24*
372
well-known handwriting, George had put into Pen's box pro-
bably as he was going away.
"Dr Pen, — I shall be halfway home when you breakfast,
and intend to stay over Christmas , in Norf ^ , or elsewhere.
"I have' my own opinion of the issue of matters about
which we talked in J — St. yesterday; and think my presence
de trop.
"Vale. G. W."
" Give my very best regards and adieux to your cousin."
And so George was gone, and Mrs. Flanagan, the laun-
dress, ruled over his empty chambers.
Pen of course had to go and see his uncle on the day after
their colloquy, and not being admitted, he naturally went to
Lady Rockminister's apartments, where the old lady instant-
ly asked for Bluebeard, and insisted that he should come to
dinner.
"Bluebeard is gone," Pen said, and he took out poor
George's scrap of paper, and handed it to Laura, who looked
at it — did not look at Pen in return, but passed the paper back
to him, and walked away. Pen rushed into an eloquent eulo-
gium upon his dear old George to Lady Rockminster, who was
astonished at his enthusiasm. She had never heard him so
warm in praise of anybody ; and told him with her usual frank-
ness, that she didn't think it had been in his nature to care so
much about any other person.
As Mr. Pendennis was passing In Waterloo Place, in one
of his many walks to the hotel where Laura lived, and whither
duty to his uncle carried Arthur every day, Arthur saw issuing
from Messrs. Gimcrack's celebrated shop an old friend, who
was followed to his Brougham by an obsequious shopman
bearing parcels. The gentleman was in the deepest mourn-
ing: the Brougham, the driver, and the horse, were in
mourning. Grief in easy circumstances, and supported by
373
the comfortablest springs and cushions , was typified in the
equipage and the little gentleman , its proprietor.
"What, Foker! Hail, Fokerl" cried out Pen — the rea-
der, no doubt, has likewise recognised Arthur's old school-
fellow — and he held out his hand to the heir of the late la-
mented John Henry Foker, Esq., the master of Logwood and
other houses , the principal partner in the great brewery of
Foker & Co. : the greater portion of Foker's Entire.
A little hand, covered with a glove of the deepest ebony,
and set off by three inches of a snowy wristband, was put forth
to meet Arthur's salutation. The other little hand held a little
morocco case, containing, no doubt, something precious, of
which Mr. Foker had just become proprietor in Messrs. Glm-
crack's shop. Pen's keen eyes and satiric turn showed him
at once upon what errand Mr. Foker had been employed; and
he thought of the heir in Horace pouring forth the gathered
wine of his father's vats; and that human nature is pretty much
the same in Regent Street as in the Via Sacra.
"Le Roi est mort. Vive le Roi ! " said Arthur.
"Ah ! " said the other. " Yes. Thank you — very much
obliged. How do you do , Pen ? — very busy — good-bye 1 "
and he jumped into the black Brougham, and sate like a little
black Care behind the black coachman. He had blushed on
seeing Pen, and shown other signs of guilt and perturbation,
which Pen attributed to the novelty of his situation; and on
which he began to speculate in his usual sardonic manner.
"Yes: so wags the world," thought Pen. "The stone
closes over Harry the Fourth, and Harry the Fifth reigns in
his stead. The old ministers at the brewery come and kneel
beforehim with their books; the draymen, his subjects, fling
up their red caps, and shout for him. What a grave deference
and sympathy the bankers and the lawyers show ! There was
too great a stake at issue between those two that they should
374
ever love each other very cordially. As long as one man keeps
another out of twenty thousand a-year, the younger must be
always hankering after the crown , and the wish must be the
father to the thought of possession. Thank Heaven, there
was no thought of money between me and our dear mother,
Laura."
" There never could have been. You would have spurned
it ! " cried Laura. "Why make yourself more selfish than you
are , Pen ; and allow your mind to own for an instant that it
would have entertained such — such dreadful meanness?
You make me blush for you, Arthur: you make me — " her
eyes finished this sentence, and she passed her handkerchief
across them.
" There are some truths which women will never acknow-
ledge," Pen said, "and from which your modesty always
turns away. I do not say that I ever knew the feeling , only
that I am glad I had not the temptation. Is there any harm in
that confession of weakness?"
"We are all taught to ask to be delivered from evil,
Arthur," said Laura, in a low voice. " I am glad if you were
spared from that great crime ; and only sorry to think that you
could by any possibility have been led into it. But you never
could; and you don't think you could. Your acts are gene-
rous and kind: you disdain mean actions. You take Blanche
without money, and without a bribe. Yes, thanks be to
Heaven, dear brother. You could not have sold yourself
away; I knew you could not when it came to the day, and you
did not. Praise be — be where praise is due. Why does this
horrid scepticism pursue you, my Arthur? Why doubt and
sneer at your own heart — at every one's? Oh , if you knew
the pain you give me — how I lie awake and think of those
hard sentences, dear brother, and wish them unspoken,
unthoughtl"
375
"Do I cause you many thoughts and many tears, Laura?"
asked Arthur. The fullness of innocent love beamed from
her in reply. A smile heavenly pure, a glance of unutterable
tenderness, sympathy, pity, shone in her face — all which
indications of love and purity Arthur beheld and worshipped
in her, as you would watch them in a child, as one fancies one
might regard them in an angel.
*'I — I don't know what I have done," he said, simply,
"to have merited such regard from two such women. It is like
undeserved praise, Laura — or too much good fortune, which
frightens one — or a great post, when a man feels that he is
not fit for it. Ah, sister, how weak and wicked we are; how
spotless, and full of love and truth. Heaven made you!
I think for some of you there has been no fall," he said, look-
ing at the charming girl with an almost paternal glance of
admiration. "You can't help having sweet thoughts, and
doing good actions. Dear creature I they are the flowers which
you bear."
"And what else. Sir?" asked Laura. "I see a sneer
coming over your face. What is it? Why does it come to drive
all the good thoughts away?"
"A sneer, is there? I was thinking, my dear, that nature
in making you so good and loving did very well : but — "
"But what? What is that wicked but? and why are you
always calling it up? "
"But will come in spite of us. But Is reflection. But is
the sceptic's familiar, with whom he has made a compact ; and
if he forgets it, and indulges in happy day-dreams, or building
of air-castles, or listens to sweet music let us say, or to the
bells ringing to church. But taps at the door, and says. Master,
lam here. You are my master; but lam yours. Go where
you will you can't travel without me. I will whisper to you
when you are on your knees at church. I will be at your mar-
376
riage pillow. I will sit down at your table with your children.
I will be behind your death-bed curtain. That is what But is,"
Pen said,
"Pen, you frighten me," cried Laura.
"Do you know what But came and said to me just now,
when I was looking at you? But said, if that girl had reason
as well as love, she would love you no more. If she knew you
as you are — the sullied, selfish being which you know — she
must part from you, and could give you no love and no sym-
pathy. Didn't I say," he added fondly, "that some of you
seem exempt from the fall? Love you know; but the know-
ledge of evil is kept from you."
"What is this you young folks are talking about?" asked
Lady Rockminster, who at this moment made her appearance
in the room, having performed, in the mystic retirement of
her own apartments, and under the hands of her attendant,
those elaborate toilette-rites without which the worthy old
lady never presented herself to public view. " Mr. Pendennis,
you are always coming here."
"It is very pleasant to be here," Arthur said; "and we
were talking, when you came in, about my friend Foker, whom
I met just now; and who, as your ladyship knows, has suc-
ceeded to his father's kingdom."
"he has a very fine property, he has fifteen thousand
a-year. He is my cousin. He is a very worthy young man.
He must come and see me," said Lady Rockminster, with a
look at Laura.
"He has been engaged for many years past to his cousin,
Lady—"
"Lady Ann is a foolish little chit," Lady Rockminster said,
with much dignity; "and I have no patience with her. She
has outraged every feeling of society. She has broken her
father's heart, and thrown away fifteen thousand a-year."
377
"Thrown away? What has happened?" asked Pen.
"It will be the talk of the town In a day or two ; and there Is
no need why I should keep the secret any longer," said Lady
Rockminster, who had written and received a dozen letters
on the subject. "I had a letter yesterday from my daughter,
who was staying at Drummington until all the world was
obliged to go away on account of the frightful catastrophe
which happened there. When Mr. Foker came home from
Nice , and after the funeral , Lady Ann went down on her
knees to her father, said that she never could marry her cousin,
that she had contracted another attachment, and that she must
die rather than fulfil her contract. Poor Lord Rosherville,
who is dreadfully embarrassed, showed his daughter what the
state of his affairs was, and that it was necessary that the
arrangements should take place; and in fine, we all supposed
that she had listened to reason, and intended to comply with
the desires of her family. But what has happened — last
Thursday she went out after breakfast with her maid , and was
married in the very church In Drummington Park to Mr. Hob-
son, her father's own chaplain and her brother's tutor; a red-
haired widower with two children. Poor dear Rosherville is
in a dreadful way : he wishes Henry Foker should marry Alice
or Barbara; but Alice is marked with the small -pox, and
Barbara is ten years older than he is. And, of course, now
the young man is his own master, he will think of choosing for
himself. The blow on Lady Agnes is very cruel. She Is
inconsolable. She has the house in Grosvenor Street for her
life, and her settlement, which was very handsome. Have
you not met her? Yes, she dined one day at Lady Clavering's
— the first day I saw you, and a very disagreeable young man
1 thought you were. But I have formed you. We have formed
him, haven't we, Laura? Where is Bluebeard? let him come.
378
That horrid Grindley, the dentist, will keep me in town
another week."
To the latter part of her ladyship's speech Arthur gave no
ear. He was thinking for whom could Foker be purchasing
those trinkets which he was carrying away from the jeweller's?
Why did Harry seem anxious to avoid him? Could he be still
faithful to the attachment which had agitated him so much,
and sent him abroad eighteen months back? Pshal The brace-
lets and presents were for some of Harry's old friends of the
Opera or the French theatre. Rumours from Naples and
Paris, rumours such as are borne to Club smoking-rooms, had
announced that the young man had found distractions ; or,
precluded from his virtuous attachment, the poor fellow had
flung himself back upon his old companions and amusements
— not the only man or woman whom society forces into evil,
or debars from good; not the only victim of the world's selfish
and wicked laws.
As a good thing when it is to be done cannot be done too
quickly, Laura was anxious that Pen's marriage intentions
should be put into execution as speedily as possible, and
pressed on his arrangements with rather a feverish anxiety.
Why could she not wait? Pen could afford to do so with per-
fect equanimity, but Laura would hear of no delay. She
wrote to Pen: she implored Pen: she used every means to
urge expedition. It seemed as if she could have no rest until
Arthur's happiness was complete.
She offered herself to dearest Blanche to come and stay at
Tunbridge with her, when Lady Rockminster should go on
her intended visit to the reigning house of Rockminster; and
although the old dowager scolded, and ordered, and com-
manded, Laura was deaf and disobedient: she must go to
379
Tunbridge, she would go to Tunbridge: she who ordinarily
had no will of her own, and complied smilingly with any-
body's whim and caprices, showed the most selfish and ob-
stinate determination in this instance. The dowager lady
must nurse herself in her rheumatism, she must read herself
to sleep ; if she would not hear her maid, whose voice croaked,
and who made sad work of the sentimental passages in the
novels — Laura must go, and be with her new sister. In
another week, she proposed, with many loves and regards to
dear Lady Clavering to pass some time with dearest Blanche.
Dearest Blanche wrote instantly in reply to dearest Laura's
No. 1, to say with what extreme delight she should welcome
her sister: how charming it would be to practise their old
duets together, to wander o'er the grassy sward, and amidst
the yellowing woods of Penshurst and Southborough 1 Blanche
counted the hours till she should embrace her dearest friend.
Laura, No. 2, expressed her delight at dearest Blanche's
affectionate reply. She hoped that their friendship would
never diminish; that the confidence between them would grow
in after years; that they should have no secrets from each
other; that the aim of the life of each would be to make one
person happy.
Blanche, No. 2, followed In two days. "How provoking I
Their house was very small, the two spare bed-rooms were
occupied by that horrid Mrs. Planter and her daughter, who
had thought proper to fall ill (she always fell ill in country
houses), and she could not or would not be moved for
some days."
Laura, No. 3. "It was indeed very provoking. L. had
hoped to hear one of dearest B.'s dear songs on Friday; but
she was the more consoled to wait, because Lady R. was not
very well, and liked to be nursed by her. Poor Major Pen-
dennis was very unwell, too, in the same hotel — too unwell
380
even to see Arthur, who was constant In his calls on his uncle.
Arthur's heart was full of tenderness and affection. She had
known Arthur all her life. She would answer" — yes, even
In Italics she would answer — "for his kindness, his goodness,
and his gentleness."
Blanche, No. 3. "What Is this most surprising, most
extraordinary letter from A. P.? What does dearest Laura
know about It? What has happened? What, what mystery is
enveloped under his frightful reserve? "
Blanche, No. 3, requires an explanation; and it cannot
be better given than In the surprising and mysterious letter of
Arthur Pendennls.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Mr. and Mrs. Sam. Huxler.
"Dear Blanche," Arthur wrote, "you are always reading
and dreaming pretty dramas, and exciting romances In real
life, are you now prepared to enact a part of one? And not
the pleasantest part, dear Blanche, that In which the heroine
takes possession of her father's palace and wealth, and Intro-
ducing her husband to the loyal retainers and faithful vassals,
greets her happy bridegroom with 'All of this Is mine and
thine, ' — but the other character, that of the luckless lady,
who suddenly discovers that she Is not the Prince's wife , but
Claude Melnotte's the beggar's: thatof Alnaschar's wife, who
comes In just as her husband has kicked over the tray of
porcelain which was to be the making of his fortune — But
stay; Alnaschar, who kicked down the china, was not a married
man; he had cast his eye on the Vizier's daughter, and his
hopes of her went to the ground with the shattered bowls and
tea- cups.
"Will you be the Vizier's daughter, and refuse and laugh
381
to scorn Alnaschar, or will you be the Lady of Lyons, and love
the penniless Claude Melnotte? I will act that part if you like.
I will love you my best in return. I will do my all to make
your humble life happy : for humble it will be : at least the
odds are against any other conclusion; we shall live and die in
a poor prosy humdrum way. There will be no stars and epau-
lettes for the hero of our story. I shall write one or two more
stories , which will presently be forgotten. I shall be called
to the Bar, and try to get on in my profession: perhaps some
day, if I am very lucky, and work very hard (which is absurd),
I may get a colonial appointment, and you maybe an Indian
Judge's lady. Meanwhile I shall buy back the Pall Mall Ga-
zette; the publishers are tired of it since the death of poor
Shandon , and will sell it for a small sum. Warrington will be
my right hand, and write it up to a respectable sale. I will in-
troduce you to Mr. Finucane the sub-editor, and I know who
in the end will be Mrs. Finucane, — a very nice gentle crea-
ture, who has lived sweetly through a sad life — and we will
jog on, I say, and look out for better times, and earn our
living decently. You shall have the opera-boxes, and super-
intend the fashionable intelligence, and break your little heart
in the poet's corner. Shall we live over the offices? — there
are four very good rooms, a kitchen, and a garret for Laura, in
Catherine Street in the Strand; or would you like a house in
the Waterloo Road? — it would be very pleasant, only there is
that halfpenny toll at the Bridge. The boys may go to King's
College, mayn't they? Does all this read to you like a
joke?
*' Ah , dear Blanche , it is no joke , and I am sober and tell-
ing the truth. Our fine day-dreams are gone. Our carriage
has whirled out of sight like Cinderella's ! our house in Bel-
gravia has been whisked away Into the air by a malevolent
Genius, and I am no more a member of Parliament than I am a
382
Bishop on his bench In the House of Lords, or a Duke with a
garter at his knee. You know pretty -well what my property
is, and your own little fortune: we may have enough with
those two to live in decent comfort; to take a cab sometimes
when we go out to see our friends, and not to deny ourselves
an omnibus when we are tired. But that is all : is that enough
for you, my little dainty lady? I doubt sometimes whether
you can bear the life which I offer you — at least, it js
fair that you should know what it will be. If you say,
'Yes, Arthur, I will follow your fate whatever it may be, and
be a loyal and loving wife to aid and cheer you' — come to me,
dear Blanche, and may God help me so that I may do my duty
to you. If not, and you look to a higher station, I must not
bar Blanche's fortune — I will stand in the crowd, and see
your ladyship go to Court where you are presented, and you
shall give me a smile from your chariot window. I saw Lady
Mirabel going to the drawing-room last season: the happy
husband at her side glittered with stars and cordons. All the
flowers in the garden bloomed in the coachman's bosom.
Will you have these and the chariot, or walk on foot and mend
your husband's stockings?
"I cannot tell you now — afterwards I might , should the
day come when we may have no secrets from one another —
what has happened within the last few hours which has
changed all 'my prospects in life: but so it Is, that I have