A History of Pendennis. Volume 1. His fortunes and misfortunes, his friends and his greatest enemy

At this juncture Miss Fotheringay returned to the common sitting-room from her private apartment, looking perfectly healthy, happy, and unconcerned, a striking and wholesome contrast to her father, who was in a delirious tremor of grief, anger, and other agitation. She brought in a pair of ex-white satin shoes with her, which she proposed to rub as clean as might be with bread-crumb; intending to go mad with them upon next Tuesday evening in Ophelia, in which character she was to reappear on that night.

She looked at the papers on the table; stopped, as if she was going to ask a question, but thought better of it, and going to the cupboard, selected an eligible piece of bread wherewith she might operate on the satin slippers: and afterward coming back to the table, seated herself there commodiously with the shoes, and then asked her father, in her honest, Irish brogue, "What, have ye got them letthers, and pothry, and stuff, of Master Arthur's out for, pa? Sure ye don't want to be reading over that nonsense."

"O Emilee!" cried the captain, "that boy whom I loved as the boy of mee bosom is only a scoundthrel, and a deceiver, mee poor girl;" and he looked in the most tragical way at Mr. Bows, opposite: who, in his turn, gazed somewhat anxiously at Miss Costigan.

"He! pooh! Sure the poor lad's as simple as a school-boy," she said. "All them children write verses and nonsense."

"He's been acting the part of a viper to this fire-side, and a traitor in this familee," cried the captain. "I tell ye he's no better than an impostor."

"What has the poor fellow done, papa?" asked Emily.

"Done? He has deceived us in the most athrocious manner," Miss Emily's papa said. "He has thrifled with your affections, and outraged my own fine feelings. He has represented himself as a man of property, and it turruns out that he is no betther than a beggar. Haven't I often told ye he had two thousand a year? He's a pauper, I tell ye, Miss Costigan; a depindent upon the bountee of his mother; a good woman, who may marry again, who's likely to live forever, and who has but five hundred a year. How dar he ask ye to marry into a family which has not the means of providing for ye? Ye've been grossly deceived and put upon, Milly, and it's my belief, his old ruffian of an uncle in a wig is in the plot against us."

"That soft old gentleman? What has he been doing, papa?" continued Emily still imperturbable.

Costigan informed Milly, that when she was gone, Major Pendennis told him, in his double-faced Pall Mall polite manner, that young Arthur had no fortune at all, that the major had asked him (Costigan) to go to the lawyers ("wherein he knew the scoundthrels have a bill of mine, and I can't meet them," the captain parenthetically remarked), and see the lad's father's will: and finally that an infernal swindle had been practiced upon him by the pair, and that he was resolved either on a marriage, or on the blood of both of them.

Milly looked very grave and thoughtful, rubbing the white satin shoes. "Sure, if he's no money, there's no use marrying him, papa," she said sententiously.

"Why did the villain say he was a man of prawpertee?" asked Costigan.

"The poor fellow always said he was poor," answered the girl. "'Twas you would have it he was rich, papa – and made me agree to take him."

"He should have been explicit and told us his income, Milly," answered the father. "A young fellow who rides a blood mare, and makes presents of shawls and bracelets, is an impostor, if he has no money: – and as for his uncle, bedad, I'll pull off his wig whenever I see 'um. Bows, here, shall take a message to him and tell him so. Either it's a marriage, or he meets me in the field like a man, or I tweak 'um on the nose in front of his hotel or in the gravel walks of Fairoaks Park before all the county, bedad."

"Bedad you may send somebody else with the message," said Bows, laughing. "I'm a fiddler not a fighting man, captain."

"Pooh, you've no spirit, sir," roared the general. "I'll be my own second, if no one will stand by and see me injured. And I'll take my case of pistols and shoot 'um in the coffee-room of the George."

"And so poor Arthur has no money?" sighed out Miss Costigan, rather plaintively. "Poor lad, he was a good lad too: wild and talking nonsense, with his verses and pothry and that, but a brave, generous boy, and indeed I liked him – and he liked me too," she added, rather softly, and rubbing away at the shoe.

"Why don't you marry him if you like him so?" Mr. Bows said, rather savagely. "He is not more than ten years younger than you are. His mother may relent, and you might go and live and have enough at Fairoaks Park. Why not go and be a lady? I could go on with the fiddle, and the general live on his half-pay. Why don't you marry him? You know he likes you."

"There's others that likes me as well, Bows, that has no money and that's old enough," Miss Milly said sententiously.

"Yes, d – it," said Bows with a bitter curse – "that are old enough and poor enough and fools enough for any thing."

"There's old fools and young fools too. You've often said so, you silly man," the imperious beauty said, with a conscious glance at the old gentleman. "If Pendennis has not enough money to live upon, it's folly to talk about marrying him; and that's the long and short of it."

"And the boy?" said Mr. Bows. "By Jove! you throw a man away like an old glove, Miss Costigan."

"I don't know what you mean, Bows," said Miss Fotheringay, placidly, rubbing the second shoe. "If he had had half of two thousand a year that papa gave him, or the half of that, I would marry him. But what is the good of taking on with a beggar? We're poor enough already. There's no use in my going to live with an old lady that's testy and cross, maybe, and would grudge me every morsel of meat. (Sure, it's near dinner time, and Suky not laid the cloth yet), and then," added Miss Costigan, quite simply, "suppose there was a family? – why, papa, we shouldn't be as well off as we are now."

"'Deed then, you would not Milly dear," answered the father.

"And there's an end to all the fine talk about Mrs. Arthur Pendennis of Fairoaks Park – the member of Parliament's lady," said Milly, with a laugh. "Pretty carriages and horses we should have to ride! – that you were always talking about, papa! But it's always the same. If a man looked at me, you fancied he was going to marry me; and if he had a good coat, you fancied he was as rich as Crazes."

" – As Cr[oe]sus," said Mr. Bows.

"Well, call 'um what ye like. But it's a fact now that papa has married me these eight years a score of times. Wasn't I to be my Lady Poldoody of Oystherstown castle? Then there was the navy captain at Portsmouth, and the old surgeon at Norwich, and the Methodist preacher here last year, and who knows how many more? Well, I bet a penny, with all your scheming, I shall die Milly Costigan, at last. So poor little Arthur has no money? Stop and take dinner, Bows; we've a beautiful beefsteak pudding."

"I wonder whether she is on with Sir Derby Oaks," thought Bows, whose eyes and thoughts were always watching her. "The dodges of women beat all comprehension; and I am sure she wouldn't let the lad off so easily if she had not some other scheme on hand."

It will have been perceived that Miss Fotheringay, though silent in general, and by no means brilliant as a conversationalist, where poetry, literature, or the fine arts were concerned, could talk freely, and with good sense, too, in her own family circle. She can not justly be called a romantic person: nor were her literary acquirements great: she never opened a Shakspeare from the day she left the stage, nor, indeed, understood it during all the time she adorned the boards: but about a pudding, a piece of needle-work, or her own domestic affairs, she was as good a judge as could be found; and not being misled by a strong imagination or a passionate temper, was better enabled to keep her judgment cool. When, over their dinner, Costigan tried to convince himself and the company, that the major's statement regarding Pen's finances was unworthy of credit, and a mere ruse upon the old hypocrite's part, so as to induce them, on their side, to break off the match, Miss Milly would not, for a moment, admit the possibility of deceit on the side of the adversary: and pointed out clearly that it was her father who had deceived himself, and not poor little Pen, who had tried to take them in. As for that poor lad, she said she pitied him with all her heart. And she ate an exceedingly good dinner, to the admiration of Mr. Bows, who had a remarkable regard and contempt for this woman, during, and after which repast, the party devised upon the best means of bringing this love matter to a close. As for Costigan, his idea of tweaking the major's nose vanished with his supply of after-dinner whisky-and-water; and he was submissive to his daughter, and ready for any plan on which she might decide, in order to meet the crisis which she saw was at hand.

The captain, who, as long as he had a notion that he was wronged, was eager to face and demolish both Pen and his uncle, perhaps shrank from the idea of meeting the former, and asked "what the juice they were to say to the lad if he remained steady to his engagement, and they broke from theirs?" "What? don't you know how to throw a man over?" said Bows; "ask a woman to tell you?" and Miss Fotheringay showed how this feat was to be done simply enough – nothing was more easy. "Papa writes to Arthur to know what settlements he proposes to make in the event of a marriage; and asks what his means are. Arthur writes back and says what he's got, and you'll find it's as the major says, I'll go bail. Then papa writes and says it's not enough, and the match had best be at an end."

"And, of course, you inclose a parting line, in which you say you will always regard him as a brother;" said Mr. Bows, eying her in his scornful way.

"Of course, and so I shall," answered Miss Fotheringay. "He's a most worthy young man I'm sure. I'll thank ye hand me the salt. Them filberts is beautiful."

"And there will be no noses pulled, Cos, my boy? I'm sorry you're balked," said Mr. Bows.

"'Dad I suppose not," said Cos, rubbing his own. – "What'll ye do about them letters, and verses and pomes, Milly, darling? – Ye must send 'em back."

"Wigsby would give a hundred pound for 'em," Bows said, with a sneer.

"'Deed, then he would," said Captain Costigan, who was easily led.

"Papa!" said Miss Milly, "ye wouldn't be for not sending the poor boy his letters back? Them letters and pomes is mine. They were very long and full of all sorts of nonsense, and Latin and things I couldn't understand the half of; indeed I've not read 'em all; but we'll send 'em back to him when the proper time comes." And going to a drawer, Miss Fotheringay took out from it a number of the County Chronicle and Chatteries Champion, in which Pen had written a copy of flaming verses celebrating her appearance in the character of Imogen, and putting by the leaf upon which the poem appeared (for, like ladies of her profession, she kept the favorable printed notices of her performances), she wrapped up Pen's letters, poems, passions, and fancies, and tied them with a piece of string neatly, as she would a parcel of sugar.

Nor was she in the least moved while performing this act. What hours the boy had passed over those papers! What love and longing: what generous faith and manly devotion – what watchful nights and lonely fevers might they tell of! She tied them up like so much grocery, and sate down and made tea afterward with a perfectly placid and contented heart; while Pen was yearning after her, ten miles off; and hugging her image to his soul.

CHAPTER XIII.

A CRISIS

Meanwhile they were wondering at Fairoaks that the major had not returned. Dr. Portman and his lady, on their way home to Clavering, stopped at Helen's lodge-gate, with a brief note for her from Major Pendennis, in which he said he should remain at Chatteries another day, being anxious to have some talk with Messrs. Tatham, the lawyers, whom he would meet that afternoon: but no mention was made of the transaction in which the writer had been engaged during the morning. Indeed the note was written at the pause after the first part of the engagement, and when the major had decidedly had the worst of the battle.

Pen did not care somehow to go into the town while his uncle was there. He did not like to have to fancy that his guardian might be spying at him from that abominable dean's grass-plat, while he was making love in Miss Costigan's drawing-room; and the pleasures of a walk (a delight which he was very rarely permitted to enjoy) would have been spoiled if he had met the man of the polished boots on that occasion. His modest love could not show in public by any outward signs, except the eyes (with which the poor fellow ogled and gazed violently, to be sure), but it was dumb in the presence of third parties; and so much the better, for of all the talk which takes place in this world, that of love-makers is surely, to the uninitiated, the most silly. It is the vocabulary without the key; it is the lamp without the flame. Let the respected reader look or think over some old love-letters that he (or she) has had and forgotten, and try them over again. How blank and meaningless they seem! What glamour of infatuation was it which made that nonsense beautiful? One wonders that such puling and trash could ever have made one happy. And yet there were days when you kissed those silly letters with rapture – lived upon six absurd lines for a week, and until the reactionary period came, when you were restless and miserable until you got a fresh supply of folly.

That is why we decline to publish any of the letters and verses which Mr. Pen wrote at this period of his life, out of mere regard for the young fellow's character. They are too spooney and wild. Young ladies ought not to be called upon to read them in cold blood. Bide your time young women; perhaps you will get and write them on your own account soon. Meanwhile we will respect Mr. Pen's first outpourings, and keep them tied up in the newspapers with Miss Fotheringay's string, and sealed with Captain Costigan's great silver seal.

The major came away from his interview with Captain Costigan in a state of such concentrated fury as rendered him terrible to approach! "The impudent bog-trotting scamp," he thought, "dare to threaten me! Dare to talk of permitting his damned Costigans to marry with the Pendennises! Send me a challenge! If the fellow can get any thing in the shape of a genleman to carry it, I have the greatest mind in life not to balk him. – Psha! what would people say if I were to go out with a tipsy mountebank, about a row with an actress in a barn!" So when the major saw Dr. Portman, who asked anxiously regarding the issue of his battle with the dragon, Mr. Pendennis did not care to inform the divine of the general's insolent behavior, but stated that the affair was a very ugly and disagreeable one, and that it was by no means over yet.

He enjoined Doctor and Mrs. Portman to say nothing about the business at Fairoaks; whither he contented himself with dispatching the note we have before mentioned. And then he returned to his hotel, where he vented his wrath upon Mr. Morgan, his valet, "dammin and cussin up stairs and down stairs," as that gentleman observed to Mr. Foker's man, in whose company he partook of dinner in the servants' room of the George.

The servant carried the news to his master; and Mr. Foker having finished his breakfast about this time, it being two o'clock in the afternoon, remembered that he was anxious to know the result of the interview between his two friends, and having inquired the number of the major's sitting-room, went over in his brocade dressing-gown, and knocked for admission.

Major Pendennis had some business, as he had stated, respecting a lease of the widow's, about which he was desirous of consulting old Mr. Tatham, the lawyer, who had been his brother's man of business, and who had a branch-office at Clavering, where he and his son attended market and other days three or four in the week. This gentleman and his client were now in consultation when Mr. Foker showed his grand dressing-gown and embroidered skull-cap at Major Pendennis's door.

Seeing the major engaged with papers and red-tape, and an old man with a white head, the modest youth was for drawing back – and said, "O, you're busy – call again another time." But Mr. Pendennis wanted to see him, and begged him, with a smile, to enter: whereupon Mr. Foker took off the embroidered tarboosh or fez (it had been worked by the fondest of mothers), and advanced, bowing to the gentlemen, and smiling on them graciously. Mr. Tatham had never seen so splendid an apparition before as this brocaded youth, who seated himself in an arm chair, spreading out his crimson skirts, and looking with exceeding kindness and frankness on the other two tenants of the room. "You seem to like my dressing-gown, sir," he said to Mr. Tatham. "A pretty thing, isn't it? Neat, but not in the least gaudy. And how do you do? Major Pendennis, sir, and how does the world treat you?"

There was that in Foker's manner and appearance which would have put an Inquisitor into good humor, and it smoothed the wrinkles under Pendennis's head of hair.

"I have had an interview with that Irishman (you may speak before my friend, Mr. Tatham here, who knows all the affairs of the family), and it has not, I own, been very satisfactory. He won't believe that my nephew is poor: he says we are both liars; he did me the honor to hint that I was a coward, as I took leave. And I thought when you knocked at the door, that you might be the gentleman whom I expect with a challenge from Mr. Costigan – that is how the world treats me, Mr. Foker."

"You don't mean that Irishman, the actress's father?" cried Mr. Tatham, who was a dissenter himself, and did not patronize the drama.