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A History of Pendennis. Volume 1. His fortunes and misfortunes, his friends and his greatest enemy
These preliminaries over, the three began to talk; Mr. Foker amused his companions by recounting to them the scene which he had just witnessed of the discomfiture of Mr. Garbetts, by which they learned, for the first time, how far the general had carried his wrath against Major Pendennis. Foker spoke strongly in favor of the major's character for veracity and honor, and described him as a tip-top swell, moving in the upper circle of society, who would never submit to any deceit – much more to deceive such a charming young woman as Miss Foth.
He touched delicately upon the delicate marriage question, though he couldn't help showing that he held Pen rather cheap. In fact, he had a perhaps just contempt for Mr. Pen's high flown sentimentality; his own weakness, as he thought, not lying that way. "I knew it wouldn't do, Miss Foth," said he, nodding his little head. "Couldn't do. – Didn't like to put my hand into the bag, but knew it couldn't do. He's too young for you: too green: a deal too green: and he turns out to be poor as Job. Can't have him at no price, can she, Mr. Bo?"
"Indeed he's a nice poor boy," said the Fotheringay, rather sadly.
"Poor little beggar," said Bows, with his hands in his pockets, and stealing up a queer look at Miss Fotheringay. Perhaps he thought and wondered at the way in which women play with men, and coax them and win them and drop them.
But Mr. Bows had not the least objection to acknowledge that he thought Miss Fotheringay was perfectly right in giving up Mr. Arthur Pendennis, and that in his idea the match was always an absurd one: and Miss Costigan owned that she thought so herself, only she couldn't send away two thousand a year. "It all comes of believing papa's silly stories," she said; "faith, I'll choose for meself another time" – and very likely the large image of Lieutenant Sir Derby Oaks entered into her mind at that instant.
After praising Major Pendennis, whom Miss Costigan declared to be a proper gentleman entirely, smelling of lavender, and as neat as a pin – and who was pronounced by Mr. Bows to be the right sort of fellow, though rather too much of an old buck, Mr. Foker suddenly bethought him to ask the pair to come and meet the major that very evening at dinner at his apartment at the George. "He agreed to dine with me, and I think after the – after the little shindy this morning, in which I must say the general was wrong, it would look kind, you know. – I know the major fell in love with you Miss Foth: he said so."
"So she may be Mrs. Pendennis still," Bows said, with a sneer – "No thank you, Mr. F. – I've dined."
"Sure, that was at three o'clock," said Miss Costigan, who had an honest appetite, "and I can't go without you."
"We'll have lobster salad and Champagne," said the little monster, who could not construe a line of Latin, or do a sum beyond the Rule of Three. Now, for lobster-salad and Champagne in an honorable manner Miss Costigan would have gone any where – and Major Pendennis actually found himself at seven o'clock, seated at a dinner-table in company with Mr. Bows, a professional fiddler, and Miss Costigan, whose father had wanted to blow his brains out a few hours before.
To make the happy meeting complete, Mr. Foker, who knew Costigan's haunts, dispatched Stoopid to the club at the Magpie, where the general was in the act of singing a pathetic song, and brought him off to supper. To find his daughter and Bows seated at the board was a surprise indeed – Major Pendennis laughed, and cordially held out his hand, which the general officer grasped avec effusion, as the French say. In fact, he was considerably inebriated, and had already been crying over his own song before he joined the little party at the George. He burst into tears more than once, during the entertainment, and called the major his dearest friend. Stoopid and Mr. Foker walked home with him; the major gallantly giving his arm to Miss Costigan. He was received with great friendliness when he called the next day, when many civilities passed between the gentlemen. On taking leave he expressed his anxious desire to serve Miss Costigan on any occasion in which he could be useful to her, and he shook hands with Mr. Foker most cordially and gratefully, and said that gentleman had done him the very greatest service.
"All right," said Mr. Foker: and they parted with mutual esteem.
On his return to Fairoaks the next day, Major Pendennis did not say what had happened to him on the previous night, or allude to the company in which he had passed it. But he engaged Mr. Smirke to stop to dinner; and any person accustomed to watch his manner might have remarked that there was something constrained in his hilarity and talkativeness, and that he was unusually gracious and watchful in his communications with his nephew. He gave Pen an emphatic God-bless-you, when the lad went to bed; and as they were about to part for the night, he seemed as if he was going to say something to Mrs. Pendennis, but he bethought him that if he spoke he might spoil her night's rest, and allowed her to sleep in peace.
The next morning he was down in the breakfast-room earlier than was his custom, and saluted every body there with great cordiality. The post used to arrive commonly about the end of this meal. When John, the old servant entered, and discharged the bag of its letters and papers, the major looked hard at Pen as the lad got his – Arthur blushed, and put his letter down. He knew the hand, it was that of old Costigan, and he did not care to read it in public. Major Pendennis knew the letter, too. He had put it into the post himself in Chatteries the day before.
He told little Laura to go away, which the child did, having a thorough dislike to him; and as the door closed on her, he took Mrs. Pendennis's hand, and giving her a look full of meaning, pointed to the letter under the newspaper which Pen was pretending to read. "Will you come into the drawing-room?" he said. "I want to speak to you." And she followed him, wondering, into the hall.
"What is it?" she said, nervously.
"The affair is at an end," Major Pendennis said. "He has a letter there giving him his dismissal. I dictated it myself yesterday. There are a few lines from the lady, too, bidding him farewell. It is all over."
Helen ran back to the dining-room, her brother following. Pen had jumped at his letter the instant they were gone. He was reading it, with a stupefied face. It stated what the major had said, that Mr. Costigan was most gratified for the kindness with which Arthur had treated his daughter, but that he was only now made aware of Mr. Pendennis's pecuniary circumstances. They were such that marriage was at present out of the question, and considering the great disparity in the age of the two, a future union was impossible. Under these circumstances, and with the deepest regret and esteem for him, Mr. Costigan bade Arthur farewell, and suggested that he should cease visiting, for some time at least, at his house.
A few lines from Miss Costigan were inclosed. She acquiesced in the decision of her papa. She pointed out that she was many years older than Arthur, and that an engagement was not to be thought of. She would always be grateful for his kindness to her, and hoped to keep his friendship. But at present, and until the pain of the separation should be over, she entreated they should not meet.
Pen read Costigan's letter and its inclosure mechanically, hardly knowing what was before his eyes. He looked up wildly, and saw his mother and uncle regarding him with sad faces. Helen's, indeed, was full of tender maternal anxieties.
"What – what is this?" Pen said. "It's some joke. This is not her writing. This is some servant's writing. Who's playing these tricks upon me?"
"It comes under her father's envelope," the major said. "Those letters you had before were not in her hand: that is hers."
"How do you know?" said Pen, very fiercely.
"I saw her write it," the uncle answered, as the boy started up; and his mother, coming forward, took his hand. He put her away.
"How came you to see her? How came you between me and her? What have I ever done to you that you should. – Oh, it's not true, it's not true!" – Pen broke out with a wild execration. "She can't have done it of her own accord. She can't mean it. She's pledged to me. Who has told her lies to break her from me?"
"Lies are not told in the family, Arthur," Major Pendennis replied. "I told her the truth, which was, that you had no money to maintain her, for her foolish father had represented you to be rich. And when she knew how poor you were, she withdrew at once, and without any persuasion of mine. She was quite right. She is ten years older than you are. She is perfectly unfitted to be your wife, and knows it. Look at that handwriting, and ask yourself, is such a woman fitted to be the companion of your mother?"
"I will know from herself if it is true," Arthur said, crumpling up the paper.
"Won't you take my word of honor? Her letters were written by a confidante of hers, who writes better than she can – look here. Here's one from the lady to your friend, Mr. Foker. You have seen her with Miss Costigan, as whose amanuensis she acted" – the major said, with ever so little of a sneer, and laid down a certain billet which Mr. Foker had given to him.
"It's not that," said Pen, burning with shame and rage. "I suppose what you say is true, sir, but I'll hear it from herself."
"Arthur!" appealed his mother.
"I will see her," said Arthur. "I'll ask her to marry me, once more. I will. No one shall prevent me."
"What, a woman who spells affection with one f? Nonsense, sir. Be a man, and remember that your mother is a lady. She was never made to associate with that tipsy old swindler or his daughter. Be a man, and forget her, as she does you."
"Be a man and comfort your mother, my Arthur," Helen said, going and embracing him: and seeing that the pair were greatly moved, Major Pendennis went out of the room and shut the door upon them, wisely judging that they were best alone.
He had won a complete victory. He actually had brought away Pen's letters in his portmanteau from Chatteries: having complimented Mr. Costigan, when he returned them, by giving him the little promissory note which had disquieted himself and Mr. Garbetts; and for which the major settled with Mr. Tatham.
Pen rushed wildly off to Chatteries that day, but in vain attempted to see Miss Fotheringay, for whom he left a letter, inclosed to her father. The inclosure was returned by Mr. Costigan, who begged that all correspondence might end; and after one or two further attempts of the lad's, the indignant general desired that their acquaintance might cease. He cut Pen in the street. As Arthur and Foker were pacing the Castle walk, one day, they came upon Emily on her father's arm. She passed without any nod of recognition. Foker felt poor Pen trembling on his arm.
His uncle wanted him to travel, to quit the country for a while, and his mother urged him, too: for he was growing very ill, and suffered severely. But he refused, and said point blank he would not go. He would not obey in this instance: and his mother was too fond and his uncle too wise to force him. Whenever Miss Fotheringay acted he rode over to the Chatteries Theater and saw her. One night there were so few people in the house that the manager returned the money. Pen came home and went to bed at eight o'clock, and had a fever. If this continues, his mother will be going over and fetching the girl, the major thought, in despair. As for Pen, he thought he should die. We are not going to describe his feelings, or give a dreary journal of his despair and passion. Have not other gentlemen been balked in love besides Mr. Pen? Yes, indeed: but few die of the malady.
CHAPTER XIV.
IN WHICH MISS FOTHERINGAY MAKES A NEW ENGAGEMENT
Within a short period of the events above narrated, Mr. Manager Bingley was performing his famous character of "Rolla," in "Pizarro," to a house so exceedingly thin, that it would appear as if the part of Rolla was by no means such a favorite with the people of Chatteries as it was with the accomplished actor himself. Scarce any body was in the theater. Poor Pen had the boxes almost all to himself, and sate there lonely, with blood-shot eyes, leaning over the ledge, and gazing haggardly toward the scene, when Cora came in. When she was not on the stage he saw nothing. Spaniards and Peruvians, processions and battles, priests and virgins of the sun, went in and out, and had their talk, but Arthur took no note of any one of them; and only saw Cora whom his soul longed after. He said afterward that he wondered he had not taken a pistol to shoot her, so mad was he with love, and rage, and despair; and had it not been for his mother at home, to whom he did not speak about his luckless condition, but whose silent sympathy and watchfulness greatly comforted the simple half heart-broken fellow, who knows but he might have done something desperate, and have ended his days prematurely in front of Chatteries jail? There he sate then, miserable, and gazing at her. And she took no more notice of him than he did of the rest of the house.
The Fotheringay was uncommonly handsome, in a white raiment and leopard skin, with a sun upon her breast, and fine tawdry bracelets on her beautiful glancing arms. She spouted to admiration the few words of her part, and looked it still better. The eyes, which had overthrown Pen's soul, rolled and gleamed as lustrous as ever; but it was not to him that they were directed that night. He did not know to whom, or remark a couple of gentlemen, in the box next to him, upon whom Miss Fotheringay's glances were perpetually shining.
Nor had Pen noticed the extraordinary change which had taken place on the stage a short time after entry of these two gentleman into the theater. There were so few people in the house, that the first act of the play languished entirely, and there had been some question of returning the money, as upon that other unfortunate night when poor Pen had been driven away. The actors were perfectly careless about their parts, and yawned through the dialogue, and talked loud to each other in the intervals. Even Bingley was listless, and Mrs. B. in Elvira spoke under her breath.
How came it that all of a sudden Mrs. Bingley began to raise her voice and bellow like a bull of Bashan? Whence was it that Bingley, flinging off his apathy, darted about the stage and yelled like Kean? Why did Garbetts and Rowkins and Miss Rouncy try, each of them the force of their charms or graces, and act and swagger and scowl and spout their very loudest at the two gentlemen in box No. 3?
One was a quiet little man in black, with a gray head and a jolly shrewd face – the other was in all respects a splendid and remarkable individual. He was a tall and portly gentleman with a hooked nose and a profusion of curling brown hair and whiskers; his coat was covered with the richest frogs-braiding and velvet. He had under-waistcoats many splendid rings, jeweled pins and neck-chains. When he took out his yellow pocket-hankerchief with his hand that was cased in white kids, a delightful odor of musk and bergamot was shaken through the house. He was evidently a personage of rank, and it was at him that the little Chatteries company was acting.
He was, in a word, no other than Mr. Dolphin, the great manager from London, accompanied by his faithful friend and secretary Mr. William Minns: without whom he never traveled. He had not been ten minutes in the theater before his august presence there was perceived by Bingley and the rest: and they all began to act their best and try to engage his attention. Even Miss Fotheringay's dull heart, which was disturbed at nothing, felt perhaps a flutter, when she came in presence of the famous London Impresario. She had not much to do in her part, but to look handsome, and stand in picturesque attitudes encircling her child: and she did this work to admiration. In vain the various actors tried to win the favor of the great stage sultan. Pizaro never got a hand from him. Bingley yelled, and Mrs. Bingley bellowed, and the manager only took snuff out of his great gold box. It was only in the last scene, when Rolla comes in staggering with the infant (Bingley is not so strong as he was, and his fourth son Master Talma Bingley is a monstrous large child for his age) – when Rolla comes staggering with the child to Cora, who rushes forward with a shriek, and says – "O God, there's blood upon him!" – that the London manager clapped his hands, and broke out with an enthusiastic bravo.
Then having concluded his applause, Mr. Dolphin gave his secretary a slap on the shoulder, and said "By Jove, Billy, she'll do!"
"Who taught her that dodge?" said old Billy, who was a sardonic old gentleman – "I remember her at the Olympic, and hang me if she could say Bo to a goose."
It was little Mr. Bows in the orchestra who had taught her the 'dodge' in question. All the company heard the applause, and, as the curtain went down, came round her, and congratulated and hated Miss Fotheringay.
Now Mr. Dolphin's appearance in the remote little Chatteries theater may be accounted for in this manner. In spite of all his exertions, and the perpetual blazes of triumph, coruscations of talent, victories of good old English comedy, which his play bills advertised, his theater (which, if you please, and to injure no present susceptibilities and vested interests, we shall call the Museum Theater) by no means prospered, and the famous Impresario found himself on the verge of ruin. The great Hubbard had acted legitimate drama for twenty nights, and failed to remunerate any body but himself: the celebrated Mr. and Mrs. Cawdor had come out in Mr. Rawhead's tragedy, and in their favorite round of pieces, and had not attracted the public. Herr Garbage's lions and tigers had drawn for a little time, until one of the animals had bitten a piece out of the Herr's shoulder; when the Lord Chamberlain interfered, and put a stop to this species of performance: and the grand Lyrical Drama, though brought out with unexampled splendor and success, with Monsieur Poumons as first tenor, and an enormous orchestra, had almost crushed poor Dolphin in its triumphant progress: so that great as his genius and resources were, they seemed to be at an end. He was dragging on his season wretchedly with half salaries, small operas, feeble old comedies, and his ballet company; and every body was looking out for the day when he should appear in the Gazette.
One of the illustrious patrons of the Museum Theater, and occupant of the great proscenium-box, was a gentleman whose name has been mentioned in a previous history; that refined patron of the arts, and enlightened lover of music and the drama, the Most Noble the Marquis of Steyne. His lordship's avocations as a statesman prevented him from attending the playhouse very often, or coming very early. But he occasionally appeared at the theater in time for the ballet, and was always received with the greatest respect by the manager, from whom he sometimes condescended to receive a visit in his box. It communicated with the stage, and when any thing occurred there which particularly pleased him, when a new face made its appearance among the coryphées, or a fair dancer executed a pas with especial grace or agility, Mr. Wenham, Mr. Wagg, or some other aid-de-camp of the noble marquis, would be commissioned to go behind the scenes, and express the great man's approbation, or make the inquiries which were prompted by his lordship's curiosity, or his interest in the dramatic art. He could not be seen by the audience, for Lord Steyne sate modestly behind a curtain, and looked only toward the stage – but you could know he was in the house, by the glances which all the corps-de-ballet, and all the principal dancers, cast toward his box. I have seen many scores of pairs of eyes (as in the Palm Dance in the ballet of Cook at Otaheite, where no less than a hundred-and-twenty lovely female savages in palm leaves and feather aprons, were made to dance round Floridor as Captain Cook), ogling that box as they performed before it, and have often wondered to remark the presence of mind of Mademoiselle Sautarelle, or Mademoiselle de Bondi (known as la petite Caoutchouc), who, when actually up in the air quivering like so many shuttlecocks, always kept their lovely eyes winking at that box in which the great Steyne sate. Now and then you would hear a harsh voice from behind the curtain, cry, "Brava, Brava," or a pair of white gloves wave from it, and begin to applaud. Bondi, or Sauterelle, when they came down to earth, courtesied and smiled, especially to those hands, before they walked up the stage again, panting and happy.
One night this great prince surrounded by a few choice friends was in his box at the Museum, and they were making such a noise and laughter that the pit was scandalized, and many indignant voices were bawling out silence so loudly, that Wagg wondered the police did not interfere to take the rascals out. Wenham was amusing the party in the box with extracts from a private letter which he had received from Major Pendennis, whose absence in the country at the full London season had been remarked, and of course deplored, by his friends.
"The secret is out," said Mr. Wenham, "There's a woman in the case."
"Why d – it, Wenham, he's your age," said the gentleman behind the curtain.
"Pour les âmes bien nées, l'amour ne compte pas le nombre des années," said Mr. Wenham, with a gallant air. "For my part I hope to be a victim till I die, and to break my heart every year of my life." The meaning of which sentence was, "My lord, you need not talk; I'm three years younger than you, and twice as well conservé."
"Wenham, you affect me," said the great man, with one of his usual oaths. "By – you do. I like to see a fellow preserving all the illusions of youth up to our time of life – and keeping his heart warm as yours is. Hang it, sir – it's a comfort to meet with such a generous, candid creature. – Who's that gal in the second row, with blue ribbons, third from the stage? – fine gal. Yes, you and I are sentimentalists. Wagg I don't think so much cares – it's the stomach rather more than the heart with you, eh, Wagg, my boy?"
"I like every thing that's good," said Mr. Wagg, generously. "Beauty and Burgundy, Venus and Venison. I don't say that Venus's turtles are to be despised, because they don't cook them at the London Tavern: but – but tell us about old Pendennis, Mr. Wenham," he abruptly concluded – for his joke flagged just then, as he saw that his patron was not listening. In fact, Steyne's glasses were up, and he was examining some object on the stage.
"Yes, I've heard that joke about Venus's turtles and the London Tavern before – you begin to fail, my poor Wagg. If you don't mind I shall be obliged to have a new Jester," Lord Steyne said, laying down his glass. "Go on, Wenham, about old Pendennis."
"'Dear Wenham,' – he begins," Mr. Wenham read, – "'as you have had my character in your hands for the last three weeks, and no doubt have torn me to shreds, according to your custom, I think you can afford to be good-humored by way of variety, and to do me a service. It is a delicate matter, entre nous, une affaire de c[oe]ur. There is a young friend of mine who is gone wild about a certain Miss Fotheringay, an actress at the theater here, and I must own to you, as handsome a woman, and, as it appears to me, as good an actress as ever put on rouge. She does Ophelia, Lady Teazle, Mrs. Haller – that sort of thing. Upon my word, she is as splendid as Georges in her best days, and as far as I know, utterly superior to any thing we have on our scene. I want a London engagement for her. Can't you get your friend Dolphin to come and see her – to engage her – to take her out of this place? A word from a noble friend of ours (you understand) would be invaluable, and if you could get the Gaunt House interest for me – I will promise any thing I can in return for your service – which I shall consider as one of the greatest that can be done to me. Do, do this now as a good fellow, which I always said you were: and, in return, command yours truly, A. Pendennis.'"
"It's a clear case," said Mr. Wenham, having read this letter; "old Pendennis is in love."
"And wants to get the woman up to London – evidently," continued Mr. Wagg.
"I should like to see Pendennis on his knees, with the rheumatism," said Mr. Wenham.
"Or accommodating the beloved object with a lock of his hair," said Wagg.
"Stuff," said the great man. "He has relations in the country, hasn't he? He said something about a nephew, whose interest could return a member. It is the nephew's affair, depend on it. The young one is in a scrape. I was myself – when I was in the fifth form at Eton – a market-gardener's daughter – and swore I'd marry her. I was mad about her – poor Polly!" – Here he made a pause, and perhaps the past rose up to Lord Steyne, and George Gaunt was a boy again, not altogether lost. – "But I say, she must be a fine woman from Pendennis's account. Have in Dolphin, and let us hear if he knows any thing of her."
At this Wenham sprang out of the box, passed the servitor who waited at the door communicating with the stage, and who saluted Mr. Wenham with profound respect; and the latter emissary, pushing on, and familiar with the place, had no difficulty in finding out the manager, who was employed, as he not unfrequently was, in swearing and cursing the ladies of the corps-de-ballet for not doing their duty.
The oaths died away on Mr. Dolphin's lips, as soon as he saw Mr. Wenham: and he drew off the hand which was clenched in the face of one of the offending Coryphées, to grasp that of the new comer. "How do, Mr. Wenham? How's his lordship to-night? Looks uncommonly well," said the manager smiling, as if he had never been out of temper in his life; and he was only too delighted to follow Lord Steyne's embassador, and pay his personal respects to that great man.
The visit to Chatteries was the result of their conversation: and Mr. Dolphin wrote to his lordship from that place, and did himself the honor to inform the Marquess of Steyne, that he had seen the lady about whom his lordship had spoken, that he was as much struck by her talents as he was by her personal appearance, and that he had made an engagement with Miss Fotheringay who would soon have the honor of appearing before a London audience, and his noble and enlightened patron the Marquess of Steyne.
Pen read the announcement of Miss Fotheringay's engagement in the Chatteries paper, where he had so often praised her charms. The editor made very handsome mention of her talent and beauty, and prophesied her success in the metropolis. Bingley, the manager, began to advertise "The last night of Miss Fotheringay's engagement." Poor Pen and Sir Derby Oaks were very constant at the play: Sir Derby in the stage-box, throwing bouquets and getting glances. – Pen in the almost deserted boxes, haggard, wretched, and lonely. Nobody cared whether Miss Fotheringay was going or staying except those two – and perhaps one more, which was Mr. Bows of the orchestra.
He came out of his place one night, and went into the house to the box where Pen was; and he held out his hand to him, and asked him to come and walk. They walked down the street together: and went and sate upon Chatteries bridge in the moonlight, and talked about her. "We may sit on the same bridge," said he: "we have been in the same boat for a long time. You are not the only man who has made a fool of himself about that woman. And I have less excuse than you, because I'm older and know her better. She has no more heart than the stone you are leaning on; and it or you or I might fall into the water, and never come up again, and she wouldn't care. Yes – she would care for me, because she wants me to teach her; and she won't be able to get on without me, and will be forced to send for me from London. But she wouldn't if she didn't want me. She has no heart and no head, and no sense, and no feelings, and no griefs or cares, whatever. I was going to say no pleasures – but the fact is, she does like her dinner, and she is pleased when people admire her."
"And you do?" said Pen, interested out of himself, and wondering at the crabbed, homely little old man.
"It's a habit, like taking snuff, or drinking drams," said the other, "I've been taking her these five years, and can't do without, her. It was I made her. If she doesn't send for me, I shall follow her: but I know she'll send for me. She wants me. Same day she'll marry, and fling me over, as I do the end of this cigar."
The little flaming spark dropped into the water below, and disappeared; and Pen, as he rode home that night, actually thought about somebody but himself.