The History of Pendennis, Volume 2
His Fortunes and Misfortunes, His Friends and His Greatest Enemy (2024)

Produced by Lee Dawei, Michael Lockey and PG Distributed Proofreaders

HIS FORTUNES AND MISFORTUNES, HIS FRIENDS AND HIS GREATEST ENEMY.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS ON WOOD BY THE AUTHOR,

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOLUME II.

1858

1.—RELATES TO MR. HARRY FOKER's AFFAIRS

2.—CARRIES THE READER BOTH TO RICHMOND AND GREENWICH

3.—CONTAINS A NOVEL INCIDENT

4.—ALSATIA

5.—IN WHICH THE COLONEL NARRATES SOME OF HIS ADVENTURES

6.—A CHAPTER OF CONVERSATIONS

7.—MISS AMORY'S PARTNERS

8.—MONSEIGNEUR S'AMUSE

9.—A VISIT OF POLITENESS

10.—IN SHEPHERD'S INN

11.—IN OR NEAR THE TEMPLE GARDEN

12.—THE HAPPY VILLAGE AGAIN

13.—WHICH HAD VERY NEARLY BEEN THE LAST OF THE STORY

14.—A CRITICAL CHAPTER

15.—CONVALESCENCE

16.—FANNY'S OCCUPATION'S GONE

17.—IN WHICH FANNY ENGAGES A NEW MEDICAL MAN

18.—FOREIGN GROUND

19.—"FAIROAKS TO LET"

20.—OLD FRIENDS

21.—EXPLANATIONS

22.—CONVERSATIONS

23.—THE WAY OF THE WORLD

24.—WHICH ACCOUNTS PERHAPS FOR CHAPTER XXIII

25.—PHILLIS AND CORYDON

26.—TEMPTATIONS

27.—IN WHICH PEN BEGINS HIS CANVASS

28.—IN WHICH PEN BEGINS TO DOUBT ABOUT HIS ELECTION

29.—IN WHICH THE MAJOR IS BIDDEN TO STAND AND DELIVER

30.—IN WHICH THE MAJOR NEITHER YIELDS HIS MONEY NOR HIS LIFE

31.—IN WHICH PENDENNIS COUNTS HIS EGGS

32.—FIAT JUSTITIA

33.—IN WHICH THE DECKS BEGIN TO CLEAR

34.—MR. AND MRS. SAM HUXTER

35.—SHOWS HOW ARTHUR HAD BETTER HAVE TAKEN A RETURN-TICKET

36.—A CHAPTER OF MATCH-MAKING

37.—EXEUNT OMNES PENDENNIS.

RELATES TO MR. HARRY FOKER'S AFFAIRS.

Since that fatal but delightful night in Grosvenor place, Mr. HarryFoker's heart had been in such a state of agitation as you wouldhardly have thought so great a philosopher could endure. When weremember what good advice he had given to Pen in former days, how anearly wisdom and knowledge of the world had manifested itself in thegifted youth; how a constant course of self-indulgence, such asbecomes a gentleman of his means and expectations, ought by right tohave increased his cynicism, and made him, with every succeeding dayof his life, care less and less for every individual in the world,with the single exception of Mr. Harry Foker, one may wonder that heshould fall into the mishap to which most of us are subject once ortwice in our lives, and disquiet his great mind about a woman. ButFoker, though early wise, was still a man. He could no more escape thecommon lot than Achilles, or Ajax, or Lord Nelson, or Adam our firstfather, and now, his time being come, young Harry became a victim toLove, the All-conqueror.

When he went to the Back Kitchen that night after quitting ArthurPendennis at his staircase-door in Lamb-court, the gin-twist anddeviled turkey had no charms for him, the jokes of his companionsfell flatly on his ear; and when Mr. Hodgen, the singer of "The BodySnatcher," had a new chant even more dreadful and humorous than thatfamous composition, Foker, although he appeared his friend, and said"Bravo Hodgen," as common politeness, and his position as one of thechiefs of the Back Kitchen bound him to do, yet never distinctly heardone word of the song, which under its title of "The Cat in theCupboard," Hodgen has since rendered so famous. Late and very tired,he slipped into his private apartments at home and sought the downypillow, but his slumbers were disturbed by the fever of his soul, andthe very instant that he woke from his agitated sleep, the image ofMiss Amory presented itself to him, and said, "Here I am, I am yourprincess and beauty, you have discovered me, and shall care fornothing else hereafter."

Heavens, how stale and distasteful his former pursuits and friendshipsappeared to him! He had not been, up to the present time, muchaccustomed to the society of females of his own rank in life. When hespoke of such, he called them "modest women." That virtue which, letus hope they possessed, had not hitherto compensated to Mr. Foker forthe absence of more lively qualities which most of his own relativesdid not enjoy, and which he found in Mesdemoiselles, the ladies of thetheater. His mother, though good and tender, did not amuse her boy;his cousins, the daughters of his maternal uncle, the respectable Earlof Rosherville, wearied him beyond measure. One was blue, and ageologist; one was a horsewoman, and smoked cigars; one wasexceedingly Low Church, and had the most heterodox views on religiousmatters; at least, so the other said, who was herself of the veryHighest Church faction, and made the cupboard in her room into anoratory, and fasted on every Friday in the year. Their paternal houseof Drummington, Foker could very seldom be got to visit. He swore hehad rather go to the tread-mill than stay there. He was not muchbeloved by the inhabitants. Lord Erith, Lord Rosherville's heir,considered his cousin a low person, of deplorably vulgar habits andmanners; while Foker, and with equal reason, voted Erith a prig and adullard, the nightcap of the House of Commons, the Speaker'sopprobrium, the dreariest of philanthropic spouters. Nor could GeorgeRobert, Earl of Gravesend and Rosherville, ever forget that on oneevening when he condescended to play at billiards with his nephew,that young gentleman poked his lordship in the side with his cue, andsaid, "Well, old co*ck, I've seen many a bad stroke in my life, but Inever saw such a bad one as that there." He played the game out withangelic sweetness of temper, for Harry was his guest as well as hisnephew; but he was nearly having a fit in the night; and he kept tohis own rooms until young Harry quitted Drummington on his return toOxbridge, where the interesting youth was finishing his education atthe time when the occurrence took place. It was an awful blow to thevenerable earl; the circ*mstance was never alluded to in the family:he shunned Foker whenever he came to see them in London or in thecountry, and could hardly be brought to gasp out a "How d'ye do?" tothe young blasphemer. But he would not break his sister Agnes'sheart, by banishing Harry from the family altogether; nor, indeed,could he afford to break with Mr. Foker, senior, between whom and hislordship there had been many private transactions, producing anexchange of bank checks from Mr. Foker, and autographs from the earlhimself, with the letters I O U written over his illustrioussignature.

[Illustration]

Besides the four daughters of Lord Gravesend whose various qualitieshave been enumerated in the former paragraph, his lordship was blessedwith a fifth girl, the Lady Ann Milton, who, from her earliest yearsand nursery, had been destined to a peculiar position in life. It wasordained between her parents and her aunt, that when Mr. Harry Fokerattained a proper age, Lady Ann should become his wife. The idea hadbeen familiar to her mind when she yet wore pinafores, and whenHarry, the dirtiest of little boys, used to come back with black eyesfrom school to Drummington, or to his father's house of Logwood, whereLady Ann lived much with her aunt. Both of the young people coincidedwith the arrangement proposed by the elders, without any protests ordifficulty. It no more entered Lady Ann's mind to question the orderof her father, than it would have entered Esther's to dispute thecommands of Ahasuerus. The heir-apparent of the house of Foker wasalso obedient, for when the old gentleman said, "Harry, your uncle andI have agreed that when you're of a proper age, you'll marry Lady Ann.She won't have any money, but she's good blood, and a good one to lookat, and I shall make you comfortable. If you refuse, you'll have yourmother's jointure, and two hundred a year during my life:" Harry, whoknew that his sire, though a man of few words, was yet implicitly tobe trusted, acquiesced at once in the parental decree, and said,"Well, sir, if Ann's agreeable, I say ditto. She's not abad-looking girl."

"And she has the best blood in England, sir. Your mother's blood, yourown blood, sir," said the brewer. "There's nothing like it, sir."

"Well, sir, as you like it," Harry replied. "When you want me, pleasering the bell. Only there's no hurry, and I hope you'll give us a longday. I should like to have my fling out before I marry."

"Fling away, Harry," answered the benevolent father. "Nobody preventsyou, do they?" And so very little more was said upon this subject, andMr. Harry pursued those amusem*nts in life which suited him best; andhung up a little picture of his cousin in his sitting-room, amidst theFrench prints, the favorite actresses and dancers, the racing andcoaching works of art, which suited his taste and formed his gallery.It was an insignificant little picture, representing a simple roundface with ringlets; and it made, as it must be confessed, a very poorfigure by the side of Mademoiselle Petitot, dancing over a rainbow, orMademoiselle Redowa, grinning in red boots and a lancer's cap.

Being engaged and disposed of, Lady Ann Milton did not go out so muchin the world as her sisters; and often stayed at home in London at theparental house in Gaunt-square, when her mamma with the other ladieswent abroad. They talked and they danced with one man after another,and the men came and went, and the stories about them were various.But there was only this one story about Ann: she was engaged to HarryFoker: she never was to think about any body else. It was not a veryamusing story.

Well, the instant Foker awoke on the day after Lady Clavering'sdinner, there was Blanche's image glaring upon him with its clear grayeyes, and winning smile. There was her tune ringing in his ears, "Yetround about the spot, ofttimes I hover, ofttimes I hover," which poorFoker began piteously to hum, as he sat up in his bed under thecrimson silken coverlet. Opposite him was a French print, of a Turkishlady and her Greek lover, surprised by a venerable Ottoman, thelady's husband; on the other wall, was a French print of a gentlemanand lady, riding and kissing each other at the full gallop; all roundthe chaste bed-room were more French prints, either portraits of gauzynymphs of the Opera or lovely illustrations of the novels; or mayhap,an English chef-d'oeuvre or two, in which Miss Calverley of T. R. E. O.would be represented in tight pantaloons in her favorite page part; orMiss Rougemont as Venus; their value enhanced by the signatures ofthese ladies, Maria Calverley, or Frederica Rougemont, inscribedunderneath the prints in an exquisite fac-simile. Such were thepictures in which honest Harry delighted. He was no worse than many ofhis neighbors; he was an idle, jovial, kindly fast man about town; andif his rooms were rather profusely decorated with works of French art,so that simple Lady Agnes, his mamma, on entering the apartments whereher darling sate enveloped in fragrant clouds of Latakia, was oftenbewildered by the novelties which she beheld there, why, it must beremembered, that he was richer than most young men, and could betterafford to gratify his taste.

A letter from Miss Calverley written in a very dégagé style ofspelling and hand-writing, scrawling freely over the filigree paper,and commencing by calling Mr. Harry, her dear Hokey-pokey-fokey, layon his bed table by his side, amid keys, sovereigns, cigar-cases, anda bit of verbena, which Miss Amory had given him, and reminding him ofthe arrival of the day when he was "to stand that dinner at theElefant and Castle, at Richmond, which he had promised;" a card for aprivate box at Miss Rougemont's approaching benefit, a bundle oftickets for "Ben Budgeon's night, the North Lancashire Pippin, atMartin Faunce's, the Three-corned Hat in St. Martin's Lane; whereConkey Sam, Dick the Nailor, and Deadman (the Worcestershire Nobber),would put on the gloves, and the lovers of the good old British sportwere invited to attend"—these and sundry other memoirs of Mr. Foker'spursuits and pleasures lay on the table by his side when he woke.

Ah! how faint all these pleasures seemed now. What did he care forConkey Sam or the Worcestershire Nobber? What for the French printsogling him from all sides of the room; those regular stunning slap-upout-and-outers? And Calverley spelling bad, and calling himHokey-fokey, confound her impudence! The idea of being engaged to adinner at the Elephant and Castle at Richmond, with that old woman(who was seven and thirty years old, if she was a day), filled hismind with dreary disgust now, instead of that pleasure which he hadonly yesterday expected to find from the entertainment.

When his fond mamma beheld her boy that morning, she remarked on thepallor of his cheek, and the general gloom of his aspect. "Why do yougo on playing billiards at that wicked Spratt's?" Lady Agnes asked."My dearest child, those billiards will kill you, I'm sure they will."

"It isn't the billiards," Harry said, gloomily. "Then it's thedreadful Back Kitchen," said the Lady Agnes. "I've often thought,d'you know, Harry, of writing to the landlady, and begging that shewould have the kindness to put only very little wine in the neguswhich you take, and see that you have your shawl on before you getinto your brougham."

"Do, ma'am. Mrs. Cutts is a most kind, motherly woman," Harry said."But it isn't the Back Kitchen, neither," he added with aghastly sigh.

As Lady Agnes never denied her son any thing, and fell into all hisways with the fondest acquiescence, she was rewarded by a perfectconfidence on young Harry's part, who never thought to disguise fromher a knowledge of the haunts which he frequented; and, on thecontrary, brought her home choice anecdotes from the clubs andbilliard-rooms, which the simple lady relished, if she did notunderstand. "My son goes to Spratt's," she would say to herconfidential friends. "All the young men go to Spratt's after theirballs. It is de rigeur, my dear; and they play billiards as theyused to play macao and hazard in Mr. Fox's time. Yes, my dear fatheroften told me that they sate up always until nine o'clock the nextmorning with Mr. Fox at Brooks's, whom I remember at Drummington, whenI was a little girl, in a buff waistcoat and black satin smallclothes. My brother Erith never played as a young man, nor sate uplate—he had no health for it; but my boy must do as every body does,you know. Yes, and then he often goes to a place called the BackKitchen, frequented by all the wits and authors, you know, whom onedoes not see in society, but whom it is a great privilege and pleasurefor Harry to meet, and there he hears the questions of the daydiscussed; and my dear father often said that it was our duty toencourage literature, and he had hoped to see the late Dr. Johnson atDrummington, only Dr. Johnson died. Yes, and Mr. Sheridan came overand drank a great deal of wine—every body drank a great deal of winein those days—and papa's wine-merchant's bill was ten times as muchas Erith's is, who gets it as he wants it from Fortnum and Mason's,and doesn't keep any stock at all."

"That was an uncommon good dinner we had yesterday, ma'am," the artfulHarry broke out. "Their clear soup's better than ours. Moufflet willput too much taragon into every thing. The suprème de volaille wasvery good—uncommon, and the sweets were better than Moufflet'ssweets. Did you taste the plombière, ma'am and the maraschino jelly?Stunningly good that maraschino jelly!"

Lady Agnes expressed her agreement in these, as in almost all othersentiments of her son, who continued the artful conversation, saying,

"Very handsome house that of the Claverings. Furniture, I should say,got up regardless of expense. Magnificent display of plate, ma'am."The lady assented to all these propositions.

"Very nice people the Claverings."

"Hem!" said Lady Agnes.

"I know what you mean. Lady C. ain't distangy exactly, but she is verygood-natured." "O very," mamma said, who was herself one of themost good-natured of women.

"And Sir Francis, he don't talk much before ladies: but after dinnerhe comes out uncommon strong, ma'am—a highly agreeable well-informedman. When will you ask them to dinner? Look out for an early day,ma'am;" and looking into Lady Agnes's pocket-book, he chose a day onlya fortnight hence (an age that fortnight seemed to the younggentleman), when the Claverings were to be invited to Grosvenor-street.

The obedient Lady Agnes wrote the required invitation. She wasaccustomed to do so without consulting her husband, who had his ownsociety and habits, and who left his wife to see her own friendsalone. Harry looked at the card; but there was an omission in theinvitation which did not please him.

"You have not asked Miss Whatdyecallem—Miss Emery, Lady Clavering'sdaughter."

"O, that little creature!" Lady Agnes cried. "No, I think not, Harry."

"We must ask Miss Amory," Foker said. "I—I want to ask Pendennis; andhe's very sweet upon her. Don't you think she sings very well, ma'am?"

"I thought her rather forward, and didn't listen to her singing. Sheonly sang at you and Mr. Pendennis, it seemed to me. But I will askher if you wish, Harry," and so Miss Amory's name was written on thecard with her mother's.

This piece of diplomacy being triumphantly executed, Harry embracedhis fond parent with the utmost affection, and retired to his ownapartments, where he stretched himself on his ottoman, and laybrooding silently, sighing for the day which was to bring the fairMiss Amory under his paternal roof, and devising a hundred wildschemes for meeting her.

On his return from making the grand tour, Mr. Foker, junior, hadbrought with him a polyglot valet, who took the place of Stoopid, andcondescended to wait at dinner, attired in shirt fronts of workedmuslin, with many gold studs and chains, upon his master and theelders of the family. This man, who was of no particular country, andspoke all languages indifferently ill, made himself useful to Mr.Harry in a variety of ways—read all the artless youth'scorrespondence, knew his favorite haunts and the addresses of hisacquaintance, and officiated at the private dinners which the younggentleman gave. As Harry lay upon his sofa after his interview withhis mamma, robed in a wonderful dressing-gown, and puffing his pipe ingloomy silence, Anatole, too, must have remarked that somethingaffected his master's spirits; though he did not betray any ill-bredsympathy with Harry's agitation of mind. When Harry began to dresshimself in his out-of-door morning costume: he was very hard indeed toplease, and particularly severe and snappish about his toilet: hetried, and cursed, pantaloons of many different stripes, checks, andcolors: all the boots were villainously varnished, the shirts too"loud" in pattern. He scented his linen and person with peculiarrichness this day; and what must have been the valet's astonishment,when, after some blushing and hesitation on Harry's part, the younggentleman asked, "I say, Anatole, when I engaged you, didn'tyou—hem—didn't you say that you could dress—hem—dress hair?"

The valet said, "Yes, he could."

"Cherchy alors une paire de tongs—et—curly moi un pew" Mr. Fokersaid, in an easy manner; and the valet wondering whether his masterwas in love or was going masquerading, went in search of thearticles—first from the old butler who waited upon Mr. Foker, senior,on whose bald pate the tongs would have scarcely found a hundred hairsto seize, and finally of the lady who had the charge of the meekauburn fronts of the Lady Agnes. And the tongs being got, MonsieurAnatole twisted his young master's locks until he had made Harry'shead as curly as a negro's; after which the youth dressed himself withthe utmost care and splendor and proceeded to sally out.

"At what time sall I order de drag, sir, to be to Miss Calverley'sdoor, sir?" the attendant whispered as his master was going forth.

"Confound her! Put the dinner off—I can't go!" said Foker. "No, hangit—I must go. Poyntz and Rougemont, and ever so many more are coming.The drag at Pelham Corner at six o'clock, Anatole."

The drag was not one of Mr. Foker's own equipages, but was hired froma livery stable for festive purposes; Foker, however, put his owncarriage into requisition that morning, and for what purpose does thekind reader suppose? Why to drive down to Lamb-court, Temple, takingGrosvenor-place by the way (which lies in the exact direction of theTemple from Grosvenor-street, as every body knows), where he just hadthe pleasure of peeping upward at Miss Amory's pink window curtains,having achieved which satisfactory feat, he drove off to Pen'schambers. Why did he want to see his dear friend Pen so much? Why didhe yearn and long after him; and did it seem necessary to Foker's veryexistence that he should see Pen that morning, having parted with himin perfect health on the night previous? Pen had lived two years inLondon, and Foker had not paid half a dozen visits to his chambers.What sent him thither now in such a hurry?

What?—if any young ladies read this page, I have only to inform themthat when the same mishap befalls them, which now had for more thantwelve hours befallen Harry Foker, people will grow interesting tothem for whom they did not care sixpence on the day before; as on theother hand persons of whom they fancied themselves fond will be foundto have become insipid and disagreeable. Then your dearest Eliza orMaria of the other day, to whom you wrote letters and sent locks ofhair yards long, will on a sudden be as indifferent to you as yourstupidest relation: while, on the contrary, about his relations youwill begin to feel such a warm interest! such a loving desire toingratiate yourself with his mamma; such a liking for that dear kindold man his father! If He is in the habit of visiting at any house,what advances you will make in order to visit there too. If He has amarried sister you will like to spend long mornings with her. You willfatigue your servant by sending notes to her, for which there will bethe most pressing occasion, twice or thrice in a day. You will cry ifyour mamma objects to your going too often to see His family. The onlyone of them you will dislike, is perhaps his younger brother, who isat home for the holidays, and who will persist in staying in the roomwhen you come to see your dear new-found friend, his darling secondsister. Something like this will happen to you, young ladies, or, atany rate, let us hope it may. Yes, you must go through the hot fitsand the cold fits of that pretty fever. Your mothers, if they wouldacknowledge it, have passed through it before you were born, your dearpapa being the object of the passion of course—who could it be buthe? And as you suffer it so will your brothers in their way—and aftertheir kind. More selfish than you: more eager and headstrong than you:they will rush on their destiny when the doomed charmer makes herappearance. Or if they don't, and you don't, Heaven help you! As thegambler said of his dice, to love and win is the best thing, to loveand lose is the next best. You don't die of the complaint: or very fewdo. The generous wounded heart suffers and survives it. And he is nota man, or she a woman, who is not conquered by it, or who does notconquer it in his time…… Now, then, if you ask why Henry Foker,Esquire, was in such a hurry to see Arthur Pendennis, and felt such asudden value and esteem for him, there is no difficulty in saying itwas because Pen had become really valuable in Mr. Foker's eyes;because if Pen was not the rose, he yet had been near that fragrantflower of love. Was not he in the habit of going to her house inLondon? Did he not live near her in the country?—know all about theenchantress? What, I wonder, would Lady Ann Milton, Mr. Foker's cousinand prétendue, have said, if her ladyship had known all that wasgoing on in the bosom of that funny little gentleman?

Alas! when Foker reached Lamb-court, leaving his carriage for theadmiration of the little clerks who were lounging in the arch-way thatleads thence into Flag-court which leads into Upper Temple-lane,Warrington was in the chambers, but Pen was absent. Pen was gone tothe printing-office to see his proofs. "Would Foker have a pipe, andshould the laundress go to the co*ck and get him some beer?"—Warrington asked, remarking with a pleased surprise thesplendid toilet of this scented and shiny-booted young aristocrat; butFoker had not the slightest wish for beer or tobacco: he had veryimportant business: he rushed away to the "Pall-Mall Gazette" office,still bent upon finding Pen. Pen had quitted that place. Foker wantedhim that they might go together to call upon Lady Clavering. Fokerwent away disconsolate, and whiled away an hour or two vaguely atclubs: and when it was time to pay a visit, he thought it would be butdecent and polite to drive to Grosvenor-place and leave a card uponLady Clavering. He had not the courage to ask to see her when the doorwas opened, he only delivered two cards, with Mr. Henry Foker engravedupon them, to Jeames, in a speechless agony. Jeames received thetickets bowing his powdered head. The varnished doors closed upon him.The beloved object was as far as ever from him, though so near. Hethought he heard the tones of a piano and of a siren singing, comingfrom the drawing-room and sweeping over the balcony-shrubbery ofgeraniums. He would have liked to stop and listen, but it might notbe. "Drive to Tattersall's," he said to the groom, in a voicesmothered with emotion—"And bring my pony round," he added, as theman drove rapidly away.

As good luck would have it, that splendid barouche of LadyClavering's, which has been inadequately described in a formerchapter, drove up to her ladyship's door just as Foker mounted thepony which was in waiting for him. He bestrode the fiery animal, anddodged about the arch of the Green Park, keeping the carriage well inview, until he saw Lady Clavering enter, and with her—whose could bethat angel form, but the enchantress's, clad in a sort of gossamer,with a pink bonnet and a light-blue parasol—but Miss Amory?

The carriage took its fair owners to Madame Rigodon's cap and laceshop, to Mrs. Wolsey's Berlin worsted shop—who knows to what otherresorts of female commerce? Then it went and took ices at Hunter's,for Lady Clavering was somewhat florid in her tastes and amusem*nts,and not only liked to go abroad in the most showy carriage in London,but that the public should see her in it too. And so, in a whitebonnet with a yellow feather, she ate a large pink ice in the sunshinebefore Hunter's door, till Foker on his pony, and the red jacket whoaccompanied him, were almost tired of dodging.

Then at last she made her way into the Park, and the rapid Foker madehis dash forward. What to do? Just to get a nod of recognition fromMiss Amory and her mother; to cross them a half-dozen times in thedrive; to watch and ogle them from the other side of the ditch, wherethe horsem*n assemble when the band plays in Kensington Gardens. Whatis the use of looking at a woman in a pink bonnet across a ditch? Whatis the earthly good to be got out of a nod of the head? Strange thatmen will be contented with such pleasures, or if not contented, atleast that they will be so eager in seeking them. Not one word didHarry, he so fluent of conversation ordinarily, change with hischarmer on that day. Mutely he beheld her return to her carriage, anddrive away among rather ironical salutes from the young men in thePark. One said that the Indian widow was making the paternal rupeesspin rapidly; another said that she ought to have burned herselfalive, and left the money to her daughter. This one asked whoClavering was?—and old Tom Eales, who knew every body, and nevermissed a day in the Park on his gray cob, kindly said that Claveringhad come into an estate over head and heels in mortgage: that therewere dev'lish ugly stories about him when he was a young man, and thatit was reported of him that he had a share in a gambling house, andhad certainly shown the white feather in his regiment. "He playsstill; he is in a hell every night almost," Mr. Eales added. "Ishould think so, since his marriage," said a wag.

"He gives devilish good dinners," said Foker, striking up for thehonor of his host of yesterday.

"I daresay, and I daresay he doesn't ask Eales," the wag said. "I say,
Eales, do you dine at Clavering's—at the Begum's?"

"I dine there?" said Mr. Eales, who would have dined with Beelzebub,if sure of a good cook, and when he came away, would have painted hishost blacker than fate had made him.

"You might, you know, although you do abuse him so," continued thewag. "They say it's very pleasant. Clavering goes to sleep afterdinner; the Begum gets tipsy with cherry-brandy, and the young ladysings songs to the young gentlemen. She sings well, don't she, Fo?"

"Slap up," said Fo. "I tell you what, Poyntz, she sings like a—whatdyecallum—you know what I mean—like a mermaid, you know, butthat's not their name."

"I never heard a mermaid sing," Mr. Poyntz, the wag replied. "Who everheard a mermaid? Eales, you are an old fellow, did you?"

"Don't make a lark of me, hang it, Poyntz," said Foker, turning red,and with tears almost in his eyes, "you know what I mean: it's thosewhat's-his-names—in Homer, you know. I never said I was agood scholar."

"And nobody ever said it of you, my boy," Mr. Poyntz remarked, andFoker striking spurs into his pony, cantered away down Rotten Row, hismind agitated with various emotions, ambitions, mortifications. Hewas sorry that he had not been good at his books in early life—thathe might have cut out all those chaps who were about her, and whotalked the languages, and wrote poetry, and painted pictures in heralbum, and—and that. "What am I," thought little Foker, "compared toher? She's all soul, she is, and can write poetry or compose music, aseasy as I could drink a glass of beer. Beer?—damme, that's all I'mfit for, is beer. I am a poor, ignorant little beggar, good fornothing but Foker's Entire. I misspent my youth, and used to get thechaps to do my exercises. And what's the consequences now? O, HarryFoker, what a confounded little fool you have been!"

As he made this dreary soliloquy, he had cantered out of Rotten Rowinto the Park, and there was on the point of riding down a large, old,roomy family carriage, of which he took no heed, when a cheery voicecried out, "Harry, Harry!" and looking up, he beheld his aunt, theLady Rosherville, and two of her daughters, of whom the one who spokewas Harry's betrothed, the Lady Ann.

He started back with a pale, scared look, as a truth about which hehad not thought during the whole day, came across him. There was hisfate, there, in the back seat of that carriage.

"What is the matter Harry? why are you so pale? You have been rakingand smoking too much, you wicked boy," said Lady Ann.

Foker said, "How do, aunt?" "How do, Ann?" in a perturbedmanner—muttered something about a pressing engagement—indeed he sawby the Park clock that he must have been keeping his party in thedrag waiting for nearly an hour—and waved a good-by. The little manand the little pony were out of sight in an instant—the greatcarriage rolled away. Nobody inside was very much interested about hiscoming or going; the countess being occupied with her spaniel, theLady Lucy's thoughts and eyes being turned upon a volume of sermons,and those of Lady Ann upon a new novel, which the sisters had justprocured from the library.

CARRIES THE READER BOTH TO RICHMOND AND GREENWICH.

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Poor Foker found the dinner at Richmond to be the most drearyentertainment upon which ever mortal man wasted his guineas. "I wonderhow the deuce I could ever have liked these people," he thought in hisown mind. "Why, I can see the crow's-feet under Rougemont's eyes, andthe paint on her cheeks is laid on as thick as clown's in a pantomime!The way in which that Calverley talks slang, is quite disgusting. Ihate chaff in a woman. And old Colchicum! that old Col, coming downhere in his brougham, with his coronet on it, and sitting bodkinbetween Mademoiselle Coralie and her mother! It's too bad. An Englishpeer, and a horse-rider of Franconi's! It won't do; by Jove, it won'tdo. I ain't proud; but it will not do!"

"Twopence-halfpenny for your thoughts, Fokey!" cried out MissRougemont, taking her cigar from her truly vermilion lips, as shebeheld the young fellow lost in thought, seated at the head of histable, amidst melting ices, and cut pine-apples, and bottles full andempty, and cigar-ashes scattered on fruit, and the ruins of a dessertwhich had no pleasure for him.

"Does Foker ever think?" drawled out Mr. Poyntz. "Foker, here is aconsiderable sum of money offered by a fair capitalist at this end ofthe table for the present emanations of your valuable and acuteintellect, old boy!"

"What the deuce is that Poyntz a talking about?" Mrs. Calverley askedof her neighbor. "I hate him. He's a drawlin', sneerin' beast."

"What a droll of a little man is that little Fokare, my lor,"Mademoiselle Coralie said, in her own language, and with the richtwang of that sunny Gascony in which her swarthy cheeks and brightblack eyes had got their fire. "What a droll of a man! He does notlook to have twenty years."

"I wish I were of his age," said the venerable Colchicum, with a sigh,as he inclined his purple face toward a large goblet of claret.

"C'te Jeunesse. Peuh! je m'en fiche," said Madame Brack, Coralie'smamma, taking a great pinch out of Lord Colchicum's delicate goldsnuff-box. "_Je n'aime que les hommes faits, moi. Comme milor Coralie!n'est ce pas que tu n'aimes que les hommes faits, ma bichette?"

My lord said, with a grin, "You flatter me, Madame Brack."

"Taisez vous, Maman, vous n'ètes qu'une bête," Coralie cried, with ashrug of her robust shoulders; upon which, my lord said that she didnot flatter at any rate; and pocketed his snuff-box, not desirous thatMadame Brack's dubious fingers should plunge too frequently intohis Mackabaw.

There is no need to give a prolonged detail of the animatedconversation which ensued during the rest of the banquet; aconversation which would not much edify the reader. And it is scarcelynecessary to say, that all ladies of the corps de danse are not likeMiss Calverley, any more than that all peers resemble that illustriousmember of their order, the late lamented Viscount Colchicum. But therehave been such in our memories who have loved the society of riotousyouth better than the company of men of their own age and rank, andhave given the young ones the precious benefit of their experience andexample; and there have been very respectable men too who have notobjected so much to the kind of entertainment as to the publicity ofit. I am sure, for instance, that our friend Major Pendennis wouldhave made no sort of objection to join a party of pleasure, providedthat it were en petit comité, and that such men as my Lord Steyneand my Lord Colchicum were of the society. "Give the young men theirpleasures," this worthy guardian said to Pen more than once. "I'm notone of your straight-laced moralists, but an old man of the world,begad; and I know that as long as it lasts, young men will be youngmen." And there were some young men to whom this estimable philosopheraccorded about seventy years as the proper period for sowing theirwild oats: but they were men of fashion.

Mr. Foker drove his lovely guests home to Brompton in the drag thatnight; but he was quite thoughtful and gloomy during the whole of thelittle journey from Richmond; neither listening to the jokes of thefriends behind him and on the box by his side, nor enlivening them, aswas his wont, by his own facetious sallies. And when the ladies whomhe had conveyed alighted at the door of their house, and asked thenaccomplished coachman whether he would not step in and take some thingto drink, he declined with so melancholy an air, that they supposedthat the governor and he had had a difference, or that some calamityhad befallen him: and he did not tell these people what the cause ofhis grief was, but left Mesdames Rougemont and Calverley, unheedingthe cries of the latter, who hung over her balcony like Jezebel, andcalled out to him to ask him to give another party soon.

He sent the drag home under the guidance of one of the grooms, andwent on foot himself; his hands in his pockets, plunged in thought.The stars and moon shining tranquilly over head, looked down upon Mr.Foker that night, as he, in his turn, sentimentally regarded them. Andhe went and gazed upward at the house in Grosvenor-place, and at thewindows which he supposed to be those of the beloved object; and hemoaned and he sighed in a way piteous and surprising to witness, whichPoliceman X. did, who informed Sir Francis Clavering's people, as theytook the refreshment of beer on the coach-box at the neighboringpublic-house, after bringing home their lady from the French play,that there had been another chap hanging about the premises thatevening—a little chap, dressed like a swell.

And now with that perspicuity and ingenuity and enterprise which onlybelongs to a certain passion, Mr. Foker began to dodge Miss Amorythrough London, and to appear wherever he could meet her. If LadyClavering went to the French play, where her ladyship had a box, Mr.Foker, whose knowledge of the language, as we have heard, was notconspicuous, appeared in a stall. He found out where her engagementswere (it is possible that Anatole, his man, was acquainted with SirFrancis Clavering's gentleman, and so got a sight of her ladyship'sengagement-book), and at many of these evening parties Mr. Foker madehis appearance, to the surprise of the world, and of his motherespecially, whom he ordered to apply for cards to these parties, forwhich until now he had shown a supreme contempt. He told the pleasedand unsuspicious lady that he went to parties because it was right forhim to see the world: he told her that he went to the French playbecause he wanted to perfect himself in the language, and there was nosuch good lesson as a comedy or vaudeville—and when one night theastonished Lady Agnes saw him stand up and dance, and complimented himupon his elegance and activity, the mendacious little rogue assertedthat he had learned to dance in Paris, whereas Anatole knew that hisyoung master used to go off privily to an academy in Brewer-street,and study there for some hours in the morning. The casino of ourmodern days was not invented, or was in its infancy as yet; andgentlemen of Mr. Foker's time had not the facilities of acquiring thescience of dancing which are enjoyed by our present youth.

Old Pendennis seldom missed going to church. He considered it to behis duty as a gentleman to patronize the institution of publicworship, and that it was quite a correct thing to be seen in church ofa Sunday. One day it chanced that he and Arthur went thither together:the latter, who was now in high favor, had been to breakfast with hisuncle, from whose lodging they walked across the Park to a church notfar from Belgrave-square. There was a charity sermon at Saint James's,as the major knew by the bills posted on the pillars of his parishchurch, which probably caused him, for he was a thrifty man, toforsake it for that day: besides he had other views for himself andPen. "We will go to church, sir, across the Park; and then, begad,we will go to the Claverings' house, and ask them for lunch in afriendly way. Lady Clavering likes to be asked for lunch, and isuncommonly kind, and monstrous hospitable."

"I met them at dinner last week, at Lady Agnes Foker's, sir," Pensaid, "and the Begum was very kind indeed. So she was in the country:so she is every where. But I share your opinion about Miss Amory; oneof your opinions, that is, uncle, for you were changing, the last timewe spoke about her."

"And what do you think of her now?" the elder said.

"I think her the most confounded little flirt in London," Penanswered, laughing. "She made a tremendous assault upon Harry Foker,who sat next to her; and to whom she gave all the talk, though I tookher down."

"Bah! Henry Foker is engaged to his cousin, all the world knows it:not a bad coup of Lady Rosherville's, that. I should say, that theyoung man at his father's death, and old Mr. Foker's life's devilishbad: you know he had a fit, at Arthur's, last year: I should say, thatyoung Foker won't have less than fourteen thousand a year from thebrewery, besides Logwood and the Norfolk property. I've no pride aboutme, Pen. I like a man of birth certainly, but dammy, I like abrewery which brings in a man fourteen thousand a year; hey, Pen? Ha,ha, that's the sort of man for me. And I recommend you now that youare lancéd in the world, to stick to fellows of that sort; tofellows who have a stake in the country, begad."

"Foker sticks to me, sir," Arthur answered. "He has been at ourchambers several times lately. He has asked me to dinner. We arealmost as great friends, as we used to be in our youth: and his talkis about Blanche Amory from morning till night. I'm sure he's sweetupon her."

"I'm sure he is engaged to his cousin, and that they will keep theyoung man to his bargain," said the major. "The marriages in thesefamilies are affairs of state. Lady Agnes was made to marry old Fokerby the late Lord, although she was notoriously partial to her cousinwho was killed at Albuera afterward, and who saved her life out of thelake at Drummington. I remember Lady Agnes, sir, an exceedingly finewoman. But what did she do? of course she married her father's man.Why, Mr. Foker sate for Drummington till the Reform Bill, and paiddev'lish well for his seat, too. And you may depend upon this, sir,that Foker senior, who is a parvenu, and loves a great man, as allparvenus do, has ambitious views for his son as well as himself, andthat your friend Harry must do as his father bids him Lord bless you!I've known a hundred cases of love in young men and women: hey, MasterArthur, do you take me? They kick, sir, they resist, they make a deuceof a riot and that sort of thing, but they end by listening toreason, begad."

"Blanche is a dangerous girl, sir," Pen said. "I was smitten withher myself once, and very far gone, too," he added; "but that isyears ago."

"Were you? How far did it go? Did she return it?" asked the major,looking hard at Pen.

Pen, with a laugh, said "that at one time he did think he was prettywell in Miss Amory's good graces. But my mother did not like her, andthe affair went off." Pen did not think it fit to tell his uncle allthe particulars of that courtship which had passed between himself andthe young lady.

"A man might go farther and fare worse, Arthur," the major said, stilllooking queerly at his nephew.

"Her birth, sir; her father was the mate of a ship, they say; and shehas not money enough," objected Pen, in a dandyfied manner. "What'sten thousand pound and a girl bred up like her?"

"You use my own words, and it is all very well. But, I tell you inconfidence, Pen—in strict honor, mind—that it's my belief she has adevilish deal more than ten thousand pound: and from what I saw of herthe other day, and—and have heard of her—I should say she was adevilish accomplished, clever girl: and would make a good wife with asensible husband."

"How do you know about her money?" Pen asked, smiling. "You seem tohave information about every body, and to know about all the town."

"I do know a few things, sir, and I don't tell all I know. Mark that,"the uncle replied. "And as for that charming Miss Amory—forcharming, begad! she is—if I saw her Mrs. Arthur Pendennis, I shouldneither be sorry nor surprised, begad! and if you object to tenthousand pound, what would you say, sir, to thirty, or forty, orfifty?" and the major looked still more knowingly, and still harderat Pen.

"Well, sir," he said, to his godfather and namesake, "make her Mrs.
Arthur Pendennis. You can do it as well as I."

"Psha! you are laughing at me, sir," the other replied, ratherpeevishly, and you ought not to laugh so near a church gate. "Here weare at St. Benedict's. They say Mr. Oriel is a beautiful preacher."

Indeed, the bells were tolling, the people were trooping into thehandsome church, the carriages of the inhabitants of the lordlyquarter poured forth their pretty loads of devotees, in whose companyPen and his uncle, ending their edifying conversation, entered thefane. I do not know whether other people carry their worldly affairsto the church door. Arthur, who, from habitual reverence and feeling,was always more than respectful in a place of worship, thought of theincongruity of their talk, perhaps; while the old gentleman at hisside was utterly unconscious of any such contrast. His hat wasbrushed: his wig was trim: his neckcloth was perfectly tied. He lookedat every soul in the congregation, it is true: the bald heads and thebonnets, the flowers and the feathers: but so demurely that he hardlylifted up his eyes from his book—from his book which he could notread without glasses. As for Pen's gravity, it was sorely put to thetest when, upon looking by chance toward the seats where the servantswere collected, he spied out, by the side of a demure gentleman inplush, Henry Foker, Esquire, who had discovered this place ofdevotion. Following the direction of Harry's eye, which strayed a gooddeal from his book, Pen found that it alighted upon a yellow bonnetand a pink one: and that these bonnets were on the heads of LadyClavering and Blanche Amory. If Pen's uncle is not the only man whohas talked about his worldly affairs up to the church door, is poorHarry Foker the only one who has brought his worldly love intothe aisle?

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When the congregation issued forth at the conclusion of the service,Foker was out among the first, but Pen came up with him presently, ashe was hankering about the entrance which he was unwilling to leave,until my lady's barouche, with the bewigged coachman, had borne awayits mistress and her daughter from their devotions.

When the two ladies came out, they found together the Pendennises,uncle and nephew, and Harry Foker, Esquire, sucking the crook of hisstick, standing there in the sunshine. To see and to ask to eat weresimultaneous with the good-natured Begum, and she invited the threegentlemen to luncheon straightway.

Blanche was, too, particularly gracious. "O! do come," she said toArthur, "if you are not too great a man. I want so to talk to youabout—but we mustn't say what, here, you know. What would Mr.Oriel say?" And the young devotee jumped into the carriage after hermamma. "I've read every word of it. It's adorable," she added, stilladdressing herself to Pen.

"I know who is," said Mr. Arthur, making rather a pert bow.

"What's the row about?" asked Mr. Foker, rather puzzled.

"I suppose Miss Amory means 'Walter Lorraine,'" said the major,looking knowing, and nodding at Pen.

"I suppose so, sir. There was a famous review in the Pall Mall thismorning. It was Warrington's doing, though, and I must not betoo proud."

"A review in Pall Mall?—Walter Lorraine? What the doose do you mean?"Foker asked. "Walter Lorraine died of the measles, poor littlebeggar, when we were at Gray Friars. I remember his mother coming up."

"You are not a literary man, Foker," Pen said, laughing, and hookinghis arm into his friend's. "You must know I have been writing a novel,and some of the papers have spoken very well of it. Perhaps you don'tread the Sunday papers?"

"I read Bell's Life regular, old boy," Mr. Foker answered: at whichPen laughed again, and the three gentlemen proceeded in great good-humorto Lady Clavering's house.

The subject of the novel was resumed after luncheon by Miss Amory, whoindeed loved poets and men of letters if she loved any thing, and wassincerely an artist in feeling. "Some of the passages in the book mademe cry, positively they did," she said.

Pen said, with some fatuity, "I am happy to think I have a part ofvos larmes, Miss Blanche"—And the major (who had not read more thansix pages of Pen's book) put on his sanctified look, saying, "Yes,there are some passages quite affecting, mons'ous affecting:and,"—"O, if it makes you cry,"—Lady Amory declared she would notread it, "that she wouldn't."

"Don't, mamma," Blanche said, with a French shrug of her shoulders;and then she fell into a rhapsody about the book, about the snatchesof poetry interspersed in it, about the two heroines, Leonora andNeaera; about the two heroes, Walter Lorraine and his rival the youngduke—"and what good company you introduce us to," said the younglady, archly, "quel ton! How much of your life have you passed atcourt, and are you a prime minister's son, Mr. Arthur?"

Pen began to laugh—"It is as cheap for a novelist to create a duke asto make a baronet," he said. "Shall I tell you a secret, Miss Amory? Ipromoted all my characters at the request of the publisher. The youngduke was only a young baron when the novel was first written; hisfalse friend the viscount, was a simple commoner, and so on with allthe characters of the story."

"What a wicked, satirical, pert young man you have become! Comme vousvoilà formé!" said the young lady, "How different from ArthurPendennis of the country! Ah! I think I like Arthur Pendennis of thecountry best, though!" and she gave him the full benefit of hereyes—both of the fond, appealing glance into his own, and of themodest look downward toward the carpet, which showed off her darkeyelids and long fringed lashes.

Pen of course protested that he had not changed in the least, to whichthe young lady replied by a tender sigh; and thinking that she haddone quite enough to make Arthur happy or miserable (as the case mightbe), she proceeded to cajole his companion, Mr. Harry Foker, whoduring the literary conversation had sate silently imbibing the headof his cane, and wishing that he was a clever chap, like that Pen.

If the major thought that by telling Miss Amory of Mr. Foker'sengagement to his cousin, Lady Ann Milton (which information the oldgentleman neatly conveyed to the girl as he sate by her side atluncheon below stairs)—if, we say, the major thought that theknowledge of this fact would prevent Blanche from paying any furtherattention to the young heir of Foker's Entire, he was entirelymistaken. She became only the more gracious to Foker: she praised him,and every thing belonging to him; she praised his mamma; she praisedthe pony which he rode in the Park; she praised the lovely breloquesor gimcracks which the young gentleman wore at his watch-chain, andthat dear little darling of a cane, and those dear little deliciousmonkeys' heads with ruby eyes, which ornamented Harry's shirt, andformed the buttons of his waistcoat. And then, having praised andcoaxed the weak youth until he blushed and tingled with pleasure, anduntil Pen thought she really had gone quite far enough, she tookanother theme.

"I am afraid Mr. Foker is a very sad young man," she said, turninground to Pen.

"He does not look so," Pen answered with a sneer.

"I mean we have heard sad stories about him. Haven't we, mamma? Whatwas Mr. Poyntz saying here, the other day, about that party atRichmond? O you naughty creature!" But here, seeing that Harry'scountenance assumed a great expression of alarm, while Pen's wore alook of amusem*nt, she turned to the latter and said, "I believe youare just as bad: I believe you would have liked to have beenthere—wouldn't you? I know you would: yes—and so should I."

"Lor, Blanche!" mamma cried.

"Well, I would. I never saw an actress in my life. I would give anything to know one; for I adore talent. And I adore Richmond, that Ido; and I adore Greenwich, and I say I should like to go there."

"Why should not we three bachelors," the major here broke out,gallantly, and to his nephew's special surprise, "beg these ladies tohonor us with their company at Greenwich? Is Lady Clavering to go onforever being hospitable to us, and may we make no return? Speak foryourselves young men—eh, begad! Here is my nephew, with his pocketsfull of money—his pockets full, begad! and Mr. Henry Foker, who as Ihave heard say is pretty well to do in the world, how is your lovelycousin, Lady Ann, Mr. Foker?—here are these two young ones—and theyallow an old fellow like me to speak. Lady Clavering will you do methe favor to be my guest? and Miss Blanche shall be Arthur's, if shewill be so good."

"O delightful," cried Blanche.

"I like a bit of fun, too," said Lady Clavering; "and we will takesome day when Sir Francis—"

"When Sir Francis dines out—yes mamma," the daughter said, "it willbe charming."

And a charming day it was. The dinner was ordered at Greenwich, andFoker, though he did not invite Miss Amory, had some deliciousopportunities of conversation with her during the repast, andafterward on the balcony of their room at the hotel, and again duringthe drive home in her ladyship's barouche. Pen came down with hisuncle, in Sir Hugh Trumpington's brougham, which the major borrowedfor the occasion.

"I am an old soldier, begad," he said, "and I learned in early life tomake myself comfortable."

And, being an old soldier, he allowed the two young men to pay for thedinner between them, and all the way home in the brougham he ralliedPen about Miss Amory's evident partiality for him: praised her goodlooks, spirits, and wit: and again told Pen in the strictestconfidence, that she would be a devilish deal richer than peoplethought.

CONTAINS A NOVEL INCIDENT.

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Some account has been given in a former part of this story, how Mr.Pen, during his residence at home, after his defeat at Oxbridge, hadoccupied himself with various literary compositions, and among otherworks, had written the greater part of a novel. This book, writtenunder the influence of his youthful embarrassments, amatory andpecuniary, was of a very fierce, gloomy and passionate sort—theByronic despair, the Wertherian despondency, the mocking bitterness ofMephistopheles of Faust, were all reproduced and developed in thecharacter of the hero; for our youth had just been learning the Germanlanguage, and imitated, as almost all clever lads do, his favoritepoets and writers. Passages in the volumes once so loved, and now readso seldom, still bear the mark of the pencil with which he noted themin those days. Tears fell upon the leaf of the book, perhaps, orblistered the pages of his manuscript as the passionate young mandashed his thoughts down. If he took up the books afterward, he had noability or wish to sprinkle the leaves with that early dew of formertimes: his pencil was no longer eager to score its marks of approval:but as he looked over the pages of his manuscript, he remembered whathad been the overflowing feelings which had caused him to blot it, andthe pain which had inspired the line. If the secret history of bookscould be written, and the author's private thoughts and meanings noteddown alongside of his story, how many insipid volumes would becomeinteresting, and dull tales excite the reader! Many a bitter smilepassed over Pen's face as he read his novel, and recalled the time andfeelings which gave it birth. How pompous some of the grand passagesappeared; and how weak others were in which he thought he hadexpressed his full heart! This page was imitated from a then favoriteauthor, as he could now clearly see and confess, though he hadbelieved himself to be writing originally then. As he mused overcertain lines he recollected the place and hour where he wrote them:the ghost of the dead feeling came back as he mused, and he blushed toreview the faint image. And what meant those blots on the page? As youcome in the desert to a ground where camels' hoofs are marked in theclay, and traces of withered herbage are yet visible, you know thatwater was there once; so the place in Pen's mind was no longer green,and the fons lacrymarum was dried up.

He used this simile one morning to Warrington, as the latter sate overhis pipe and book, and Pen, with much gesticulation, according to hiswont when excited, and with a bitter laugh, thumped his manuscriptdown on the table, making the tea-things rattle, and the blue milkdance in the jug. On the previous night he had taken the manuscriptout of a long neglected chest, containing old shooting jackets, oldOxbridge scribbling books, his old surplice, and battered cap andgown, and other memorials of youth, school, and home. He read in thevolume in bed until he fell asleep, for the commencement of the talewas somewhat dull, and he had come home tired from a Londonevening party.

"By Jove!" said Pen, thumping down his papers, "when I think thatthese were written but very few years ago, I am ashamed of my memory.I wrote this when I believed myself to be eternally in love with thatlittle coquette, Miss Amory. I used to carry down verses to her, andput them into the hollow of a tree, and dedicate them 'Amori.'"

"That was a sweet little play upon words," Warrington remarked, with apuff "Amory—Amori. It showed profound scholarship. Let us hear a bitof the rubbish." And he stretched over from his easy chair, and caughthold of Pen's manuscript with the fire-tongs, which he was just usingin order to put a coal into his pipe. Thus, in possession of thevolume, he began to read out from the "Leaves from the Life-book ofWalter Lorraine."

"'False as thou art beautiful! heartless as thou art fair! mockery ofPassion!' Walter cried, addressing Leonora; 'what evil spirit hathsent thee to torture me so? O Leonora * * * '"

"Cut that part," cried out Pen, making a dash at the book, which,however, his comrade would not release. "Well! don't read it out, atany rate. That's about my other flame, my first—Lady Mirabel that isnow. I saw her last night at Lady Whiston's. She asked me to a partyat her house, and said, that, as old friends, we ought to meetoftener. She has been seeing me any time these two years in town, andnever thought of inviting me before; but seeing Wenham talking to me,and Monsieur Dubois, the French literary man, who had a dozen orderson, and might have passed for a Marshal of France, she condescended toinvite me. The Claverings are to be there on the same evening. Won'tit be exciting to meet one's two flames at the same table?" "Twoflames!—two heaps of burnt-out cinders," Warrington said. "Are boththe beauties in this book?"

"Both or something like them," Pen said. "Leonora, who marries theduke, is the Fotheringay. I drew the duke from Magnus Charters, withwhom I was at Oxbridge; it's a little like him; and Miss Amory isNeaera. By gad, Warrington, I did love that first woman! I thought ofher as I walked home from Lady Whiston's in the moonlight; and thewhole early scenes came back to me as if they had been yesterday. Andwhen I got home I pulled out the story which I wrote about her and theother three years ago: do you know, outrageous as it is, it has somegood stuff in it, and if Bungay won't publish it, I think Bacon will."

"That's the way of poets," said Warrington. "They fall in love, jilt,or are jilted; they suffer, and they cry out that they suffer morethan any other mortals: and when they have experienced feelingsenough, they note them down in a book, and take the book to market.All poets are humbugs, all literary men are humbugs; directly a manbegins to sell his feelings for money he's a humbug. If a poet gets apain in his side from too good a dinner, he bellows Ai, Ai, louderthan Prometheus."

"I suppose a poet has greater sensibility than another man," said Pen,with some spirit. "That is what makes him a poet. I suppose that hesees and feels more keenly: it is that which makes him speak of whathe feels and sees. You speak eagerly enough in your leading articleswhen you espy a false argument in an opponent, or detect a quack inthe House. Paley, who does not care for any thing else in the world,will talk for an hour about a question of law. Give another theprivilege which you take yourself, and the free use of his faculty,and let him be what nature has made him. Why should not a man sell hissentimental thoughts as well as you your political ideas, or Paley hislegal knowledge? Each alike is a matter of experience and practice. Itis not money which causes you to perceive a fallacy, or Paley to arguea point; but a natural or acquired aptitude for that kind of truth:and a poet sets down his thoughts and experiences upon paper as apainter does a landscape or a face upon canvas, to the best of hisability, and according to his particular gift. If ever I think I havethe stuff in me to write an epic, by Jove, I will try. If I only feelthat I am good enough to crack a joke or tell a story, I willdo that."

"Not a bad speech, young one," Warrington said, "but that does notprevent all poets from being humbugs."

"What—Homer, Aeschylus, Shakspeare, and all?"

"Their names are not to be breathed in the same sentence with youpigmies," Mr. Warrington said; "there are men and men, sir."

"Well, Shakspeare was a man who wrote for money, just as you and Ido," Pen answered, at which Warrington confounded his impudence, andresumed his pipe and his manuscript.

There was not the slightest doubt then that this document contained agreat deal of Pen's personal experiences, and that "Leaves from theLife-book of Walter Lorraine" would never have been written but forArthur Pendennis's own private griefs, passions, and follies. As wehave become acquainted with these in the first volume of hisbiography, it will not be necessary to make large extracts from thenovel of "Walter Lorraine," in which the young gentleman had depictedsuch of them as he thought were likely to interest the reader, or weresuitable for the purposes of his story.

Now, though he had kept it in his box for nearly half of the periodduring which, according to the Horatian maxim, a work of art ought tolie ripening (a maxim, the truth of which may, by the way, bequestioned altogether), Mr. Pen had not buried his novel for thistime, in order that the work might improve, but because he did notknow where else to bestow it, or had no particular desire to see it. Aman who thinks of putting away a composition for ten years before heshall give it to the world, or exercise his own maturer judgment uponit, had best be very sure of the original strength and durability ofthe work; otherwise, on withdrawing it from its crypt, he may findthat, like small wine, it has lost what flavor it once had, and isonly tasteless when opened. There are works of all tastes and smacks,the small and the strong, those that improve by age, and those thatwon't bear keeping at all, but are pleasant at the first draught, whenthey refresh and sparkle.

Now Pen had never any notion, even in the time of his youthfulinexperience and fervor of imagination, that the story he was writingwas a masterpiece of composition, or that he was the equal of thegreat authors whom he admired; and when he now reviewed his littleperformance, he was keenly enough alive to its faults, and prettymodest regarding its merits. It was not very good, he thought; but itwas as good as most books of the kind that had the run of circulatinglibraries and the career of the season. He had critically examinedmore than one fashionable novel by the authors of the day thenpopular, and he thought that his intellect was as good as theirs, andthat he could write the English language as well as those ladies orgentlemen; and as he now ran over his early performance, he waspleased to find here and there passages exhibiting both fancy andvigor, and traits, if not of genius, of genuine passion and feeling.This, too, was Warrington's verdict, when that severe critic, afterhalf-an-hour's perusal of the manuscript, and the consumption of acouple of pipes of tobacco, laid Pen's book down, yawningportentously. "I can't read any more of that balderdash now," he said;"but it seems to me there is some good stuff in it, Pen, my boy.There's a certain greenness and freshness in it which I like, somehow.The bloom disappears off the face of poetry after you begin to shave.You can't get up that naturalness and artless rosy tint in after days.Your cheeks are pale, and have got faded by exposure to eveningparties, and you are obliged to take curling-irons, and macassar, andthe deuce knows what to your whiskers; they curl ambrosially, and youare very grand and genteel, and so forth; but, ah! Pen, the springtime was the best."

"What the deuce have my whiskers to do with the subject in hand?" Pensaid (who, perhaps, may have been nettled by Warrington's allusionto those ornaments, which, to say the truth, the young man coaxed, andcurled, and oiled, and purfumed, and petted, in rather anabsurd manner).

"Do you think we can do any thing with 'Walter Lorraine?' Shall wetake him to the publishers, or make an auto-da-fe of him?"

"I don't see what is the good of incremation," Warrington said,"though I have a great mind to put him into the fire, to punish youratrocious humbug and hypocrisy. Shall I burn him indeed? You have muchtoo great a value for him to hurt a hair of his head."

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"Have I? Here goes," said Pen, and "Walter Lorraine" went off thetable, and was flung on to the coals. But the fire having done itsduty of boiling the young man's breakfast-kettle, had given up workfor the day, and had gone out, as Pen knew very well; and Warrington,with a scornful smile, once more took up the manuscript with the tongsfrom out of the harmless cinders.

"O, Pen, what a humbug you are!" Warrington said; "and, what is worstof all, sir, a clumsy humbug. I saw you look to see that the fire wasout before you sent 'Walter Lorraine' behind the bars. No, we won'tburn him: we will carry him to the Egyptians, and sell him. We willexchange him away for money, yea, for silver and gold, and for beefand for liquors, and for tobacco and for raiment. This youth willfetch some price in the market; for he is a comely lad, though notover strong; but we will fatten him up, and give him the bath, andcurl his hair, and we will sell him for a hundred piastres to Bacon orto Bungay. The rubbish is salable enough, sir; and my advice to you isthis: the next time you go home for a holiday, take 'Walter Lorraine'in your carpet-bag—give him a more modern air, prune away, thoughsparingly, some of the green passages, and add a little comedy, andcheerfulness, and satire, and that sort of thing, and then we'll takehim to market, and sell him. The book is not a wonder of wonders, butit will do very well."

"Do you think so, Warrington?" said Pen, delighted; for this was greatpraise from his cynical friend.

"You silly young fool! I think it's uncommonly clever," Warringtonsaid in a kind voice. "So do you, sir." And with the manuscript whichhe held in his hand he playfully struck Pen on the cheek. That part ofPen's countenance turned as red as it had ever done in the earliestdays of his blushes: he grasped the other's hand and said, "Thank you,Warrington," with all his might; and then he retired to his own roomwith his book, and passed the greater part of the day upon his bedre-reading it: and he did as Warrington had advised, and altered not alittle, and added a great deal, until at length he had fashioned"Walter Lorraine" pretty much into the shape in which, as therespected novel-reader knows, it subsequently appeared.

While he was at work upon this performance, the good-naturedWarrington artfully inspired the two gentlemen who "read" for Messrs.Bacon and Bungay with the greatest curiosity regarding, "WalterLorraine," and pointed out the peculiar merits of its distinguishedauthor. It was at the period when the novel, called "The Fashionable,"was in vogue among us; and Warrington did not fail to point out, asbefore, how Pen was a man of the very first fashion himself, andreceived at the houses of some of the greatest personages in the land.The simple and kind-hearted Percy Popjoy was brought to bear uponMrs. Bungay, whom he informed that his friend Pendennis was occupiedupon a work of the most exciting nature; a work that the whole townwould run after, full of wit, genius, satire, pathos, and everyconceivable good quality. We have said before, that Bungay knew nomore about novels than he did about Hebrew or Algebra, and neitherread nor understood any of the books which he published and paid for;but he took his opinions from his professional advisers and from Mrs.B., and, evidently with a view to a commercial transaction, askedPendennis and Warrington to dinner again. Bacon, when he found thatBungay was about to treat, of course, began to be anxious and curious,and desired to out-bid his rival. Was any thing settled between Mr.Pendennis and the odious house "over the way" about the new book? Mr.Hack, the confidential reader, was told to make inquiries, and see ifany thing was to be done, and the result of the inquiries of thatdiplomatist, was, that one morning, Bacon himself toiled up thestaircase of Lamb-court, and to the door on which the names of Mr.Warrington, and Mr. Pendennis were painted.

For a gentleman of fashion as poor Pen was represented to be, it mustbe confessed, that the apartments he and his friend occupied, were notvery suitable. The ragged carpet had grown only more ragged during thetwo years of joint occupancy: a constant odor of tobacco perfumed thesitting-room: Bacon tumbled over the laundress's buckets in thepassage through which he had to pass; Warrington's shooting jacket wasas shattered at the elbows as usual; and the chair which Bacon wasrequested to take on entering, broke down with the publisher.Warrington burst out laughing, said that Bacon had got the game chair,and bawled out to Pen to fetch a sound one from his bedroom. Andseeing the publisher looking round the dingy room with an air ofprofound pity and wonder, asked him whether he didn't think theapartments were elegant, and if he would like, for Mrs. Bacon'sdrawing-room, any of the articles of furniture? Mr. Warrington'scharacter as a humorist, was known to Mr. Bacon: "I never can makethat chap out," the publisher was heard to say, "or tell whether he isin earnest or only chaffing."

It is very possible that Mr. Bacon would have set the two gentlemendown as impostors altogether, but that there chanced to be on thebreakfast-table certain cards of invitation which the post of themorning had brought in for Pen, and which happened to come from somevery exalted personages of the beau-monde, into which our young manhad his introduction. Looking down upon these, Bacon saw that theMarchioness of Steyne would be at home to Mr. Arthur Pendennis upon agiven day, and that another lady of distinction proposed to havedancing at her house upon a certain future evening. Warrington saw theadmiring publisher eying these documents. "Ah," said he, with an airof simplicity, "Pendennis is one of the most affable young men I everknew, Mr. Bacon. Here is a young fellow that dines with all the greatmen in London, and yet he'll take his mutton-chop with you and mequite contentedly. There's nothing like the affability of the oldEnglish gentleman."

"O, no, nothing," said Mr. Bacon.

"And you wonder why he should go on living up three pair of stairswith me, don't you, now? Well, it is a queer taste. But we are fondof each other; and as I can't afford to live in a grand house, hecomes and stays in these rickety old chambers with me. He's a man thatcan afford to live any where."

"I fancy it don't cost him much here," thought Mr. Bacon; and theobject of these praises presently entered the room from his adjacentsleeping apartment.

Then Mr. Bacon began to speak upon the subject of his visit; said heheard that Mr. Pendennis had a manuscript novel; professed himselfanxious to have a sight of that work, and had no doubt that they couldcome to terms respecting it. What would be his price for it? would hegive Bacon the refusal of it? he would find our house a liberal house,and so forth. The delighted Pen assumed an air of indifference, andsaid that he was already in treaty with Bungay, and could give nodefinite answer. This piqued the other into such liberal, though vagueoffers, that Pen began to fancy Eldorado was opening to him, and thathis fortune was made from that day.

I shall not mention what was the sum of money which Mr. ArthurPendennis finally received for the first edition of his novel of"Walter Lorraine," lest other young literary aspirants should expectto be as lucky as he was, and unprofessional persons forsake their owncallings, whatever they may be, for the sake of supplying the worldwith novels, whereof there is already a sufficiency. Let no youngpeople be misled and rush fatally into romance-writing: for one bookwhich succeeds let them remember the many that fail, I do not saydeservedly or otherwise, and wholesomely abstain: or if they venture,at least let then do so at their own peril. As for those who havealready written novels, this warning is not addressed, of course, tothem. Let them take their wares to market; let them apply to Bacon andBungay, and all the publishers in the Row, or the metropolis, and maythey be happy in their ventures. This world is so wide, and the tastesof mankind happily so various, that there is always a chance for everyman, and he may win the prize by his genius or by his good fortune.But what is the chance of success or failure; of obtaining popularity,or of holding it, when achieved? One man goes over the ice, whichbears him, and a score who follow flounder in. In fine, Mr.Pendennis's was an exceptional case, and applies to himself only: andI assert solemnly, and will to the last maintain, that it is one thingto write a novel, and another to get money for it.

By merit, then, or good fortune, or the skillful playing off of Bungayagainst Bacon which Warrington performed (and which an amateurnovelist is quite welcome to try upon any two publishers in thetrade), Pen's novel was actually sold for a certain sum of money toone of the two eminent patrons of letters whom we have introduced toour readers. The sum was so considerable that Pen thought of openingan account at a banker's, or of keeping a cab and horse, or ofdescending into the first floor of Lamb-court into newly furnishedapartments, or of migrating to the fashionable end of the town.

Major Pendennis advised the latter move strongly; he opened his eyeswith wonder when he heard of the good luck that had befallen Pen; andwhich the latter, as soon as it occurred, hastened eagerly tocommunicate to his uncle. The major was almost angry that Pen shouldhave earned so much money. "Who the doose reads this kind of thing?"he thought to himself, when he heard of the bargain which Pen hadmade. "I never read your novels and rubbish. Except Paul de Kock,who certainly makes me laugh, I don't think I've looked into a book ofthe sort these thirty years. 'Gad! Pen's a lucky fellow. I shouldthink he might write one of these in a month now—say a month—that'stwelve in a year. Dammy, he may go on spinning this nonsense for thenext four or five years, and make a fortune. In the mean time, Ishould wish him to live properly, take respectable apartments, andkeep a brougham." And on this simple calculation it was that the majorcounseled Pen.

Arthur, laughing, told Warrington what his uncle's advice had been;but he luckily had a much more reasonable counselor than the oldgentleman, in the person of his friend, and in his own conscience,which said to him, "Be grateful for this piece of good fortune; don'tplunge into any extravagancies. Pay back Laura!" And he wrote a letterto her, in which he told her his thanks and his regard; and inclosedto her such an installment of his debt as nearly wiped it off. Thewidow and Laura herself might well be affected by the letter. It waswritten with genuine tenderness and modesty; and old Dr. Portman, whenhe read a passage in the letter, in which Pen, with an honest heartfull of gratitude, humbly thanked Heaven for his present prosperity,and for sending him such dear and kind friends to support him in hisill-fortune,—when Doctor Portman read this portion of the letter,his voice faltered, and his eyes twinkled behind his spectacles. Andwhen he had quite finished reading the same, and had taken his glassesoff his nose, and had folded up the paper and given it back to thewidow, I am constrained to say, that after holding Mrs. Pendennis'shand for a minute, the doctor drew that lady toward him and fairlykissed her: at which salute, of course, Helen burst out crying on thedoctor's shoulder, for her heart was too full to give any other reply:and the doctor, blushing a great deal after his feat, led the lady,with a bow, to the sofa, on which he seated himself by her; and hemumbled out, in a low voice, some words of a Great Poet whom he lovedvery much, and who describes how in the days of his prosperity he hadmade "the widow's heart to sing for joy."

"The letter does the boy very great honor, very great honor, my dear,"he said, patting it as it lay on Helen's knee—"and I think we haveall reason to be thankful for it—very thankful. I need not tell youin what quarter, my dear, for you are a sainted woman: yes, Laura, mylove, your mother is a sainted woman. And Mrs. Pendennis, ma'am, Ishall order a copy of the book for myself, and another at theBook club."

We may be sure that the widow and Laura walked out to meet the mailwhich brought them their copy of Pen's precious novel, as soon as thatwork was printed and ready for delivery to the public; and that theyread it to each other: and that they also read it privately andseparately, for when the widow came out of her room in herdressing-gown at one o'clock in the morning with volume two, which shehad finished, she found Laura devouring volume three in bed. Laura did not say much about the book, but Helen pronounced that it was ahappy mixture of Shakspeare, and Byron, and Walter Scott, and wasquite certain that her son was the greatest genius, as he was the bestson, in the world.

Did Laura not think about the book and the author, although she saidso little? At least she thought about Arthur Pendennis. Kind as histone was, it vexed her. She did not like his eagerness to repay thatmoney. She would rather that her brother had taken her gift as sheintended it; and was pained that there should be money calculationsbetween them. His letters from London, written with the good-naturedwish to amuse his mother, were full of descriptions of the famouspeople and the entertainments, and magnificence of the great city.Every body was flattering him and spoiling him, she was sure. Was henot looking to some great marriage, with that cunning uncle for aMentor (between whom and Laura there was always an antipathy), thatinveterate worldling, whose whole thoughts were bent upon pleasure,and rank, and fortune? He never alluded to—to old times, when hespoke of her. He had forgotten them and her, perhaps: had he notforgotten other things and people?

These thoughts may have passed in Miss Laura's mind, though she didnot, she could not, confide them to Helen. She had one more secret,too, from that lady, which she could not divulge, perhaps, because sheknew how the widow would have rejoiced to know it. This regarded anevent which had occurred during that visit to Lady Rockminster, whichLaura had paid in the last Christmas holidays: when Pen was at homewith his mother, and when Mr. Pynsent, supposed to be so cold and soambitious, had formally offered his hand to Miss Bell. No one exceptherself and her admirer knew of this proposal: or that Pynsent hadbeen rejected by her, and probably the reasons she gave to themortified young man himself, were not those which actuated herrefusal, or those which she chose to acknowledge to herself. "Inever," she told Pynsent, "can accept such an offer as that which youmake me, which you own is unknown to your family, as I am sure itwould be unwelcome to them. The difference of rank between us is toogreat. You are very kind to me here—too good and kind, dear Mr.Pynsent—but I am little better than a dependent."

"A dependent! who ever so thought of you? You are the equal of all theworld," Pynsent broke out.

"I am a dependent at home, too," Laura said, sweetly, "and indeed Iwould not be otherwise. Left early a poor orphan, I have found thekindest and tenderest of mothers, and I have vowed never to leave her—never. Pray do not speak of this again—here, under your relative'sroof, or elsewhere. It is impossible."

"If Lady Rockminster asks you herself, will you listen to her?"
Pynsent cried, eagerly.

"No," Laura said. "I beg you never to speak of this any more. I mustgo away if you do;" and with this she left him.

Pynsent never asked for Lady Rockminster's intercession; he knew howvain it was to look for that: and he never spoke again on that subjectto Laura or to any person.

When at length the famous novel appeared, it not only met withapplause from more impartial critics than Mrs. Pendennis, but, luckilyfor Pen, it suited the taste of the public, and obtained a quick andconsiderable popularity. Before two months were over, Pen had thesatisfaction and surprise of seeing the second edition of "WalterLorraine," advertised in the newspapers; and enjoyed the pleasure ofreading and sending home the critiques of various literary journalsand reviewers upon his book. Their censure did not much affect him;for the good-natured young man was disposed to accept withconsiderable humility the dispraise of others. Nor did their praiseelate him overmuch; for, like most honest persons, he had his ownopinion about his own performance, and when a critic praised him inthe wrong place, he was hurt rather than pleased by the compliment.But if a review of his work was very laudatory, it was a greatpleasure to him to send it home to his mother at Fairoaks, and tothink of the joy which it would give there. There are some natures,and perhaps, as we have said, Pendennis's was one, which are improvedand softened by prosperity and kindness, as there are men of otherdispositions, who become arrogant and graceless under good fortune.Happy he who can endure one or the other with modesty and good-humor!Lucky he who has been educated to bear his fate, whatsoever it may be,by an early example of uprightness, and a childish training in honor!

ALSATIA.

Bred up, like a bailiff or a shabby attorney, about the purlieus ofthe Inns of Court, Shepherd's Inn is always to be found in the closeneighborhood of Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, and the Temple. Somewherebehind the black gables and smutty chimney-stacks of Wych-street,Holywell-street, Chancery-lane, the quadrangle lies, hidden from theouter world; and it is approached by curious passages, and ambiguoussmoky alleys, on which the sun has forgotten to shine. Slop-sellers,brandy-ball and hard-bake venders, purveyors of theatrical prints foryouth, dealers in dingy furniture, and bedding suggestive of any thingbut sleep, line the narrow walls and dark casem*nts with their wares.The doors are many-belled, and crowds of dirty children form endlessgroups about the steps, or around the shell-fish dealers' trays inthese courts, whereof the damp pavements resound with pattens, and aredrabbled with a never-failing mud. Ballad-singers come and chant here,in deadly, guttural tones, satirical songs against the Whigadministration, against the bishops and dignified clergy, against theGerman relatives of an august royal family; Punch sets up his theater,sure of an audience, and occasionally of a halfpenny from the swarmingoccupants of the houses; women scream after their children forloitering in the gutter, or, worse still, against the husband whocomes reeling from the gin-shop. There is a ceaseless din and life inthese courts, out of which you pass into the tranquil, old-fashionedquadrangle of Shepherd's Inn. In a mangy little grass-plat in thecenter rises up the statue of Shepherd, defended by iron railings fromthe assaults of boys. The hall of the Inn, on which the founder'sarms are painted, occupies one side of the square, the tall andancient chambers are carried round other two sides, and over thecentral archway, which leads into Oldcastle-street, and so into thegreat London thoroughfare.

The Inn may have been occupied by lawyers once: but the laity havelong since been admitted into its precincts, and I do not know thatany of the principal legal firms have their chambers here. The officesof the Polwheedle and Tredyddlum Copper Mines occupy one set of theground-floor chambers; the Registry of Patent Inventions and Union ofGenius and Capital Company, another—the only gentleman whose namefigures here and in the "Law List," is Mr. Campion, who wearsmustaches, and who comes in his cab twice or thrice in a week; andwhose West End offices are in Curzon-street, Mayfair, where Mrs.Campion entertains the nobility and gentry to whom her husband lendsmoney. There, and on his glazed cards, he is Mr. Somerset Campion;here he is Campion and Co.; and the same tuft which ornaments hischin, sprouts from the under lip of the rest of the firm. It issplendid to see his cab-horse harness blazing with heraldic bearings,as the vehicle stops at the door leading to his chambers. The horseflings froth off his nostrils as he chafes and tosses under theshining bit. The reins and the breeches of the groom are glitteringwhite—the luster of that equipage makes a sunshine in thatshady place.

Our old friend, Captain Costigan, has examined Campion's cab and horsemany an afternoon, as he trailed about the court in his carpetslippers and dressing-gown, with his old hat co*cked over his eye. Hesuns himself there after his breakfast when the day is suitable; andgoes and pays a visit to the porter's lodge, where he pats the headsof the children, and talks to Mrs. Bolton about the thayatres and medaughter Leedy Mirabel. Mrs. Bolton was herself in the professiononce, and danced at the Wells in early days as the thirteenth of Mr.Serle's forty pupils.

Costigan lives in the third floor at No. 4, in the rooms which wereMr. Podmore's, and whose name is still on the door (somebody else'sname, by the way, is on almost all the doors in Shepherd's Inn). WhenCharley Podmore (the pleasing tenor singer, T.R.D.L., and at theBack-Kitchen Concert Rooms), married, and went to live at Lambeth, heceded his chambers to Mr. Bows and Captain Costigan, who occupy themin common now, and you may often hear the tones of Mr. Bows's piano offine days when the windows are open, and when he is practicing foramusem*nt, or for the instruction of a theatrical pupil, of whom hehas one or two. Fanny Bolton is one, the porteress's daughter, who hasheard tell of her mother's theatrical glories, which she longs toemulate. She has a good voice and a pretty face and figure for thestage; and she prepares the rooms and makes the beds and breakfastsfor Messrs. Costigan and Bows, in return for which the latterinstructs her in music and singing. But for his unfortunate propensityto liquor (and in that excess she supposes that all men of fashionindulge), she thinks the captain the finest gentleman in the world,and believes in all the versions of all his stories; and she is veryfond of Mr. Bows, too, and very grateful to him; and this shy, queerold gentleman has a fatherly fondness for her, too, for in truth hisheart is full of kindness, and he is never easy unless heloves somebody.

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Costigan has had the carriages of visitors of distinction before hishumble door in Shepherd's Inn: and to hear him talk of a morning (forhis evening song is of a much more melancholy nature) you would fancythat Sir Charles and Lady Mirabel were in the constant habit ofcalling at his chambers, and bringing with them the select nobility tovisit the "old man, the honest old half-pay captain, poor old JackCostigan," as Cos calls himself.

The truth is, that Lady Mirabel has left her husband's card (which hasbeen stuck in the little looking-glass over the mantle-piece of thesitting-room at No. 4, for these many months past), and has come inperson to see her father, but not of late days. A kind person,disposed to discharge her duties gravely, upon her marriage with SirCharles, she settled a little pension upon her father, whooccasionally was admitted to the table of his daughter and son-in-law.At first poor Cos's behavior "in the hoight of poloit societee," as hedenominated Lady Mirabel's drawing-room table, was harmless, if it wasabsurd. As he clothed his person in his best attire, so he selectedthe longest and richest words in his vocabulary to deck hisconversation, and adopted a solemnity of demeanor which struck withastonishment all those persons in whose company he happened to be."Was your Leedyship in the Pork to-dee?" he would demand of hisdaughter. "I looked for your equipage in veen:—the poor old man wasnot gratified by the soight of his daughter's choriot. Sir Chorlus, Isaw your neem at the Levée; many's the Levee at the Castle at Dublinthat poor old Jack Costigan has attended in his time. Did the Jukelook pretty well? Bedad, I'll call at Apsley House and lave me cyardupon 'um. I thank ye, James, a little dthrop more champeane." Indeed,he was magnificent in his courtesy to all, and addressed hisobservations not only to the master and the guests, but to thedomestics who waited at the table, and who had some difficulty inmaintaining their professional gravity while they waited onCaptain Costigan.

On the first two or three visits to his son-in-law, Costiganmaintained a strict sobriety, content to make up for his lost timewhen he got to the Back-Kitchen, where he bragged about hisson-in-law's clart and burgundee, until his own utterance began tofail him, over his sixth tumbler of whiskey-punch. But withfamiliarity his caution vanished, and poor Cos lamentably disgracedhimself at Sir Charles Mirabel's table, by premature inebriation. Acarriage was called for him: the hospitable door was shut upon him.Often and sadly did he speak to his friends at the Kitchen of hisresemblance to King Lear in the plee—of his having a thanklesschoild, bedad—of his being a pore worn-out, lonely old man, dthrivento dthrinking by ingratitude, and seeking to dthrown his sorrowsin punch.

It is painful to be obliged to record the weaknesses of fathers, butit must be furthermore told of Costigan, that when his credit wasexhausted and his money gone, he would not unfrequently beg money fromhis daughter, and make statements to her not altogether consistentwith strict truth. On one day a bailiff was about to lead him toprison, he wrote, "unless the—to you insignificant—sum of threepound five can be forthcoming to liberate a poor man's gray hairs fromjail." And the good-natured Lady Mirabel dispatched the moneynecessary for her father's liberation, with a caution to him to bemore economical for the future. On a second occasion the captain metwith a frightful accident, and broke a plate-glass window in theStrand, for which the proprietor of the shop held him liable. Themoney was forthcoming on this time too, to repair her papa's disaster,and was carried down by Lady Mirabel's servant to the slip-shodmessenger and aid-de-camp of the captain, who brought the letterannouncing his mishap. If the servant had followed the captain'said-de-camp who carried the remittance, he would have seen thatgentleman, a person of Costigan's country too (for have we not said,that however poor an Irish gentleman is, he always has a poorer Irishgentleman to run on his errands and transact his pecuniary affairs?)call a cab from the nearest stand, and rattle down to the Roscius'sHead, Harlequin-yard, Drury-lane, where the captain was indeed inpawn, and for several glasses containing rum and water, or otherspirituous refreshment, of which he and his staff had partaken. On athird melancholy occasion he wrote that he was attacked by illness,and wanted money to pay the physician whom he was compelled to callin; and this time Lady Mirabel, alarmed about her father's safety, andperhaps reproaching herself that she had of late lost sight of herfather, called for her carriage and drove to Shepherd's Inn, at thegate of which she alighted, whence she found the way to her father'schambers, "No. 4, third floor, name of Podmore over the door," theporteress said, with many courtesies, pointing toward the door of thehouse into which the affectionate daughter entered, and mounted thedingy stair. Alas! the door, surmounted by the name of Podmore, wasopened to her by poor Cos in his shirt-sleeves, and prepared with thegridiron to receive the mutton-chops, which Mrs. Bolton had goneto purchase.

Also, it was not pleasant for Sir Charles Mirabel to have lettersconstantly addressed to him at Brookes's, with the information thatCaptain Costigan was in the hall waiting for an answer; or when hewent to play his rubber at the Travelers', to be obliged to shoot outof his brougham and run up the steps rapidly, lest his father-in-lawshould seize upon him; and to think that while he read his paper orplayed his whist, the captain was walking on the opposite side of PallMall, with that dreadful co*cked hat, and the eye beneath it fixedsteadily upon the windows of the club. Sir Charles was a weak man; hewas old, and had many infirmities: he cried about his father-in-law tohis wife, whom he adored with senile infatuation: he said he must goabroad—he must go and live in the country—he should die, or haveanother fit if he saw that man again—he knew he should. And it wasonly by paying a second visit to Captain Costigan, and representing tohim, that if he plagued Sir Charles by letters, or addressed him inthe street, or made any further applications for loans, his allowancewould be withdrawn altogether; that Lady Mirabel was enabled to keepher papa in order, and to restore tranquillity to her husband. And onoccasion of this visit, she sternly rebuked Bows for not keeping abetter watch over the captain; desired that he should not be allowedto drink in that shameful way; and that the people at the horridtaverns which he frequented should be told, upon no account to givehim credit. "Papa's conduct is bringing me to the grave," she said(though she looked perfectly healthy), "and you, as an old man, Mr.Bows, and one that pretended to have a regard for us, ought to beashamed of abetting him in it." These were the thanks which honestBows got for his friendship and his life's devotion. And I do notsuppose that the old philosopher was much worse off than many othermen, or had greater reason to grumble. On the second floor of thenext house to Bows's, in Shepherd's Inn, at No. 3, live two otheracquaintances of ours. Colonel Altamont, agent to the Nawaab ofLucknow, and Captain the Chevalier Edward Strong. No name at all isover their door. The captain does not choose to let all the world knowwhere he lives, and his cards bear the address of a Jermyn-streethotel; and as for the Embassador Plenipotentiary of the Indianpotentate, he is not an envoy accredited to the Courts of St. James'sor Leadenhall-street, but is here on a confidential mission, quiteindependent of the East India Company or the Board of Control.

"In fact," as Strong says, "Colonel Altamont's object being financial,and to effectuate a sale of some of the principal diamonds and rubiesof the Lucknow crown, his wish is not to report himself at the IndiaHouse or in Cannon-row, but rather to negotiate with privatecapitalists—with whom he has had important transactions both in thiscountry and on the Continent."

We have said that these anonymous chambers of Strong's had been verycomfortably furnished since the arrival of Sir Francis Clavering inLondon, and the chevalier might boast with reason to the friends whovisited him, that few retired captains were more snugly quartered thanhe, in his crib in Shepherd's Inn. There were three rooms below: theoffice where Strong transacted his business—whatever that mightbe—and where still remained the desk and railings of the departedofficials who had preceded him, and the chevalier's own bedroom andsitting room; and a private stair led out of the office to two upperapartments, the one occupied by Colonel Altamont, and the otherserving as the kitchen of the establishment, and the bedroom of Mr.Grady, the attendant. These rooms were on a level with the apartmentsof our friends Bows and Costigan next door at No. 4; and by reachingover the communicating leads, Grady could command the mignonnette-boxwhich bloomed in Bows's window.

From Grady's kitchen casem*nt often came odors still more fragrant.The three old soldiers who formed the garrison of No. 4, were allskilled in the culinary art. Grady was great at an Irish stew; thecolonel was famous for pillaus and curries; and as for Strong, hecould cook any thing. He made French dishes and Spanish dishes, stews,fricassees, and omelettes, to perfection; nor was there any man inEngland more hospitable than he when his purse was full, or his creditwas good. At those happy periods, he could give a friend, as he said,a good dinner, a good glass of wine, and a good song afterward; andpoor Cos often heard with envy the roar of Strong's choruses, and themusical clinking of the glasses as he sate in his own room, so farremoved and yet so near to those festivities. It was not expedient toinvite Mr. Costigan always; his practice of inebriation waslamentable; and he bored Strong's guests with his stories when sober,and with his maudlin tears when drunk.

A strange and motley set they were, these friends of the chevalier;and though Major Pendennis would not much have relished their company,Arthur and Warrington liked it not a little, and Pen thought itas amusing as the society of the finest gentlemen in the finest houseswhich he had the honor to frequent. There was a history about everyman of the set: they seemed all to have had their tides of luck andbad fortune. Most of them had wonderful schemes and speculations intheir pockets, and plenty for making rapid and extraordinary fortunes.Jack Holt had been in Don Carlos's army, when Ned Strong had fought onthe other side; and was now organizing a little scheme for smugglingtobacco into London, which must bring thirty thousand a year to anyman who would advance fifteen hundred, just to bribe the last officerof the Excise who held out, and had wind of the scheme. Tom Diver, whohad been in the Mexican navy, knew of a specie-ship which had beensunk in the first year of the war, with three hundred and eightythousand dollars on board, and a hundred and eighty thousand pounds inbars and doubloons. "Give me eighteen hundred pounds," Tom said, "andI'm off tomorrow. I take out four men, and a diving-bell with me; andI return in ten months to take my seat in parliament, by Jove! and tobuy back my family estate." Keightley, the manager of the Tredyddlumand Polwheedle Copper Mines (which were as yet under water), besidessinging as good a second as any professional man, and besides theTredyddlum Office, had a Smyrna Sponge Company, and a littlequicksilver operation in view, which would set him straight with theworld yet. Filby had been every thing: a corporal of dragoons, afield-preacher, and missionary-agent for converting the Irish; anactor at a Greenwich fair-booth, in front of which his father'sattorney found him when the old gentleman died and left him thatfamous property, from which he got no rents now, and of which nobodyexactly knew the situation. Added to these was Sir Francis Clavering,Bart., who liked their society, though he did not much add to itsamusem*nts by his convivial powers. But he was made much of by thecompany now, on account of his wealth and position in the world. Hetold his little story and sang his little song or two with greataffability; and he had had his own history, too, before his accessionto good fortune; and had seen the inside of more prisons than one, andwritten his name on many a stamped paper.

When Altamont first returned from Paris, and after he had communicatedwith Sir Francis Clavering from the hotel at which he had taken up hisquarters (and which he had reached in a very denuded state,considering the wealth of diamonds and rubies with which this honestman was intrusted), Strong was sent to him by his patron the baronet;paid his little bill at the inn, and invited him to come and sleep fora night or two at the chambers, where he subsequently took up hisresidence. To negotiate with this man was very well, but to have sucha person settled in his rooms, and to be constantly burdened with suchsociety, did not suit the chevalier's taste much: and he grumbled nota little to his principal.

"I wish you would put this bear into somebody else's cage," he said toClavering. "The fellow's no gentleman. I don't like walking withhim. He dresses himself like a nigg*r on a holiday. I took him to theplay the other night: and, by Jove, sir, he abused the actor who wasdoing the part of villain in the play, and swore at him so, that thepeople in the boxes wanted to turn him out. The after-piece was the'Brigand,' where Wallack comes in wounded, you know, and dies. When hedied, Altamont began to cry like a child, and said it was a d—dshame, and cried and swore so, that there was another row, and everybody laughing. Then I had to take him away, because he wanted to takehis coat off to one fellow who laughed at him; and bellowed to him tostand up like a man. Who is he? Where the deuce does he come from? Youhad best tell me the whole story. Frank, you must one day. You and hehave robbed a church together, that's my belief. You had better get itoff your mind at once, Clavering, and tell me what this Altamont is,and what hold he has over you."

"Hang him! I wish he was dead!" was the baronet's only reply; and hiscountenance became so gloomy, that Strong did not think fit toquestion his patron any further at that time; but resolved, if needwere, to try and discover for himself what was the secret tie betweenAltamont and Clavering.

IN WHICH THE COLONEL NARRATES SOME OF HIS ADVENTURES.

Early in the forenoon of the day after the dinner in Grosvenor-place,at which Colonel Altamont had chosen to appear, the colonel emergedfrom his chamber in the upper story at Shepherd's Inn, and enteredinto Strong's sitting-room, where the chevalier sat in his easy-chairwith the newspaper and his cigar. He was a man who made his tentcomfortable wherever he pitched it, and long before Altamont'sarrival, had done justice to a copious breakfast of fried eggs andbroiled rashers, which Mr. Grady had prepared secundum artem.Good-humored and talkative, he preferred any company rather than none;and though he had not the least liking for his fellow-lodger, andwould not have grieved to hear that the accident had befallen himwhich Sir Francis Clavering desired so fervently, yet kept on fairterms with him. He had seen Altamont to bed with great friendliness onthe night previous, and taken away his candle for fear of accidents;and finding a spirit-bottle empty, upon which he had counted for hisnocturnal refreshment, had drunk a glass of water with perfectcontentment over his pipe, before he turned into his own crib and tosleep. That enjoyment never failed him: he had always an easy temper,a faultless digestion, and a rosy cheek; and whether he was going intoaction the next morning or to prison (and both had been his lot), inthe camp or the Fleet, the worthy captain snored healthfully throughthe night, and woke with a good heart and appetite, for the strugglesor difficulties or pleasures of the day.

The first act of Colonel Altamont was to bellow to Grady for a pint ofpale ale, the which he first poured into a pewter flagon, whence hetransferred it to his own lips. He put down the tankard empty, drewa great breath, wiped his mouth in his dressing-gown (the differenceof the color of his heard from his dyed whiskers had long struckCaptain Strong, who had seen too that his hair was fair under hisblack wig, but made no remarks upon these circ*mstances)—the coloneldrew a great breath, and professed himself immensely refreshed by hisdraught. "Nothing like that beer," he remarked, "when the coppers arehot. Many a day I've drunk a dozen of Bass at Calcutta, and—and—"

"And at Lucknow, I suppose," Strong said with a laugh. "I got the beerfor you on purpose: knew you'd want it after last night." And thecolonel began to talk about his adventures of the preceding evening.

"I can not help myself," the colonel said, beating his head with hisbig hand. "I'm a madman when I get the liquor on board me; and ain'tfit to be trusted with a spirit-bottle. When I once begin I can't stoptill I've emptied it; and when I've swallowed it, Lord knows what Isay or what I don't say. I dined at home here quite quiet. Grady gaveme just my two tumblers, and I intended to pass the evening at theBlack and Red as sober as a parson. Why did you leave that confoundedsample-bottle of Hollands out of the cupboard, Strong? Grady must goout, too, and leave me the kettle a-boiling for tea. It was of no use,I couldn't keep away from it. Washed it all down, sir, by Jingo. Andit's my belief I had some more, too, afterward at that infernal littlethieves' den."

"What, were you there, too?" Strong asked, "and before you came to
Grosvenor-place? That was beginning betimes."

"Early hours to be drunk and cleared out before nine o'clock, eh? Butso it was. Yes, like a great big fool, I must go there; and found thefellows dining, Blackland and young Moss, and two or three more of thethieves. If we'd gone to Rouge et Noir, I must have won. But we didn'ttry the black and red. No, hang 'em, they know'd I'd have beat 'em atthat—I must have beat 'em—I can't help beating 'em, I tell you. Butthey was too cunning for me. That rascal Blackland got the bones out,and we played hazard on the dining-table. And I dropped all the moneyI had from you in the morning, be hanged to my luck. It was that thatset me wild, and I suppose I must have been very hot about the head,for I went off thinking to get some more money from Clavering, Irecollect; and then—and then I don't much remember what happened tillI woke this morning, and heard old Bows, at No. 3, playing onhis pianner."

Strong mused for a while as he lighted his cigar with a coal. "Ishould like to know how you always draw money from Clavering,colonel," he said.

The colonel burst out with a laugh, "Ha, ha! he owes it me," he said.

"I don't know that that's a reason with Frank for paying," Stronganswered. "He owes plenty besides you."

"Well, he gives it me because he is so fond of me," the other said,with the same grinning sneer. "He loves me like a brother; you knowhe does, captain. No?—He don't?—Well, perhaps he don't; and if youask me no questions, perhaps I'll tell you no lies, CaptainStrong—put that in your pipe and smoke it, my boy."

"But I'll give up that confounded brandy-bottle," the colonelcontinued, after a pause. "I must give it up, or it'll be the ruin ofme." "It makes you say queer things," said the captain, lookingAltamont hard in the face. "Remember what you said last night atClavering's table."

"Say? What did I say?" asked the other hastily. "Did I split anything? Dammy, Strong, did I split any thing?"

"Ask me no questions, and I will tell you no lies," the chevalierreplied on his part. Strong thought of the words Mr. Altamont hadused, and his abrupt departure from the baronet's dining-table andhouse as soon as he recognized Major Pendennis, or Captain Beak, as hecalled the major. But Strong resolved to seek an explanation of thesewords otherwise than from Colonel Altamont, and did not choose torecall them to the other's memory. "No," he said then, "you didn'tsplit as you call it, colonel; it was only a trap of mine to see if Icould make you speak; but you didn't say a word that any body couldcomprehend—you were too far gone for that."

So much the better, Altamont thought; and heaved a great sigh, as ifrelieved. Strong remarked the emotion, but took no notice, and theother being in a communicative mood, went on speaking.

"Yes, I own to my faults," continued the colonel. "There is somethings I can't, do what I will, resist: a bottle of brandy, a box ofdice, and a beautiful woman. No man of pluck and spirit, no man as wasworth his salt ever could, as I know of. There's hardly p'raps acountry in the world in which them three ain't got me into trouble."

"Indeed?" said Strong.

"Yes, from the age of fifteen, when I ran away from home, and wentcabin-boy on board an Indiaman, till now, when I'm fifty year old,pretty nigh, them women have always been my ruin. Why, it was one of'em, and with such black eyes and jewels on her neck, and sattens andermine like a duch*ess, I tell you—it was one of 'em at Paris thatswept off the best part of the thousand pound as I went off. Didn't Iever tell you of it? Well, I don't mind. At first I was very cautious,and having such a lot of money kep it close and lived like agentleman—Colonel Altamont, Meurice's hotel, and that sort of thing—never played, except at the public tables, and won more than I lost.Well, sir, there was a chap that I saw at the hotel and the PalaceRoyal too, a regular swell fellow, with white kid gloves and a tuft tohis chin, Bloundell-Bloundell his name was, as I made acquaintancewith somehow, and he asked me to dinner, and took me to Madame theCountess de Foljambe's soirées—such a woman, Strong!—such an eye!such a hand at the pianner. Lor bless you, she'd sit down and sing toyou, and gaze at you, until she warbled your soul out of your bodya'most. She asked me to go to her evening parties every Toosday; anddidn't I take opera-boxes and give her dinners at the restaurateurs,that's all? But I had a run of luck at the tables, and it was not inthe dinners and opera-boxes that poor Clavering's money went. No, behanged to it, it was swep off in another way. One night, at thecountess's, there was several of us at supper—Mr. Bloundell-Bloundell,the Honorable Deuceace, the Marky de la Tour de Force—all tip-top nobs,sir, and the height of fashion, when we had supper, and champagne,you may be sure, in plenty, and then some of that confounded brandy.I would have it—I would go on at it—the countess mixed the tumblersof punch for me, and we had cards as well as grog after supper, and Iplayed and drank until I don't know what I did. I was like I was lastnight. I was taken away and put to bed somehow, and never woke until thenext day, to a roaring headache, and to see my servant, who said theHonorable Deuceace wanted to see me, and was waiting in the sitting-room.'How are you, colonel?' says he, a-coming into my bedroom. 'How long didyou stay last night after I went away? The play was getting too high forme, and I'd lost enough to you for one night.'

"'To me', says I, 'how's that, my dear feller? (for though he was anearl's son, we was as familiar as you and me). How's that, my dearfeller,' says I, and he tells me, that he had borrowed thirty louis ofme at vingt-et-un, that he gave me an I.O.U. for it the night before,which I put into my pocket-book before he left the room. I takes outmy card-case—it was the countess as worked it for me—and there wasthe I.O.U. sure enough, and he paid me thirty louis in gold down uponthe table at my bed-side. So I said he was a gentleman, and asked himif he would like to take any thing, when my servant should get it forhim; but the Honorable Deuceace don't drink of a morning, and he wentaway to some business which he said he had.

"Presently there's another ring at my outer door: and this time it'sBloundell-Bloundell and the marky that comes in. 'Bong jour, marky,'says I. 'Good morning—no headache,' says he. So I said I had one, andhow I must have been uncommon queer the night afore; but they bothdeclared I didn't show no signs of having had too much, but took myliquor as grave as a judge.

"'So,' says the marky, 'Deuceace has been with you; we met him in thePalais Royal as we were coming from breakfast. Has he settled withyou? Get it while you can: he's a slippery card; and as he won threeponies of Bloundell, I recommend you to get your money while hehas some.'

"'He has paid me,' says I; but I knew no more than the dead that heowed me any thing, and don't remember a bit about lending himthirty louis."

The marky and Bloundell looks and smiles at each other at this; andBloundell says, 'Colonel, you are a queer feller. No man could havesupposed, from your manners, that you had tasted any thing strongerthan tea all night, and yet you forget things in the morning. Come,come—tell that to the marines, my friend—we won't have it anyprice.' 'En effet' says the marky, twiddling his little blackmustaches in the chimney-glass, and making a lunge or two as he usedto do at the fencing-school. (He was a wonder at the fencing-school,and I've seen him knock down the image fourteen times running, atLepage's). 'Let us speak of affairs. Colonel, you understand thataffairs of honor are best settled at once: perhaps it won't beinconvenient to you to arrange our little matters of last night.'

"'What little matters?' says I. 'Do you owe me any money, marky?'

"'Bah!' says he; 'do not let us have any more jesting. I have yournote of hand for three hundred and forty louis. La voici.' says he,taking out a paper from his pocket-book.

"'And mine for two hundred and ten,' says Bloundell-Bloundell, and hepulls out his bit of paper.

"I was in such a rage of wonder at this, that I sprang out of bed, andwrapped my dressing-gown round me. 'Are you come here to make a foolof me?' says I. 'I don't owe you two hundred, or two thousand, or twolouis; and I won't pay you a farthing. Do you suppose you can catch mewith your notes of hand? I laugh at 'em and at you; and I believe youto be a couple—'

"'A couple of what?' says Mr. Bloundell. 'You, of course, are awarethat we are a couple of men of honor, Colonel Altamont, and not comehere to trifle or to listen to abuse from you. You will either pay usor we will expose you as a cheat, and chastise you as a cheat, too,'says Bloundell.

"'Oui, parbleu,' says the marky, but I didn't mind him, for I couldhave thrown the little fellow out of the window; but it was differentwith Bloundell, he was a large man, that weighs three stone more thanme, and stands six inches higher, and I think he could have donefor me.

"'Monsieur will pay, or monsieur will give me the reason why. Ibelieve you're little better than a polisson, ColonelAltamont,'—that was the phrase he used"—Altamont said with agrin—and I got plenty more of this language from the two fellows,and was in the thick of the row with them, when another of our partycame in. This was a friend of mine—a gent I had met at Boulogne, andhad taken to the countess's myself. And as he hadn't played at all onthe previous night, and had actually warned me against Bloundell andthe others, I told the story to him, and so did the other two.

"'I am very sorry,' says he. 'You would go on playing: the countessentreated you to discontinue. These gentlemen offered repeatedly tostop. It was you that insisted on the large stakes, not they.' In facthe charged dead against me: and when the two others went away, he toldme how the marky would shoot me as sure as my name was—was what itis. 'I left the countess crying, too,' said he. 'She hates these twomen; she has warned you repeatedly against them,' (which she actuallyhad done, and often told me never to play with them) 'and now,colonel, I have left her in hysterics almost, lest there should beany quarrel between you, and that confounded marky should put a bulletthrough your head. It's my belief,' says my friend, 'that that womanis distractedly in love with you.'

"'Do you think so?' says I; upon which my friend told me how she hadactually gone down on her knees to him and said, 'Save ColonelAltamont!'

"As soon as I was dressed, I went and called upon that lovely woman.She gave a shriek and pretty near fainted when she saw me. She calledme Ferdinand—I'm blest if she didn't."

"I thought your name was Jack," said Strong, with a laugh; at whichthe colonel blushed very much behind his dyed whiskers.

"A man may have more names than one, mayn't he, Strong?" Altamontasked. "When I'm with a lady, I like to take a good one. She called meby my Christian name. She cried fit to break your heart. I can't standseeing a woman cry—never could—not while I'm fond of her. She saidshe could not bear to think of my losing so much money in her house.Wouldn't I take her diamonds and necklaces, and pay part?

"I swore I wouldn't touch a farthing's worth of her jewelry, whichperhaps I did not think was worth a great deal, but what can a womando more than give you her all? That's the sort I like, and I knowthere's plenty of 'em. And I told her to be easy about the money, forI would not pay one single farthing.

"'Then they'll shoot you,' says she; 'they'll kill my Ferdinand.'"

"They'll kill my Jack wouldn't have sounded well in French," Strongsaid, laughing.

"Never mind about names," said the other, sulkily: "a man of honor maytake any name he chooses, I suppose."

"Well, go on with your story," said Strong. "She said they would killyou."

"'No,' says I, 'they won't: for I will not let that scamp of a marquissend me out of the world; and if he lays a hand on me, I'll brain him,marquis as he is.'

"At this the countess shrank back from me as if I had said somethingvery shocking. 'Do I understand Colonel Altamont aright?' says she:'and that a British officer refuses to meet any person who provokeshim to the field of honor?'

"'Field of honor be hanged, countess,' says I, 'You would not have mebe a target for that little scoundrel's pistol practice.'

"'Colonel Altamont,' says the countess, 'I thought you were a man ofhonor—I thought, I—but no matter. Good-by, sir.' And she wassweeping out of the room her voice regular choking in herpocket-handkerchief.

"'Countess,' says I, rushing after her, and seizing her hand.

"'Leave me, Monsieur le Colonel,' says she, shaking me off, 'my fatherwas a general of the Grand Army. A soldier should know how to payall his debts of honor.'

"What could I do? Every body was against me. Caroline said I hadlost the money: though I didn't remember a syllable about thebusiness. I had taken Deuceace's money, too; but then it was becausehe offered it to me you know, and that's a different thing. Every oneof these chaps was a man of fashion and honor; and the marky and thecountess of the first families in France. And by Jove, sir, ratherthan offend her, I paid the money up: five hundred and sixty goldNapoleons, by Jove: besides three hundred which I lost when I hadmy revenge.

"And I can't tell you at this minute whether I was done or notconcluded the colonel, musing. Sometimes I think I was: but thenCaroline was so fond of me. That woman would never have seen me done:never, I'm sure she wouldn't: at least, if she would, I'm deceivedin woman."

Any further revelations of his past life which Altamont might havebeen disposed to confide to his honest comrade the chevalier, wereinterrupted by a knocking at the outer door of their chambers; which,when opened by Grady the servant, admitted no less a person than SirFrancis Clavering into the presence of the two worthies.

"The governor, by Jove," cried Strong, regarding the arrival of hispatron with surprise. "What's brought you here?" growled Altamont,looking sternly from under his heavy eyebrows at the baronet. "It's nogood, I warrant." And indeed, good very seldom brought Sir FrancisClavering into that or any other place.

Whenever he came into Shepherd's Inn, it was money that brought theunlucky baronet into those precincts: and there was commonly agentleman of the money-dealing world in waiting for him at Strong'schambers, or at Campion's below; and a question of bills to negotiateor to renew. Clavering was a man who had never looked his debts fairlyin the face, familiar as he had been with them all his life; as longas he could renew a bill, his mind was easy regarding it; and he wouldsign almost any thing for to-morrow, provided to-day could be leftunmolested. He was a man whom scarcely any amount of fortune couldhave benefited permanently, and who was made to be ruined, to cheatsmall tradesmen, to be the victim of astuter sharpers: to be nigg*rdlyand reckless, and as destitute of honesty as the people who cheatedhim, and a dupe, chiefly because he was too mean to be a successfulknave. He had told more lies in his time, and undergone more basenessof stratagem in order to stave off a small debt, or to swindle a poorcreditor, than would have suffered to make a fortune for a braverrogue. He was abject and a shuffler in the very height of hisprosperity. Had he been a crown prince, he could not have been moreweak, useless, dissolute or ungrateful. He could not move through lifeexcept leaning on the arm of somebody: and yet he never had an agentbut he mistrusted him; and marred any plans which might be arrangedfor his benefit, by secretly acting against the people whom heemployed. Strong knew Clavering, and judged him quite correctly. Itwas not as friends that this pair met: but the chevalier worked forhis principal, as he would when in the army have pursued a harassingmarch, or undergone his part in the danger and privations of a siege; because it was his duty, and because he had agreed to it. "What isit he wants," thought the two officers of the Shepherd's Inn garrison,when the baronet came among them.

His pale face expressed extreme anger and irritation. "So, sir," hesaid, addressing Altamont, "you've been at your old tricks."

"Which of 'um?" asked Altamont, with a sneer.

"You have been at the Rouge et Noir: you were there last night," criedthe baronet.

"How do you know—were you there?" the other said. "I was at the Club:but it wasn't on the colors I played—ask the captain—I've beentelling him of it. It was with the bones. It was at hazard, SirFrancis, upon my word and honor it was;" and he looked at the baronetwith a knowing, humorous mock humility, which only seemed to make theother more angry.

"What the deuce do I care, sir, how a man like you loses his money,and whether it is at hazard or roulette?" screamed the baronet, with amultiplicity of oaths, and at the top of his voice. "What I will nothave, sir, is that you should use my name, or couple it with yours.Damn him, Strong, why don't you keep him in better order? I tell youhe has gone and used my name again, sir; drawn a bill upon me, andlost the money on the table—I can't stand it—I won't stand it. Fleshand blood won't bear it. Do you know how much I have paid foryou, sir?"

"This was only a very little 'un, Sir Francis—only fifteen pound,Captain Strong, they wouldn't stand another: and it oughtn't to angeryou, governor. Why it's so trifling, I did not even mention it toStrong,—did I now, captain? I protest it had quite slipped mymemory, and all on account of that confounded liquor I took."

"Liquor or no liquor, sir, it is no business of mine. I don't carewhat you drink, or where you drink it—only it shan't be in my house.And I will not have you breaking into my house of a night, and afellow like you intruding himself on my company: how dared you showyourself in Grosvenor-place last night, sir—and—and what do yousuppose my friends must think of me when they see a man of your sortwalking into my dining-room uninvited, and drunk, and calling forliquor as if you were the master of the house.

"They'll think you know some very queer sort of people, I dare say,"Altamont said with impenetrable good-humor. "Look here, baronet, Iapologize; on my honor, I do, and ain't an apology enough between twogentlemen? It was a strong measure I own, walking into your cuddy, andcalling for drink, as if I was the captain: but I had had too muchbefore, you see, that's why I wanted some more; nothing can be moresimple—and it was because they wouldn't give me no more money uponyour name at the Black and Red, that I thought I would come down andspeak to you about it. To refuse me was nothing: but to refuse a billdrawn on you that have been such a friend to the shop, and are abaronet, and a member of parliament, and a gentleman, and nomistake—Damme, it's ungrateful." "By heavens, if ever you do itagain. If ever you dare to show yourself in my house; or give my nameat a gambling-house or at any other house, by Jove—at any otherhouse—or give any reference at all to me, or speak to me in thestreet, by Gad, or any where else until I speak to you—I disclaim youaltogether—I won't give you another shilling."

"Governor, don't be provoking," Altamont said, surlily. "Don't talk tome about daring to do this thing or t'other, or when my dander is upit's the very thing to urge me on. I oughtn't to have come last night,I know I oughtn't: but I told you I was drunk, and that ought to besufficient between gentleman and gentleman."

"You a gentleman! dammy, sir," said the baronet, "how dares a fellowlike you to call himself a gentleman?"

"I ain't a baronet, I know;" growled the other; "and I've forgottenhow to be a gentleman almost now, but—but I was one once, and myfather was one, and I'll not have this sort of talk from you, Sir F.Clavering, that's flat. I want to go abroad again. Why don't you comedown with the money, and let me go? Why the devil are you to berolling in riches, and me to have none? Why should you have a houseand a table covered with plate, and me be in a garret here in thisbeggarly Shepherd's Inn? We're partners, ain't we? I've as good aright to be rich as you have, haven't I? Tell the story to Stronghere, if you like; and ask him to be umpire between us. I don't mindletting my secret out to a man that won't split. Look here,Strong—perhaps you guess the story already—the fact is, me and theGovernor—"

"D—, hold your tongue," shrieked out the baronet in a fury. "Youshall have the money as soon as I can get it. I ain't made of money.I'm so pressed and badgered, I don't know where to turn. I shall gomad; by Jove, I shall. I wish I was dead, for I'm the most miserablebrute alive. I say, Mr. Altamont, don't mind me. When I'm out ofhealth—and I'm devilish bilious this morning—hang me, I abuse everybody, and don't know what I say. Excuse me if I've offended you.I—I'll try and get that little business done. Strong shall try. Uponmy word he shall. And I say, Strong, my boy, I want to speak to you.Come into the office for a minute."

Almost all Clavering's assaults ended in this ignominious way, and ina shameful retreat. Altamont sneered after the baronet as he left theroom, and entered into the office, to talk privately withhis factotum.

"What is the matter now?" the latter asked of him. "It's the oldstory, I suppose."

"D——it, yes," the baronet said. "I dropped two hundred in ready moneyat the Little Coventry last night, and gave a check for three hundredmore. On her ladyship's bankers, too, for to-morrow; and I must meetit, for there'll be the deuce to pay else. The last time she paid myplay-debts, I swore I would not touch a dice-box again, and she'llkeep her word, Strong, and dissolve partnership, if I go on. I wish Ihad three hundred a year, and was away. At a German watering-placeyou can do devilish well with three hundred a year. But myhabits are so d——reckless: I wish I was in the Serpentine. I wish Iwas dead, by Gad, I wish I was. I wish I had never touched thoseconfounded bones. I had such a run of luck last night, with five forthe main, and seven to five all night, until those ruffians wanted topay me with Altamont's bill upon me. The luck turned from that minute.Never held the box again for three mains, and came away cleaned out,leaving that infernal check behind me. How shall I pay it? Blacklandwon't hold it over. Hulker and Bullock will write about it directly toher ladyship. By Jove, Ned, I'm the most miserable brute inall England."

It was necessary for Ned to devise some plan to console the baronetunder this pressure of grief; and no doubt he found the means ofprocuring a loan for his patron, for he was closeted at Mr. Campion'soffices that day for some time. Altamont had once more a guinea or twoin his pocket, with a promise of a farther settlement; and the baronethad no need to wish himself dead for the next two or three months atleast. And Strong, putting together what he had learned from thecolonel and Sir Francis, began to form in his own mind a prettyaccurate opinion as to the nature of the tie which bound the two mentogether.

A CHAPTER OF CONVERSATIONS.

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Every day, after the entertainments at Grosvenor-place and Greenwich,of which we have seen Major Pendennis partake, the worthy gentleman'sfriendship and cordiality for the Clavering family seemed to increase.His calls were frequent; his attentions to the lady of the houseunremitting. An old man about town, he had the good fortune to bereceived in many houses, at which a lady of Lady Clavering'sdistinction ought also to be seen. Would her ladyship not like to bepresent at the grand entertainment at Gaunt House? There was to be avery pretty breakfast ball at Viscount Marrowfat's, at Fulham. Everybody was to be there (including august personages of the highestrank), and there was to be a Watteau quadrille, in which Miss Amorywould surely look charming. To these and other amusem*nts theobsequious old gentleman kindly offered to conduct Lady Clavering, andwas also ready to make himself useful to the baronet in any wayagreeable to the latter.

In spite of his present station and fortune, the world persisted inlooking rather coldly upon Clavering, and strange suspicious rumorsfollowed him about. He was blackballed at two clubs in succession. Inthe house of commons, he only conversed with a few of the mostdisreputable members of that famous body, having a happy knack ofchoosing bad society, and adapting himself naturally to it, as otherpeople do to the company of their betters. To name all the senatorswith whom Clavering consorted, would be invidious. We may mentiononly a few. There was Captain Raff, the honorable member for Epsom,who retired after the last Goodwood races, having accepted, as Mr.Hotspur, the whip of the party, said, a mission to the Levant; therewas Hustingson, the patriotic member for Islington, whose voice isnever heard now denunciating corruption, since his appointment to theGovernorship of Coventry Island; there was Bob Freeny, of theBooterstown Freenys, who is a dead shot, and of whom we therefore wishto speak with every respect; and of all these gentlemen, with whom inthe course of his professional duty Mr. Hotspur had to confer, therewas none for whom he had a more thorough contempt and dislike than forSir Francis Clavering, the representative of an ancient race, who hadsat for their own borough of Clavering time out of mind in the house."If that man is wanted for a division," Hotspur said, "ten to one heis to be found in a hell. He was educated in the Fleet, and he has notheard the end of Newgate yet, take my word for it. He'll muddle awaythe Begum's fortune at thimble-rig, be caught picking pockets, andfinish on board the hulks." And if the high-born Hotspur, with such anopinion of Clavering, could yet from professional reasons be civil tohim, why should not Major Pendennis also have reasons of his own forbeing attentive to this unlucky gentleman?

"He has a very good cellar and a very good cook," the major said; "aslong as he is silent he is not offensive, and he very seldom speaks.If he chooses to frequent gambling-tables, and lose his money toblacklegs, what matters to me? Don't look too curiously into any man'saffairs, Pen, my boy; every fellow has some cupboard in his house,begad, which he would not like you and me to peep into. Why should wetry, when the rest of the house is open to us? And a devilish goodhouse, too, as you and I know. And if the man of the family is not allone could wish, the women are excellent. The Begum is notover-refined, but as kind a woman as ever lived, and devilish clevertoo; and as for the little Blanche, you know my opinion about her, yourogue; you know my belief is that she is sweet on you, and would haveyou for the asking. But you are growing such a great man, that Isuppose you won't be content under a duke's daughter—Hey, sir? Irecommend you to ask one of them, and try."

Perhaps Pen was somewhat intoxicated by his success in the world; andit may also have entered into the young man's mind (his uncle'sperpetual hints serving not a little to encourage the notion) thatMiss Amory was tolerably well disposed to renew the little flirtationwhich had been carried on in the early days of both of them, by thebanks of the rural Brawl. But he was little disposed to marriage, hesaid, at that moment, and, adopting some of his uncle's worldly tone,spoke rather contemptuously of the institution, and in favor of abachelor life.

"You are very happy, sir," said he, "and you get on very well alone,and so do I. With a wife at my side, I should lose my place insociety; and I don't, for my part, much fancy retiring into thecountry with a Mrs. Pendennis; or taking my wife into lodgings to bewaited upon by the servant-of-all-work. The period of my littleillusions is over. You cured me of my first love, who certainly wasa fool, and would have had a fool for her husband, and a very sulky,discontented husband, too, if she had taken me. We young fellows livefast, sir; and I feel as old at five-and-twenty as many of the oldfo—, the old bachelors—whom I see in the bay-window at Bays's. Don'tlook offended, I only mean that I am blasé about love matters, andthat I could no more fan myself into a flame for Miss Amory now, thanI could adore Lady Mirabel over again. I wish I could; I rather likeold Mirabel for his infatuation about her, and think his passion isthe most respectable part of his life."

"Sir Charles Mirabel was always a theatrical man, sir," the majorsaid, annoyed that his nephew should speak flippantly of any person ofSir Charles's rank and station. "He has been occupied with theatricalssince his early days. He acted at Carlton House when he was page tothe prince; he has been mixed up with that sort of thing; he couldafford to marry whom he chooses; and Lady Mirabel is a mostrespectable woman, received every where—every where, mind. Theduch*ess of Connaught receives her, Lady Rockminster receives her—itdoesn't become young fellows to speak lightly of people in thatstation. There's not a more respectable woman in England than LadyMirabel: and the old fogies, as you call them at Bays's, are some ofthe first gentlemen in England, of whom you youngsters had best learna little manners, and a little breeding, and a little modesty." Andthe major began to think that Pen was growing exceedingly pert andconceited, and that the world made a great deal too much of him.

The major's anger amused Pen. He studied his uncle's peculiaritieswith a constant relish, and was always in a good humor with hisworldly old Mentor. "I am a youngster of fifteen years standing, sir,"he said, adroitly, "and if you think that we are disrespectful, youshould see those of the present generation. A protégé of yours came tobreakfast with me the other day. You told me to ask him, and I did itto please you. We had a day's sights together, and dined at the club,and went to the play. He said the wine at the Polyanthus was not sogood as Ellis's wine at Richmond, smoked Warrington's cavendish afterbreakfast, and when I gave him a sovereign as a farewell token, saidhe had plenty of them, but would take it to show he wasn't proud."

"Did he?—did you ask young Clavering?" cried the major, appeased atonce, "fine boy, rather wild, but a fine boy—parents like that sortof attention, and you can't do better than pay it to our worthyfriends of Grosvenor-place. And so you took him to the play and tippedhim? That was right, sir, that was right;" with which Mentor quittedTelemachus, thinking that the young men were not so very bad, and thathe should make something of that fellow yet.

As Master Clavering grew into years and stature, he became too strongfor the authority of his fond parents and governess; and rathergoverned them than permitted himself to be led by their orders. Withhis papa he was silent and sulky, seldom making his appearance,however, in the neighborhood of that gentleman; with his mamma heroared and fought when any contest between them arose as to thegratification of his appetite, or other wish of his heart; and in hisdisputes with his governess over his book, he kicked that quietcreature's shins so fiercely, that she was entirely overmastered andsubdued by him. And he would have so treated his sister Blanche, too,and did on one or two occasions attempt to prevail over her; but sheshowed an immense resolution and spirit on her part, and boxed hisears so soundly, that he forebore from molesting Miss Amory, as he didthe governess and his mamma, and his mamma's maid.

At length, when the family came to London, Sir Francis gave forth hisopinion that "the little beggar had best be sent to school."Accordingly, the young son and heir of the house of Clavering wasdispatched to the Rev. Otto Rose's establishment at Twickenham, whereyoung noblemen and gentlemen were received preparatory to theirintroduction to the great English public schools.

It is not our intention to follow Master Clavering in his scholasticcareer; the paths to the Temple of learning were made more easy to himthan they were to some of us of earlier generations. He advancedtoward that fane in a carriage-and-four, so to speak, and might haltand take refreshments almost whenever he pleased. He wore varnishedboots from the earliest period of youth, and had cambric handkerchiefsand lemon-colored kid gloves of the smallest size ever manufactured byPrivat. They dressed regularly at Mr. Rose's to come down to dinner;the young gentlemen had shawl dressing-gowns, fires in their bedrooms;horse and carriage exercise occasionally, and oil for their hair.Corporal punishment was altogether dispensed with by the principal,who thought that moral discipline was entirely sufficient to leadyouth; and the boys were so rapidly advanced in many branches oflearning, that they acquired the art of drinking spirits and smokingcigars, even before they were old enough to enter a public school.Young Frank Clavering stole his father's Havannas, and conveyed themto school, or smoked them in the stables, at a surprisingly earlyperiod of life, and at ten years old drank his Champagne almost asstoutly as any whiskered cornet of dragoons could do.

When this interesting youth came home for his vacations, MajorPendennis was as laboriously civil and gracious to him as he was tothe rest of the family; although the boy had rather a contempt for oldWigsby, as the major was denominated, mimicked him behind his back, asthe polite major bowed and smirked with Lady Clavering or Miss Amory;and drew rude caricatures, such as are designed by ingenious youths,in which the major's wig, his nose, his tie, &c., were representedwith artless exaggeration. Untiring in his efforts to be agreeable,the major wished that Pen, too, should take particular notice of thischild; incited Arthur to invite him to his chambers, to give him adinner at the club, to take him to Madame Tussaud's, the Tower, theplay, and so forth, and to tip him, as the phrase is, at the end ofthe day's pleasures. Arthur, who was good-natured and fond ofchildren, went through all these ceremonies one day; had the boy tobreakfast at the Temple, where he made the most contemptuous remarksregarding the furniture, the crockery, and the tattered state ofWarrington's dressing-gown; and smoked a short pipe, and recounted thehistory of a fight between Tuffy and Long Biggings, at Rose's, greatlyto the edification of the two gentlemen his hosts.

As the major rightly predicted, Lady Clavering was very grateful forArthur's attention to the boy; more grateful than the lad himself, whotook attentions as a matter of course, and very likely had moresovereigns in his pocket than poor Pen, who generously gave him one ofhis own slender stock of those coins.

The major, with the sharp eyes with which nature endowed him, and withthe glasses of age and experience, watched this boy, and surveyed hisposition in the family without seeming to be rudely curious abouttheir affairs. But, as a country neighbor, one who had many familyobligations to the Claverings, an old man of the world, he tookoccasion to find out what Lady Clavering's means were, how her capitalwas disposed, and what the boy was to inherit. And setting himself towork, for what purposes will appear, no doubt, ulteriorly, he soon hadgot a pretty accurate knowledge of Lady Clavering's affairs andfortune, and of the prospects of her daughter and son. The daughterwas to have but a slender provision; the bulk of the property was, asbefore has been said, to go to the son, his father did not care forhim or any body else, his mother was dotingly fond of him as the childof her latter days, his sister disliked him. Such may be stated, inround numbers, to be the result of the information which MajorPendennis got. "Ah! my dear madam," he would say, patting the head ofthe boy, "this boy may wear a baron's coronet on his head on somefuture coronation, if matters are but managed rightly, and if SirFrancis Clavering would but play his cards well."

At this the widow Amory heaved a deep sigh. "He plays only too much ofhis cards, major, I'm afraid," she said. The major owned that he knewas much; did not disguise that he had heard of Sir Francis Clavering'sunfortunate propensity to play; pitied Lady Clavering sincerely; butspoke with such genuine sentiment and sense, that her ladyship, gladto find a person of experience to whom she could confide her grief andher condition, talked about them pretty unreservedly to MajorPendennis, and was eager to have his advice and consolation. MajorPendennis became the Begum's confidante and house-friend, and as amother, a wife, and a capitalist, she consulted him.

He gave her to understand (showing at the same time a great deal ofrespectful sympathy) that he was acquainted with some of thecirc*mstances of her first unfortunate marriage, and with even theperson of her late husband, whom he remembered in Calcutta—when shewas living in seclusion with her father. The poor lady, with tears ofshame more than of grief in her eyes, told her version of her story.Going back a child to India after two years at a European school, shehad met Amory, and foolishly married him. "O, you don't know howmiserable that man made me," she said, "or what a life I passedbetween him and my father. Before I saw him I had never seen a manexcept my father's clerks and native servants. You know we didn't gointo society in India on account of—" ("I know," said Major Pendennis,with a bow). "I was a wild romantic child, my head was full of novelswhich I'd read at school—I listened to his wild stories and adventures,for he was a daring fellow, and I thought he talked beautifully of thosecalm nights on the passage out, when he used to… Well, I married him,and was wretched from that day—wretched with my father, whose characteryou know, Major Pendennis, and I won't speak of: but he wasn't a goodman, sir—neither to my poor mother, nor to me, except that he left mehis money—nor to no one else that I ever heard of: and he didn't domany kind actions in his lifetime, I'm afraid. And as for Amory he wasalmost worse; he was a spendthrift, when my father was close: he drankdreadfully, and was furious when in that way. He wasn't in any way agood or a faithful husband to me, Major Pendennis; and if he'd died inthe jail before his trial, instead of afterward, he would have savedme a deal of shame and unhappiness since, sir." Lady Clavering added:"For perhaps I should not have married at all if I had not been soanxious to change his horrid name, and I have not been happy in mysecond husband, as I suppose you know, sir. Ah, Major Pendennis, I'vegot money to be sure, and I'm a lady, and people fancy I'm very happy,but I ain't. We all have our cares, and griefs, and troubles: andmany's the day that I sit down to one of my grand dinners with anaching heart, and many a night do I lay awake on my fine bed, a greatdeal more unhappy than the maid that makes it. For I'm not a happywoman, major, for all the world says; and envies the Begum herdiamonds, and carriages, and the great company that comes to my house.I'm not happy in my husband; I'm not happy in my daughter. She ain't agood girl like that dear Laura Bell at Fairoaks. She's cost me many atear though you don't see 'em; and she sneers at her mother because Ihaven't had learning and that. How should I? I was brought up amongnatives till I was twelve, and went back to India when I was fourteen.Ah, major I should have been a good woman if I had had a good husband.And now I must go up-stairs and wipe my eyes, for they're red withcryin'. And Lady Rockminster's a-comin, and we're goin to 'ave a drivein the Park. And when Lady Rockminster made her appearance, there wasnot a trace of tears or vexation on Lady Clavering's face, but she wasfull of spirits, and bounced out with her blunders and talk, andmurdered the king's English, with the utmost liveliness andgood humor.

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"Begad, she is not such a bad woman!" the major thought withinhimself. "She is not refined, certainly, and calls 'Apollo' 'Apoller;'but she has some heart, and I like that sort of thing, and a devilishdeal of money, too. Three stars in India Stock to her name, begad!which that young cub is to have—is he?" And he thought how he shouldlike to see a little of the money transferred to Miss Blanche, and,better still, one of those stars shining in the name of Mr. ArthurPendennis.

Still bent upon pursuing his schemes, whatsoever they might be, theold negotiator took the privilege of his intimacy and age, to talk ina kindly and fatherly manner to Miss Blanche, when he found occasionto see her alone. He came in so frequently at luncheon-time, andbecame so familiar with the ladies, that they did not even hesitate toquarrel before him: and Lady Clavering, whose tongue was loud, andtemper brusk, had many a battle with the Sylphide in the familyfriend's presence. Blanche's wit seldom failed to have the mastery inthese encounters, and the keen barbs of her arrows drove her adversarydiscomfited away. "I am an old fellow," the major said; "I havenothing to do in life. I have my eyes open. I keep good counsel. I amthe friend of both of you; and if you choose to quarrel before me,why I shan't tell any one. But you are two good people, and I intendto make it up between you. I have between lots of people—husbands andwives, fathers and sons, daughters and mammas, before this. I like it;I've nothing else to do."

One day, then, the old diplomatist entered Lady Clavering's drawing-room,just as the latter quitted it, evidently in a high state ofindignation, and ran past him up the stairs to her own apartments."She couldn't speak to him now," she said; "she was a great deal tooangry with that—that—that little, wicked"—anger choked the rest ofthe words, or prevented their utterance until Lady Clavering hadpassed out of hearing.

"My dear, good Miss Amory," the major said, entering the drawing-room,"I see what is happening. You and mamma have been disagreeing.Mothers and daughters disagree in the best families. It was but lastweek that I healed up a quarrel between Lady Clapperton and herdaughter Lady Claudia. Lady Lear and her eldest daughter have notspoken for fourteen years. Kinder and more worthy people than these Inever knew in the whole course of my life; for every body but eachother admirable. But they can't live together: they oughtn't to livetogether: and I wish, my dear creature, with all my soul, that I couldsee you with an establishment of your own—for there is no woman inLondon who could conduct one better—with your own establishment,making your own home happy."

"I am not very happy in this one," said the Sylphide; "and thestupidity of mamma is enough to provoke a saint."

"Precisely so; you are not suited to one another. Your mothercommitted one fault in early life—or was it Nature, my dear, in yourcase?—she ought not to have educated you. You ought not to have beenbred up to become the refined and intellectual being you are,surrounded, as I own you are, by those who have not your genius oryour refinement. Your place would be to lead in the most brilliantcircles, not to follow, and take a second place in any society. I havewatched you, Miss Amory: you are ambitious; and your proper sphere iscommand. You ought to shine; and you never can in this house, I knowit. I hope I shall see you in another and a happier one, some day, andthe mistress of it."

The Sylphide shrugged her lily shoulders with a look of scorn "Whereis the prince, and where is the palace, Major Pendennis?" she said. "Iam ready. But there is no romance in the world now, no realaffection."

"No, indeed," said the major, with the most sentimental and simple airwhich he could muster.

"Not that I know any thing about it," said Blanche, casting her eyesdown, "except what I have read in novels."

"Of course not," Major Pendennis cried; "how should you, my dear younglady? and novels ain't true, as you remark admirably, and there is noromance left in the world. Begad, I wish I was a young fellow, like mynephew." "And what," continued Miss Amory, musing, "what are the menwhom we see about at the balls every night—dancing guardsmen,penniless treasury clerks—boobies! If I had my brother's fortune, Imight have such an establishment as you promise me—but with my name,and with my little means, what am I to look to? A country parson, or abarrister in a street near Russell-square, or a captain in adragoon-regiment, who will take lodgings for me, and come home fromthe mess tipsy and smelling of smoke like Sir Francis Clavering. Thatis how we girls are destined to end life. O Major Pendennis, I am sickof London, and of balls, and of young dandies with their chin-tips,and of the insolent great ladies who know us one day and cut us thenext—and of the world altogether. I should like to leave it and to gointo a convent, that I should. I shall never find any body tounderstand me. And I live here as much alone in my family and in theworld, as if I were in a cell locked up for ever. I wish there wereSisters of Charity here, and that I could be one, and catch theplague, and die of it—I wish to quit the world. I am not very old:but I am tired, I have suffered so much—I've been sodisillusionated—I'm weary, I'm weary—O that the Angel of Death wouldcome and beckon me away!"

This speech may be interpreted as follows. A few nights since a greatlady, Lady Flamingo, had cut Miss Amory and Lady Clavering. She wasquite mad because she could not get an invitation to Lady Drum's ball:it was the end of the season and nobody had proposed to her: she hadmade no sensation at all, she who was so much cleverer than any girlof the year, and of the young ladies forming her special circle. Dorawho had but five thousand pounds, Flora who had nothing, and Leonorawho had red hair, were going to be married, and nobody had come forBlanche Amory.

"You judge wisely about the world, and about your position, my dearMiss Blanche," the major said. "The prince don't marry nowadays, asyou say: unless the princess has a doosid deal of money in the funds,or is a lady of his own rank. The young folks of the great familiesmarry into the great families: if they haven't fortune they have eachother's shoulders, to push on in the world, which is pretty nearly asgood. A girl with your fortune can scarcely hope for a great match:but a girl with your genius and your admirable tact and fine manners,with a clever husband by her side, may make any place for herself inthe world. We are grown doosid republican. Talent ranks with birth andwealth now, begad: and a clever man with a clever wife, may take anyplace they please."

Miss Amory did not of course in the least understand what MajorPendennis meant. Perhaps she thought over circ*mstances in her mind,and asked herself, could he be a negotiator for a former suitor ofhers, and could he mean Pen? No, it was impossible; he had been civil,but nothing more. So she said, laughing, "Who is the clever man, andwhen will you bring him to me, Major Pendennis? I am dying to seehim." At this moment a servant threw open the door, and announcedMr. Henry Foker: at which name, and at the appearance of our friendboth the lady and the gentleman burst out laughing.

"That is not the man," Major Pendennis said. "He is engaged to hiscousin, Lord Gravesend's daughter. Good-by, my dear Miss Amory."

Was Pen growing worldly, and should a man not get the experience ofthe world and lay it to his account? "He felt, for his part," as hesaid, "that he was growing very old very soon. How this town forms andchanges us," he said once to Warrington. Each had come in from hisnight's amusem*nt; and Pen was smoking his pipe, and recounting, ashis habit was, to his friend the observations and adventures of theevening just past. "How I am changed," he said, "from the simpletonboy at Fairoaks, who was fit to break his heart about his first love?Lady Mirabel had a reception to-night, and was as grave and collectedas if she had been born a duch*ess, and had never seen a trap-door inher life. She gave me the honor of a conversation, and patronized meabout Walter Lorraine, quite kindly."

"What condescension," broke in Warrington.

"Wasn't it?" Pen said, simply; at which the other burst out laughingaccording to his wont. "Is it possible," he said, "that any bodyshould think of patronizing the eminent author of Walter Lorraine?"

"You laugh at both of us," Pen said, blushing a little: "I was comingto that myself. She told me that she had not read the book (as indeedI believe she never read a book in her life), but that LadyRockminster had, and that the duch*ess of Connaught pronounced it to bevery clever. In that case, I said I should die happy, for that toplease those two ladies was in fact the great aim of my existence, andhaving their approbation, of course I need look for no other. LadyMirabel looked at me solemnly out of her fine eyes, and said, 'Oindeed,' as if she understood me, and then she asked me whether I wentto the duch*ess's Thursdays; and when I said no, hoped she should seeme there, and that I must try and get there, every body went there—every body who was in society: and then we talked of the newembassador from Timbuctoo, and how he was better than the old one; andhow Lady Mary Billington was going to marry a clergyman quite belowher in rank; and how Lord and Lady Ringdove had fallen out threemonths after their marriage about Tom Pouter of the Blues, LadyRingdove's cousin, and so forth. From the gravity of that woman youwould have fancied she had been born in a palace, and lived all theseasons of her life in Belgrave-square."

"And you, I suppose you took your part in the conversation prettywell, as the descendant of the earl your father, and the heir ofFairoaks Castle?" Warrington said. "Yes, I remember reading of thefestivities which occurred when you came of age. The countess gave abrilliant tea soirée to the neighboring nobility; and the tenantrywere regaled in the kitchen with a leg of mutton and a quart of ale.The remains of the banquet were distributed among the poor of thevillage, and the entrance to the park was illuminated until old Johnput the candle out on retiring to rest at his usual hour."

[Illustration]

"My mother is not a countess," said Pen, "though she has very goodblood in her veins, too; but commoner as she is, I have never met apeeress who was more than her peer, Mr. George; and if you will cometo Fairoaks Castle you shall judge for yourself of her and of mycousin too. They are not so witty as the London women, but theycertainly are as well bred. The thoughts of women in the country areturned to other objects than those which occupy your London ladies. Inthe country a woman has her household and her poor, her long calm daysand long calm evenings."

"Devilish long," Warrington said, "and a great deal too calm; I'vetried 'em." "The monotony of that existence must be to a certaindegree melancholy—like the tune of a long ballad; and its harmonygrave and gentle, sad and tender: it would be unendurable else. Theloneliness of women in the country makes them of necessity soft andsentimental. Leading a life of calm duty, constant routine, mysticreverie—a sort of nuns at large—too much gayety or laughter wouldjar upon their almost sacred quiet, and would be as out of place thereas in a church."

"Where you go to sleep over the sermon," Warrington said.

"You are a professed misogynist, and hate the sex because, I suspect,you know very little about them," Mr. Pen continued, with an air ofconsiderable self-complacency. "If you dislike the women in thecountry for being too slow, surely the London women ought to be fastenough for you. The pace of London life is enormous: how do peoplelast at it, I wonder—male and female? Take a woman of the world:follow her course through the season; one asks how she can survive it?or if she tumbles into a sleep at the end of August, and lies torpiduntil the spring? She goes into the world every night, and sitswatching her marriageable daughters dancing till long after dawn. Shehas a nursery of little ones, very likely, at home, to whom sheadministers example and affection; having an eye likewise tobread-and-milk, catechism, music and French, and roast leg of muttonat one o'clock; she has to call upon ladies of her own station, eitherdomestically or in her public character, in which she sits uponCharity Committees, or Ball Committees, or Emigration Committees, orQueen's College Committees, and discharges I don't know what moreduties of British stateswomanship. She very likely keeps a poorvisiting list; has combinations with the clergyman about soup orflannel, or proper religious teaching for the parish; and (if shelives in certain districts) probably attends early church. She has thenewspapers to read, and, at least, must know what her husband's partyis about, so as to be able to talk to her neighbor at dinner; and itis a fact that she reads every new book that comes out; for she cantalk, and very smartly and well, about them all, and you see them allupon her drawing-room table. She has the cares of her householdbesides: to make both ends meet; to make the girl's milliner's billsappear not too dreadful to the father and paymaster of the family; tosnip off, in secret, a little extra article of expenditure here andthere, and convey it, in the shape of a bank-note, to the boys atcollege or at sea; to check the encroachments of tradesmen, andhousekeepers' financial fallacies; to keep upper and lower servantsfrom jangling with one another, and the household in order. Add tothis, that she has a secret taste for some art or science, models inclay, makes experiments in chemistry, or plays in private on thevioloncello,—and I say, without exaggeration, many London ladies aredoing this—and you have a character before you such as our ancestorsnever heard of, and such as belongs entirely to our era and period ofcivilization. Ye gods! how rapidly we live and grow! In nine months,Mr. Paxton grows you a pine apple as large as a portmanteau, whereas alittle one, no bigger than a Dutch cheese, took three years to attain his majority in old times; and as the race of pine-apples so is therace of man. Hoiaper—what's the Greek for a pine-apple, Warrington?"

"Stop, for mercy's sake, stop with the English and before you come tothe Greek," Warrington cried out, laughing. "I never heard you makesuch a long speech, or was aware that you had penetrated so deeplyinto the female mysteries. Who taught you all this, and into whoseboudoirs and nurseries have you been peeping, while I was smoking mypipe, and reading my book, lying on my straw bed?"

"You are on the bank, old boy, content to watch the waves tossing inthe winds, and the struggles of others at sea," Pen said. "I am in thestream now, and, by Jove, I like it. How rapidly we go down it, hey?—strong and feeble, old and young—the metal pitchers and the earthenpitchers—the pretty little china boat swims gayly till the bigbruised brazen one bumps him and sends him down—eh, vogue lagalère!—you see a man sink in the race, and say good-by to him—look,he has only dived under the other fellow's legs, and comes up shakinghis pole, and striking out ever so far ahead. Eh, vogue la galère, Isay. It's good sport, Warrington—not winning merely, but playing."

"Well, go in and win, young 'un. I'll sit and mark the game,"Warrington said, surveying the ardent young fellow with an almostfatherly pleasure. "A generous fellow plays for the play, a sordid onefor the stake; an old fogy sits by and smokes the pipe oftranquillity, while Jack and Tom are pommeling each other inthe ring."

"Why don't you come in, George, and have a turn with the gloves? Youare big enough and strong enough," Pen said. "Dear old boy, you areworth ten of me."

"You are not quite as tall as Goliath, certainly," the other answered,with a laugh that was rough and yet tender. "And as for me, I amdisabled. I had a fatal hit in early life. I will tell you about itsome day. You may, too, meet with your master. Don't be too eager, ortoo confident, or too worldly, my boy."

Was Pendennis becoming worldly, or only seeing the world, or both? andis a man very wrong for being after all only a man? Which is the mostreasonable, and does his duty best: he who stands aloof from thestruggle of life, calmly contemplating it, or he who descends to theground, and takes his part in the contest? "That philosopher," Pensaid, "had held a great place among the leaders of the world, andenjoyed to the full what it had to give of rank and riches, renown andpleasure, who came, weary-hearted, out of it, and said that all wasvanity and vexation of spirit. Many a teacher of those whom wereverence, and who steps out of his carriage up to his carvedcathedral place, shakes his lawn ruffles over the velvet cushion, andcries out, that the whole struggle is an accursed one, and the worksof the world are evil. Many a conscience-striken mystic flies from italtogether, and shuts himself out from it within convent walls (realor spiritual), whence he can only look up to the sky, and contemplatethe heaven out of which there is no rest, and no good. But theearth, where our feet are, is the work of the same Power as theimmeasurable blue yonder, in which the future lies into which we wouldpeer. Who ordered toil as the condition of life, ordered weariness,ordered sickness, ordered poverty, failure, success—to this man aforemost place, to the other a nameless struggle with the crowd—tothat a shameful fall, or paralyzed limb, or sudden accident—to eachsome work upon the ground he stands on, until he is laid beneath it."While they were talking, the dawn came shining through the windows ofthe room, and Pen threw them open to receive the fresh morning air."Look, George," said he; "look and see the sun rise: he sees thelaborer on his way a-field, the work-girl plying her poor needle; thelawyer at his desk, perhaps; the beauty smiling asleep upon her pillowof down; or the jaded reveler reeling to bed; or the fevered patienttossing on it; or the doctor watching by it, over the throes of themother for the child that is to be born into the world; to be born andto take his part in the suffering and struggling, the tears andlaughter, the crime, remorse, love, folly, sorrow, rest."

MISS AMORY'S PARTNERS.

The noble Henry Foker, of whom we have lost sight for a few pages, hasbeen in the mean while occupied, as we might suppose a man of hisconstancy would be, in the pursuit and indulgence of his all-absorbingpassion of love.

I wish that a few of my youthful readers who are inclined to thatamusem*nt would take the trouble to calculate the time which is spentin the pursuit, when they would find it to be one of the most costlyoccupations in which a man can possibly indulge. What don't yousacrifice to it, indeed, young gentlemen and young ladies ofill-regulated minds? Many hours of your precious sleep, in the firstplace, in which you lie tossing and thinking about the adored object,whence you come down late to breakfast, when noon is advancing, andall the family is long since away to its daily occupations. Then whenyou at length get to these occupations you pay no attention to them,and engage in them with no ardor, all your thoughts and powers of mindbeing fixed elsewhere. Then the day's work being slurred over, youneglect your friends and relatives, your natural companions and usualassociates in life, that you may go and have a glance at the dearpersonage, or a look up at her windows, or a peep at her carriage inthe Park. Then at night the artless blandishments of home bore you;mamma's conversation palls upon you; the dishes which that good soulprepares for the dinner of her favorite are sent away untasted, thewhole meal of life, indeed, except one particular plat, has norelish. Life, business, family ties, home, all things useful and dearonce become intolerable, and you are never easy except when you are inpursuit of your flame.

Such I believe to be not unfrequently the state of mind amongill-regulated young gentlemen, and such, indeed, was Mr. H. Foker'scondition, who, having been bred up to indulge in every propensitytoward which he was inclined, abandoned himself to this one with hisusual selfish enthusiasm. Nor because he had given his friend ArthurPendennis a great deal of good advice on a former occasion, need menof the world wonder that Mr. Foker became passion's slave in his turn.Who among us has not given a plenty of the very best advice to hisfriends? Who has not preached, and who has practiced? To be sure, you,madam, are perhaps a perfect being, and never had a wrong thought inthe whole course of your frigid and irreproachable existence: or you,sir, are a great deal too strong-minded to allow any foolish passionto interfere with your equanimity in chambers or your attendance on'Change; you are so strong that you don't want any sympathy. We don'tgive you any, then; we keep ours for the humble and weak, thatstruggle and stumble and get up again, and so march with the rest ofmortals. What need have you of a hand who never fall? Your serenevirtue is never shaded by passion, or ruffled by temptation, ordarkened by remorse; compassion would be impertinence for such anangel: but then, with such a one companionship becomes intolerable;you are, from the very elevation of your virtue and high attributes,of necessity lonely; we can't reach up and talk familiarly with suchpotentates. Good-by, then; our way lies with humble folks, and notwith serene highnesses like you; and we give notice that there are noperfect characters in this history, except, perhaps, one little one,and that one is not perfect either, for she never knows to this daythat she is perfect, and with a deplorable misapprehension andperverseness of humility, believes herself to be as great a sinneras need be.

This young person does not happen to be in London at the presentperiod of our story, and it is by no means for the like of her thatMr. Henry Foker's mind is agitated. But what matters a few failings?Need we be angels, male or female, in order to be worshiped as such?Let us admire the diversity of the tastes of mankind, and the oldest,the ugliest, the stupidest and most pompous, the silliest and mostvapid, the greatest criminal, tyrant, booby, Bluebeard, CatherineHayes, George Barnwell, among us, we need never despair. I have readof the passion of a transported pickpocket for a female convict (eachof them being advanced in age, repulsive in person, ignorant,quarrelsome, and given to drink), that was as magnificent as the lovesof Cleopatra and Antony, or Lancelot and Guinever. The passion whichCount Borulawski, the Polish dwarf, inspired in the bosom of the mostbeautiful baroness at the court of Dresden, is a matter with which weare all of us acquainted: the flame which burned in the heart of youngCornet Tozer but the other day, and caused him to run off and espouseMrs. Battersby, who was old enough to be his mamma; all theseinstances are told in the page of history or the newspaper column. Arewe to be ashamed or pleased to think that our hearts are formed sothat the biggest and highest-placed Ajax among us may some day findhimself prostrate before the pattens of his kitchen-maid; as thatthere is no poverty or shame or crime, which will not be supported,hugged, even with delight, and cherished more closely than virtuewould be, by the perverse fidelity and admirable constant folly ofa woman?

So then Henry Foker, Esquire, longed after his love, and cursed thefate which separated him from her. When Lord Gravesend's familyretired to the country (his lordship leaving his proxy with thevenerable Lord Bagwig), Harry still remained lingering on in London,certainly not much to the sorrow of Lady Ann, to whom he wasaffianced, and who did not in the least miss him. Wherever MissClavering went, this infatuated young fellow continued to follow her;and being aware that his engagement to his cousin was known in theworld, he was forced to make a mystery of his passion, and confine itto his own breast, so that it was so pent in there and pressed down,that it is a wonder he did not explode some day with the stormysecret, and perish collapsed after the outburst.

There had been a grand entertainment at Gaunt House on one beautifulevening in June, and the next day's journals contained almost twocolumns of the names of the most closely-printed nobility and gentrywho had been honored with invitations to the ball. Among the guestswere Sir Francis and Lady Clavering and Miss Amory, for whom theindefatigable Major Pendennis had procured an invitation, and our twoyoung friends Arthur and Harry. Each exerted himself, and danced agreat deal with Miss Blanche. As for the worthy major, he assumed thecharge of Lady Clavering, and took care to introduce her to thatdepartment of the mansion where her ladyship specially distinguishedherself, namely, the refreshment-room, where, among pictures of Titianand Giorgione, and regal portraits of Vandyke and Reynolds, andenormous salvers of gold and silver, and pyramids of large flowers,and constellations of wax candles—in a manner perfectly regardless ofexpense, in a word—a supper was going on all night. Of how manycreams, jellies, salads, peaches, white soups, grapes, pâtes,galantines, cups of tea, champagne, and so forth, Lady Claveringpartook, it does not become us to say. How much the major suffered ashe followed the honest woman about, calling to the solemn maleattendants, and lovely servant-maids, and administering to LadyClavering's various wants with admirable patience, nobody knows; henever confessed. He never allowed his agony to appear on hiscountenance in the least; but with a constant kindness brought plateafter plate to the Begum.

Mr. Wagg counted up all the dishes of which Lady Clavering partook aslong as he could count (but as he partook very freely himself ofChampagne during the evening, his powers of calculation were not to betrusted at the close of the entertainment), and he recommended Mr.Honeyman, Lady Steyne's medical man, to look carefully after theBegum, and to call and get news of her ladyship the next day.

Sir Francis Clavering made his appearance, and skulked for a whileabout the magnificent rooms; but the company and the splendor which hemet there were not to the baronet's taste, and after tossing off atumbler of wine or two at the buffet, he quitted Gaunt House for theneighborhood of Jermyn-street, where his friends Loder, Punter, littleMoss Abrams, and Captain Skewball were assembled at the familiar greentable. In the rattle of the box, and of their agreeable conversation,Sir Francis's spirits rose to their accustomed point offeeble hilarity.

Mr. Pynsent, who had asked Miss Amory to dance, came up on oneoccasion to claim her hand, but scowls of recognition having alreadypassed between him and Mr. Arthur Pendennis in the dancing-room,Arthur suddenly rose up and claimed Miss Amory as his partner for thepresent dance, on which Mr. Pynsent, biting his lips and scowling yetmore savagely, withdrew with a profound bow, saying that he gave uphis claim. There are some men who are always falling in one's way inlife. Pynsent and Pen had this view of each other, and regarded eachother accordingly.

"What a confounded, conceited provincial fool that is!" thought theone. "Because he has written a twopenny novel, his absurd head isturned, and a kicking would take his conceit out of him."

"What an impertinent idiot that man is!" remarked the other to hispartner. "His soul is in Downing-street; his neckcloth is foolscap;his hair is sand; his legs are rulers; his vitals are tape andsealing-wax; he was a prig in his cradle; and never laughed since hewas born, except three times at the same joke of his chief. I have thesame liking for that man, Miss Amory, that I have for cold boiledveal." Upon which Blanche of course remarked, that Mr. Pendennis waswicked, méchant, perfectly abominable, and wondered what he wouldsay when her back was turned.

"Say!—Say that you have the most beautiful figure and the slimmestwaist in the world, Blanche—Miss Amory, I mean. I beg your pardon.Another turn; this music would make an alderman dance."

"And you have left off tumbling, when you waltz now?" Blanche asked,archly looking up at her partner's face.

"One falls and one gets up again in life, Blanche; you know I used tocall you so in old times, and it is the prettiest name in the world:besides, I have practiced since then."

"And with a great number of partners, I'm afraid," Blanche said, witha little sham sigh, and a shrug of the shoulders. And so in truth Mr.Pen had practiced a good deal in this life; and had undoubtedlyarrived at being able to dance better.

If Pendennis was impertinent in his talk, Foker, on the other hand, sobland and communicative on most occasions, was entirely mum andmelancholy when he danced with Miss Amory. To clasp her slender waistwas a rapture, to whirl round the room with her was a delirium; but tospeak to her, what could he say that was worthy of her? What pearl ofconversation could he bring that was fit for the acceptance of such aqueen of love and wit as Blanche? It was she who made the talk whenshe was in the company of this love-stricken partner. It was she whoasked him how that dear little pony was, and looked at him and thankedhim with such a tender kindness and regret, and refused the dearlittle pony with such a delicate sigh when he offered it. "I havenobody to ride with in London," she said. "Mamma is timid, and herfigure is not pretty on horseback. Sir Francis never goes out with me,He loves me like—like a step-daughter. Oh, how delightful it must beto have a father—a father, Mr. Foker!"

"Oh, uncommon," said Mr. Harry, who enjoyed that blessing very calmly,upon which, and forgetting the sentimental air which she had justbefore assumed, Blanche's gray eyes gazed at Foker with such an archtwinkle, that both of them burst out laughing, and Harry, enrapturedand at his ease, began to entertain her with a variety of innocentprattle—good, kind, simple, Foker talk, flavored with manyexpressions by no means to be discovered in dictionaries, and relatingto the personal history of himself or horses, or other things dear andimportant to him, or to persons in the ball-room then passing beforethem, and about whose appearance or character Mr. Harry spoke withartless freedom, and a considerable dash of humor.

And it was Blanche who, when the conversation flagged, and the youth'smodesty came rushing back and overpowering him, knew how to reanimateher companion: asked him questions about Logwood, and whether it was apretty place? Whether he was a hunting-man, and whether he liked womento hunt? (in which case she was prepared to say that she adoredhunting)—but Mr. Foker expressing his opinion against sportingfemales, and pointing out Lady Bullfinch, who happened to pass by, asa horse god-mother, whom he had seen at cover with a cigar in herface, Blanche too expressed her detestation of the sports of thefield, and said it would make her shudder to think of a dear, sweetlittle fox being killed, on which Foker danced and waltzed withrenewed vigor and grace.

At the end of the waltz—the last waltz they had on that night—Blanche asked him about Drummington, and whether it was a fine house.His cousins, she had heard, were very accomplished; Lord Erith she hadmet, and which of his cousins was his favorite? Was it not Lady Ann?Yes, she was sure it was she: sure by his looks and his blushes. Shewas tired of dancing; it was getting very late; she must go to mamma;and, without another word, she sprang away from Harry Foker's arm, andseized upon Pen's, who was swaggering about the dancing-room, andagain said, "Mamma, mamma!—take me to mamma, dear Mr. Pendennis!"transfixing Harry with a Parthian shot, as she fled from him.

My Lord Steyne, with garter and ribbon, with a bald head and shiningeyes, and a collar of red whiskers round his face, always looked grandupon an occasion of state; and made a great effect upon LadyClavering, when he introduced himself to her at the request of theobsequious Major Pendennis. With his own white and royal hand, hehanded to her ladyship a glass of wine, said he had heard of hercharming daughter, and begged to be presented to her; and, at thisvery juncture, Mr. Arthur Pendennis came up with the young lady onhis arm.

The peer made a profound bow, and Blanche the deepest courtesy thatever was seen. His lordship gave Mr. Arthur Pendennis his hand toshake; said he had read his book, which was very wicked and clever;asked Miss Blanche if she had read it, at which Pen blushed andwinced. Why, Blanche was one of the heroines of the novel. Blanche, inblack ringlets and a little altered, was the Neaera of Walter Lorraine.

Blanche had read it; the language of the eyes expressed her admirationand rapture at the performance. This little play being achieved, theMarquis of Steyne made other two profound bows to Lady Clavering andher daughter, and passed on to some other of his guests at thesplendid entertainment.

Mamma and daughter were loud in their expression of admiration of thenoble marquis so soon as his broad back was turned upon them. "He saidthey make a very nice couple," whispered Major Pendennis to LadyClavering. Did he now, really? Mamma thought they would; Mamma was soflustered with the honor which had just been shown to her, and withother intoxicating events of the evening, that her good humor knew nobounds. She laughed, she winked, and nodded knowingly at Pen; shetapped him on the arm with her fan; she tapped Blanche; she tapped themajor; her contentment was boundless; and her method of showing herjoy equally expansive.

As the party went down the great staircase of Gaunt House, the morninghad risen stark and clear over the black trees of the square, theskies were tinged with pink; and the cheeks of some of the people atthe ball—ah, how ghastly they looked! That admirable and devotedmajor above all—who had been for hours by Lady Clavering's side,ministering to her and feeding her body with every thing that wasnice, and her ear with every thing that was sweet and flattering—oh!what an object he was! The rings round his eyes were of the color ofbistre; those orbs themselves were like the plovers' eggs whereof LadyClavering and Blanche had each tasted; the wrinkles in his old facewere furrowed in deep gashes; and a silver stubble, like an elderlymorning dew, was glittering on his chin, and alongside the dyedwhiskers, now limp and out of curl.

There he stood, with admirable patience, enduring uncomplainingly, asilent agony; knowing that people could see the state of his face (forcould he not himself perceive the condition of others, males andfemales, of his own age?)—longing to go to rest for hours past; awarethat suppers disagreed with him, and yet having eaten a little so asto keep his friend, Lady Clavering, in good humor; with twinges ofrheumatism in the back and knees; with weary feet burning in hisvarnished boots; so tired, oh, so tired, and longing for bed! If aman, struggling with hardship and bravely overcoming it, is an objectof admiration for the gods, that Power in whose chapels the old majorwas a faithful worshiper must have looked upward approvingly upon theconstancy of Pendennis's martyrdom. There are sufferers in that causeas in the other; the negroes in the service of Mumbo Jumbo tattoo anddrill themselves with burning skewers with great fortitude; and weread that the priests in the service of Baal gashed themselves andbled freely. You who can smash the idols, do so with a good courage;but do not be too fierce with the idolaters—they worship the bestthing they know.

[Illustration]

The Pendennises, the elder and the younger, waited with Lady Claveringand her daughter until her ladyship's carriage was announced, when theelder's martyrdom may be said to have come to an end, for thegood-natured Begum insisted upon leaving him at his door inBury-street; so he took the back seat of the carriage, after a feeblebow or two, and speech of thanks, polite to the last, and resolute indoing his duty. The Begum waved her dumpy little hand by way offarewell to Arthur and Foker, and Blanche smiled languidly out uponthe young men, thinking whether she looked very wan and green underher rose-colored hood, and whether it was the mirrors at Gaunt House,or the fatigue and fever of her own eyes, which made her fancyherself so pale.

Arthur, perhaps, saw quite well how yellow Blanche looked, but did notattribute that peculiarity of her complexion to the effect of thelooking-glasses, or to any error in his sight or her own. Our youngman of the world could use his eyes very keenly, and could seeBlanche's face pretty much as nature had made it. But for poor Fokerit had a radiance which dazzled and blinded him: he could see nomore faults in it than in the sun, which was now flaring over thehouse-tops.

Among other wicked London habits which Pen had acquired, the moralistwill remark that he had got to keep very bad hours; and often wasgoing to bed at the time when sober country people were thinking ofleaving it. Men get used to one hour as to another. Editors ofnewspapers, Covent-Garden market people, night cabmen, andcoffee-sellers, chimney-sweeps, and gentlemen and ladies of fashionwho frequent balls, are often quite lively at three or four o'clock ofa morning, when ordinary mortals are snoring. We have shown in thelast chapter how Pen was in a brisk condition of mind at this period,inclined to smoke his cigar at ease, and to speak freely.

Foker and Pen walked away from Gaunt House, then, indulging in boththe above amusem*nts; or rather Pen talked, and Foker looked as if hewanted to say something. Pen was sarcastic and dandyfied when he hadbeen in the company of great folks; he could not help imitating someof their airs and tones, and having a most lively imagination, mistookhimself for a person of importance very easily. He rattled away, andattacked this person and that; sneered at Lady John Turnbull's badFrench, which her ladyship will introduce into all conversations, inspite of the sneers of every body: at Mrs. Slack Roper's extraordinarycostume and sham jewels; at the old dandies and the young ones; atwhom didn't he sneer and laugh?

"You fire at everybody, Pen—you're grown awful, that you are," Fokersaid. "Now, you've pulled about Blondel's yellow wig, and Colchicum'sblack one, why don't you have a shy at a brown one, hay? you knowwhose I mean. It got into Lady Clavering's carriage."

"Under my uncle's hat? My uncle is a martyr, Foker, my boy. My unclehas been doing excruciating duties all night. He likes to go to bedrather early. He has a dreadful headache if he sits up and touchessupper. He always has the gout if he walks or stands much at a ball.He has been sitting up, and standing up, and supping. He has gone hometo the gout and the headache, and for my sake. Shall I make fun of theold boy? no, not for Venice!"

"How do you mean that he has been doing it for your sake?" Fokerasked, looking rather alarmed.

"Boy! canst thou keep a secret if I impart it to thee?" Pen cried out,in high spirits. "Art thou of good counsel? Wilt thou swear? Wilt thoube mum, or wilt thou peach? Wilt thou be silent and hear, or wilt thouspeak and die?" And as he spoke, flinging himself into an absurdtheatrical attitude, the men in the cab-stand in Piccadilly wonderedand grinned at the antics of the two young swells.

"What the doose are you driving at?" Foker asked, looking very muchagitated.

Pen, however, did not remark this agitation much, but continued in thesame bantering and excited vein. "Henry, friend of my youth," hesaid, "and witness of my early follies, though dull at thy books, yetthou art not altogether deprived of sense; nay, blush not, Henrico,thou hast a good portion of that, and of courage and kindness too, atthe service of thy friends. Were I in a strait of poverty, I wouldcome to my Foker's purse. Were I in grief, I would discharge my griefupon his sympathizing bosom—"

"Gammon, Pen; go on," Foker said.

"I would, Henrico, upon thy studs, and upon thy cambric, worked by thehands of beauty, to adorn the breast of valor! Know then, friend of myboyhood's days, that Arthur Pendennis, of the Upper Temple,student-at-law, feels that he is growing lonely, and old Care isfurrowing his temples, and Baldness is busy with his crown. Shall westop and have a drop of coffee at this stall, it looks very hot andnice? Look how that cabman is blowing at his saucer. No, you won't?Aristocrat! I resume my tale. I am getting on in life. I have gotdevilish little money. I want some. I am thinking of getting some, andsettling in life. I'm thinking of settling. I'm thinking of marrying,old boy. I'm thinking of becoming a moral man; a steady port andsherry character: with a good reputation in my quartier, and amoderate establishment of two maids and a man; with an occasionalbrougham to drive out Mrs. Pendennis, and a house near the Parks forthe accommodation of the children. Ha! what sayest thou? Answer thyfriend, thou worthy child of beer. Speak, I adjure thee, by allthy vats."

"But you ain't got any money, Pen," said the other, still lookingalarmed.

"I ain't? No, but she ave. I tell thee there is gold in store for me—not what you call money, nursed in the lap of luxury, and cradledon grains, and drinking in wealth from a thousand mash-tubs. What doyou know about money? What is poverty to you, is splendor to the hardyson of the humble apothecary. You can't live without an establishment,and your houses in town and country. A snug little house somewhere offBelgravia, a brougham for my wife, a decent cook, and a fair bottle ofwine for my friends at home sometimes; these simple necessariessuffice for me, my Foker." And here Pendennis began to look moreserious. Without bantering further, Pen continued, "I've ratherserious thoughts of settling and marrying. No man can get on in theworld without some money at his back. You must have a certain stake tobegin with, before you can go in and play the great game. Who knowsthat I'm not going to try, old fellow? Worse men than I have won atit. And as I have not got enough capital from my fathers, I must getsome by my wife—that's all."

They were walking down Grosvenor-street, as they talked, or rather asPen talked, in the selfish fullness of his heart; and Mr. Pen musthave been too much occupied with his own affairs to remark the concernand agitation of his neighbor, for he continued, "We are no longerchildren, you know, you and I, Harry. Bah! the time of our romance haspassed away. We don't marry for passion, but for prudence and forestablishment. What do you take your cousin for? Because she is a nicegirl, and an earl's daughter, and the old folks wish it, and that sortof thing."

"And you, Pendennis," asked Foker, "you ain't very fond of thegirl—you're going to marry?"

Pen shrugged his shoulders. "Comme ça," said he; "I like her wellenough. She's pretty enough; she's clever enough. I think she'll dovery well. And she has got money enough—that's the great point. Psha!you know who she is, don't you? I thought you were sweet on heryourself one night when we dined with her mamma. It's little Amory."

"I—I thought so," Foker said; "and has she accepted you?"

"Not quite," Arthur replied, with a confident smile, which seemed tosay, I have but to ask, and she comes to me that instant.

"Oh, not quite," said Foker; and he broke out with such a dreadfullaugh, that Pen, for the first time, turned his thoughts from himselftoward his companion, and was struck by the other's ghastly pale face.

"My dear fellow, Fo! what's the matter? You're ill," Pen said, in atone of real concern.

"You think it was the Champagne at Gaunt House, don't you? It ain'tthat. Come in; let me talk to you for a minute. I'll tell you what itis. D—it, let me tell somebody," Foker said.

They were at Mr. Foker's door by this time, and, opening it, Harrywalked with his friend into his apartments, which were situated in theback part of the house, and behind the family dining-room, where theelder Foker received his guests, surrounded by pictures of himself,his wife, his infant son on a donkey, and the late Earl of Gravesendin his robes as a peer. Foker and Pen passed by this chamber, nowclosed with death-like shutters, and entered into the young man's ownquarters. Dusky streams of sunbeams were playing into that room, andlighting up poor Harry's gallery of dancing girls and opera nymphswith flickering illuminations.

"Look here! I can't help telling you, Pen," he said. "Ever since thenight we dined there, I'm so fond of that girl, that I think I shalldie if I don't get her. I feel as if I should go mad sometimes. Ican't stand it, Pen. I couldn't bear to hear you talking about her,just now, about marrying her only because she's money. Ah, Pen! thatain't the question in marrying. I'd bet any thing it ain't. Talkingabout money and such a girl as that, it's—it's—what-d'ye-callem—youknow what I mean—I ain't good at talking—sacrilege, then. If she'd haveme, I'd take and sweep a crossing, that I would!"

"Poor Fo! I don't think that would tempt her," Pen said, eying hisfriend with a great deal of real good-nature and pity. "She is not agirl for love and a cottage."

"She ought to be a duch*ess, I know that very well, and I know shewouldn't take me unless I could make her a great place in theworld—for I ain't good for any thing myself much—I ain't clever andthat sort of thing," Foker said, sadly. "If I had all the diamondsthat all the duch*esses and marchionesses had on to-night, wouldn't Iput 'em in her lap? But what's the use of talking? I'm booked foranother race. It's that kills me, Pen. I can't get out of it; though Idie, I can't get out of it. And though my cousin's a nice girl, and Ilike her very well, and that, yet I hadn't seen this one when ourgovernors settled that matter between us. And when you talked, justnow, about her doing very well, and about her having money enough forboth of you, I thought to myself, it isn't money or mere liking agirl, that ought to be enough to make a fellow marry. He may marry,and find he likes somebody else better. All the money in the worldwon't make you happy then. Look at me; I've plenty of money, or shallhave, out of the mash-tubs, as you call 'em. My governor thought he'dmade it all right for me in settling my marriage with my cousin. Itell you it won't do; and when Lady Ann has got her husband, it won'tbe happy for either of us, and she'll have the most miserablebeggar in town."

"Poor old fellow!" Pen said, with rather a cheap magnanimity, "I wishI could help you. I had no idea of this, and that you were so wildabout the girl. Do you think she would have you without your money?No. Do you think your father would agree to break off your engagementwith your cousin? You know him very well, and that he would cast youoff rather than do so."

The unhappy Foker only groaned a reply, flinging himself prostrate onthe sofa, face forward, his head in his hands.

"As for my affair," Pen went on—"my dear fellow, if I had thoughtmatters were so critical with you, at least I would not have painedyou by choosing you as my confidant. And my business is not serious,at least, not as yet. I have not spoken a word about it to Miss Amory.Very likely she would not have me if I asked her. Only I have had agreat deal of talk about it with my uncle, who says that the matchmight be an eligible one for me. I'm ambitious and I'm poor. And itappears Lady Clavering will give her a good deal of money, and SirFrancis might be got to—never mind the rest. Nothing is settled,Harry. They are going out of town directly. I promise you I won't askher before she goes. There's no hurry: there's time for every body.But, suppose you got her, Foker. Remember what you said aboutmarriages just now, and the misery of a man who doesn't care for hiswife: and what sort of a wife would you have who didn't care forher husband?"

"But she would care for me," said Foker, from his sofa—"that is, Ithink she would. Last night only, as we were dancing, she said—"

"What did she say?" Pen cried, starting up in great wrath. But he sawhis own meaning more clearly than Foker, and broke off with alaugh—"Well, never mind what she said, Harry. Miss Amory is a clevergirl, and says numbers of civil things—to you—to me, perhaps—andwho the deuce knows to whom besides? Nothing's settled, old boy. Atleast, my heart won't break if I don't get her. Win her if you can, and I wish you joy of her. Good-by! Don't think about what I said toyou. I was excited, and confoundedly thirsty in those hot rooms, anddidn't, I suppose, put enough Seltzer water into the Champagne. Goodnight! I'll keep your counsel too. 'Mum' is the word between us; and'let there be a fair fight, and let the best man win,' as PeterCrawley says."

So saying, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, giving a very queer and ratherdangerous look at his companion, shook him by the hand, with somethingof that sort of cordiality which befitted his just repeated simile ofthe boxing-match, and which Mr. Bendigo displays when he shakes handswith Mr. Gaunt before they fight each other for the champion's beltand two hundred pounds a side. Foker returned his friend's salute withan imploring look, and a piteous squeeze of the hand, sank back on hiscushions again, and Pen, putting on his hat, strode forth into theair, and almost over the body of the matutinal housemaid, who wasrubbing the steps at the door.

"And so he wants her too? does he?" thought Pen as he marchedalong—and noted within himself with a fatal keenness of perceptionand almost an infernal mischief, that the very pains and tortureswhich that honest heart of Foker's was suffering gave a zest and animpetus to his own pursuit of Blanche: if pursuit that might be calledwhich had been no pursuit as yet, but mere sport and idle dallying."She said something to him, did she? perhaps she gave him the fellowflower to this;" and he took out of his coat and twiddled in his thumband finger a poor little shriveled, crumpled bud that had faded andblackened with the heat and flare of the night. "I wonder to how manymore she has given her artless tokens of affection—the littleflirt"—and he flung his into the gutter, where the water may haverefreshed it, and where any amateur of rosebuds may have picked it up.And then bethinking him that the day was quite bright, and that thepassers-by might be staring at his beard and white neckcloth, ourmodest young gentleman took a cab and drove to the Temple. Ah! is thisthe boy that prayed at his mother's knee but a few years since, andfor whom very likely at this hour of morning she is praying? Is thisjaded and selfish worldling the lad who, a short while back, was readyto fling away his worldly all, his hope, his ambition, his chance oflife, for his love? This is the man you are proud of, old Pendennis.You boast of having formed him: and of having reasoned him out of hisabsurd romance and folly—and groaning in your bed over your pains andrheumatisms, satisfy yourself still by thinking, that, at last, thatlad will do something to better himself in life, and that thePendennises will take a good place in the world. And is he the onlyone, who in his progress through this dark life goes willfully orfatally astray, while the natural truth and love which should illuminehim grew dim in the poisoned air, and suffice to light him no more?

When Pen was gone away, poor Harry Foker got up from the sofa, andtaking out from his waistcoat—the splendidly buttoned, the gorgeouslyembroidered, the work of his mamma—a little white rosebud, he drewfrom his dressing-case, also the maternal present, a pair of scissors,with which he nipped carefully the stalk of the flower, and placing itin a glass of water opposite his bed, he sought refuge there from careand bitter remembrances.

It is to be presumed that Miss Blanche Amory had more than one rose inher bouquet, and why should not the kind young creature give out ofher superfluity, and make as many partners as possible happy?

MONSEIGNEUR S'AMUSE.

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The exertions of that last night at Gaunt House had proved almost toomuch for Major Pendennis; and as soon as he could move his weary oldbody with safety, he transported himself groaning to Buxton, andsought relief in the healing waters of that place. Parliament brokeup. Sir Francis Clavering and family left town, and the affairs whichwe have just mentioned to the reader were not advanced, in the briefinterval of a few days or weeks which have occurred between this andthe last chapter. The town was, however, emptied since then. Theseason was now come to a conclusion: Pen's neighbors, the lawyers,were gone upon circuit: and his more fashionable friends had takentheir passports for the Continent, or had fled for health orexcitement to the Scotch moors. Scarce a man was to be seen in thebay-windows of the Clubs, or on the solitary Pall-Mall pavement. Thered jackets had disappeared from before the Palace-gate: the tradesmenof St. James's were abroad taking their pleasure: the tailors hadgrown mustaches, and were gone up the Rhine: the bootmakers were atEms or Baden, blushing when they met their customers at those placesof recreation, or punting beside their creditors at the gamblingtables: the clergymen of St. James's only preached to half acongregation, in which there was not a single sinner of distinction:the band in Kensington Gardens had shut up their instruments of brassand trumpets of silver: only two or three old flies and chaisescrawled by the banks of the Serpentine, and Clarence Bulbul, who wasretained in town by his arduous duties as a Treasury clerk, when hetook his afternoon ride in Rotten Row, compared its loneliness to thevastness of the Arabian desert, and himself to a Bedouin wending hisway through that dusty solitude. Warrington stowed away a quantity ofCavendish tobacco in his carpet bag, and betook himself, as his customwas, in the vacation to his brother's house in Norfolk. Pen was leftalone in chambers for a while, for this man of fashion could not quitthe metropolis when he chose always: and was at present detained bythe affairs of his newspaper, the Pall Mall Gazette, of which he actedas the editor and chargé d'affaires during the temporary absence ofthe chief, Captain Shandon, who was with his family at the salutarywatering-place of Boulogne sur Mer.

Although, as we have seen, Mr. Pen had pronounced himself for yearspast to be a man perfectly blasé and wearied of life, yet the truthis that he was an exceedingly healthy young fellow; still with a fineappetite, which he satisfied with the greatest relish and satisfactionat least once a day; and a constant desire for society, which showedhim to be any thing but misanthropical. If he could not get a gooddinner he sat down to a bad one with perfect contentment; if he couldnot procure the company of witty, or great, or beautiful persons, heput up with any society that came to hand; and was perfectly satisfiedin a tavern-parlor or on board a Greenwich steam-boat, or in a jauntto Hampstead with Mr. Finucane, his colleague at the Pall MallGazette; or in a visit to the summer theaters across the river; or tothe Royal Gardens of Vauxhall, where he was on terms of friendshipwith the great Simpson, and where he shook the principal comic singeror the lovely equestrian of the arena by the hand. And while he couldwatch the grimaces or the graces of these with a satiric humor thatwas not deprived of sympathy, he could look on with an eye of kindnessat the lookers on too; at the roystering youth bent upon enjoyment,and here taking it: at the honest parents, with their delightedchildren laughing and clapping their hands at the show: at the pooroutcasts, whose laughter was less innocent, though perhaps louder, andwho brought their shame and their youth here, to dance and be merrytill the dawn at least; and to get bread and drown care. Of thissympathy with all conditions of men Arthur often boasted: he waspleased to possess it: and said that he hoped thus to the last heshould retain it. As another man has an ardor for art or music, ornatural science, Mr. Pen said that anthropology was his favoritepursuit; and had his eyes always eagerly open to its infinitevarieties and beauties: contemplating with an unfailing delight allspecimens of it in all places to which he resorted, whether it was thecoqueting of a wrinkled dowager in a ball-room, or a high-bred youngbeauty blushing in her prime there; whether it was a hulking guardsmancoaxing a servant-girl in the Park, or innocent little Tommy that wasfeeding the ducks while the nurse listened. And indeed a man whoseheart is pretty clean, can indulge in this pursuit with an enjoymentthat never ceases, and is only perhaps the more keen because it issecret, and has a touch of sadness in it: because he is of his moodand humor lonely, and apart although not alone.

Yes, Pen used to brag and talk in his impetuous way to Warrington. "Iwas in love so fiercely in my youth, that I have burned out that flameforever, I think, and if ever I marry, it will be a marriage of reasonthat I will make, with a well-bred, good-tempered, good-looking personwho has a little money, and so forth, that will cushion our carriagein its course through life. As for romance, it is all done; I havespent that out, and am old before my time—I'm proud of it."

"Stuff!" growled the other, "you fancied you were getting bald theother day, and bragged about it, as you do about every thing. But youbegan to use the bear's-grease pot directly the hair-dresser told you;and are scented like a barber ever since."

"You are Diogenes," the other answered, "and you want every man tolive in a tub like yourself. Violets smell better than stale tobacco,you grizzly old cynic." But Mr. Pen was blushing while he made thisreply to his unromantical friend, and indeed cared a great deal moreabout himself still than such a philosopher perhaps should have done.Indeed, considering that he was careless about the world, Mr. Penornamented his person with no small pains in order to make himselfa*greeable to it, and for a weary pilgrim as he was, wore very tightboots and bright varnish.

It was in this dull season of the year then, of a shining Friday nightin autumn, that Mr. Pendennis, having completed at his newspaperoffice a brilliant leading article—such as Captain Shandon himselfmight have written, had the captain been in good humor, and inclinedto work, which he never would do except under compulsion—that Mr.Arthur Pendennis having written his article, and reviewed itapprovingly as it lay before him in its wet proof-sheet at the officeof the paper, bethought him that he would cross the water, and regalehimself with the fire-works and other amusem*nts of Vauxhall. So heaffably put in his pocket the order which admitted "Editor of PallMall Gazette and friend" to that place of recreation, and paid withthe coin of the realm a sufficient sum to enable him to cross WaterlooBridge. The walk thence to the Gardens was pleasant, the stars wereshining in the skies above, looking down upon the royal property,whence the rockets and Roman candles had not yet ascended to outshinethe stars.

Before you enter the enchanted ground, where twenty thousandadditional lamps are burned every night as usual, most of us havepassed through the black and dreary passage and wickets which hide thesplendors of Vauxhall from uninitiated men. In the walls of thispassage are two holes strongly illuminated, in the midst of which yousee two gentlemen at desks, where they will take either your money asa private individual, or your order of admission if you are providedwith that passport to the Gardens. Pen went to exhibit his ticket atthe last-named orifice, where, however, a gentleman and two ladieswere already in parley before him.

The gentleman, whose hat was very much on one side, and who wore ashort and shabby cloak in an excessively smart manner, was crying outin a voice which Pen at once recognized, "Bedad, sir, if ye doubt mehonor, will ye obleege me by stipping out of that box, and—"

"Lor, Capting!" cried the elder lady.

"Don't bother me," said the man in the box.

"And ask Mr. Hodgen himself, who's in the gyardens, to let theseleedies pass. Don't be froightened, me dear madam, I'm not going toquarl with this gintleman, at any reet before leedies. Will ye go,sir, and desoire Mr. Hodgen (whose orther I keem in with, and he's memost intemate friend, and I know he's goan to sing the 'Body Snatcher'here to-noight), with Captain Costigan's compliments, to stip out andlet in the leedies; for meself, sir, oi've seen Vauxhall, and Iscawrun any interfayrance on moi account: but for these leedies, oneof them has never been there, and oi should think ye'd harly takeadvantage of me misfartune in losing the tickut, to deproive her ofher pleasure."

"It ain't no use, captain. I can't go about your business," thechecktaker said; on which the captain swore an oath, and the elderlady said, "Lor, ow provokin!"

As for the young one, she looked up at the captain, and said, "Nevermind, Captain Costigan, I'm sure I don't want to go at all. Come away,mamma." And with this, although she did not want to go at all, herfeelings overcame her, and she began to cry.

"Me poor child!" the captain said. "Can ye see that, sir, and will yenot let this innocent creature in?"

"It ain't my business," cried the door-keeper, peevishly, out of theilluminated box. And at this minute Arthur came up, and recognizingCostigan, said, "Don't you know me, captain? Pendennis!" And he tookoff his hat and made a bow to the two ladies. "Me dear boy! Me dearfriend!" cried the captain, extending toward Pendennis the grasp offriendship; and he rapidly explained to the other what he called "amost unluckee conthratong." He had an order for Vauxhall, admittingtwo, from Mr. Hodgen, then within the Gardens, and singing (as he didat the Back Kitchen and the nobility's concerts the "Body Snatcher,"the "Death of General Wolfe," the "Banner of Blood," and otherfavorite melodies); and, having this order for the admission of twopersons, he thought that it would admit three, and had comeaccordingly to the Gardens with his friends. But, on his way, CaptainCostigan had lost the paper of admission—it was not forthcoming atall; and the leedies must go back again, to the great disappointmentof one of them, as Pendennis saw.

Arthur had a great deal of good nature for everybody, and sympathizedwith the misfortunes of all sorts of people: how could he refuse hissympathy in such a case as this? He had seen the innocent face as itlooked up to the captain, the appealing look of the girl, the piteousquiver of the mouth, and the final outburst of tears. If it had beenhis last guinea in the world, he must have paid it to have given thepoor little thing pleasure. She turned the sad imploring eyes awaydirectly they lighted upon a stranger, and began to wipe them with herhandkerchief. Arthur looked very handsome and kind as he stood beforethe women, with his hat off, blushing, bowing, generous, agentleman. "Who are they?" he asked of himself. He thought he had seenthe elder lady before.

"If I can be of any service to you, Captain Costigan," the young mansaid, "I hope you will command me; is there any difficulty abouttaking these ladies into the garden? Will you kindly make use of mypurse? And—I have a ticket myself which will admit two—I hope,ma'am, you will permit me?"

The first impulse of the Prince of Fairoaks was to pay for the wholeparty, and to make away with his newspaper order as poor Costigan haddone with his own ticket. But his instinct, and the appearance of thetwo women told him that they would be better pleased if he did notgive himself the airs of a grand seigneur, and he handed his purseto Costigan, and laughingly pulled out his ticket with one hand, as heoffered the other to the elder of the ladies—ladies was not theword—they had bonnets and shawls, and collars and ribbons, and theyoungest showed a pretty little foot and boot under her modest graygown, but his Highness of Fairoaks was courteous to every person whowore a petticoat, whatever its texture was, and the humbler thewearer, only the more stately and polite in his demeanor.

"Fanny, take the gentleman's arm," the elder said; "since you will beso very kind; I've seen you often come in at our gate, sir, and go into Captain Strong's, at No. 4."

Fanny made a little courtesy, and put her hand under Arthur's arm. Ithad on a shabby little glove, but it was pretty and small. She wasnot a child, but she was scarcely a woman as yet; her tears had driedup, and her cheek mantled with youthful blushes, and her eyesglistened with pleasure and gratitude, as she looked up into Arthur'skind face.

Arthur, in a protecting way, put his other hand upon the little oneresting on his arm. "Fanny's a very pretty little name," he said, "andso you know me, do you?"

"We keep the lodge, sir, at Shepherd's Inn," Fanny said, with acourtesy; "and I've never been at Vauxhall, sir, and Pa didn't like meto go—and—and—O—O—law, how beautiful!" She shrank back as shespoke, starting with wonder and delight as she saw the Royal Gardensblaze before her with a hundred million of lamps, with a splendor suchas the finest fairy tale, the finest pantomime she had ever witnessedat the theater, had never realized. Pen was pleased with her pleasure,and pressed to his side the little hand which clung so kindly to him."What would I not give for a little of this pleasure?" said theblasé young man.

"Your purse, Pendennis, me dear boy," said the captain's voice behindhim. "Will ye count it? it's all roight—no—ye thrust in old JackCostigan (he thrusts me, ye see, madam). Ye've been me preserver, Pen(I've known um since choildhood, Mrs. Bolton; he's the proproietor ofFairoaks Castle, and many's the cooper of clart I've dthrunk therewith the first nobilitee of his native countee)—Mr. Pendennis,ye've been me preserver, and oi thank ye; me daughtther will thank ye:Mr. Simpson, your humble servant, sir."

If Pen was magnificent in his courtesy to the ladies, what was hissplendor in comparison to Captain Costigan's bowing here and there,and crying bravo to the singers?

A man, descended like Costigan, from a long line of Hibernian kings,chieftains, and other magnates and sheriffs of the county, had ofcourse too much dignity and self-respect to walk arrum-in-arrum (asthe captain phrased it) with a lady who occasionally swept his roomout, and cooked his mutton chops. In the course of their journey fromShepherd's Inn to Vauxhall Gardens, Captain Costigan had walked by theside of the two ladies, in a patronizing and affable manner pointingout to them the edifices worthy of note, and discoursing, according tohis wont, about other cities and countries which he had visited, andthe people of rank and fashion with whom he had the honor of anacquaintance. Nor could it be expected, nor, indeed, did Mrs. Boltonexpect, that, arrived in the royal property, and strongly illuminatedby the flare of the twenty thousand additional lamps, the captainwould relax from his dignity, and give an arm to a lady who was, infact, little better than a housekeeper or charwoman.

But Pen, on his part, had no such scruples. Miss Fanny Bolton did notmake his bed nor sweep his chambers; and he did not choose to let gohis pretty little partner. As for Fanny, her color heightened, and herbright eyes shone the brighter with pleasure, as she leaned forprotection on the arm of such a fine gentleman as Mr. Pen. And shelooked at numbers of other ladies in the place, and at scores of othergentlemen under whose protection they were walking here and there; andshe thought that her gentleman was handsomer and grander looking thanany other gent in the place. Of course there were votaries of pleasureof all ranks there—rakish young surgeons, fast young clerks andcommercialists, occasional dandies of the guard regiments, and therest. Old Lord Colchicum was there in attendance upon MademoiselleCaracoline, who had been riding in the ring; and who talked her nativeFrench very loud, and used idiomatic expressions of exceeding strengthas she walked about, leaning on the arm of his lordship.

Colchicum was in attendance upon Mademoiselle Caracoline, little TomTufthunt was in attendance upon Lord Colchicum; and rather pleased,too, with his position. When Don Juan scales the wall, there's never awant of a Leporello to hold the ladder. Tom Tufthunt was quite happyto act as friend to the elderly viscount, and to carve the fowl, andto make the salad at supper. When Pen and his young lady met theviscount's party, that noble peer only gave Arthur a passing leer ofrecognition as his lordship's eyes passed from Pen's face under thebonnet of Pen's companion. But Tom Tufthunt wagged his head verygood-naturedly at Mr. Arthur, and said, "How are you, old boy?" andlooked extremely knowing at the god-father of this history.

"That is the great rider at Astley's; I have seen her there," MissBolton said, looking after Mademoiselle Caracoline; "and who is thatold man? is it not the gentleman in the ring?"

"That is Lord Viscount Colchicum, Miss Fanny," said Pen, with an airof protection. He meant no harm; he was pleased to patronize the younggirl, and he was not displeased that she should be so pretty, and thatshe should be hanging upon his arm, and that yonder elderly Don Juanshould have seen her there.

Fanny was very pretty; her eyes were dark and brilliant; her teethwere like little pearls; her mouth was almost as red as MademoiselleCaracoline's when the latter had put on her vermilion. And what adifference there was between the one's voice and the other's, betweenthe girl's laugh and the woman's! It was only very lately, indeed,that Fanny, when looking in the little glass over the Bows-Costiganmantle-piece as she was dusting it, had begun to suspect that she wasa beauty. But a year ago, she was a clumsy, gawky girl, at whom herfather sneered, and of whom the girls at the day-school (MissMinifer's, Newcastle-street, Strand; Miss M., the younger sister, tookthe leading business at the Norwich circuit in 182-; and she herselfhad played for two seasons with some credit T.R.E.O., T.R.S.W.,until she fell down a trap-door and broke her leg); the girls atFanny's school, we say, took no account of her, and thought her adowdy little creature as long as she remained under Miss Minifer'sinstruction. And it was unremarked and almost unseen in the darkporter's lodge of Shepherd's Inn, that this little flower bloomedinto beauty.

So this young person hung upon Mr. Pen's arm, and they paced thegardens together. Empty as London was, there were still some twomillions of people left lingering about it, and among them, one or twoof the acquaintances of Mr. Arthur Pendennis.

Among them, silent and alone, pale, with his hands in his pockets, anda rueful nod of the head to Arthur as they met, passed Henry Foker,Esq. Young Henry was trying to ease his mind by moving from place toplace, and from excitement to excitement. But he thought about Blancheas he sauntered in the dark walks; he thought about Blanche as helooked at the devices of the lamps. He consulted the fortune-tellerabout her, and was disappointed when that gipsy told him that he wasin love with a dark lady who would make him happy; and at the concert,though Mr. Momus sang his most stunning comic songs, and asked hismost astonishing riddles, never did a kind smile come to visit Foker'slips. In fact he never heard Mr. Momus at all.

Pen and Miss Bolton were hard by listening to the same concert, andthe latter remarked, and Pen laughed at, Mr. Foker's woe-begone face.

Fanny asked what it was that made that odd-looking little man sodismal? "I think he is crossed in love!" Pen said. "Isn't that enoughto make any man dismal, Fanny?" And he looked down at her, splendidlyprotecting her, like Egmont at Clara in Goethe's play, or Leicester atAmy in Scott's novel.

"Crossed in love is he? poor gentleman," said Fanny with a sigh, andher eyes turned round toward him with no little kindness and pity—butHarry did not see the beautiful dark eyes.

[Illustration]

"How-dy-do, Mr. Pendennis!"—a voice broke in here—it was that of ayoung man in a large white coat with a red neckcloth, over which adingy short collar was turned, so as to exhibit a dubious neck—with alarge pin of bullion or other metal, and an imaginative waistcoat withexceedingly fanciful glass buttons, and trowsers that cried with aloud voice, "Come look at me and see how cheap and tawdry I am; mymaster, what a dirty buck!" and a little stick in one pocket of hiscoat, and a lady in pink satin on the other arm—"How-dy-do—Forgetme, I dare say? Huxter—Clavering."

"How do you do, Mr. Huxter," the Prince of Fairoaks said, in his mostprincely manner, "I hope you are very well." "Pretty bobbish,thanky." And Mr. Huxter wagged his head. "I say, Pendennis, you'vebeen coming it uncommon strong since we had the row at Wapshot's,don't you remember. Great author, hay? Go about with the swells. Sawyour name in the Morning Post. I suppose you're too much of a swell tocome and have a bit of supper with an old friend?—Charterhouse-laneto-morrow night—some devilish good fellows from Bartholomew's, andsome stunning gin punch. Here's my card." And with this Mr. Huxterreleased his hand from the pocket where his cane was, and pulling offthe top of his card case with his teeth produced thence a visitingticket, which he handed to Pen.

"You are exceedingly kind, I am sure," said Pen: "but I regret that Ihave an engagement which will take me out of town to-morrow night."And the Marquis of Fairoaks wondering that such a creature as thiscould have the audacity to give him a card, put Mr. Huxter's card intohis waistcoat pocket with a lofty courtesy. Possibly Mr. Samuel Huxterwas not aware that there was any great social difference between Mr.Arthur Pendennis and himself. Mr. Huxter's father was a surgeon andapothecary at Clavering, just as Mr. Pendennis's papa had been asurgeon and apothecary at Bath. But the impudence of some men isbeyond all calculation.

"Well, old fellow, never mind," said Mr. Huxter, who, always frank andfamiliar, was from vinous excitement even more affable than usual. "Ifever you are passing, look up at our place—I'm mostly at homeSaturdays; and there's generally a cheese in the cupboard. Ta, Ta.There's the bell for the fire-works ringing. Come along, Mary." And heset off running with the rest of the crowd in the direction of thefireworks.

So did Pen presently, when this agreeable youth was out of sight,begin to run with his little companion; Mrs. Bolton following afterthem, with Captain Costigan at her side. But the captain was toomajestic and dignified in his movements to run for friend or enemy,and he pursued his course with the usual jaunty swagger whichdistinguished his steps, so that he and his companion were speedilydistanced by Pen and Miss Fanny.

Perhaps Arthur forgot, or perhaps he did not choose to remember, thatthe elder couple had no money in their pockets, as had been proved bytheir adventure at the entrance of the gardens; howbeit, Pen paid acouple of shillings for himself and his partner, and with her hangingclose on his arm, scaled the staircase which leads to the fire-workgallery. The captain and mamma might have followed them if they liked,but Arthur and Fanny were too busy to look back. People were pushingand squeezing there beside and behind them. One eager individualrushed by Fanny, and elbowed her so, that she fell back with a littlecry, upon which, of course, Arthur caught her adroitly in his arms,and, just for protection, kept her so defended until they mounted thestair, and took their places.

Poor Foker sate alone on one of the highest benches, his face illuminatedby the fire-works, or in their absence by the moon. Arthursaw him, and laughed, but did not occupy himself about his friendmuch. He was engaged with Fanny. How she wondered! how happy she was!how she cried O, O, O, as the rockets soared into the air, andshowered down in azure, and emerald, and vermilion. As these wondersblazed and disappeared before her, the little girl thrilled andtrembled with delight at Arthur's side—her hand was under his armstill, he felt it pressing him as she looked up delighted.

[Illustration]

"How beautiful they are, sir!" she cried.

"Don't call me sir, Fanny," Arthur said.

A quick blush rushed up into the girl's face. "What shall I call you?"she said, in a low voice, sweet and tremulous. "What would you wish meto say, sir?"

"Again, Fanny? Well, I forgot; it is best so, my dear," Pendennissaid, very kindly and gently. "I may call you Fanny?"

"O yes!" she said, and the little hand pressed his arm once more veryeagerly, and the girl clung to him so that he could feel her heartbeating on his shoulder.

"I may call you Fanny, because you are a young girl, and a good girl, Fanny, and I am an old gentleman. But you mustn't call me any thingbut sir, or Mr. Pendennis, if you like; for we live in very differentstations, Fanny; and don't think I speak unkindly; and—and why do youtake your hand away, Fanny? Are you afraid of me? Do you think I wouldhurt you? Not for all the world, my dear little girl. And—and lookhow beautiful the moon and stars are, and how calmly they shine whenthe rockets have gone out, and the noisy wheels have done hissing andblazing. When I came here to-night, I did not think I should have hadsuch a pretty little companion to sit by my side, and see these finefire-works. You must know I live by myself, and work very hard. Iwrite in books and newspapers, Fanny; and I was quite tired out, andexpected to sit alone all night; and—don't cry, my dear, dear, littlegirl." Here Pen broke out, rapidly putting an end to the calm orationwhich he had begun to deliver; for the sight of a woman's tears alwaysput his nerves in a quiver, and he began forthwith to coax her andsoothe her, and to utter a hundred-and-twenty little ejacul*tions ofpity and sympathy, which need not be repeated here, because they wouldbe absurd in print. So would a mother's talk to a child be absurd inprint; so would a lover's to his bride. That sweet, artless poetrybears no translation; and is too subtle for grammarian's clumsydefinitions. You have but the same four letters to describe the salutewhich you perform on your grandmother's forehead, and that which youbestow on the sacred cheek of your mistress; but the same fourletters, and not one of them a labial. Do we mean to hint that Mr.Arthur Pendennis made any use of the monosyllable in question? Not so.In the first place it was dark: the fire-works were over, and nobodycould see him; secondly, he was not a man to have this kind of secret,and tell it; thirdly and lastly, let the honest fellow who has kisseda pretty girl, say what would have been his own conduct in such adelicate juncture?

Well, the truth is, that however you may suspect him, and whatever youwould have done under the circ*mstances, or Mr. Pen would have likedto do, he behaved honestly, and like a man. "I will not play with thislittle girl's heart," he said within himself, "and forget my own orher honor. She seems to have a great deal of dangerous and rathercontagious sensibility, and I am very glad the fire-works are over,and that I can take her back to her mother. Come along, Fanny; mindthe steps, and lean on me. Don't stumble, you heedless little thing;this is the way, and there is your mamma at the door."

And there, indeed, Mrs. Bolton was, unquiet in spirit, and graspingher umbrella. She seized Fanny with maternal fierceness and eagerness,and uttered some rapid abuse to the girl in an under tone. Theexpression in Captain Costigan's eye—standing behind the matron andwinking at Pendennis from under his hat—was, I am bound to say,indefinably humorous.

It was so much so, that Pen could not refrain from bursting into alaugh. "You should have taken my arm, Mrs. Bolton," he said, offeringit. "I am very glad to bring Miss Fanny back quite safe to you. Wethought you would have followed us up into the gallery. We enjoyed thefire-works, didn't we?"

"Oh, yes!" said Miss Fanny, with rather a demure look.

"And the bouquet was magnificent," said Pen. "And it is ten hourssince I had any thing to eat, ladies, and I wish you would permit meto invite you to supper."

"Dad," said Costigan, "I'd loike a snack, tu; only I forgawt me purse,or I should have invoited these leedies to a colleetion."

Mrs. Bolton, with considerable asperity, said, she ad an eadache, andwould much rather go home.

"A lobster salad is the best thing in the world for a headache," Pensaid, gallantly, "and a glass of wine I'm sure will do you good. Come,Mrs. Bolton, be kind to me, and oblige me. I shan't have the heart tosup without you, and upon my word, I have had no dinner. Give me yourarm: give me the umbrella. Costigan, I'm sure you'll take care of MissFanny; and I shall think Mrs. Bolton angry with me, unless she willfavor me with her society. And we will all sup quietly, and go back ina cab together."

The cab, the lobster salad, the frank and good-humored look ofPendennis, as he smilingly invited the worthy matron, subdued hersuspicions and her anger. Since he would be so obliging, she thoughtshe could take a little bit of lobster, and so they all marched awayto a box; and Costigan called for a waither with such a loud andbelligerent voice, as caused one of those officials instantly torun to him.

The carte was examined on the wall, and Fanny was asked to chooseher favorite dish; upon which the young creature said she was fond oflobster, too, but also owned to a partiality for raspberry-tart. Thisdelicacy was provided by Pen, and a bottle of the most friskyChampagne was moreover ordered for the delight of the ladies. LittleFanny drank this: what other sweet intoxication had she not drunk inthe course of the night?

When the supper, which was very brisk and gay, was over, and CaptainCostigan and Mrs. Bolton had partaken of some of the rack punch thatis so fragrant at Vauxhall, the bill was called and discharged by Penwith great generosity, "like a foin young English gentleman of th'olden toime, be Jove," Costigan enthusiastically remarked. And as,when they went out of the box, he stepped forward and gave Mrs. Boltonhis arm, Fanny fell to Pen's lot, and the young people walked away inhigh good-humor together, in the wake of their seniors.

The Champagne and the rack punch, though taken in moderation by allpersons, except perhaps poor Cos, who lurched ever so little in hisgait, had set them in high spirits and good humor, so that Fanny beganto skip and move her brisk little feet in time to the band, which wasplaying waltzes and galops for the dancers. As they came up to thedancing, the music and Fanny's feet seemed to go quicker together; sheseemed to spring, as if naturally, from the ground, and as if sherequired repression to keep her there.

"Shouldn't you like a turn?" said the Prince of Fairoaks. "What funit would be! Mrs. Bolton, ma'am, do let me take her once round." Uponwhich Mr. Costigan said, "Off wid you!" and Mrs. Bolton not refusing(indeed, she was an old war-horse, and would have liked, at thetrumpet's sound, to have entered the arena herself), Fanny's shawl wasoff her back in a minute, and she and Arthur were whirling round in awaltz in the midst of a great deal of queer, but exceedinglyjoyful company.

Pen had no mishap this time with little Fanny, as he had with MissBlanche in old days; at least, there was no mishap of his making. Thepair danced away with great agility and contentment; first a waltz,then a galop, then a waltz again, until, in the second waltz, theywere bumped by another couple who had joined the Terpsichorean choir.This was Mr. Huxter and his pink satin young friend, of whom we havealready had a glimpse.

Mr. Huxter very probably had been also partaking of supper, for he waseven more excited now than at the time when he had previously claimedPen's acquaintance; and having run against Arthur and his partner, andnearly knocked them down, this amiable gentleman of course began toabuse the people whom he had injured, and broke out into a volley ofslang against the unoffending couple. "Now, then, stoopid! Don't keepthe ground if you can't dance, old Slow Coach!" the young surgeonroared out (using, at the same time, other expressions far moreemphatic), and was joined in his abuse by the shrill language andlaughter of his partner, to the interruption of the ball, the terrorof poor little Fanny, and the immense indignation of Pen.

Arthur was furious; and not so angry at the quarrel as at the shameattending it. A battle with a fellow like that! A row in a publicgarden, and with a porter's daughter on his arm! What a position forArthur Pendennis! He drew poor little Fanny hastily away from thedancers to her mother, and wished that lady, and Costigan, and poorFanny underground, rather than there, in his companionship, and underhis protection.

When Huxter commenced his attack, that free spoken young gentleman hadnot seen who was his opponent, and directly he was aware that it wasArthur whom he had insulted, he began to make apologies. "Hold yourstoopid tongue, Mary," he said to his partner. "It's an old friend andcrony at home. I beg pardon, Pendennis; wasn't aware it was you, oldboy" Mr. Huxter had been one of the boys of the Clavering School, whohad been present at a combat which has been mentioned in the earlypart of this story, when young Pen knocked down the biggest championof the academy, and Huxter knew that it was dangerous to quarrelwith Arthur.

His apologies were as odious to the other as his abuse had been. Penstopped his tipsy remonstrances by telling him to hold his tongue, anddesiring him not to use his (Pendennis's) name in that place or anyother; and he walked out of the gardens with a titter behind him fromthe crowd, every one of whom he would have liked to massacre forhaving been witness to the degrading broil. He walked out of thegardens, quite forgetting poor little Fanny, who came trembling behindhim with her mother and the stately Costigan.

He was brought back to himself by a word from the captain, who touchedhim on the shoulder just as they were passing the inner gate.

"There's no ray-admittance except ye pay again," the captain said.
"Hadn't I better go back and take the fellow your message?"

Pen burst out laughing, "Take him a message! Do you think I wouldfight with such a fellow as that?" he asked.

"No, no! Don't, don't!" cried out little Fanny. "How can you be sowicked, Captain Costigan?" The captain muttered something about honor,and winked knowingly at Pen, but Arthur said gallantly, "No, Fanny,don't be frightened. It was my fault to have danced in such a place. Ibeg your pardon, to have asked you to dance there." And he gave herhis arm once more, and called a cab, and put his three friendsinto it.

He was about to pay the driver, and to take another carriage forhimself, when little Fanny, still alarmed, put her little hand out,and caught him by the coat, and implored him and besought him tocome in.

"Will nothing satisfy you," said Pen, in great good-humor, "that I amnot going back to fight him? Well, I will come home with you. Drive toShepherd's Inn, Cab." The cab drove to its destination. Arthur wasimmensely pleased by the girl's solicitude about him: her tenderterrors quite made him forget his previous annoyance.

Pen put the ladies into their lodge, having shaken hands kindly withboth of them; and the captain again whispered to him that he would seeum in the morning if he was inclined, and take his message to that"scounthrel." But the captain was in his usual condition when he madethe proposal; and Pen was perfectly sure that neither he nor Mr.Huxter, when they awoke, would remember any thing about the dispute.

A VISIT OF POLITENESS.

[Illustration]

Costigan never roused Pen from his slumbers; there was no hostilemessage from Mr. Huxter to disturb him; and when Pen woke, it was witha brisker and more lively feeling than ordinarily attends that momentin the day of the tired and blasé London man. A city man wakes upto care and consols, and the thoughts of 'Change and thecounting-house take possession of him as soon as sleep flies fromunder his nightcap; a lawyer rouses himself with the early morning tothink of the case that will take him all his day to work upon, and theinevitable attorney to whom he has promised his papers ere night.Which of us has not his anxiety instantly present when his eyes areopened, to it and to the world, after his night's sleep? Kindstrengthener that enables us to face the day's task with renewedheart! Beautiful ordinance of Providence that creates rest as itawards labor.

Mr. Pendennis's labor, or rather his disposition, was of that sortthat his daily occupations did not much interest him, for theexcitement of literary composition pretty soon subsides with the hiredlaborer, and the delight of seeing one's self in print only extends tothe first two or three appearances in the magazine or newspaper page.Pegasus put into harness, and obliged to run a stage every day, is asprosaic as any other hack, and won't work without his whip or his feedof corn. So, indeed Mr. Arthur performed his work at the Pall MallGazette (and since his success as a novelist with an increasedsalary), but without the least enthusiasm, doing his best or prettynearly, and sometimes writing ill and sometimes well. He was aliterary hack, naturally fast in pace, and brilliant in action.Neither did society, or that portion which he saw, excite or amuse himovermuch. In spite of his brag and boast to the contrary, he was tooyoung as yet for women's society, which probably can only be had inperfection when a man has ceased to think about his own person, andhas given up all designs of being a conqueror of ladies; he was tooyoung to be admitted as an equal among men who had made their mark inthe world, and of whose conversation he could scarcely as yet expectto be more than a listener. And he was too old for the men of pleasureof his own age; too much a man of pleasure for the men of business;destined, in a word, to be a good deal alone. Fate awards this lot ofsolitude to many a man; and many like it from taste, as many withoutdifficulty bear it. Pendennis, in reality, suffered it veryequanimously; but in words, and according to his wont, grumbled overit not a little.

"What a nice little artless creature that was," Mr. Pen thought at thevery instant of waking after the Vauxhall affair; "what a prettynatural manner she has; how much pleasanter than the minanderies ofthe young ladies in the ball-rooms" (and here he recalled to himselfsome instances of what he could not help seeing was the artfulsimplicity of Miss Blanche, and some of the stupid graces of otheryoung ladies in the polite world); "who could have thought that such apretty rose could grow in a porter's lodge, or bloom in that dismalold flower-pot of a Shepherd's Inn? So she learns to sing from oldBows? If her singing voice is as sweet as her speaking voice, it mustbe pretty. I like those low voilées voices. 'What would you like meto call you?' indeed. Poor little Fanny! It went to my heart to adoptthe grand air with her, and tell her to call me 'sir.' But we'll haveno nonsense of that sort—no Faust and Margaret business for me. Thatold Bows! So he teaches her to sing, does he? He's a dear old fellow,old Bows: a gentleman in those old clothes: a philosopher, and with akind heart, too. How good he was to me in the Fotheringay business.He, too, has had his griefs and his sorrows. I must cultivate oldBows. A man ought to see people of all sorts. I am getting tired ofgenteel society. Besides, there's nobody in town. Yes, I'll go and seeBows, and Costigan, too; what a rich character! begad, I'll study him,and put him into a book." In this way our young anthropologist talkedwith himself: and as Saturday was the holiday of the week, the "PallMall Gazette" making its appearance upon that day, and thecontributors to that journal having no further calls upon their brainsor ink-bottles, Mr. Pendennis determined he would take advantage ofhis leisure, and pay a visit to Shepherd's Inn—of course to seeold Bows.

The truth is, that if Arthur had been the most determined roué andartful Lovelace who ever set about deceiving a young girl, he couldhardly have adopted better means for fascinating and overcoming poorlittle Fanny Bolton than those which he had employed on the previousnight. His dandyfied protecting air, his conceit, generosity, and goodhumor, the very sense of good and honesty which had enabled him tocheck the tremulous advances of the young creature, and not to takeadvantage of that little fluttering sensibility—his faults and hisvirtues at once contributed to make her admire him; and if we couldpeep into Fanny's bed (which she shared in a cupboard, along withthose two little sisters to whom we have seen Mr. Costiganadministering ginger-bread and apples), we should find the poor littlemaid tossing upon her mattress, to the great disturbance of its othertwo occupants, and thinking over all the delights and events of thatdelightful, eventful night, and all the words, looks, and actions ofArthur, its splendid hero. Many novels had Fanny read, in secret andat home, in three volumes and in numbers. Periodical literature hadnot reached the height which it has attained subsequently, and thegirls of Fanny's generation were not enabled to purchase sixteen pagesof excitement for a penny, rich with histories of crime, murder,oppressed virtue, and the heartless seductions of the aristocracy; butshe had had the benefit of the circulating library which, inconjunction with her school and a small brandy-ball and millinerybusiness, Miss Minifer kept—and Arthur appeared to her at once as thetype and realization of all the heroes of all those darling, greasyvolumes which the young girl had devoured. Mr. Pen, we have seen, wasrather a dandy about shirts and haberdashery in general. Fanny hadlooked with delight at the fineness of his linen, at the brilliancy ofhis shirt studs, at his elegant cambric pocket-handkerchief and whitegloves, and at the jetty brightness of his charming boots. The princehad appeared and subjugated the poor little handmaid. His imagetraversed constantly her restless slumbers; the tone of his voice, theblue light of his eyes, the generous look, half love half pity—themanly protecting smile, the frank, winning laughter—all these wererepeated in the girl's fond memory. She felt still his arm encirclingher, and saw him smiling so grand as he filled up that delicious glassof Champagne. And then she thought of the girls, her friends, who usedto sneer at her—of Emma Baker, who was so proud, forsooth, becauseshe was engaged to a cheesemonger, in a white apron, near ClareMarket; and of Betsy Rodgers, who made such a to-do about heryoung man—an attorney's clerk, indeed, that went about with a bag!

So that, at about two o'clock in the afternoon—the Bolton familyhaving concluded, their dinner (and Mr. B., who besides his place ofporter of the Inn, was in the employ of Messrs. Tressler, the eminentundertakers of the Strand, being absent in the country with theCountess of Estrich's hearse), when a gentleman in a white hat andwhite trowsers made his appearance under the Inn archway, and stoppedat the porter's wicket, Fanny was not in the least surprised, onlydelighted, only happy, and blushing beyond all measure. She knew itcould be no other than He. She knew He'd come. There he was: there wasHis Royal Highness beaming upon her from the gate. She called to hermother, who was busy in the upper apartment, "Mamma, mamma," and ranto the wicket at once, and opened it, pushing aside the otherchildren. How she blushed as she gave her hand to him! How affably hetook off his white hat as he came in; the children staring up at him!He asked Mrs. Bolton if she had slept well, after the fatigues of thenight, and hoped she had no headache: and he said that as he wasgoing that way, he could not pass the door without asking news of hislittle partner.

Mrs. Bolton was, perhaps, rather shy and suspicious about theseadvances; but Mr. Pen's good humor was inexhaustible, he could not seethat he was unwelcome. He looked about the premises for a seat, andnone being disengaged, for a dish-cover was on one, a work-box on theother, and so forth, he took one of the children's chairs, and perchedhimself upon that uncomfortable eminence. At this, the children beganlaughing, the child Fanny louder than all; at least, she was moreamused than any of them, and amazed at his Royal Highness'scondescension. He to sit down in that chair—that little child'schair! Many and many a time after she regarded it: haven't we almostall, such furniture in our rooms, that our fancy peoples with dearfigures, that our memory fills with sweet, smiling faces, which maynever look on us more?

So Pen sate down, and talked away with great volubility to Mrs.Bolton. He asked about the undertaking business, and how many muteswent down with Lady Estrich's remains; and about the Inn, and wholived there. He seemed very much interested about Mr. Campion's caband horse, and had met that gentleman in society. He thought he shouldlike shares in the Polwheedle and Pontydiddlum; did Mrs. Bolton do forthose chambers? Were there any chambers to let in the Inn? It wasbetter than the Temple: he should like to come to live in Shepherd'sInn. As for Captain Strong and—Colonel Altamont was his name? he wasdeeply interested in them, too. The captain was an old friend at home.He had dined with him at chambers here, before the colonel came tolive with him. What sort of man was the colonel? Wasn't he a stoutman, with a large quantity of jewelry, and a wig, and large blackwhiskers, very black (here Pen was immensely waggish, and causedhysteric giggles of delight from the ladies), very black, indeed; infact, blue-black; that is to say, a rich greenish purple? That was theman; he had met him, too, at Sir F——in society.

"O, we know!" said the ladies; "Sir F——is Sir F. Clavering; he'soften here: two or three times a week with the captain. My little boyhas been out for bill stamps for him. Oh, Lor! I beg pardon, Ishouldn't have mentioned no secrets," Mrs. Bolton blurted out, beingtalked perfectly into good-nature by this time. "But we know you to bea gentleman, Mr. Pendennis, for I'm sure you have shown that you canbeayve as such. Hasn't Mr. Pendennis, Fanny?"

Fanny loved her mother for that speech. She cast up her dark eyes tothe low ceiling, and said, "O, that he has, I'm sure, ma," with avoice full of feeling.

Pen was rather curious about the bill stamps, and concerning thetransactions in Strong's chambers. And he asked, when Altamont cameand joined the chevalier, whether he, too, sent out for bill stamps,who he was, whether he saw many people, and so forth. These questions,put with considerable adroitness by Pen, who was interested about SirFrancis Clavering's doings from private motives of his own, wereartlessly answered by Mrs. Bolton. and to the utmost of her knowledgeand ability, which, in truth, were not very great.

These questions answered, and Pen being at a loss for more, luckilyrecollected his privilege as a member of the press, and asked theladies whether they would like any orders for the play? The play wastheir delight, as it is almost always the delight of every theatricalperson. When Bolton was away professionally (it appeared that of latethe porter of Shepherd's Inn had taken a serious turn, drank a gooddeal, and otherwise made himself unpleasant to the ladies of hisfamily), they would like of all things to slip out and go to thetheater, little Barney their son, keeping the lodge; and Mr.Pendennis's most generous and most genteel compliment of orders wasreceived with boundless gratitude by both mother and daughter.

Fanny clapped her hands with pleasure: her face beamed with it. Shelooked, and nodded, and laughed at her mamma, who nodded and laughedin her turn. Mrs. Bolton was not superannuated for pleasure yet, or byany means too old for admiration, she thought. And very likely Mr.Pendennis, in his conversation with her, had insinuated somecompliments, or shaped his talk so as to please her. At first againstPen, and suspicious of him, she was his partisan now, and almost asenthusiastic about him as her daughter. When two women get together tolike a man, they help each other on; each pushes the other forward,and the second, out of sheer sympathy, becomes as eager as theprincipal: at least, so it is said by philosophers who have examinedthis science.

So the offer of the play tickets, and other pleasantries, put allparties into perfect good-humor, except for one brief moment, when oneof the younger children, hearing the name of "Astley's" pronounced,came forward and stated that she should like very much to go, too; onwhich Fanny said, "Don't bother!" rather sharply; and mamma said,"Git-long, Betsy Jane, do now, and play in the court:" so that the twolittle ones, namely, Betsy Jane and Ameliar Ann, went away in theirlittle innocent pinafores, and disported in the court-yard on thesmooth gravel, round about the statue of Shepherd the Great.

And here, as they were playing, they very possibly communicated withan old friend of theirs and dweller in the Inn; for while Pen wasmaking himself agreeable to the ladies at the lodge, who werelaughing, delighted at his sallies, an old gentleman passed under thearchway from the Inn-square, and came and looked in at the door ofthe lodge.

He made a very blank and rueful face when he saw Mr. Arthur seatedupon a table, like Macheath in the play, in easy discourse with Mrs.Bolton and her daughter.

"What! Mr. Bows? How d'you do, Bows!" cried out Pen, in a cheery, loudvoice. "I was coming to see you, and was asking your address ofthese ladies."

"You were coming to see me, were you, sir?" Bows said, and came inwith a sad face, and shook hands with Arthur. "Plague on that oldman!" somebody thought in the room: and so, perhaps, some one elsebesides her.

IN SHEPHERD'S INN.

[Illustration]

Our friend Pen said "How d'ye do, Mr. Bows," in a loud, cheery voice,on perceiving that gentleman, and saluted him in a dashing, off-handmanner; yet you could have seen a blush upon Arthur's face (answeredby Fanny, whose cheek straightway threw out a similar fluttering redsignal), and after Bows and Arthur had shaken hands, and the formerhad ironically accepted the other's assertion that he was about to payMr. Costigan's chambers a visit, there was a gloomy and rather guiltysilence in the company, which Pen presently tried to dispel by makinga great rattling and noise. The silence of course departed at Mr.Arthur's noise, but the gloom remained and deepened, as the darknessdoes in a vault if you light up a single taper in it. Pendennis triedto describe, in a jocular manner, the transactions of the nightprevious, and attempted to give an imitation of Costigan vainlyexpostulating with the check-taker at Vauxhall. It was not a goodimitation. What stranger can imitate that perfection? Nobody laughed.Mrs. Bolton did not in the least understand what part Mr. Pendenniswas performing, and whether it was the check-taker or the captain hewas taking off. Fanny wore an alarmed face, and tried a timid giggle;old Mr. Bows looked as glum as when he fiddled in the orchestra, orplayed a difficult piece upon the old piano at the Back-Kitchen.Pen felt that his story was a failure; his voice sank anddwindled away dismally at the end of it—flickered, and went out;and it was all dark again. You could hear the ticket-porter, who lollsabout Shepherd's Inn, as he passed on the flags under the archway: theclink of his boot-heels was noted by every body.

"You were coming to see me, sir," Mr. Bows said. "Won't you have thekindness to walk up to my chambers with me? You do them a great honor,I am sure. They are rather high up; but—"

"O! I live in a garret myself, and Shepherd's Inn is twice as cheerfulas Lamb Court," Mr. Pendennis broke in.

"I knew that you had third floor apartments," Mr. Bows said; "and wasgoing to say—you will please not take my remark as discourteous—thatthe air up three pair of stairs is wholesomer for gentlemen, than theair of a porter's lodge."

"Sir!" said Pen, whose candle flamed up again in his wrath, and whowas disposed to be as quarrelsome as men are when they are in thewrong. "Will you permit me to choose my society without—"

"You were so polite as to say that you were about to honor my umbledomicile with a visit," Mr. Bows said, with a sad voice. "Shall I showyou the way? Mr. Pendennis and I are old friends, Mrs. Bolton—veryold acquaintances; and at the earliest dawn of his life we crossedeach other."

The old man pointed toward the door with a trembling finger, and a hatin the other hand, and in an attitude slightly theatrical; so were hiswords, when he spoke, somewhat artificial, and chosen from thevocabulary which he had heard all his life from the painted lips ofthe orators before the stage-lamps. But he was not acting ormasquerading, as Pen knew very well, though he was disposed topooh-pooh the old fellow's melodramatic airs. "Come along, sir," hesaid, "as you are so very pressing. Mrs. Bolton, I wish you a goodday. Good-by, Miss Fanny; I shall always think of our night atVauxhall with pleasure; and be sure I will remember thetheatre-tickets." And he took her hand, pressed it, was pressed by it,and was gone.

"What a nice young man, to be sure!" cried Mrs. Bolton.

"D'you think so, ma?" said Fanny.

"I was a-thinkin who he was like. When I was at the Wells with Mrs.Serle," Mrs. Bolton continued, looking through the window curtainafter Pen, as he went up the court with Bows; "there was a younggentleman from the city, that used to come in a tilbry, in a white at,the very image of him, ony his whiskers was black, and Mr. P's.is red.

"Law, ma! they are a most beautiful hawburn," Fanny said.

"He used to come for Emly Budd, who danced Columbine in 'ArleykinOrnpipe, or the Battle of Navarino,' when Miss De la Bosky was tookill—a pretty dancer, and a fine stage figure of a woman—and he was agreat sugar-baker in the city, with a country ouse at Omerton; and heused to drive her in the tilbry down Goswell-street-road; and oneday they drove and was married at St. Bartholomew's Church Smithfield,where they had their bands read quite private; and she now keeps hercarriage; and I sor her name in the paper as patroness of theManshing-House Ball for the Washywomen's Asylum. And look at LadyMirabel—Capting Costigan's daughter—she was profeshnl, as all verywell know." Thus, and more to this purpose, Mrs. Bolton spoke, nowpeeping through the window-curtain, now cleaning the mugs and plates,and consigning them to their place in the corner cupboard; andfinishing her speech as she and Fanny shook out and folded up thedinner-cloth between them, and restored it to its drawer in the table.

Although Costigan had once before been made pretty accurately tounderstand what Pen's pecuniary means and expectations were, I supposeCos had forgotten the information acquired at Chatteris years ago, orhad been induced by his natural enthusiasm to exaggerate his friend'sincome. He had described Fairoaks Park in the most glowing terms toMrs. Bolton, on the preceding evening, as he was walking about withher during Pen's little escapade with Fanny, had dilated upon theenormous wealth of Pen's famous uncle, the major, and shown anintimate acquaintance with Arthur's funded and landed property. Verylikely Mrs. Bolton, in her wisdom, had speculated upon these mattersduring the night; and had had visions of Fanny driving in hercarriage, like Mrs. Bolton's old comrade, the dancer ofSadler's Wells.

In the last operation of table-cloth folding, these two foolish women,of necessity, came close together; and as Fanny took the cloth andgave it the last fold, her mother put her finger under the younggirl's chin, and kissed her. Again the red signal flew out, andfluttered on Fanny's cheek. What did it mean? It was not alarm thistime. It was pleasure which caused the poor little Fanny to blush so.Poor little Fanny! What? is love sin; that it is so pleasant at thebeginning, and so bitter at the end?

After the embrace, Mrs. Bolton thought proper to say that she wasa-goin out upon business, and that Fanny must keep the lodge; whichFanny, after a very faint objection indeed, consented to do. So Mrs.Bolton took her bonnet and market-basket, and departed; and theinstant she was gone, Fanny went and sate by the window whichcommanded Bows's door, and never once took her eyes away from thatquarter of Shepherd's Inn.

Betsy-Jane and Ameliar-Ann were buzzing in one corner of the place,and making believe to read out of a picture-book, which one of themheld topsy-turvy. It was a grave and dreadful tract, of Mr. Bolton'scollection. Fanny did not hear her sisters prattling over it. Shenoticed nothing but Bows's door.

At last she gave a little shake, and her eyes lighted up. He had comeout. He would pass the door again. But her poor little countenancefell in an instant more. Pendennis, indeed, came out; but Bowsfollowed after him. They passed under the archway together. He onlytook off his hat, and bowed as he looked in. He did not stop to speak. In three or four minutes—Fanny did not know how long, but shelooked furiously at him when he came into the lodge—Bows returnedalone, and entered into the porter's room.

"Where's your ma, dear?" he said to Fanny.

"I don't know," Fanny said, with an angry toss. "I don't follow ma'ssteps wherever she goes, I suppose, Mr. Bows."

"Am I my mother's keeper?" Bows said, with his usual melancholybitterness. "Come here, Betsy-Jane and Amelia-Ann; I've brought a cakefor the one who can read her letters best, and a cake for the otherwho can read them the next best."

When the young ladies had undergone the examination through which Bowsput them, they were rewarded with their gingerbread medals, and wentoff to discuss them in the court. Meanwhile Fanny took out some work,and pretended to busy herself with it, her mind being in greatexcitement and anger, as she plied her needle, Bows sate so that hecould command the entrance from the lodge to the street. But theperson whom, perhaps, he expected to see, never made his appearanceagain. And Mrs. Bolton came in from market, and found Mr. Bows inplace of the person whom she had expected to see. The reader perhapscan guess what was his name?

The interview between Bows and his guest, when those two mounted tothe apartment occupied by the former in common with the descendant ofthe Milesian kings, was not particularly satisfactory to either party.Pen was sulky. If Bows had any thing on his mind, he did not care todeliver himself of his thoughts in the presence of Captain Costigan,who remained in the apartment during the whole of Pen's visit; havingquitted his bed-chamber, indeed, but a very few minutes before thearrival of that gentleman. We have witnessed the deshabillé of MajorPendennis: will any man wish to be valet-de-chambre to our other hero,Costigan? It would seem that the captain, before issuing from hisbedroom, scented himself with otto of whisky. A rich odor of thatdelicious perfume breathed from out him, as he held out the grasp ofcordiality to his visitor. The hand which performed that grasp shookwoefully: it was a wonder how it could hold the razor with which thepoor gentleman daily operated on his chin.

Bows's room was as neat, on the other hand, as his comrade's wasdisorderly. His humble wardrobe hung behind a curtain. His books andmanuscript music were trimly arranged upon shelves. A lithographedportrait of Miss Fotheringay, as Mrs. Haller, with the actress'ssprawling signature at the corner, hung faithfully over the oldgentleman's bed. Lady Mirabel wrote much better than Miss Fotheringayhad been able to do. Her ladyship had labored assiduously to acquirethe art of penmanship since her marriage; and, in a common note ofinvitation or acceptance, acquitted herself very genteelly. Bows lovedthe old handwriting best, though; the fair artist's earlier manner. Hehad but one specimen of the new style, a note in reply to a songcomposed and dedicated to Lady Mirabel, by her most humble servantRobert Bows; and which document was treasured in his desk among hisother state papers. He was teaching Fanny Bolton now to sing and towrite, as he had taught Emily in former days. It was the nature of theman to attach himself to something. When Emily was torn from him hetook a substitute: as a man looks out for a crutch when he loses aleg, or lashes himself to a raft when he has suffered shipwreck.Latude had given his heart to a woman, no doubt, before he grew to beso fond of a mouse in the Bastille. There are people who in theiryouth have felt and inspired an heroic passion, and end by being happyin the caresses, or agitated by the illness of a poodle. But it washard upon Bows, and grating to his feelings as a man and asentimentalist, that he should find Pen again upon his track, and inpursuit of this little Fanny.

Meanwhile, Costigan had not the least idea but that his company wasperfectly welcome to Messrs. Pendennis and Bows, and that the visit ofthe former was intended for himself. He expressed himself greatlypleased with that mark of poloightness, and promised, in his own mind,that he would repay that obligation at least—which was not the onlydebt which the captain owed in life—by several visits to his youngfriend. He entertained him affably with news of the day, or rather often days previous; for Pen, in his quality of journalist, rememberedto have seen some of the captain's opinions in the Sporting andTheatrical Newspaper, which was Costigan's oracle. He stated that SirCharles and Lady Mirabel were gone to Baden-Baden, and were mostpressing in their invitations that he should join them there. Penreplied with great gravity, that he had heard that Baden was verypleasant, and the Grand Duke exceedingly hospitable to English.Costigan answered, that the laws of hospitalitee bekeam a Grand Juke;that he sariously would think about visiting him; and made someremarks upon the splendid festivities at Dublin Castle, when hisExcellency the Earl of Portansherry held the Viceraygal Coort there,and of which he Costigan had been an humble but pleased spectator. AndPen—as he heard these oft-told, well-remembered legends—recollectedthe time when he had given a sort of credence to them, and had acertain respect for the captain. Emily and first love, and the littleroom at Chatteris; and the kind talk with Bows on the bridge came backto him. He felt quite kindly disposed toward his two old friends; andcordially shook the hands of both of them when he rose to go away.

He had quite forgotten about little Fanny Bolton while the captain wastalking, and Pen himself was absorbed in other selfish meditations, Heonly remembered her again as Bows came hobbling down the stairs afterhim, bent evidently upon following him out of Shepherd's Inn.

Mr. Bows's precaution was not a lucky one. The wrath of Mr. ArthurPendennis rose at the poor old fellow's feeble persecution. Confoundhim, what does he mean by dogging me? thought Pen. And he burst outlaughing when he was in the Strand and by himself, as he thought ofthe elder's stratagem. It was not an honest laugh, Arthur Pendennis.Perhaps the thought struck Arthur himself, and he blushed at his ownsense of humor. He went off to endeavor to banish the thoughts whichoccupied him, whatever those thoughts might be, and tried variousplaces of amusem*nt with but indifferent success. He struggled up thehighest stairs of the Panorama; but when he had arrived, panting, atthe height of the eminence, Care had come up with him, and was bearinghim company. He went to the Club, and wrote a long letter home,exceedingly witty and sarcastic, and in which, if he did not say asingle word about Vauxhall and Fanny Bolton, it was because he thoughtthat subject, however interesting to himself, would not be veryinteresting to his mother and Laura. Nor could the novels on thelibrary table fix his attention, nor the grave and respectable Jawkins(the only man in town), who wished to engage him in conversation; norany of the amusem*nts which he tried, after flying from Jawkins. Hepassed a Comic Theater on his way home, and saw "Stunning Farce,""Roars of Laughter," "Good Old English Fun and Frolic," placarded invermilion letters on the gate. He went into the pit, and saw thelovely Mrs. Leary, as usual, in a man's attire; and that eminent buffoactor, Tom Horseman, dressed as a woman. Horseman's travestie seemedto him a horrid and hideous degradation; Mrs. Leary's glances andankles had not the least effect. He laughed again, and bitterly, tohimself, as he thought of the effect which she had produced upon him,on the first night of his arrival in London, a short time—what along, long time ago.

IN OR NEAR THE TEMPLE GARDEN.

Fashion has long deserted the green and pretty Temple Garden, in whichShakspeare makes York and Lancaster to pluck the innocent white andred roses which became the badges of their bloody wars; and thelearned and pleasant writer of the Handbook of London tells us that"the commonest and hardiest kind of rose has long ceased to put fortha bud" in that smoky air. Not many of the present occupiers of thebuildings round about the quarter know, or care, very likely, whetheror not roses grow there, or pass the old gate, except on their way tochambers. The attorneys' clerks don't carry flowers in their bags, orposies under their arms, as they run to the counsel's chambers; thefew lawyers who take constitutional walks think very little about Yorkand Lancaster, especially since the railroad business is over. Onlyantiquarians and literary amateurs care to look at the gardens withmuch interest, and fancy good Sir Roger de Coverley and Mr. Spectatorwith his short face pacing up and down the road; or dear OliverGoldsmith in the summer-house, perhaps meditating about the next"Citizen of the World," or the new suit that Mr. Filby, the tailor, isfashioning for him, or the dunning letter that Mr. Newberry has sent.Treading heavily on the gravel, and rolling majestically along in asnuff-colored suit, and a wig that sadly wants the barber's powder andirons, one sees the Great Doctor step up to him, (his Scotch lackeyfollowing at the lexicographer's heels, a little the worse for Portwine that they have been taking at the Miter), and Mr. Johnson asksMr. Goldsmith to come home and take a dish of tea with Miss Williams.Kind faith of Fancy! Sir Hoger and Mr. Spectator are as real to us nowas the two doctors and the boozy and faithful Scotchman. The poeticalfigures live in our memory just as much as the real personages—and asMr. Arthur Pendennis was of a romantic and literary turn, by no meansaddicted to the legal pursuits common in the neighborhood of theplace, we may presume that he was cherishing some such poeticalreflections as these, when, upon the evening after the events recordedin the last chapter the young gentleman chose the Temple Gardens as aplace for exercise and meditation.

On the Sunday evening the Temple is commonly calm. The chambers arefor the most part vacant; the great lawyers are giving grand dinnerparties at their houses in the Belgravian or Tyburnian districts: theagreeable young barristers are absent, attending those parties, andpaying their respects to Mr. Kewsy's excellent claret, or Mr. JusticeErmine's accomplished daughters; the uninvited are partaking of theeconomic joint, and the modest half-pint of wine at the Club,entertaining themselves and the rest of the company in the Club-room,with Circuit jokes and points of wit and law. Nobody is in chambers atall, except poor Mr. co*ckle, who is ill, and whose laundress is makinghim gruel; or Mr. Toodle, who is an amateur of the flute, and whom youmay hear piping solitary from his chambers in the second floor: oryoung Tiger, the student, from whose open windows come a great gush ofcigar smoke, and at whose door are a quantity of dishes and covers,bearing the insignia of Dicks' or the co*ck. But stop! Whither doesFancy lead us? It is vacation time; and with the exception ofPendennis, nobody is in chambers at all.

Perhaps it was solitude, then, which drove Pen into the Garden; foralthough he had never before passed the gate, and had looked rathercarelessly at the pretty flower-beds, and the groups of pleasedcitizens sauntering over the trim lawn and the broad gravel-walks bythe river, on this evening it happened, as we have said, that theyoung gentleman, who had dined alone at a tavern in the neighborhoodof the Temple, took a fancy, as he was returning home to his chambers,to take a little walk in the gardens, and enjoy the fresh evening air,and the sight of the shining Thames. After walking for a brief space,and looking at the many peaceful and happy groups round about him, hegrew tired of the exercise, and betook himself to one of thesummer-houses which flank either end of the main walk, and theremodestly seated himself. What were his cogitations? The evening wasdelightfully bright and calm; the sky was cloudless; the chimneys onthe opposite bank were not smoking; the wharves and warehouses lookedrosy in the sunshine, and as clear as if they too, had washed for theholiday. The steamers rushed rapidly up and down the stream, ladenwith holiday passengers. The bells of the multitudinous city churcheswere ringing to evening prayers—such peaceful Sabbath evenings asthis Pen may have remembered in his early days, as he paced, with hisarm round his mother's waist, on the terrace before the lawn athome. The sun was lighting up the little Brawl, too, as well as thebroad Thames, and sinking downward majestically behind the Claveringelms, and the tower of the familiar village church. Was it thoughts ofthese, or the sunset merely, that caused the blush in the young man'sface? He beat time on the bench, to the chorus of the bells without;flicked the dust off his shining boots with his pocket-handkerchief,and starting up, stamped with his foot and said, "No, by Jove, I'll gohome." And with this resolution, which indicated that some struggle asto the propriety of remaining where he was, or of quitting the garden,had been going on in his mind, he stepped out of the summer-house.

He nearly knocked down two little children, who did not indeed reachmuch higher than his knee, and were trotting along the gravel-walk,with their long blue shadows slanting toward the east.

One cried out, "Oh!" the other began to laugh; and with a knowinglittle infantine chuckle, said, "Missa Pendennis!" And Arthur lookingdown, saw his two little friends of the day before, MesdemoisellesAmeliar-Ann and Betsy-Jane. He blushed more than ever at seeing them,and seizing the one whom he had nearly upset, jumped her up into theair, and kissed her; at which sudden assault Ameliar-Ann began to cryin great alarm.

This cry brought up instantly two ladies in clean collars and newribbons, and grand shawls, namely, Mrs. Bolton in a rich scarletCaledonian Cashmere, and a black silk dress, and Miss F. Bolton with ayellow scarf and a sweet sprigged muslin, and a parasol—quite thelady. Fanny did not say one single word: though her eyes flashed awelcome, and shone as bright—as bright as the most blazing windows inPaper Buildings. But Mrs. Bolton, after admonishing Betsy-Jane, said,"Lor, sir, how very odd that we should meet you year? I ope youave your ealth well, sir. Ain't it odd, Fanny, that we should meet Mr.Pendennis?" What do you mean by snigg*ring, mesdames? When youngCroesus has been staying at a country-house, have you never, by anysingular coincidence, been walking with your Fanny in the shrubberies?Have you and your Fanny never happened to be listening to the band ofthe Heavies at Brighton, when young De Boots and Captain Padmore cameclinking down the Pier? Have you and your darling Frances neverchanced to be visiting old widow Wheezy at the cottage on the common,when the young curate has stepped in with a tract adapted to therheumatism? Do you suppose that, if singular coincidences occur at theHall, they don't also happen at the Lodge?

It was a coincidence, no doubt: that was all. In the course of theconversation on the day previous, Mr. Pendennis had merely said, inthe simplest way imaginable, and in reply to a question of MissBolton, that although some of the courts were gloomy, parts of theTemple were very cheerful and agreeable, especially the chamberslooking on the river and around the gardens, and that the gardens werea very pleasant walk on Sunday evenings, and frequented by a greatnumber of people—and here, by the merest chance, all ouracquaintances met together, just like so many people in genteellife. What could be more artless, good-natured, or natural?

[Illustration]

Pen looked very grave, pompous, and dandified. He was unusually smartand brilliant in his costume. His white duck trowsers and white hat,his neckcloth of many colors, his light waistcoat, gold chains, andshirt studs, gave him the air of a prince of the blood at least. Howhis splendor became his figure! Was any body ever like him? some onethought. He blushed—how his blushes became him! the same individual,said to herself. The children, on seeing him the day before, hadbeen so struck with him, that after he had gone away they had beenplaying at him. And Ameliar-Ann, sticking her little chubby fingersinto the arm-holes of her pinafore, as Pen was won't to do with hiswaistcoat, had said, "Now, Bessy-Jane, I'll be Missa Pendennis."Fanny had laughed till she cried, and smothered her sister with kissesfor that feat. How happy, too, she was to see Arthur embracingthe child!

[Illustration]

If Arthur was red, Fanny, on the contrary, was very worn and pale.
Arthur remarked it, and asked kindly why she looked so fatigued.

"I was awake all night," said Fanny, and began to blush a little.

"I put out her candle, and hordered her to go to sleep and leave offreadin," interposed the fond mother.

"You were reading! And what was it that interested you so?" asked Pen,amused.

"Oh, it's so beautiful!" said Fanny.

"What?"

"Walter Lorraine," Fanny sighed out. "How I do hate that Neara
—Neara—I don't know the pronunciation. And how I love Leonora, and
Walter, oh, how dear he is!"

How had Fanny discovered the novel of Walter Lorraine, and that Penwas the author? This little person remembered every single word whichMr. Pendennis had spoken on the night previous, and how he wrote inbooks and newspapers. What books? She was so eager to know, that shehad almost a mind to be civil to old Bows, who was suffering under herdispleasure since yesterday, but she determined first to makeapplication to Costigan. She began by coaxing the captain and smilingupon him in her most winning way, as she helped to arrange his dinnerand set his humble apartment in order. She was sure his linen wantedmending (and indeed the captain's linen-closet contained some curiousspecimens of manufactured flax and cotton). She would mend hisshirts—all his shirts. What horrid holes—what funny holes! She puther little face through one of them, and laughed at the old warrior inthe most winning manner. She would have made a funny little picturelooking through the holes. Then she daintily removed Costigan's dinnerthings, tripping about the room as she had seen the dancers do at theplay; and she danced to the captain's cupboard, and produced hiswhisky bottle, and mixed him a tumbler, and must taste a drop of it—alittle drop; and the captain must sing her one of his songs, his dearsongs, and teach it to her. And when he had sung an Irish melody inhis rich quavering voice, fancying it was he who was fascinating thelittle siren, she put her little question about Arthur Pendennis andhis novel, and having got an answer, cared for nothing more, but leftthe captain at the piano about to sing her another song, and thedinner tray on the passage, and the shirts on the chair, and ran downstairs quickening her pace as she sped.

Captain Costigan, as he said, was not a litherary cyarkter, nor had heas yet found time to peruse his young friend's ellygant perfaurumance,though he intended to teak an early opporchunitee of purchasing acawpee of his work. But he knew the name of Pen's novel from the factthat Messrs. Finucane, Bludyer, and other frequenters of theBack-Kitchen, spoke of Mr. Pendennis (and not all of them with greatfriendship; for Bludyer called him a confounded coxcomb, and Hoolanwondered that Doolan did not kick him, &c.) by the sobriquet of WalterLorraine—and was hence enabled to give Fanny the information whichshe required.

"And she went and ast for it at the libery," Mrs. Bolton said—"several liberies—and some ad it and it was hout, and some adn't it.And one of the liberies as ad it wouldn't let er ave it without asovering: and she adn't one, and she came back a-cryin to me—didn'tyou, Fanny?—and I gave her a sovering."

"And, oh, I was in such a fright lest any one should have come to thelibery and took it while I was away," Fanny said, her cheeks and eyesglowing. "And, oh, I do like it so!"

Arthur was touched by this artless sympathy, immensely flattered andmoved by it. "Do you like it?" he said. "If you will come up to mychambers I will—No, I will bring you one—no, I will send you one.Good night. Thank you, Fanny. God bless you. I mustn't stay with you.Good-by, good-by." And, pressing her hand once, and nodding to hermother and the other children, he strode out of the gardens.

He quickened his pace as he went from them, and ran out of the gatetalking to himself. "Dear, dear little thing," he said, "darlinglittle Fanny! You are worth them all. I wish to heaven Shandon wasback, I'd go home to my mother. I mustn't see her. I won't. I won't sohelp me—"

As he was talking thus, and running, the passers by turning to look athim, he ran against a little old man, and perceived it was Mr. Bows.

"Your very umble servant, sir," said Mr. Bows, making a sarcastic bow,and lifting his old hat from his forehead.

"I wish you a good day," Arthur answered sulkily. "Don't let me detainyou, or give you the trouble to follow me again. I am in a hurry, sir.Good evening."

Bows thought Pen had some reason for hurrying to his rooms. "Where arethey?" exclaimed the old gentleman. "You know whom I mean. They're notin your rooms, sir, are they? They told Bolton they were going tochurch at the Temple: they weren't there. They are in your chambers:they mustn't stay in your chambers, Mr. Pendennis."

"Damn it, sir!" cried out Pendennis, fiercely. "Come and see if theyare in my chambers: here's the court and the door—come in and see."And Bows, taking off his hat and bowing first, followed the young man.

They were not in Pen's chambers, as we know. But when the gardens wereclosed, the two women, who had had but a melancholy evening'samusem*nt, walked away sadly with the children, and they entered intoLamb-court, and stood under the lamp-post which cheerfully ornamentsthe center of that quadrangle, and looked up to the third floor of thehouse where Pendennis's chambers were, and where they saw a lightpresently kindled. Then this couple of fools went away, the childrendragging wearily after them, and returned to Mr. Bolton, who wasimmersed in rum-and-water at his lodge in Shepherd's Inn.

Mr. Bows looked round the blank room which the young man occupied, andwhich had received but very few ornaments or additions since the lasttime we saw them. Warrington's old book-case and battered library,Pen's writing-table with its litter of papers presented an aspectcheerless enough. "Will you like to look in the bedrooms, Mr. Bows,and see if my victims are there?" he said bitterly; "or whether I havemade away with the little girls, and hid them in the coal-hole?"

"Your word is sufficient, Mr. Pendennis," the other said, in his sadtone. "You say they are not here, and I know they are not. And I hopethey never have been here, and never will come."

"Upon my word, sir, you are very good, to choose my acquaintances forme," Arthur said, in a haughty tone; "and to suppose that any bodywould be the worse for my society. I remember you, and owe youkindness from old times, Mr. Bows; or I should speak more angrily thanI do, about a very intolerable sort of persecution to which you seeminclined to subject me. You followed me out of your inn yesterday, asif you wanted to watch that I shouldn't steal something." Here Penstammered and turned red, directly he had said the words; he felt hehad given the other an opening, which Bows instantly took.

"I do think you came to steal something, as you say the words, sir,"Bows said. "Do you mean to say that you came to pay a visit to poorold Bows, the fiddler; or to Mrs. Bolton at the porter's lodge? O fie!Such a fine gentleman as Arthur Pendennis, Esquire, doesn't condescendto walk up to my garret, or to sit in a laundress's kitchen, but forreasons of his own. And my belief is that you came to steal a prettygirl's heart away, and to ruin it, and to spurn it afterward, Mr.Arthur Pendennis. That's what the world makes of you young dandies,you gentlemen of fashion, you high and mighty aristocrats that trampleupon the people. It's sport to you, but what is it, to the poor, thinkyou the toys of your pleasures, whom you play with and whom you flinginto the streets when you are tired? I know your order, sir. I knowyour selfishness, and your arrogance, and your pride. What does itmatter to my lord, that the poor man's daughter is made miserable, andher family brought to shame? You must have your pleasures, and thepeople of course must pay for them. What are we made for, but forthat? It's the way with you all—the way with you all, sir."

Bows was speaking beside the question, and Pen had his advantage here,which he was not sorry to take—not sorry to put off the debate fromthe point upon which his adversary had first engaged it. Arthur brokeout with a sort of laugh, for which he asked Bows's pardon. "Yes, I aman aristocrat," he said, "in a palace up three pair of stairs, with acarpet nearly as handsome as yours, Mr. Bows. My life is passed ingrinding the people, is it?—in ruining virgins and robbing the poor?My good sir, this is very well in a comedy, where Job Thornberryslaps his breast, and asks my lord how dare he trample on an honestman and poke out an Englishman's fire-side; but in real life, Mr.Bows, to a man who has to work for his bread as much as you do—howcan you talk about aristocrats tyrannizing over the people? Have Iever done you a wrong? or assumed airs of superiority over you? Didyou not have an early regard for me—in days when we were both of usromantic young fellows, Mr. Bows? Come, don't be angry with me now,and let us be as good friends as we were before."

"Those days were very different," Mr. Bows answered; "and Mr. ArthurPendennis was an honest, impetuous young fellow then; rather selfishand conceited, perhaps, but honest. And I liked you then, because youwere ready to ruin yourself for a woman."

"And now, sir?" Arthur asked.

"And now times are changed, and you want a woman to ruin herself foryou," Bows answered. "I know this child, sir. I've always said thislot was hanging over her. She has heated her little brain with novelsuntil her whole thoughts are about love and lovers, and she scarcelysees that she treads on a kitchen floor. I have taught the littlething. She is full of many talents and winning ways, I grant you. I amfond of the girl, sir. I'm a lonely old man; I lead a life that Idon't like, among boon companions, who make me melancholy. I have butthis child that I care for. Have pity upon me, and don't take her awayfrom me, Mr. Pendennis—don't take her away."

The old man's voice broke as he spoke, its accents touched Pen, muchmore than the menacing or sarcastic tone which Bows had commencedby adopting.

"Indeed," said he, kindly; "you do me a wrong if you fancy I intendone to poor little Fanny. I never saw her till Friday night. It wasthe merest chance that our friend Costigan threw her into my way. Ihave no intentions regarding her—that is—"

"That is, you know very well that she is a foolish girl, and hermother a foolish woman—that is, you meet her in the Temple Gardens,and of course, without previous concert, that is, that when I foundher yesterday, reading the book you've wrote, she scorned me," Bowssaid. "What am I good for but to be laughed at? a deformed old fellowlike me; an old fiddler, that wears a thread-bare coat, and gets hisbread by playing tunes at an alehouse? You are a fine gentleman, youare. You wear scent in your handkerchief, and a ring on your finger.You go to dine with great people. Who ever gives a crust to old Bows?And yet I might have been as good a man as the best of you. I mighthave been a man of genius, if I had had the chance; ay, and have livedwith the master-spirits of the land. But every thing has failed withme. I'd ambition once, and wrote plays, poems, music—nobody wouldgive me a hearing. I never loved a woman, but she laughed at me; andhere I am in my old age alone—alone! Don't take this girl from me,Mr. Pendennis, I say again. Leave her with me a little longer. She waslike a child to me till yesterday. Why did you step in and make hermock my deformity and old age?"

THE HAPPY VILLAGE AGAIN.

Early in this history, we have had occasion to speak of the littletown of Clavering, near which Pen's paternal home of Fairoaks stood,and of some of the people who inhabited the place, and as the societythere was by no means amusing or pleasant, our reports concerning itwere not carried to any very great length. Mr. Samuel Huxter, thegentleman whose acquaintance we lately made at Vauxhall, was one ofthe choice spirits of the little town, when he visited it during hisvacations, and enlivened the tables of his friends there, by the witof Bartholomew's and the gossip of the fashionable London circleswhich he frequented.

Mr. Hobnell, the young gentleman whom Pen had thrashed, in consequenceof the quarrel in the Fotheringay affair, was, while a pupil at theGrammar-school at Clavering, made very welcome at the tea-table ofMrs. Huxter, Samuel's mother, and was free of the surgery, where heknew the way to the tamarind-pots, and could scent his pocket-handkerchiefwith rose-water. And it was at this period of his life that he formed anattachment for Miss Sophy Huxter, whom, on his father's demise, hemarried, and took home to his house of the Warren, at a few miles fromClavering.

The family had possessed and cultivated an estate there for many yearsas yeomen and farmers. Mr. Hobnell's father pulled down the oldfarm-house; built a flaring new white-washed mansion, with capaciousstables; and a piano in the drawing-room; kept a pack of harriers; andassumed the title of Squire Hobnell. When he died, and his son reignedin his stead, the family might be fairly considered to be establishedas county gentry. And Sam Huxter, at London, did no great wrong inboasting about his brother-in-law's place, his hounds, horses, andhospitality, to his admiring comrades at Bartholomew's. Every year, ata time commonly when Mrs. Hobnell could not leave the increasingduties of her nursery, Hobnell came up to London for a lark, had roomsat the Tavistock, and indulged in the pleasures of the town together.Ascott, the theaters, Vauxhall, and the convivial taverns in thejoyous neighborhood of Covent Garden, were visited by the vivacioussquire, in company with his learned brother. When he was in London, ashe said, he liked to do as London does, and to "go it a bit," and whenhe returned to the west, he took a new bonnet and shawl to Mrs.Hobnell, and relinquished for country sports and occupations, duringthe next eleven months, the elegant amusem*nts of London life.

Sam Huxter kept up a correspondence with his relative, and suppliedhim with choice news of the metropolis, in return for the baskets ofhares, partridges, and clouted cream which the squire and hisgood-natured wife forwarded to Sam. A youth more brilliant anddistinguished they did not know. He was the life and soul of theirhouse, when he made his appearance in his native place. His songs,jokes, and fun kept the Warren in a roar. He had saved their eldestdarling's life, by taking a fish-bone out of her throat; in fine, hewas the delight of their circle.

As ill-luck would have it, Pen again fell in with Mr. Huxter, onlythree days after the rencounter at Vauxhall. Faithful to his vow, hehad not been to see little Fanny. He was trying to drive her from hismind by occupation, or other mental excitement. He labored, though notto much profit, incessantly in his rooms; and, in his capacity ofcritic for the "Pall Mall Gazette," made woeful and savage onslaughton a poem and a romance which came before him for judgment. Theseauthors slain, he went to dine alone at the lonely club of thePolyanthus, where the vast solitudes frightened him, and made him onlythe more moody. He had been to more theaters for relaxation. The wholehouse was roaring with laughter and applause, and he saw only anignoble farce that made him sad. It would have damped the spirits ofthe buffoon on the stage to have seen Pen's dismal face. He hardlyknew what was happening; the scene, and the drama passed before himlike a dream or a fever. Then he thought he would go to theBack-Kitchen, his old haunt with Warrington—he was not a bit sleepyyet. The day before he had walked twenty miles in search after rest,over Hampstead Common and Hendon lanes, and had got no sleep at night.He would go to the Back-Kitchen. It was a sort of comfort to him tothink he should see Bows. Bows was there, very calm, presiding at theold piano. Some tremendous comic songs were sung, which made the roomcrack with laughter. How strange they seemed to Pen! He could only seeBows. In an extinct volcano, such as he boasted that his breast was,it was wonderful how he should feel such a flame! Two days' indulgencehad kindled it; two days' abstinence had set it burning in fury. So,musing upon this, and drinking down one glass after another, asill-luck would have it, Arthur's eyes lighted upon Mr. Huxter, who hadbeen to the theater, like himself, and, with two or three comrades,now entered the room, Huxter whispered to his companions, greatly toPen's annoyance. Arthur felt that the other was talking about him.Huxter then worked through the room, followed by his friends, and cameand took a place opposite to Pen, nodding familiarly to him, andholding him out a dirty hand to shake.

Pen shook hands with his fellow townsman. He thought he had beenneedlessly savage to him on the last night when they had met. As forHuxter, perfectly at good humor with himself and the world, it neverentered his mind that he could be disagreeable to any body; and thelittle dispute, or "chaff," as he styled it, of Vauxhall, was a triflewhich he did not in the least regard.

The disciple of Galen having called for "four stouts," with which heand his party refreshed themselves, began to think what would be themost amusing topic of conversation with Pen, and hit upon that preciseone which was most painful to our young gentleman.

"Jolly night at Vauxhall—wasn't it?" he said, and winked in a veryknowing way.

"I'm glad you liked it," poor Pen said, groaning in spirit.

"I was dev'lish cut—uncommon—been dining with some chaps atGreenwich. That was a pretty bit of muslin hanging on your arm—whowas she?" asked the fascinating student.

The question was too much for Arthur. "Have I asked you any questionsabout yourself, Mr. Huxter?" he said.

"I didn't mean any offense—beg pardon—hang it, you cut up quitesavage," said Pen's astonished interlocutor.

"Do you remember what took place between us the other night?" Penasked, with gathering wrath. "You forget? Very probably. You weretipsy, as you observed just now, and very rude."

"Hang it, sir, I asked your pardon," Huxter said, looking red.

"You did certainly, and it was granted with all my heart, I am sure.But if you recollect I begged that you would have the goodness to omitme from the list of your acquaintance for the future; and when we metin public, that you would not take the trouble to recognize me. Willyou please to remember this hereafter; and as the song is beginning,permit me to leave you to the unrestrained enjoyment of the music."

He took his hat, and making a bow to the amazed Mr. Huxter, left thetable, as Huxter's comrades, after a pause of wonder, set up such aroar of laughter at Huxter, as called for the intervention of thepresident of the room; who bawled out, "Silence, gentlemen; do havesilence for the Body Snatcher!" which popular song began as Pen leftthe Back-Kitchen. He flattered himself that he had commanded histemper perfectly. He rather wished that Huxter had been pugnacious. Hewould have liked to fight him or somebody. He went home. The day'swork, the dinner, the play, the whisky-and-water, the quarrel—nothing soothed him. He slept no better than on the previous night.

A few days afterward, Mr. Sam Huxter wrote home a letter to Mr.Hobnell in the country, of which Mr. Arthur Pendennis formed theprincipal subject. Sam described Arthur's pursuits in London, and hisconfounded insolence of behavior to his old friends from home. Hesaid he was an abandoned criminal, a regular Don Juan, a fellow who,when he did come into the country, ought to be kept out of honestpeople's houses. He had seen him at Vauxhall, dancing with aninnocent girl in the lower ranks of life, of whom he was making avictim. He had found out from an Irish gentleman (formerly in thearmy), who frequented a club of which he, Huxter, was member, who thegirl was, on whom this conceited humbug was practicing his infernalarts; and he thought he should warn her father, &c., &c.,—the letterthen touched on general news, conveyed the writer's thanks for thelast parcel and the rabbits, and hinted his extreme readiness forfurther favors.

About once a year, as we have stated, there was occasion for achristening at the Warren, and it happened that this ceremony tookplace a day after Hobnell had received the letter of hisbrother-in-law in town. The infant (a darling little girl) waschristened Myra-Lucretia, after its two godmothers, Miss Portman andMrs. Pybus of Clavering, and as of course Hobnell had communicatedSam's letter to his wife, Mrs. Hobnell imparted its horrid contents toher two gossips. A pretty story it was, and prettily it was toldthroughout Clavering in the course of that day.

Myra did not—she was too much shocked to do so—speak on the matterto her mamma, but Mrs. Pybus had no such feelings of reserve. Shetalked over the matter not only with Mrs. Portman, but with Mr. andthe Honorable Mrs. Simcoe, with Mrs. Glanders, her daughters being tothat end ordered out of the room, with Madame Fribsby, and, in a word,with the whole of the Clavering society. Madam Fribsby lookingfurtively up at her picture of the dragoon, and inwards into her ownwounded memory, said that men would be men, and as long as they weremen would be deceivers; and she pensively quoted some lines fromMarmion, requesting to know where deceiving lovers should rest? Mrs.Pybus had no words of hatred, horror, contempt, strong enough for avillain who could be capable of conduct so base. This was what came ofearly indulgence, and insolence, and extravagance, and aristocraticairs (it is certain that Pen had refused to drink tea with Mrs.Pybus), and attending the corrupt and horrid parties in the dreadfulmodern Babylon! Mrs. Portman was afraid that she must acknowledge thatthe mother's fatal partiality had spoiled this boy, that his literarysuccesses had turned his head, and his horrid passions had made himforget the principles which Dr. Portman had instilled into him inearly life. Glanders, the atrocious Captain of Dragoons, when informedof the occurrence by Mrs. Glanders, whistled and made jocularallusions to it at dinner time; on which Mrs. Glanders called him abrute, and ordered the girls again out of the room, as the horridcaptain burst out laughing. Mr. Simcoe was calm under theintelligence; but rather pleased than otherwise; it only served toconfirm the opinion which he had always had of that wretched youngman: not that he knew any thing about him—not that he had read oneline of his dangerous and poisonous works; Heaven forbid that heshould: but what could be expected from such a youth, and suchfrightful, such lamentable, such deplorable want of seriousness? Penformed the subject for a second sermon at the Clavering chapel ofease: where the dangers of London, and the crime of reading andwriting novels, were pointed out on a Sunday evening to a large andwarm congregation. They did not wait to hear whether he was guilty ornot. They took his wickedness for granted: and with these admirablemoralists, it was who should fling the stone at poor Pen.

The next day Mrs. Pendennis, alone and almost fainting with emotionand fatigue, walked or rather ran to Dr. Portman's house, to consultthe good doctor. She had had an anonymous letter; some Christian hadthought it his or her duty to stab the good soul who had never donemortal a wrong—an anonymous letter with references to Scripture,pointing out the doom of such sinners, and a detailed account of Pen'scrime. She was in a state of terror and excitement pitiable towitness. Two or three hours of this pain had aged her already. In herfirst moment of agitation she had dropped the letter, and Laura hadread it. Laura blushed when she read it; her whole frame trembled, butit was with anger. "The cowards," she said. "It isn't true. No,mother, it isn't true."

"It is true, and you've done it, Laura," cried out Helen fiercely."Why did you refuse him when he asked you? Why did you break my heartand refuse him? It is you who led him into crime. It is you who flunghim into the arms of this—this woman. Don't speak to me. Don't answerme. I will never forgive you, never. Martha, bring me my bonnet andshawl. I'll go out. I won't have you come with me. Go away. Leave me,cruel girl; why have you brought this shame on me?" And bidding herdaughter and her servants keep away from her, she ran down the road toClavering.

Doctor Portman, glancing over the letter, thought he knew the handwriting, and, of course, was already acquainted with the charge madeagainst poor Pen. Against his own conscience, perhaps (for the worthydoctor, like most of us, had a considerable natural aptitude forreceiving any report unfavorable to his neighbors), he strove toconsole Helen; he pointed out that the slander came from an anonymousquarter, and therefore must be the work of a rascal; that the chargemight not be true—was not true, most likely—at least, that Pen mustbe heard before he was condemned; that the son of such a mother wasnot likely to commit such a crime, &c., &c.

Helen at once saw through his feint of objection and denial. "Youthink he has done it," she said, "you know you think he has done it,Oh, why did I ever leave him, Doctor Portman, or suffer him away fromme? But he can't be dishonest—pray God, not dishonest—you don'tthink that, do you? Remember his conduct about that other—person—how madly he was attached to her. He was an honest boy then—he isnow. And I thank God—yes, I fall down on my knees and thank God hepaid Laura. You said he was good—you did yourself. And now—if thiswoman loves him—and you know they must—if he has taken her from herhome, or she tempted him, which is most likely-why still, she must behis wife and my daughter. And he must leave the dreadful world andcome back to me—to his mother, Doctor Portman. Let us go away andbring him back—yes—bring him back—and there shall be joy forthe—the sinner that repenteth. Let us go now, directly, dearfriend—this very—"

Helen could say no more. She fell back and fainted. She was carried toa bed in the house of the pitying doctor, and the surgeon was calledto attend her. She lay all night in an alarming state. Laura came toher, or to the rectory rather; for she would not see Laura. And DoctorPortman, still beseeching her to be tranquil, and growing bolder andmore confident of Arthur's innocence as he witnessed the terriblegrief of the poor mother, wrote a letter to Pen warning him of therumors that were against him, and earnestly praying that he wouldbreak off and repent of a connection so fatal to his best interestsand his soul's welfare.

And Laura?—was her heart not wrung by the thought of Arthur's crimeand Helen's estrangement? Was it not a bitter blow for the innocentgirl to think that at one stroke she should lose all the love whichshe cared for in the world?

WHICH HAD VERY NEARLY BEEN THE LAST OF THE STORY.

Doctor Portman's letter was sent off to its destination in London, andthe worthy clergyman endeavored to sooth down Mrs. Pendennis into somestate of composure until an answer should arrive, which the doctortried to think, or, at any rate, persisted in saying, would besatisfactory as regarded the morality of Mr. Pen. At least Helen'swish of moving upon London and appearing in person to warn her son ofhis wickedness, was impracticable for a day or two. The apothecaryforbade her moving even so far as Fairoaks for the first day, and itwas not until the subsequent morning that she found herself again backon her sofa at home, with the faithful, though silent Laura, nursingat her side.

Unluckily for himself and all parties, Pen never read that homilywhich Doctor Portman addressed to him, until many weeks after theepistle had been composed; and day after day, the widow waited for herson's reply to the charges against him; her own illness increasingwith every day's delay. It was a hard task for Laura to bear theanxiety; to witness her dearest friend's suffering: worst of all, tosupport Helen's estrangement, and the pain caused to her by thataverted affection. But it was the custom of this young lady to theutmost of her power, and by means of that gracious assistance whichHeaven awarded to her pure and constant prayers, to do her duty. And,as that duty was performed quite noiselessly—while, thesupplications, which endowed her with the requisite strength forfulfilling it, also took place in her own chamber, away from allmortal sight,—we, too, must be perforce silent about these virtues ofhers, which no more bear public talking about, than a flower will bearto bloom in a ball-room. This only we will say-that a good woman isthe loveliest flower that blooms under Heaven; and that we look withlove and wonder upon its silent grace, its pure fragrance, itsdelicate bloom of beauty. Sweet and beautiful!—the fairest and themost spotless!—is it not pity to see them bowed down or devoured byGrief or Death inexorable—wasting in disease-pining with long pain-orcut off by sudden fate in their prime? We may deserve grief—butwhy should these be unhappy?—except that we know that Heaven chastensthose whom it loves best; being pleased, by repeated trials, to makethese pure spirits more pure.

So Pen never got the letter, although it was duly posted andfaithfully discharged by the postman into his letter-box in LambCourt, and thence carried by the laundress to his writing-table withthe rest of his lordship's correspondence; into which room, have wenot seen a picture of him, entering from his little bedroom adjoining,as Mrs. Flanagan, his laundress, was in the act of drinking his gin?

Those kind readers who have watched Mr. Arthur's career hitherto, andhave made, as they naturally would do, observations upon the moralcharacter and peculiarities of their acquaintance, have probablydiscovered by this time what was the prevailing fault in Mr. Pen'sdisposition, and who was that greatest enemy, artfully indicated inthe title-page, with whom he had to contend. Not a few of us, mybeloved public, have the very same rascal to contend with: a scoundrelwho takes every opportunity of bringing us into mischief, of plungingus into quarrels, of leading us into idleness and unprofitablecompany, and what not. In a word, Pen's greatest enemy was himself:and as he had been pampering, and coaxing, and indulging thatindividual all his life, the rogue grew insolent, as all spoiledservants will be; and at the slightest attempt to coerce him, or makehim do that which was unpleasant to him, became frantically rude andunruly. A person who is used to making sacrifices—Laura, forinstance, who had got such a habit of giving up her own pleasure forothers-can do the business quite easily; but Pen, unaccustomed as hewas to any sort of self-denial, suffered woundily when called on topay his share, and savagely grumbled at being obliged to forego anything he liked.

He had resolved in his mighty mind then that he would not see Fanny;and he wouldn't. He tried to drive the thoughts of that fascinatinglittle person out of his head, by constant occupation, by exercise, bydissipation, and society. He worked, then, too much; he walked androde too much; he ate, drank, and smoked too much; nor could all thecigars and the punch of which he partook drive little Fanny's imageout of his inflamed brain, and at the end of a week of this disciplineand self-denial our young gentleman was in bed with a fever. Let thereader who has never had a fever in chambers pity the wretch who isbound to undergo that calamity.

A committee of marriageable ladies, or of any Christian personsinterested in the propagation of the domestic virtues, should employ aCruikshank, or a Leech, or some other kindly expositor of the folliesof the day, to make a series of designs representing the horrors of abachelor's life in chambers, and leading the beholder to think ofbetter things, and a more wholesome condition. What can be moreuncomfortable than the bachelor's lonely breakfast?—with the blackkettle in the dreary fire in Midsummer; or, worse still, with the firegone out at Christmas, half an hour after the laundress has quittedthe sitting-room? Into this solitude the owner enters shivering, andhas to commence his day by hunting for coals and wood: and before hebegins the work of a student, has to discharge the duties of ahousemaid, vice Mrs. Flanagan, who is absent without leave. Or, again,what can form a finer subject for the classical designer than thebachelor's shirt—that garment which he wants to assume just atdinner-time, and which he finds without any buttons to fasten it? Thenthere is the bachelor's return to chambers after a merry Christmasholiday, spent in a cozy country-house, full of pretty faces, and kindwelcomes and regrets. He leaves his portmanteau at the barber's in thecourt: he lights his dismal old candle at the sputtering little lampon the stair: he enters the blank familiar room, where the only tokensto greet him, that show any interest in his personal welfare, are theChristmas bills, which are lying in wait for him, amicably spread outon his reading-table. Add to these scenes an appalling picture ofbachelor's illness, and the rents in the Temple will begin to fallfrom the day of the publication of the dismal diorama. To be well inchambers is melancholy, and lonely and selfish enough; but to be illin chambers—to pass nights of pain and watchfulness—to long for themorning and the laundress—to serve yourself your own medicine by yourown watch—to have no other companion for long hours but your ownsickening fancies and fevered thoughts: no kind hand to give you drinkif you are thirsty, or to smooth the hot pillow that crumples underyou—this indeed, is a fate so dismal and tragic, that we shall notenlarge upon its horrors; and shall only heartily pity those bachelorsin the Temple who brave it every day.

This lot befell Arthur Pendennis after the various excesses which wehave mentioned, and to which he had subjected his unfortunate brains.One night he went to bed ill, and next the day awoke worse. His onlyvisitor that day, besides the laundress, was the Printer's Devil, fromthe "Pall Mall Gazette Office," whom the writer endeavored, as best hecould, to satisfy. His exertions to complete his work rendered hisfever the greater: he could only furnish a part of the quantity of"copy" usually supplied by him; and Shandon being absent, andWarrington not in London to give a help, the political and editorialcolumns of the "Gazette" looked very blank indeed; nor did thesub-editor know how to fill them. Mr. Finucane rushed up to Pen'sChambers, and found that gentleman so exceedingly unwell, that thegood-natured Irishman set to work to supply his place, if possible,and produced a series of political and critical compositions, such asno doubt greatly edified the readers of the periodical in which he andPen were concerned. Allusions to the greatness of Ireland, and thegenius and virtue of the inhabitants of that injured country, flowedmagnificently from Finucane's pen; and Shandon, the Chief of thepaper, who was enjoying himself placidly at Boulogne-sur-mer, lookingover the columns of the journal, which was forwarded to him, instantlyrecognized the hand of the great sub-editor, and said, laughing, as heflung over the paper to his wife, "Look here, Mary, my dear, here isJack at work again." Indeed, Jack was a warm friend, and a gallantpartisan, and when he had the pen in hand, seldom let slip anopportunity of letting the world know that Rafferty was the greatestpainter in Europe, and wondering at the petty jealousy of the Academy,which refused to make him an R. A.: of stating that it was generallyreported at the West End, that Mr. Rooney, M. P. was appointedGovernor of Barataria; or of introducing into the subject in hand,whatever it might be, a compliment to the Round Towers, or the Giant'sCauseway. And besides doing Pen's work for him, to the best of hisability, his kind-hearted comrade offered to forego his Saturday's andSunday's holiday, and pass those days of holiday and rest asnurse-tender to Arthur, who, however, insisted, that the other shouldnot forego his pleasure, and thankfully assured him that he could bearbest his malady alone.

Taking his supper at the Back-Kitchen on the Friday night, afterhaving achieved the work of the paper, Finucane informed CaptainCostigan of the illness of their young friend in the Temple; andremembering the fact two days afterward, the captain went to LambCourt and paid a visit to the invalid on Sunday afternoon. He foundMrs. Flanagan, the laundress, in tears in the sitting-room, and got abad report of the poor dear young gentleman within. Pen's conditionhad so much alarmed her, that she was obliged to have recourse to thestimulus of brandy to enable her to support the grief which hisillness occasioned. As she hung about his bed, and endeavored tominister to him, her attentions became intolerable to the invalid, andhe begged her peevishly not to come near him. Hence the laundress'stears and redoubled grief, and renewed application to the bottle,which she was accustomed to use as an anodyne. The captain rated thewoman soundly for her intemperance, and pointed out to her the fatalconsequences which must ensue if she persisted in her imprudentcourses. Pen, who was by this time in a very fevered state, was yetgreatly pleased to receive Costigan's visit. He heard the well-knownvoice in his sitting-room, as he lay in the bedroom within, and calledthe captain eagerly to him, and thanked him for coming, and begged himto take a chair and talk to him. The captain felt the young man'spulse with great gravity—(his own tremulous and clammy hand growingsteady for the instant while his finger pressed Arthur's throbbingvein)—the pulse was beating very fiercely—Pen's face was haggardand hot—his eyes were bloodshot and gloomy; his "bird," as thecaptain pronounced the word, afterward giving a description of hiscondition, had not been shaved for nearly a week. Pen made his visitorsit down, and, tossing and turning in his comfortless bed, began totry and talk to the captain in a lively manner, about theBack-Kitchen, about Vauxhall and when they should go again, and aboutFanny—how was little Fanny?

[Illustration]

Indeed how was she? We know how she went home very sadly on theprevious Sunday evening, after she had seen Arthur light his lamp inhis chambers, while he was having his interview with Bows. Bows cameback to his own rooms presently, passing by the Lodge door, andlooking into Mrs. Bolton's, according to his wont, as he passed, butwith a very melancholy face. She had another weary night that night.Her restlessness wakened her little bedfellows more than once. Shedaren't read more of Walter Lorraine: Father was at home, and wouldsuffer no light. She kept the book under her pillow, and felt for itin the night. She had only just got to sleep, when the children beganto stir with the morning, almost as early as the birds. Though she wasvery angry with Bows, she went to his room at her accustomed hour inthe day, and there the good-hearted musician began to talk to her.

"I saw Mr. Pendennis last night, Fanny," he said.

"Did you? I thought you did," Fanny answered, looking fiercely at themelancholy old gentleman.

"I've been fond of you ever since we came to live in this place," hecontinued. "You were a child when I came; and you used to like me,Fanny, until three or four days ago: until you saw this gentleman."

"And now, I suppose, you are going to say ill of him," said Fanny.
"Do, Mr. Bows—that will make me like you better."

"Indeed I shall do no such thing," Bows answered; "I think he is avery good and honest young man."

"Indeed, you know that if you said a word against him, I would neverspeak a word to you again—never!" cried Miss Fanny; and clenched herlittle hand, and paced up and down the room. Bows noted, watched, andfollowed the ardent little creature with admiration and gloomysympathy. Her cheeks flushed, her frame trembled; her eyes beamedlove, anger, defiance. "You would like to speak ill of him," she said;"but you daren't—you know you daren't!"

"I knew him many years since," Bows continued, "when he was almost asyoung as you are, and he had a romantic attachment for our friend thecaptain's daughter—Lady Mirabel that is now."

Fanny laughed. "I suppose there was other people, too, that had aromantic attachment for Miss Costigan," she said: "I don't want tohear about 'em."

"He wanted to marry her; but their ages were quite disproportionate:and their rank in life. She would not have him because he had nomoney. She acted very wisely in refusing him; for the two would havebeen very unhappy, and she wasn't a fit person to go and live with hisfamily, or to make his home comfortable. Mr. Pendennis has his way tomake in the world, and must marry a lady of his own rank. A woman wholoves a man will not ruin his prospects, cause him to quarrel with hisfamily, and lead him into poverty and misery for her gratification. Anhonest girl won't do that, for her own sake, or for the man's."

Fanny's emotion, which but now had been that of defiance and anger,here turned to dismay and supplication. "What do I know aboutmarrying, Bows?" she said; "When was there any talk of it? What hasthere been between this young gentleman and me that's to make peoplespeak so cruel? It was not my doing; nor Arthur's—Mr. Pendennis's—that I met him at Vauxhall. It was the captain took me andma there. We never thought of nothing wrong, I'm sure. He came andrescued us, and was so very kind. Then he came to call and ask afterus: and very, very good it was of such a grand gentleman to be sopolite to humble folks like us! And yesterday ma and me just went towalk in the Temple Gardens, and—and"—here she broke out with thatusual, unanswerable female argument of tears—and cried, "Oh! I wish Iwas dead! I wish I was laid in my grave; and had never, neverseen him!"

"He said as much himself, Fanny," Bows said; and Fanny asked throughher sobs, Why, why should he wish he had never seen her? Had she everdone him any harm? Oh, she would perish rather than do him any harm.Whereupon the musician informed her of the conversation of the dayprevious, showed her that Pen could not and must not think of her as awife fitting for him, and that she, as she valued her honestreputation, must strive too to forget him. And Fanny, leaving themusician, convinced but still of the same mind, and promising that shewould avoid the danger which menaced her, went back to the Porter'sLodge, and told her mother all. She talked of her love for Arthur, andbewailed, in her artless manner, the inequality of their condition,that set barriers between them. "There's the Lady of Lyons," Fannysaid; "Oh, ma! how I did love Mr. Macready when I saw him do it; andPauline, for being faithful to poor Claude, and always thinking ofhim; and he coming back to her, an officer, through all his dangers!And if every body admires Pauline—and I'm sure every body does, forbeing so true to a poor man—why should a gentleman be ashamed ofloving a poor girl? Not that Mr. Arthur loves me—Oh, no, no! I ain'tworthy of him; only a princess is worthy of such a gentleman as him.Such a poet!—writing so beautifully, and looking so grand! I'm surehe's a nobleman, and of ancient family, and kep out of his estate.Perhaps his uncle has it. Ah, if I might, oh, how I'd serve him, andwork for him, and slave for him, that I would. I wouldn't ask for morethan that, ma—just to be allowed to see him of a morning; andsometimes he'd say 'How d'you do, Fanny?' or, 'God bless you Fanny!'as he said on Sunday. And I'd work, and work; and I'd, sit up allnight, and read, and learn, and make myself worthy of him. The captainsays his mother lives in the country, and is a grand lady there. Oh,how I wish I might go and be her servant, ma! I can do plenty ofthings, and work very neat; and—and sometimes he'd come home, and Ishould see him!"

The girl's head fell on her mother's shoulder as she spoke, and shegave way to a plentiful outpouring of girlish tears, to which thematron, of course, joined her own. "You mustn't think no more of him,Fanny," she said. "If he don't come to you, he's a horrid,wicked man."

"Don't call him so, mother," Fanny replied. "He's the best of men, thebest and the kindest. Bows says he thinks he is unhappy at leavingpoor little Fanny. It wasn't his fault, was it, that we met?—and itain't his that I mustn't see him again. He says I mustn't—and Imustn't, mother. He'll forget me, but I shall never forget him. No!I'll pray for him, and love him always—until I die—and I shall die,I know I shall—and then my spirit will always go and be with him."

"You forget your poor mother, Fanny, and you'll break my heart bygoin' on so," Mrs. Bolton said. "Perhaps you will see him. I'm sureyou'll see him. I'm sure he'll come to-day. If ever I saw a manin love, that man is him. When Emily Budd's young man first came abouther, he was sent away by old Budd, a most respectable man, andvioloncello in the orchestra at the Wells; and his own family wouldn'thear of it neither. But he came back. We all knew he would. Emilyalways said so; and he married her; and this one will come back too;and you mark a mother's words, and see if he don't, dear."

At this point of the conversation Mr. Bolton entered the Lodge for hisevening meal. At the father's appearance, the talk between mother anddaughter ceased instantly. Mrs. Bolton caressed and cajoled the surlyundertaker's aid-de-camp, and said, "Lor, Mr. B., who'd have thought tosee you away from the Club of a Saturday night. Fanny, dear, get yourpa some supper. What will you have, B.? The poor gurl's got agathering in her eye, or somethink in it—I was looking at itjust now as you came in." And she squeezed her daughter's hand as asignal of prudence and secrecy; and Fanny's tears were dried uplikewise; and by that wondrous hypocrisy and power of disguise whichwomen practice, and with which weapons of defense nature endows them,the traces of her emotion disappeared; and she went and took her work,and sat in the corner so demure and quiet, that the careless maleparent never suspected that any thing ailed her.

Thus, as if fate seemed determined to inflame and increase the poorchild's malady and passion, all circ*mstances and all parties roundabout her urged it on. Her mother encouraged and applauded it; and thevery words which Bows used in endeavoring to repress her flame onlyaugmented this unlucky fever. Pen was not wicked and a seducer: Penwas high-minded in wishing to avoid her. Pen loved her: the good andthe great, the magnificent youth, with the chains of gold and thescented auburn hair! And so he did; or so he would have loved her fiveyears back, perhaps, before the world had hardened the ardent andreckless boy—before he was ashamed of a foolish and imprudentpassion, and strangled it as poor women do their illicit children, noton account of the crime, but of the shame, and from dread that thefinger of the world should point to them.

What respectable person in the world will not say he was quite rightto avoid a marriage with an ill-educated person of low degree, whoserelations a gentleman could not well acknowledge, and whose mannerswould not become her new station?—and what philosopher would not tellhim that the best thing to do with these little passions if theyspring up, is to get rid of them, and let them pass over and curethem: that no man dies about a woman, or vice versâ: and that one orthe other having found the impossibility of gratifying his or herdesire in the particular instance, must make the best of matters,forget each other, look out elsewhere, and choose again? And yet,perhaps, there may be something said on the other side. Perhaps Bowswas right in admiring that passion of Pen's, blind and unreasoning asit was, that made him ready to stake his all for his love; perhaps, ifself-sacrifice is a laudable virtue, mere worldly self-sacrifice isnot very much to be praised;—in fine, let this be a reserved pointto be settled by the individual moralist who chooses to debate it.

So much is certain, that with the experience of the world which Mr.Pen now had, he would have laughed at and scouted the idea of marryinga penniless girl out of a kitchen. And this point being fixed in hismind, he was but doing his duty as an honest man, in crushing anyunlucky fondness which he might feel toward poor little Fanny.

So she waited and waited in hopes that Arthur would come. She waitedfor a whole week, and it was at the end of that time that the poorlittle creature heard from Costigan of the illness under which Arthurwas suffering.

It chanced on that very evening after Costigan had visited Pen, thatArthur's uncle, the excellent major, arrived in town from Buxton,where his health had been mended, and sent his valet Morgan to makeinquiries for Arthur, and to request that gentleman to breakfast withthe major the next morning. The major was merely passing throughLondon on his way to the Marquis of Steyne's house of Stillbrook,where he was engaged to shoot partridges.

Morgan came back to his master with a very long face. He had seen Mr.Arthur; Mr. Arthur was very bad indeed; Mr. Arthur was in bed with afever. A doctor ought to be sent to him; and Morgan thought his casemost alarming.

Gracious goodness! this was sad news indeed. He had hoped that Arthurcould come down to Stillbrook: he had arranged that he should go, andprocured an invitation for his nephew from Lord Steyne. He must gohimself; he couldn't throw Lord Steyne over; the fever might becatching: it might be measles: he had never himself had the measles;they were dangerous when contracted at his age. Was any body withMr. Arthur?

Morgan said there was somebody a nussing of Mr. Arthur.

The major then asked, had his nephew taken any advice? Morgan said hehad asked that question, and had been told that Mr. Pendennis had hadno doctor.

Morgan's master was sincerely vexed at hearing of Arthur's calamity.He would have gone to him, but what good could it do Arthur that he,the major, should catch a fever? His own ailments rendered it absolutelyimpossible that he should attend to any body but himself. Butthe young man must have advice—the best advice; and Morgan wasstraightway dispatched with a note from Major Pendennis to his friendDoctor Goodenough, who by good luck happened to be in London and athome, and who quitted his dinner instantly, and whose carriage was inhalf an hour in Upper Temple Lane, near Pen's chambers. The major hadasked the kind-hearted physician to bring him news of his nephew atthe Club where he himself was dining, and in the course of the nightthe doctor made his appearance. The affair was very serious: thepatient was in a high fever: he had had Pen bled instantly: and wouldsee him the first thing in the morning. The major went disconsolateto bed with this unfortunate news. When Goodenough came to see himaccording to his promise the next day, the doctor had to listen for aquarter of an hour to an account of the major's own maladies, beforethe latter had leisure to hear about Arthur.

He had had a very bad night—his—his nurse said; at one hour he hadbeen delirious. It might end badly: his mother had better be sent forimmediately. The major wrote the letter to Mrs. Pendennis with thegreatest alacrity, and at the same time with the most politeprecautions. As for going himself to the lad, in his state it wasimpossible. "Could I be of any use to him, my dear doctor?" he asked.

The doctor, with a peculiar laugh, said, No: he didn't think the majorcould be of any use; that his own precious health required the mostdelicate treatment, and that he had best go into the country and stay:that he himself would take care to see the patient twice a day, and doall in his power for him.

The major declared upon his honor, that if he could be of any use hewould rush to Pen's chambers. As it was, Morgan should go and see thatevery thing was right. The doctor must write to him by every post toStillbrook; it was but forty miles distant from London, and if anything happened he would come up at any sacrifice.

Major Pendennis transacted his benevolence by deputy and by post."What else could he do," as he said? "Gad, you know, in these cases,it's best not disturbing a fellow. If a poor fellow goes to the bad,why, Gad, you know, he's disposed of. But in order to get well (and inthis, my dear doctor, I'm sure that you will agree with me), the bestway is to keep him quiet—perfectly quiet."

Thus it was the old gentleman tried to satisfy his conscience; and hewent his way that day to Stillbrook by railway (for railways havesprung up in the course of this narrative, though they have not quitepenetrated into Pen's country yet), and made his appearance in hisusual trim order and curly wig, at the dinner-table of the Marquis ofSteyne. But we must do the major the justice to say, that he was veryunhappy and gloomy in demeanor. Wagg and Wenham rallied him about hislow spirits; asked whether he was crossed in love? and otherwisediverted themselves at his expense. He lost his money at whist afterdinner, and actually trumped his partner's highest spade. And thethoughts of the suffering boy, of whom he was proud, and whom he lovedafter his manner, kept the old fellow awake half through the night,and made him feverish and uneasy.

On the morrow he received a note in a handwriting which he did notknow: it was that of Mr. Bows, indeed, saying, that Mr. ArthurPendennis had had a tolerable night; and that as Dr. Goodenough hadstated that the major desired to be informed of his nephew's health,he, R. B., had sent him the news per rail.

The next day he was going out shooting, about noon, with some of thegentlemen staying at Lord Steyne's house; and the company, waitingfor the carriages, were assembled on the terrace in front of thehouse, when a fly drove up from the neighboring station, and agray-headed, rather shabby old gentleman, jumped out, and asked forMajor Pendennis? It was Mr. Bows. He took the major aside and spoke tohim; most of the gentlemen round about saw that something serious hadhappened, from the alarmed look of the major's face.

Wagg said, "It's a bailiff come down to nab the major;" but nobodylaughed at the pleasantry.

"Hullo! What's the matter, Pendennis?" cried Lord Steyne, with hisstrident voice; "any thing wrong?"

"It's—it's my boy that's dead," said the major, and burst into asob—the old man was quite overcome.

"Not dead, my lord; but very ill when I left London," Mr. Bows said,in a low voice.

A britzka came up at this moment as the three men were speaking. Thepeer looked at his watch. "You've twenty minutes to catch themail-train. Jump in, Pendennis; and drive like h—, sir, doyou hear?"

The carriage drove off swiftly with Pendennis and his companions, andlet us trust that the oath will be pardoned to the Marquis of Steyne.

The major drove rapidly from the station to the Temple, and found atraveling carriage already before him, and blocking up the narrowTemple Lane. Two ladies got out of it, and were asking their way ofthe porters; the major looked by chance at the panel of the carriage,and saw the worn-out crest of the eagle looking at the sun, and themotto, "nec tenui pennâ," painted beneath. It was his brother's oldcarriage, built many, many years ago. It was Helen and Laura that wereasking their way to poor Pen's room.

He ran up to them; hastily clasped his sister's arm and kissed herhand; and the three entered into Lamb-court, and mounted the long,gloomy stair.

They knocked very gently at the door, on which Arthur's name waswritten, and it was opened by Fanny Bolton.

A CRITICAL CHAPTER.

As Fanny saw the two ladies and the anxious countenance of the elder,who regarded her with a look of inscrutable alarm and terror, the poorgirl at once knew that Pen's mother was before her; there was aresemblance between the widow's haggard eyes and Arthur's as he tossedin his bed in fever. Fanny looked wistfully at Mrs. Pendennis and atLaura afterward; there was no more expression in the latter's facethan if it had been a mass of stone. Hard-heartedness and gloom dwelton the figures of both the new comers; neither showed any the faintestgleam of mercy or sympathy for Fanny. She looked desperately from themto the major behind them. Old Pendennis dropped his eyelids, lookingup ever so stealthily from under them at Arthur's poor little nurse.

[Illustration]

"I—I wrote to you yesterday, if you please, ma'am," Fanny said,trembling in every limb as she spoke; and as pale as Laura, whose sadmenacing face looked over Mrs. Pendennis's shoulder.

"Did you, madam?" Mrs. Pendennis said, "I suppose I may now relieveyou from nursing my son. I am his mother, you understand."

"Yes, ma'am. I—this is the way to his—O, wait a minute," cried out
Fanny. "I must prepare you for his—"

The widow, whose face had been hopelessly cruel and ruthless, herestarted back with a gasp and a little cry, which she speedilystifled. "He's been so since yesterday," Fanny said, trembling verymuch, and with chattering teeth.

A horrid shriek of laughter came out of Pen's room, whereof the doorwas open; and, after several shouts, the poor wretch began to sing acollege drinking song, and then to hurra and to shout as if he was inthe midst of a wine party, and to thump with his fist against thewainscot. He was quite delirious.

"He does not know me, ma'am," Fanny said.

"Indeed. Perhaps he will know his mother; let me pass, if you please,and go into him." And the widow hastily pushed by little Fanny, andthrough the dark passage which led into Pen's sitting-room.

Laura sailed by Fanny, too, without a word; and Major Pendennisfollowed them. Fanny sat down on a bench in the passage, and cried,and prayed as well as she could. She would have died for him; and theyhated her. They had not a word of thanks or kindness for her, the fineladies. She sate there in the passage, she did not know how long. Theynever came out to speak to her. She sate there until doctor Goodenoughcame to pay his second visit that day; he found the poor little thingat the door.

"What, nurse? How's your patient?" asked the good-natured doctor. "Hashe had any rest?"

"Go and ask them. They're inside," Fanny answered.

"Who? his mother?"

Fanny nodded her head and didn't speak.

"You must go to bed yourself, my poor little maid," said the doctor.
"You will be ill too, if you don't."

"O, mayn't I come and see him: mayn't I come and see him! I—I—lovehim so," the little girl said; and as she spoke she fell down on herknees and clasped hold of the doctor's hand in such an agony that tosee her melted the kind physician's heart, and caused a mist to comeover his spectacles.

"Pooh, pooh! Nonsense! Nurse, has he taken his draught? Has he had anyrest? Of course you must come and see him. So must I."

"They'll let me sit here, won't they, sir? I'll never make no noise. Ionly ask to stop here," Fanny said. On which the doctor called her astupid little thing; put her down upon the bench where Pen's printer'sdevil used to sit so many hours; tapped her pale cheek with hisfinger, and bustled into the further room.

Mrs. Pendennis was ensconced, pale and solemn, in a great chair byPen's bed-side. Her watch was on the bed-table by Pen's medicines. Herbonnet and cloaks were laid in the window. She had her Bible in herlap, without which she never traveled. Her first movement, afterseeing her son, had been to take Fanny's shawl and bonnet which wereon his drawers, and bring them out and drop them down upon hisstudy-table. She had closed the door upon Major Pendennis, and Lauratoo; and taken possession of her son.

She had had a great doubt and terror lest Arthur should not know her;but that pang was spared to her, in part at least. Pen knew his motherquite well, and familiarly smiled and nodded at her. When she came in,he instantly fancied that they were at home at Fairoaks; and began totalk and chatter and laugh in a rambling wild way. Laura could hearhim outside. His laughter shot shafts of poison into her heart. It wastrue then. He had been guilty—and with that creature!—an intriguewith a servant maid; and she had loved him—and he was dying mostlikely—raving and unrepentant. The major now and then hummed out aword of remark or consolation, which Laura scarce heard. A dismalsitting it was for all parties; and when Goodenough appeared, he camelike an angel into the room.

It is not only for the sick man, it is for the sick man's friends thatthe doctor comes. His presence is often as good for them as for thepatient, and they long for him yet more eagerly. How we have allwatched after him! what an emotion the thrill of his carriage-wheelsin the street, and at length at the door, has made us feel! how wehang upon his words, and what a comfort we get from a smile or two, ifhe can vouchsafe that sunshine to lighten our darkness! Who hasn'tseen the mother praying into his face, to know if there is hope forthe sick infant that can not speak, and that lies yonder, its littleframe battling with fever? Ah, how she looks into his eyes! Whatthanks if there is light there; what grief and pain if he casts themdown, and dares not say "hope!" Or it is the house-father who isstricken. The terrified wife looks on, while the physician feels hispatient's wrist, smothering her agonies, as the children have beencalled upon to stay their plays and their talk. Over the patient inthe fever, the wife expectant, the children unconscious, the doctorstands as if he were Fate, the dispenser of life and death: he mustlet the patient off this time; the woman prays so for his respite! Onecan fancy how awful the responsibility must be to a conscientious man:how cruel the feeling that he has given the wrong remedy, or that itmight have been possible to do better: how harassing the sympathy withsurvivors, if the case is unfortunate—how immense the delightof victory!

Having passed through a hasty ceremony of introduction to the newcomers, of whose arrival he had been made aware by the heart-brokenlittle nurse in waiting without, the doctor proceeded to examine thepatient, about whose condition of high fever there could be nomistake, and on whom he thought it necessary to exercise the strongestantiphlogistic remedies in his power. He consoled the unfortunatemother as best he might; and giving her the most comfortableassurances on which he could venture, that there was no reason todespair yet, that every thing might still be hoped from his youth, thestrength of his constitution, and so forth, and having done his utmostto allay the horrors of the alarmed matron, he took the elderPendennis aside into the vacant room (Warrington's bed-room), for thepurpose of holding a little consultation.

The case was very critical. The fever, if not stopped, might and wouldcarry off the young fellow: he must be bled forthwith: the mothermust be informed of this necessity. Why was that other young ladybrought with her? She was out of place in a sick room.

"And there was another woman still, be hanged to it!" the major said,"the—the little person who opened the door." His sister-in-law hadbrought the poor little devil's bonnet and shawl out, and flung themupon the study-table. Did Goodenough know any thing about the—thelittle person? "I just caught a glimpse of her as we passed in," themajor said, "and begad she was uncommonly nice-looking." The doctorlooked queer: the doctor smiled—in the very gravest moments, withlife and death pending, such strange contrasts and occasions of humorwill arise, and such smiles will pass, to satirize the gloom, as itwere, and to make it more gloomy!

[Illustration]

"I have it," at last he said, re-entering the study;and he wrote a couple of notes hastily at the table there, and sealedone of them. Then, taking up poor Fanny's shawl and bonnet, and thenotes, he went out in the passage to that poor little messenger, andsaid, "Quick, nurse; you must carry this to the surgeon, and bid himcome instantly: and then go to my house, and ask for my servant,Harbottle, and tell him to get this prescription prepared; and waituntil I—until it is ready. It may take a little time in preparation."

So poor Fanny trudged away with her two notes, and found theapothecary, who lived in the Strand hard by, and who came straightway,his lancet in his pocket, to operate on his patient; and then Fannymade for the doctor's house, in Hanover-square.

The doctor was at home again before the prescription was made up,which took Harbottle, his servant, such a long time in compounding:and, during the remainder of Arthur's illness, poor Fanny never madeher appearance in the quality of nurse at his chambers any more. Butfor that day and the next, a little figure might be seen lurking aboutPen's staircase—a sad, sad little face looked at and interrogated theapothecary and the apothecary's boy, and the laundress, and the kindphysician himself, as they passed out of the chambers of the sick man.And on the third day, the kind doctor's chariot stopped at Shepherd'sInn, and the good, and honest, and benevolent man went into thePorter's Lodge, and tended a little patient he had there, for whom thebest remedy he found was on the day when he was enabled to tell FannyBolton that the crisis was over, and that there was at length everyhope for Arthur Pendennis.

J. Costigan, Esquire, late of her Majesty's service, saw the doctor'scarriage, and criticised its horses and appointments. "Green liveries,bedad!" the general said, "and as foin a pair of high-stepping beehorses as ever a gentleman need sit behoind, let alone a docthor.There's no ind to the proide and ar'gance of them docthorsnowadays—not but that is a good one, and a scoientific cyarkter, anda roight good fellow, bedad; and he's brought the poor little girlwell troo her faver, Bows, me boy;" and so pleased was Mr. Costiganwith the doctor's behavior and skill, that, whenever he met Dr.Goodenough's carriage in future, he made a point of saluting it andthe physician inside, in as courteous and magnificent a manner, as ifDr. Goodenough had been the Lord Liftenant himself, and CaptainCostigan had been in his glory in Phaynix Park.

The widow's gratitude to the physician knew no bounds—or scarcely anybounds, at least. The kind gentleman laughed at the idea of taking afee from a literary man, or the widow of a brother practitioner; and shedetermined when she got back to Fairoaks that she would sendGoodenough the silver-gilt vase, the jewel of the house, and the gloryof the late John Pendennis, preserved in green baize, and presented tohim at Bath, by the Lady Elizabeth Firebrace, on the recovery of herson, the late Sir Anthony Firebrace, from the scarlet fever.Hippocrates, Hygeia, King Bladud, and a wreath of serpents surmountthe cup to this day; which was executed in their finest manner, byMessrs. Abednego, of Milsom-street; and the inscription was by Mr.Birch tutor to the young baronet.

This priceless gem of art the widow determined to devote to Goodenough,the preserver of her son; and there was scarcely any otherfavor which her gratitude would not have conferred upon him, exceptone, which he desired most, and which was that she should think alittle charitably and kindly of poor Fanny, of whose artless, sadstory, he had got something during his interviews with her, and ofwhom he was induced to think very kindly—not being disposed, indeed,to give much credit to Pen for his conduct in the affair, or notknowing what that conduct had been. He knew, enough, however, to beaware that the poor infatuated little girl was without stain as yet;that while she had been in Pen's room it was to see the last of him,as she thought, and that Arthur was scarcely aware of her presence; andthat she suffered under the deepest and most pitiful grief, at theidea of losing him, dead or living.

But on the one or two occasions when Goodenough alluded to Fanny, thewidow's countenance, always soft and gentle, assumed an expression socruel and inexorable, that the doctor saw it was in vain to ask herfor justice or pity, and he broke off all entreaties, and ceasedmaking any further allusions regarding his little client. There is acomplaint which neither poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsysyrups of the East could allay, in the men in his time, as we areinformed by a popular poet of the days of Elizabeth; and which, whenexhibited in women, no medical discoveries or practice subsequent—neither hom*oeopathy, nor hydropathy, nor mesmerism, nor Dr.Simpson, nor Dr. Loco*ck can cure, and that is—we won't call itjealousy, but rather gently denominate rivalry and emulation,in ladies.

Some of those mischievious and prosaic people who carp and calculateat every detail of the romancer, and want to know, for instance, howwhen the characters "in the Critic" are at a dead lock with theirdaggers at each other's throats, they are to be got out of thatmurderous complication of circ*mstances, may be induced to ask how itwas possible in a set of chambers in the Temple, consisting of threerooms, two cupboards, a passage, and a coal-box, Arthur a sickgentleman, Helen his mother, Laura her adopted daughter, Martha theircountry attendant, Mrs. Wheezer a nurse from St. Bartholomew'sHospital, Mrs. Flanagan an Irish laundress, Major Pendennis a retiredmilitary officer, Morgan his valet, Pidgeon Mr. Arthur Pendennis'sboy, and others could be accommodated—the answer is given at once,that almost every body in the Temple was out of town, and that therewas scarcely a single occupant of Pen's house in Lamb Court exceptthose who were occupied round the sick bed of the sick gentleman,about whose fever we have not given a lengthy account, neither shallwe enlarge very much upon the more cheerful theme of his recovery.

Every body we have said was out of town, and of course such afashionable man as young Mr. Sibwright, who occupied chambers on thesecond floor in Pen's staircase, could not be supposed to remain inLondon. Mrs. Flanagan, Mr. Pendennis's laundress, was acquainted withMrs. Rouncy who did for Mr. Sibwright, and that gentleman's bedroomwas got ready for Miss Bell, or Mrs. Pendennis, when the latter shouldbe inclined to leave her son's sick room, to try and seek for a littlerest for herself.

If that young buck and flower of Baker-street, Percy Sibwright couldhave known who was the occupant of his bedroom, how proud he wouldhave been of that apartment: what poems he would have written aboutLaura! (several of his things have appeared in the annuals, and inmanuscript in the nobility's albums)—he was a Camford man and verynearly got the English Prize Poem, it was said—Sibwright, however,was absent and his bed given up to Miss Bell. It was the prettiestlittle brass bed in the world, with chintz curtains lined withpink—he had a mignonette box in his bedroom window, and the meresight of his little exhibition of shiny boots, arranged in trim rowsover his wardrobe, was a gratification to the beholder. He had amuseum of scent, pomatum, and bears' grease pots, quite curious toexamine, too; and a choice selection of portraits of females almostalways in sadness and generally in disguise or dishabille, glitteredround the neat walls of his elegant little bower of repose. Medorawith disheveled hair was consoling herself over her banjo for theabsence of her Conrad—the Princesse Fleur de Marie (of Rudolstein andthe Mystères de Paris) was sadly ogling out of the bars of her conventcage, in which, poor prisoned bird, she was moulting away—Dorothea ofDon Quixote was washing her eternal feet:—in fine, it was such anelegant gallery as became a gallant lover of the sex. And inSibwright's sitting-room, while there was quite an infantine lawlibrary clad in skins of fresh new born calf, there was a tolerablylarge collection of classical books which he could not read, and ofEnglish and French works of poetry and fiction which he read a greatdeal too much. His invitation cards of the past season still decoratedhis looking glass: and scarce any thing told of the lawyer but thewig-box beside the Venus upon the middle shelf of the bookcase, onwhich the name of P. Sibwright, Esquire, was gilded.

With Sibwright in chambers was Mr. Bangham. Mr. Bangham was a sportingman married to a rich widow. Mr. Bangham had no practice—did not cometo chambers thrice in a term: went a circuit for those mysteriousreasons which make men go circuit—and his room served as a greatconvenience to Sibwright when that young gentleman gave his littledinners. It must be confessed that these two gentlemen have nothing todo with our history, will never appear in it again probably, but wecan not help glancing through their doors as they happen to be open tous, and as we pass to Pen's rooms; as in the pursuit of our ownbusiness in life through the Strand, at the Club, nay at Churchitself, we can not help peeping at the shops on the way, or at ourneighbor's dinner, or at the faces under the bonnets in the next pew.

Very many years after the circ*mstances about which we are at presentoccupied, Laura with a blush and a laugh showing much humor owned tohaving read a French novel once much in vogue, and when her husbandasked her, wondering where on earth she could have got such a volume,she owned that it was in the Temple, when she lived in Mr. PercySibwright's chambers.

"And, also, I never confessed," she said, "on that same occasion, whatI must now own to; that I opened the japanned box, and took out thatstrange-looking wig inside it, and put it on and looked at myself inthe glass in it."

Suppose Percy Sibwright had come in at such a moment as that? Whatwould he have said—the enraptured rogue? What would have been all thepictures of disguised beauties in his room compared to that livingone? Ah, we are speaking of old times, when Sibwright was a bachelorand before he got a county court—when people were young—when mostpeople were young. Other people are young now; but we no more.

When Miss Laura played this prank with the wig, you can't suppose thatPen could have been very ill up-stairs; otherwise, though she hadgrown to care for him ever so little, common sense of feeling anddecorum would have prevented her from performing any tricks or tryingany disguises.

But all sorts of events had occurred in the course of the last fewdays which had contributed to increase or account for her gayety, anda little colony of the reader's old friends and acquaintances was bythis time established in Lamb Court, Temple, and round Pen's sick bedthere. First, Martha, Mrs. Pendennis's servant, had arrived fromFairoaks, being summoned thence by the major, who justly thought herpresence would be comfortable and useful to her mistress and her youngmaster, for neither of whom the constant neighborhood of Mrs. Flanagan(who during Pen's illness required more spirituous consolation thanever to support her) could be pleasant. Martha then made herappearance in due season to wait upon Mrs. Pendennis, nor did thatlady go once to bed until the faithful servant had reached her, when,with a heart full of maternal thankfulness, she went and lay down uponWarrington's straw mattress, and among his mathematical books as hasbeen already described.

It is true ere that day a great and delightful alteration in Pen'scondition had taken place. The fever, subjugated by Dr. Goodenough'sblisters, potions, and lancet, had left the young man, or onlyreturned at intervals of feeble intermittance; his wandering senseshad settled in his weakened brain: he had had time to kiss and blesshis mother for coming to him, and calling for Laura and his uncle (whowere both affected according to their different natures by his wanappearance, his lean shrunken hands, his hollow eyes and voice, histhin bearded face) to press their hands and thank them affectionately;and after this greeting, and after they had been turned out of theroom by his affectionate nurse, he had sunk into a fine sleep whichhad lasted for about sixteen hours, at the end of which period heawoke calling out that he was very hungry. If it is hard to be ill andto loathe food, oh, how pleasant to be getting well and to befeeling hungry—how hungry! Alas, the joys of convalescence becomefeebler with increasing years, as other joys do—and then—and thencomes that illness when one does not convalesce at all.

On the day of this happy event, too, came another arrival inLambcourt. This was introduced into the Pen-Warrington sitting-room bylarge puffs of tobacco smoke—the puffs of smoke were followed by anindividual with a cigar in his mouth, and a carpet bag under his arm—this was Warrington, who had run back from Norfolk, when Mr. Bowsthoughtfully wrote to inform him of his friend's calamity. But he hadbeen from home when Bows's letter had reached his brother's house—the Eastern Counties did not then boast of a railway (for we beg thereader to understand that we only commit anachronisms when we choose,and when by a daring violation of those natural laws some greatethical truth is to be advanced)—in fine, Warrington only appearedwith the rest of the good luck upon the lucky day after Pen'sconvalescence may have been said to have begun.

His surprise was, after all, not very great when he found the chambersof his sick friend occupied, and his old acquaintance the major seateddemurely in an easy chair, (Warrington had let himself into the roomswith his own pass-key), listening, or pretending to listen, to a younglady who was reading to him a play of Shakspeare in a low sweet voice.The lady stopped and started, and laid down her book, at theapparition of the tall traveler with the cigar and the carpet-bag. Heblushed, he flung the cigar into the passage: he took off his hat, anddropped that too, and going up to the major, seized that oldgentleman's hand, and asked questions about Arthur.

The major answered in a tremulous, though cheery voice—it was curioushow emotion seemed to olden him—and returning Warrington's pressurewith a shaking hand, told him the news—of Arthur's happy crisis, ofhis mother's arrival—with her young charge—with Miss—

"You need not tell me her name," Mr. Warrington said with greatanimation, for he was affected and elated with the thought of hisfriend's recovery—"you need not tell me your name. I knew at once itwas Laura." And he held out his hand and took hers. Immense kindnessand tenderness gleamed from under his rough eyebrows, and shook hisvoice as he gazed at her and spoke to her. "And this is Laura !" hislooks seemed to say. "And this is Warrington," the generous girl'sheart beat back. "Arthur's hero—the brave and the kind—he has comehundreds of miles to succor him, when he heard of his friend'smisfortune!"

"Thank you, Mr. Warrington," was all that Laura said, however; and asshe returned the pressure of his kind hand, she blushed so, that shewas glad the lamp was behind her to conceal her flushing face.

As these two were standing in this attitude, the door of Pen'sbed-chamber was opened stealthily as his mother was wont to open it,and Warrington saw another lady, who first looked at him, and thenturning round toward the bed, said, "Hsh!" and put up her hand. Itwas to Pen Helen was turning, and giving caution. He called out with afeeble, tremulous, but cheery voice, "Come in, Stunner—come in,Warrington. I knew it was you—by the—by the smoke, old boy," hesaid, as holding his worn hand out, and with tears at once of weaknessand pleasure in his eyes, he greeted his friend.

"I—I beg pardon, ma'am, for smoking," Warrington said, who now almostfor the first time blushed for his wicked propensity.

Helen only said, "God bless you, Mr. Warrington." She was so happy,she would have liked to kiss George. Then, and after the friends hadhad a brief, very brief interview, the delighted and inexorablemother, giving her hand to Warrington, sent him out of the room too,back to Laura and the major, who had not resumed their play ofCymbeline where they had left it off at the arrival of the rightfulowner of Pen's chambers.

CONVALESCENCE.

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Our duty now is to record a fact concerning Pendennis, which, howevershameful and disgraceful, when told regarding the chief personage andGodfather of a novel, must, nevertheless, be made known to the publicwho reads his veritable memoirs. Having gone to bed ill with fever,and suffering to a certain degree under the passion of love, after hehad gone through his physical malady, and had been bled and had beenblistered, and had had his head shaved, and had been treated andmedicamented as the doctor ordained: it is a fact, that, when herallied up from his bodily ailment, his mental malady had likewisequitted him, and he was no more in love with Fanny Bolton than you orI, who are much too wise, or too moral, to allow our hearts to gogadding after porters' daughters.

He laughed at himself as he lay on his pillow, thinking of this secondcure which had been effected upon him. He did not care the least aboutFanny now; he wondered how he ever should have cared: and according tohis custom made an autopsy of that dead passion, and anatomized hisown defunct sensation for his poor little nurse. What could have madehim so hot and eager about her but a few weeks back: Not her wit, nother breeding, not her beauty—there were hundreds of women betterlooking than she. It was out of himself that the passion had gone: itdid not reside in her. She was the same; but the eyes which saw herwere changed; and, alas, that it should be so! were not particularlyeager to see her any more. He felt very well disposed toward thelittle thing, and so forth, but as for violent personal regard, suchas he had but a few weeks ago, it had fled under the influence of thepill and lancet, which had destroyed the fever in his frame. And animmense source of comfort and gratitude it was to Pendennis (thoughthere was something selfish in that feeling, as in most others of ouryoung man), that he had been enabled to resist temptation at the timewhen the danger was greatest, and had no particular cause ofself-reproach as he remembered his conduct toward the young girl. Asfrom a precipice down which he might have fallen, so from the feverfrom which he had recovered, he reviewed the Fanny Bolton snare, nowthat he had escaped out of it, but I'm not sure that he was notashamed of the very satisfaction which he experienced. It is pleasant,perhaps, but it is humiliating to own that you love no more.

Meanwhile the kind smiles and tender watchfulness of the mother at hisbed-side, filled the young man with peace and security. To see thathealth was returning, was all the unwearied nurse demanded: to executeany caprice or order of her patient's, her chiefest joy and reward. Hefelt himself environed by her love, and thought himself almost asgrateful for it as he had been when weak and helpless in childhood.

Some misty notions regarding the first part of his illness, and thatFanny had nursed him, Pen may have had, but they were so dim that hecould not realize them with accuracy, or distinguish them from what heknew to be delusions which had occurred and were remembered during thedelirium of his fever. So as he had not thought proper on formeroccasions to make any allusions about Fanny Bolton to his mother, ofcourse he could not now confide to her his sentiments regarding Fanny,or make this worthy lady a confidante. It was on both sides an unluckyprecaution and want of confidence; and a word or two in time mighthave spared the good lady and those connected with her, a deal of painand anguish.

Seeing Miss Bolton installed as nurse and tender to Pen, I am sorry tosay Mrs. Pendennis had put the worst construction on the fact of theintimacy of these two unlucky young persons, and had settled in herown mind that the accusations against Arthur were true. Why not havestopped to inquire?—There are stories to a man's disadvantage thatthe women who are fondest of him are always the most eager to believe.Isn't a man's wife often the first to be jealous of him? Poor Pen gota good stock of this suspicious kind of love from the nurse who wasnow watching over him; and the kind and pure creature thought that herboy had gone through a malady much more awful and debasing than themere physical fever, and was stained by crime as well as weakened byillness. The consciousness of this she had to bear perforce silently,and to try to put a mask of cheerfulness and confidence over herinward doubt and despair and horror.

When Captain Shandon, at Boulogne, read the next number of the"Pall-Mall Gazette," it was to remark to Mrs. Shandon that JackFinucane's hand was no longer visible in the leading articles, andthat Mr. Warrington must be at work there again. "I know the crack ofhis whip in a hundred, and the cut which the fellow's thong leaves.There's Jack Bludyer, goes to work like a butcher, and mangles asubject. Mr. Warrington finishes a man, and lays his cuts neat andregular, straight down the back, and drawing blood every line;" atwhich dreadful metaphor, Mrs. Shandon said, "Law, Charles, how can youtalk so! I always thought Mr. Warrington very high, but a kindgentleman; and I'm sure he was most kind to the children." Upon whichShandon said, "Yes; he's kind to the children; but he's savage to themen; and to be sure, my dear, you don't understand a word about whatI'm saying; and it's best you shouldn't; for it's little good comesout of writing for newspapers; and it's better here, living easy atBoulogne, where the wine's plenty, and the brandy costs but two francsa bottle. Mix us another tumbler, Mary, my dear; we'll go back intoharness soon. 'Cras ingens iterabimus aequor'—bad luck to it."

In a word, Warrington went to work with all his might, in place of hisprostrate friend, and did Pen's portion of the "Pall-Mall Gazette""with a vengeance," as the saying is. He wrote occasional articles andliterary criticisms; he attended theatres and musical performances,and discoursed about them with his usual savage energy. His hand wastoo strong for such small subjects, and it pleased him to tellArthur's mother, and uncle, and Laura, that there was no hand in allthe band of penmen more graceful and light, more pleasant and moreelegant, than Arthur's. "The people in this country, ma'am, don'tunderstand what style is, or they would see the merits of our youngone," he said to Mrs. Pendennis. "I call him ours, ma'am, for I bredhim; and I am as proud of him as you are; and, bating a littlewillfulness, and a little selfishness, and a little dandyfication, Idon't know a more honest, or loyal, or gentle creature. His pen iswicked sometimes, but he is as kind as a young lady—as Miss Laurahere—and I believe he would not do any living mortal harm."

At this, Helen, though she heaved a deep, deep sigh, and Laura, thoughshe, too, was sadly wounded, nevertheless were most thankful forWarrington's good opinion of Arthur, and loved him for being soattached to their Pen. And Major Pendennis was loud in his praises ofMr. Warrington—more loud and enthusiastic than it was the major'swont to be. "He is a gentleman, my dear creature," he said to Helen,"every inch a gentleman, my good madam—the Suffolk Warringtons—Charles the First's baronets: what could he be but a gentleman,come out of that family?—father—Sir Miles Warrington; ranaway with—beg your pardon, Miss Bell. Sir Miles was a very well-knownman in London, and a friend of the Prince of Wales. This gentlemanis a man of the greatest talents, the very highest accomplishments—sure to get on, if he had a motive to put his energies to work."

Laura blushed for herself while the major was talking and praisingArthur's hero. As she looked at Warrington's manly face and dark,melancholy eyes, this young person had been speculating about him, andhad settled in her mind that he must have been the victim of anunhappy attachment; and as she caught herself so speculating, why,Miss Bell blushed.

Warrington got chambers hard by—Grenier's chambers in Flagcourt; andhaving executed Pen's task with great energy in the morning, hisdelight and pleasure of an afternoon was to come and sit with the sickman's company in the sunny autumn evenings; and he had the honor morethan once of giving Miss Bell his arm for a walk in the TempleGardens; to take which pastime, when the frank Laura asked of Helenpermission, the major eagerly said, "Yes, yes, begad—of course you goout with him—it's like the country, you know; everybody goes out withevery body in the gardens, and there are beadles, you know, and thatsort of thing—every body walks in the Temple Gardens." If the greatarbiter of morals did not object, why should simple Helen? She wasglad that her girl should have such fresh air as the river could give,and to see her return with heightened color and spirits from theseharmless excursions.

Laura and Helen had come, you must know, to a little explanation. Whenthe news arrived of Pen's alarming illness, Laura insisted uponaccompanying the terrified mother to London, would not hear of therefusal which the still angry Helen gave her, and, when refused asecond time yet more sternly, and when it seemed that the poor lostlad's life was despaired of, and when it was known that his conductwas such as to render all thoughts of union hopeless, Laura had, withmany tears told her mother a secret with which every observant personwho reads this story is acquainted already. Now she never could marryhim, was she to be denied the consolation of owning how fondly, howtruly, how entirely she had loved him? The mingling tears of the womenappeased the agony of their grief somewhat, and the sorrows andterrors of their journey were at least in so far mitigated that theyshared them together.

What could Fanny expect when suddenly brought up for sentence before acouple of such judges? Nothing but swift condemnation, awfulpunishment, merciless dismissal! Women are cruel critics in cases suchas that in which poor Fanny was implicated; and we like them to be so:for, besides the guard which a man places round his own harem, and thedefenses which a woman has in her heart, her faith, and honor, hasn'tshe all her own friends of her own sex to keep watch that she does notgo astray, and to tear her to pieces if she is found erring? When ourMahmouds or Selims of Baker-street or Belgrave-square visit theirFatimas with condign punishment, their mothers sew up Fatima's sackfor her, and her sisters and sisters-in-law see her well underwater. And this present writer does not say nay. He protests mostsolemnly he is a Turk, too. He wears a turban and a beard likeanother, and is all for the sack practice, Bismillah! But O youspotless, who have the right of capital punishment vested in you, atleast be very cautious that you make away with the proper (if so shemay be called) person. Be very sure of the fact before you order thebarge out: and don't pop your subject into the Bosphorus, until youare quite certain that she deserves it. This is all I would urge inPoor Fatima's behalf—absolutely all—not a word more, by the beard ofthe Prophet. If she's guilty, down with her—heave over the sack, awaywith it into the Golden Horn bubble and squeak, and justice beingdone, give away, men, and let us pull back to supper.

So the major did not in any way object to Warrington's continuedpromenades with Miss Laura, but, like a benevolent old gentleman,encouraged in every way the intimacy of that couple. Were there anyexhibitions in town? he was for Warrington conducting her to them. IfWarrington had proposed to take her to Vauxhall itself, this mostcomplaisant of men would have seen no harm—nor would Helen, ifPendennis the elder had so ruled it—nor would there have been anyharm between two persons whose honor was entirely spotless—betweenWarrington, who saw in intimacy a pure, and high-minded, and artlesswoman for the first time in his life—and Laura, who too for the firsttime was thrown into the constant society of a gentleman of greatnatural parts and powers of pleasing; who possessed variedacquirements, enthusiasm, simplicity, humor, and that freshness ofmind which his simple life and habits gave him, and which contrastedso much with Pen's dandy indifference of manner and faded sneer. InWarrington's very uncouthness there was a refinement, which theother's finery lacked. In his energy, his respect, his desire toplease, his hearty laughter, or simple confiding pathos, what adifference to Sultan Pen's yawning sovereignty and languid acceptanceof homage! What had made Pen at home such a dandy and such a despot?The women had spoiled him, as we like them and as they like to do.They had cloyed him with obedience, and surfeited him with sweetrespect and submission, until he grew weary of the slaves who waitedupon him, and their caresses and cajoleries excited him no more.Abroad, he was brisk and lively, and eager and impassionedenough—most men are so constituted and so nurtured. Does this, likethe former sentence, run a chance of being misinterpreted, and doesany one dare to suppose that the writer would incite the women torevolt? Never, by the whiskers of the Prophet, again he says. He wearsa beard, and he likes his women to be slaves. What man doesn't? Whatman would be henpecked, I say?—We will cut off all the heads inChristendom or Turkeydom rather than that.

Well, then, Arthur being so languid, and indifferent, and carelessabout the favors bestowed upon him, how came it that Laura should havesuch a love and rapturous regard for him, that a mere inadequateexpression of it should have kept the girl talking all the way fromFairoaks to London, as she and Helen traveled in the post-chaise? Assoon as Helen had finished one story about the dear fellow, andnarrated, with a hundred sobs and ejacul*tions, and looks up toheaven, some thrilling incidents which occurred about the period whenthe hero was breeched, Laura began another equally interesting, andequally ornamented with tears, and told how heroically he had a toothout or wouldn't have it out, or how daringly he robbed a bird's nest,or how magnanimously he spared it; or how he gave a shilling to theold woman on the common, or went without his bread and butter for thebeggar-boy who came into the yard—and so on. One to another thesobbing women sang laments upon their hero, who, my worthy reader haslong since perceived, is no more a hero than either one of us. Beingas he was, why should a sensible girl be so fond of him?

This point has been argued before in a previous unfortunate sentence(which lately drew down all the wrath of Ireland upon the writer'shead), and which said that the greatest rascal-cutthroats have hadsomebody to be fond of them, and if those monsters, why not ordinarymortals? And with whom shall a young lady fall in love but with theperson she sees? She is not supposed to lose her heart in a dream,like a Princess in the Arabian Nights; or to plight her youngaffections to the portrait of a gentleman in the Exhibition, or asketch in the Illustrated London News. You have an instinct within youwhich inclines you to attach yourself to some one: you meet Somebody:you hear Somebody constantly praised: you walk, or ride, or waltz, ortalk, or sit in the same pew at church with Somebody: you meet again,and again, and—"Marriages are made in Heaven," your dear mamma says,pinning your orange flowers wreath on, with her blessed eyes dimmedwith tears—and there is a wedding breakfast, and you take off yourwhite satin and retire to your coach and four, and you and he are ahappy pair. Or, the affair is broken off and then, poor dear woundedheart! why then you meet Somebody Else and twine your young affectionsround number two. It is your nature so to do. Do you suppose it is allfor the man's sake that you love, and not a bit for your own? Do yousuppose you would drink if you were not thirsty, or eat if you werenot hungry?

So then Laura liked Pen because she saw scarcely any body else atFairoaks except Doctor Portman and Captain Glanders, and because hismother constantly praised her Arthur, and because he wasgentleman-like, tolerably good-looking and witty, and because, aboveall, it was of her nature to like somebody. And having once receivedthis image into her heart, she there tenderly nursed it and claspedit—she there, in his long absences and her constant solitudes,silently brooded over it and fondled it—and when after this she cameto London, and had an opportunity of becoming rather intimate with Mr.George Warrington, what on earth was to prevent her from thinking hima most odd, original, agreeable, and pleasing person?

A long time afterward, when these days were over, and Fate in itsown way had disposed of the various persons now assembled in the dingybuilding in Lamb-court, perhaps some of them looked back and thoughthow happy the time was, and how pleasant had been their evening talksand little walks and simple recreations round the sofa of Pen theconvalescent. The major had a favorable opinion of September in Londonfrom that time forward, and declared at his clubs and in society thatthe dead season in town was often pleasant, doosid pleasant, begad. Heused to go home to his lodgings in Bury-street of a night, wonderingthat it was already so late, and that the evening had passed away soquietly. He made his appearance at the Temple pretty constantly in theafternoon, and tugged up the long, black staircase with quite abenevolent activity and perseverance. And he made interest with thechef at Bays's (that renowned cook, the superintendence of whose workupon Gastronomy compelled the gifted author to stay in themetropolis), to prepare little jellies, delicate clear soups, aspics,and other trifles good for invalids, which Morgan the valet constantlybrought down to the little Lamb-court colony. And the permission todrink a glass or two of pure sherry being accorded to Pen by DoctorGoodenough, the major told with almost tears in his eyes how his noblefriend the Marquis of Steyne, passing through London on his way to theContinent, had ordered any quantity of his precious, his pricelessAmontillado, that had been a present from King Ferdinand to the noblemarquis, to be placed at the disposal of Mr. Arthur Pendennis. Thewidow and Laura tasted it with respect (though they didn't in theleast like the bitter flavor), but the invalid was greatly invigoratedby it, and Warrington pronounced it superlatively good, and proposedthe major's health in a mock speech after dinner on the first day whenthe wine was served, and that of Lord Steyne and the aristocracyin general.

Major Pendennis returned thanks with the utmost gravity and in aspeech in which he used the words "the present occasion," at least theproper number of times. Pen cheered with his feeble voice from hisarm-chair. Warrington taught Miss Laura to cry "Hear! hear!" andtapped the table with his knuckles. Pidgeon the attendant grinned, andhonest Doctor Goodenough found the party so merrily engaged, when hecame in to pay his faithful, gratuitous visit.

Warrington knew Sibwright, who lived below, and that gallantgentleman, in reply to a letter informing him of the use to which hisapartments had been put, wrote back the most polite and flowery letterof acquiescence. He placed his chambers at the service of their fairoccupants, his bed at their disposal, his carpets at their feet.Everybody was kindly disposed toward the sick man and his family. Hisheart (and his mother's too, as we may fancy) melted within him at thethought of so much good feeling and good nature. Let Pen's biographerbe pardoned for alluding to a time, not far distant, when a somewhatsimilar mishap brought him a providential friend, a kind physician,and a thousand proofs of a most touching and surprising kindness andsympathy There was a piano in Mr. Sibwright's chamber (indeed thisgentleman, a lover of all the arts, performed himself—and exceedinglyill too—upon the instrument); and had had a song dedicated to him(the words by himself, the air by his devoted friend LeopoldoTwankidillo), and at this music-box, as Mr. Warrington called it,Laura, at first with a great deal of tremor and blushing (which becameher very much), played and sang, sometimes of an evening, simple airs,and old songs of home. Her voice was a rich contralto, and Warrington,who scarcely knew one tune from another, and who had but one time orbray in his repertoire—a most discordant imitation of God save theKing—sat rapt in delight listening to these songs. He could followtheir rhythm if not their harmony; and he could watch, with a constantand daily growing enthusiasm, the pure, and tender, and generouscreature who made the music.

I wonder how that poor pale little girl in the black bonnet, who usedto stand at the lamp-post in Lamb-court sometimes of an eveninglooking up to the open windows from which the music came, liked tohear it? When Pen's bed-time came the songs were hushed. Lightsappeared in the upper room: his room, whither the widow used toconduct him; and then the major and Mr. Warrington, and sometimes MissLaura, would have a game at écarté or backgammon; or she would sitby working a pair of slippers in worsted—a pair of gentleman'sslippers—they might have been for Arthur, or for George, or for MajorPendennis: one of those three would have given any thing forthe slippers.

While such business as this was going on within, a rather shabby oldgentleman would come and lead away the pale girl in the black bonnet;who had no right to be abroad in the night air, and the Templeporters, the few laundresses, and other amateurs who had beenlistening to the concert, would also disappear.

Just before ten o'clock there was another musical performance, namely,that of the chimes of St. Clement's clock in the Strand, which playedthe clear, cheerful notes of a psalm, before it proceeded to ring itsten fatal strokes. As they were ringing, Laura began to fold up theslippers; Martha from Fairoaks appeared with a bed-candle, and aconstant smile on her face; the major said, "God bless my soul, is itso late?" Warrington and he left their unfinished game, and got up andshook hands with Miss Bell. Martha from Fairoaks lighted them out ofthe passage and down the stair, and, as they descended, they couldhear, her bolting and locking "the sporting door" after them, upon heryoung mistress and herself. If there had been any danger, grinningMartha said she would have got down "that thar hooky soord which hungup in gantleman's room,"—meaning the Damascus scimitar with the namesof the Prophet engraved on the blade and the red-velvet scabbard,which Percy Sibwright, Esquire, brought back from his tour in theLevant, along with an Albanian dress, and which he wore with suchelegant effect at Lady Mullinger's fancy ball, Gloucester-square, HydePark. It entangled itself in Miss Kewsey's train, who appeared in thedress in which she, with her mamma, had been presented to theirsovereign (the latter by the L—d Ch-nc-ll-r's lady), and led toevents which have nothing to do with this history. Is not Miss Kewseynow Mrs. Sibwright? Has Sibwright not got a county court?—Good night,Laura and Fairoaks Martha. Sleep well and wake happy, pure andgentle lady.

Sometimes after these evenings Warrington would walk a little way withMajor Pendennis—just a little way—just as far as the Temple gate—asthe Strand—as Charing Cross—as the Club—he was not going into theClub? Well, as far as Bury-street where he would laughingly shakehands on the major's own door-step. They had been talking about Lauraall the way. It was wonderful how enthusiastic the major, who, as weknow, used to dislike her, had grown to be regarding the young lady."Dev'lish fine girl, begad. Dev'lish well-mannered girl—mysister-in-law has the manners of a duch*ess and would bring up any girlwell. Miss Bell's a little countryfied. But the smell of thehawthorn is pleasant, demmy. How she blushes! Your London girls wouldgive many a guinea for a bouquet like that—natural flowers, begad!And she's a little money too—nothing to speak of—but a pooty littlebit of money." In all which opinions no doubt Mr. Warrington agreed;and though he laughed as he shook hands with the major, his face fellas he left his veteran companion; and he strode back to chambers, andsmoked pipe after pipe long into the night, and wrote article uponarticle, more and more savage, in lieu of friend Pen disabled.

Well, it was a happy time for almost all parties concerned. Pen mendeddaily. Sleeping and eating were his constant occupations. His appetitewas something frightful. He was ashamed of exhibiting it before Laura,and almost before his mother, who laughed and applauded him. As theroast chicken of his dinner went away he eyed the departing friendwith sad longing, and began to long for jelly, or tea, or what not. Hewas like an ogre in devouring. The doctor cried stop, but Pen wouldnot. Nature called out to him more loudly than the doctor, and thatkind and friendly physician handed him over with a very good grace tothe other healer.

And here let us speak very tenderly and in the strictest confidence ofan event which befell him, and to which he never liked an allusion.During his delirium the ruthless Goodenough ordered ice to be put tohis head, and all his lovely hair to be cut. It was done in the timeof—of the other nurse, who left every single hair of course in apaper for the widow to count and treasure up. She never believed butthat the girl had taken away some of it, but then women are sosuspicious upon these matters.

When this direful loss was made visible to Major Pendennis, as ofcourse it was the first time the elder saw the poor young man's shornpate, and when Pen was quite out of danger, and gaining daily vigor,the major, with something like blushes and a queer wink of his eyes,said he knew of a—a person—a coiffeur, in fact—a good man, whom he would send down to the Temple, and who would—a—apply—a—atemporary remedy to that misfortune.

Laura looked at Warrington with the archest sparkle in her eyes—Warrington fairly burst out into a boohoo of laughter: even the widowwas obliged to laugh: and the major erubescent confounded theimpudence of the young folks, and said when he had his hair cut hewould keep a lock of it for Miss Laura.

Warrington voted that Pen should wear a barrister's wig. There wasSibwright's down below, which would become him hugely. Pen said"Stuff," and seemed as confused as his uncle; and the end was that agentleman from Burlington Arcade waited next day upon Mr. Pendennis,and had a private interview with him in his bedroom; and a weekafterward the same individual appeared with a box under his arm, andan ineffable grin of politeness on his face, and announced that he hadbrought 'ome Mr. Pendennis's 'ead of 'air.

It must have been a grand but melancholy sight to see Pen in therecesses of his apartment, sadly contemplating his ravaged beauty, andthe artificial means of hiding its ruin. He appeared at length in the'ead of 'air; but Warrington laughed so that Pen grew sulky, and wentback for his velvet cap, a neat turban which the fondest of mammas hadworked for him. Then Mr. Warrington and Miss Bell got some flowers offthe ladies' bonnets and made a wreath, with which they decorated thewig and brought it out in procession, and did homage before it. Infact they indulged in a hundred sports, jocularities, waggeries, andpetit* jeux innocens: so that the second and third floors ofnumber 6, Lambcourt, Temple, rang with more cheerfulness and laughterthan had been known in those precincts for many a long day.

[Illustration]

At last, after about ten days of this life, one evening when thelittle spy of the court came out to take her usual post of observationat the lamp, there was no music from the second floor window, therewere no lights in the third story chambers, the windows of each wereopen, and the occupants were gone. Mrs. Flanagan the laundress, toldFanny what had happened. The ladies and all the party had gone toRichmond for change of air. The antique traveling chariot was broughtout again and cushioned with many pillows for Pen and his mother; andMiss Laura went in the most affable manner in the omnibus under theguardianship of Mr. George Warrington. He came back and tookpossession of his old bed that night in the vacant and cheerlesschambers, and to his old books and his old pipes, but not perhaps tohis old sleep.

The widow had left a jar full of flowers upon his table, prettilyarranged, and when he entered they filled the solitary room with odor.They were memorials of the kind, gentle souls who had gone away, andwho had decorated for a little while that lonely, cheerless place. Hehad had the happiest days of his whole life, George felt—he knew itnow they were just gone: he went and took up the flowers and put hisface to them, smelt them—perhaps kissed them. As he put them down, herubbed his rough hand across his eyes with a bitter word and laugh. Hewould have given his whole life and soul to win that prize whichArthur rejected. Did she want fame? he would have won it for her:devotion?—a great heart full of pent-up tenderness and manly loveand gentleness was there for her, if she might take it. But it mightnot be. Fate had ruled otherwise. "Even if I could, she would not haveme," George thought. "What has an ugly, rough old fellow like me, tomake any woman like him? I'm getting old, and I've made no mark inlife. I've neither good looks, nor youth, nor money, nor reputation. Aman must be able to do something besides stare at her and offer on hisknees his uncouth devotion, to make a woman like him. What can I do?Lots of young fellows have passed me in the race—what they call theprizes of life didn't seem to me worth the trouble of the struggle.But for her. If she had been mine and liked a diamond—ah!shouldn't she have worn it! Psha, what a fool I am to brag of what Iwould have done! We are the slaves of destiny. Our lots are shaped forus, and mine is ordained long ago. Come, let us have a pipe, and putthe smell of these flowers out of court. Poor little silent flowers!you'll be dead to-morrow. What business had you to show your redcheeks in this dingy place?"

By his bed-side George found a new Bible which the widow had placedthere, with a note inside saying that she had not seen the book amonghis collection in a room where she had spent a number of hours, andwhere God had vouchsafed to her prayers the life of her son, and thatshe gave to Arthur's friend the best thing she could, and besoughthim to read in the volume sometimes, and to keep it as a token of agrateful mother's regard and affection. Poor George mournfully kissedthe book as he had done the flowers; and the morning found him stillreading in its awful pages, in which so many stricken hearts, in whichso many tender and faithful souls, have found comfort under calamityand refuge and hope in affliction.

FANNY'S OCCUPATION'S GONE.

[Illustration]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would you?" said George.

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

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

Laura blushed more red than ever and withdrew her hand.

"What is it?" Helen asked.

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

"Indeed!" Helen said.

IN WHICH FANNY ENGAGES A NEW MEDICAL MAN.

[Illustration]

Could Helen have suspected that, with Pen's returning strength, hisunhappy partiality for little Fanny would also reawaken? Though shenever spoke a word regarding that young person, after her conversationwith the major, and though, to all appearance, she utterly ignoredFanny's existence, yet Mrs. Pendennis kept a particularly close watchupon all Master Arthur's actions; on the plea of ill-health, wouldscarcely let him out of her sight; and was especially anxious that heshould be spared the trouble of all correspondence for the present atleast. Very likely Arthur looked at his own letters with some tremor;very likely, as he received them at the family table, feeling hismother's watch upon him (though the good soul's eye seemed fixed uponher tea-cup or her book), he expected daily to see a littlehandwriting, which he would have known, though he had never seen ityet, and his heart beat as he received the letters to his address. Washe more pleased or annoyed, that, day after day, his expectations werenot realized; and was his mind relieved, that there came no letterfrom Fanny? Though, no doubt, in these matters, when Lovelace is tiredof Clarissa (or the contrary), it is best for both parties to break atonce, and each, after the failure of the attempt at union, to go hisown way, and pursue his course through life solitary; yet ourself-love, or our pity, or our sense of decency, does not like thatsudden bankruptcy. Before we announce to the world that our firm ofLovelace and Co. can't meet its engagements, we try to makecompromises: we have mournful meetings of partners: we delay theputting up of the shutters, and the dreary announcement of thefailure. It must come: but we pawn our jewels to keep things going alittle longer. On the whole, I dare say, Pen was rather annoyed thathe had no remonstrances from Fanny. What! could she part from him, andnever so much as once look round? could she sink, and never once holda little hand out, or cry, "Help, Arthur?" Well, well: they don't allgo down who venture on that voyage. Some few drown when the vesselfounders; but most are only ducked, and scramble to shore. And thereader's experience of A. Pendennis, Esquire, of the Upper Temple,will enable him to state whether that gentleman belonged to the classof persons who were likely to sink or to swim.

Though Pen was as yet too weak to walk half a mile; and might not, onaccount of his precious health, be trusted to take a drive in acarriage by himself, and without a nurse in attendance; yet Helencould not keep watch over Mr. Warrington too, and had no authority toprevent that gentleman from going to London if business called himthither. Indeed, if he had gone and staid, perhaps the widow, fromreasons of her own, would have been glad; but she checked theseselfish wishes as soon as she ascertained or owned them; and,remembering Warrington's great regard and services, and constantfriendship for her boy, received him as a member of her family almost,with her usual melancholy kindness and submissive acquiescence. Yetsomehow, one morning when his affairs called him to town, she divinedwhat Warrington's errand was, and that he was gone to London, to getnews about Fanny for Pen.

Indeed, Arthur had had some talk with his friend, and told him more atlarge what his adventures had been with Fanny (adventures which thereader knows already), and what were his feelings respecting her. Hewas very thankful that he had escaped the great danger, to whichWarrington said Amen heartily: that he had no great fault wherewith toreproach himself in regard of his behavior to her, but that if theyparted, as they must, he would be glad to say a God bless her, and tohope that she would remember him kindly. In his discourse withWarrington he spoke upon these matters with so much gravity, and somuch emotion, that George, who had pronounced himself most stronglyfor the separation too, began to fear that his friend was not so wellcured as he boasted of being; and that, if the two were to cometogether again, all the danger and the temptation might have to befought once more. And with what result? "It is hard to struggle,Arthur, and it is easy to fall," Warrington said: "and the bestcourage for us poor wretches is to fly from danger. I would not havebeen what I am now, had I practiced what I preach."

"And what did you practice, George?" Pen asked, eagerly. "I knew therewas something. Tell us about it, Warrington."

"There was something that can't be mended, and that shattered my wholefortunes early," Warrington answered, "I said I would tell you aboutit some day, Pen: and will, but not now. Take the moral without thefable now, Pen, my boy; and if you want to see a man whose whole lifehas been wrecked, by an unlucky rock against which he struck as aboy—here he is, Arthur: and so I warn you."

We have shown how Mr. Huxter, in writing home to his Claveringfriends, mentioned that there was a fashionable club in London ofwhich he was an attendant, and that he was there in the habit ofmeeting an Irish officer of distinction, who, among other news, hadgiven that intelligence regarding Pendennis, which the young surgeonhad transmitted to Clavering. This club was no other than the BackKitchen, where the disciple of Saint Bartholomew was accustomed tomeet the general, the peculiarities of whose brogue, appearance,disposition, and general conversation, greatly diverted many younggentlemen who used the Back Kitchen as a place of nightlyentertainment and refreshment. Huxter, who had a fine natural geniusfor mimicking every thing, whether it was a favorite tragic or comicactor, a co*ck on a dunghill, a corkscrew going into a bottle and acork issuing thence, or an Irish officer of genteel connections whooffered himself as an object of imitation with only too muchreadiness, talked his talk, and twanged his poor old long bow wheneverdrink, a hearer, and an opportunity occurred, studied our friend thegeneral with peculiar gusto, and drew the honest fellow out many anight. A bait, consisting of sixpenny-worth of brandy and water, theworthy old man was sure to swallow: and under the influence of thisliquor, who was more happy than he to tell his stories of hisdaughter's triumphs and his own, in love, war, drink, and politesociety? Thus Huxter was enabled to present to his friends manypictures of Costigan: of Costigan fighting a jewel in the Phaynix—ofCostigan and his interview with the Juke of York—of Costigan at hissonunlaw's teeble, surrounded by the nobilitee of his countree—ofCostigan, when crying drunk, at which time he was in the habit ofconfidentially lamenting his daughter's ingratichewd, and stating thathis gray hairs were hastening to a praymachure greeve, And thus ourfriend was the means of bringing a number of young fellows to the BackKitchen, who consumed the landlord's liquors while they relished thegeneral's peculiarities, so that mine host pardoned many of thelatter's foibles, in consideration of the good which they brought tohis house. Not the highest position in life was this certainly, or onewhich, if we had a reverence for an old man, we would be anxious thathe should occupy: but of this aged buffoon it may be mentioned that hehad no particular idea that his condition of life was not a high one,and that in his whiskied blood there was not a black drop, nor in hismuddled brains a bitter feeling, against any mortal being. Even hischild, his cruel Emily, he would have taken to his heart and forgivenwith tears; and what more can one say of the Christian charity of aman than that he is actually ready to forgive those who have done himevery kindness, and with whom he is wrong in a dispute?

There was some idea among the young men who frequented, the BackKitchen, and made themselves merry with the society of CaptainCostigan, that the captain made a mystery regarding his lodgings forfear of duns, or from a desire of privacy, and lived in some wonderfulplace. Nor would the landlord of the premises, when questioned uponthis subject, answer any inquiries; his maxim being that he only knewgentlemen who frequented that room, in that room; that when theyquitted that room, having paid their scores as gentlemen, and behavedas gentlemen, his communication with them ceased; and that, as agentleman himself, he thought it was only impertinent curiosity to askwhere any other gentleman lived. Costigan, in his most intoxicated andconfidential moments, also evaded any replies to questions or hintsaddressed to him on this subject: there was no particular secret aboutit, as we have seen, who have had more than once the honor of enteringhis apartments, but in the vicissitudes of a long life he had beenpretty often in the habit of residing in houses where privacy wasnecessary to his comfort, and where the appearance of some visitorswould have brought him any thing but pleasure. Hence all sorts oflegends were formed by wags or credulous persons respecting his placeof abode. It was stated that he slept habitually in a watch-box in thecity; in a cab at a mews, where a cab proprietor gave him a shelter;in the Duke of York's Column, &c., the wildest of these theories beingput abroad by the facetious and imaginative Huxter. For Huxey, whennot silenced by the company of "swells," and when in the society ofhis own friends, was a very different fellow to the youth whom we haveseen cowed by Pen's impertinent airs; and, adored by his family athome, was the life and soul of the circle whom he met, either roundthe festive board or the dissecting table.

On one brilliant September morning, as Huxter was regaling himselfwith a cup of coffee at a stall in Covent Garden, having spent adelicious night dancing at Vauxhall, he spied the general reeling downHenrietta-street, with a crowd of hooting, blackguard boys at hisheels, who had left their beds under the arches of the river betimes,and were prowling about already for breakfast, and the strangelivelihood of the day. The poor old general was not in that conditionwhen the sneers and jokes of these young beggars had much effect uponhim: the cabmen and watermen at the cab-stand knew him, and passedtheir comments upon him: the policemen gazed after him, and warned theboys off him, with looks of scorn and pity; what did the scorn andpity of men, the jokes of ribald children, matter to the general? Hereeled along the street with glazed eyes, having just sense enough toknow whither he was bound, and to pursue his accustomed beat homeward.He went to bed not knowing how he had reached it, as often as any manin London. He woke and found himself there, and asked no questions,and he was tacking about on this daily though perilous voyage, when,from his station at the coffee-stall, Huxter spied him. To note hisfriend, to pay his twopence (indeed, he had but eightpence left, or hewould have had a cab from Vauxhall to take him home), was with theeager Huxter the work of an instant—Costigan dived down the alleys byDrury-lane Theater, where gin-shops, oyster-shops, and theatricalwardrobes abound, the proprietors of which were now asleep behindthe shutters, as the pink morning lighted up their chimneys; andthrough these courts Huxter followed the general, until he reachedOldcastle-street, in which is the gate of Shepherd's Inn.

Here, just as he was within sight of home, a luckless slice oforange-peel came between the general's heel and the pavement, andcaused the poor fellow to fall backward.

[Illustration]

Huxter ran up to him instantly, and after a pause, during which theveteran, giddy with his fall and his previous whisky, gathered as hebest might, his dizzy brains together, the young surgeon lifted up thelimping general, and very kindly and good-naturedly offered to conducthim to his home. For some time, and in reply to the queries which thestudent of medicine put to him, the muzzy general refused to say wherehis lodgings were, and declared that they were hard by, and that hecould reach them without difficulty; and he disengaged himself fromHuxter's arm, and made a rush, as if to get to his own homeunattended: but he reeled and lurched so, that the young surgeoninsisted upon accompanying him, and, with many soothing expressionsand cheering and consolatory phrases, succeeded in getting thegeneral's dirty old hand under what he called his own fin, and led theold fellow, moaning piteously, across the street. He stopped when hecame to the ancient gate, ornamented with the armorial bearings ofthe venerable Shepherd. "Here 'tis," said he, drawing up at theportal, and he made a successful pull at the gatebell, which presentlybrought out old Mr. Bolton, the porter, scowling fiercely, andgrumbling as he was used to do every morning when it became his turnto let in that early bird.

Costigan tried to hold Bolton for a moment in genteel conversation,but the other surlily would not. "Don't bother me," he said; "go toyour hown bed, capting, and don't keep honest men out of theirs." Sothe captain tacked across the square and reached his own staircase, upwhich he stumbled with the worthy Huxter at his heels. Costigan had akey of his own, which Huxter inserted into the keyhole for him, sothat there was no need to call up little Mr. Bows from the sleep intowhich the old musician had not long since fallen, and Huxter havingaided to disrobe his tipsy patient, and ascertained that no bones werebroken, helped him to bed, and applied compresses and water to one ofhis knees and shins, which, with the pair of trowsers which encasedthem, Costigan had severely torn in his fall. At the general's age,and with his habit of body, such wounds as he had inflicted on himselfare slow to heal: a good deal of inflammation ensued, and the oldfellow lay ill for some days suffering both pain and fever.

Mr. Huxter undertook the case of his interesting patient with greatconfidence and alacrity, and conducted it with becoming skill. Hevisited his friend day after day, and consoled him with lively rattleand conversation, for the absence of the society which Costiganneeded, and of which he was an ornament; and he gave specialinstructions to the invalid's nurse about the quantity of whisky whichthe patient was to take—instructions which, as the poor old fellowcould not for many days get out of his bed or sofa himself, he couldnot by any means infringe. Bows, Mrs. Bolton, and our little friendFanny, when able to do so, officiated at the general's bedside, andthe old warrior was made as comfortable as possible underhis calamity.

Thus Huxter, whose affable manners and social turn made him quicklyintimate with persons in whose society he fell, and whoseover-refinement did not lead them to repulse the familiarities of thisyoung gentleman, became pretty soon intimate in Shepherd's Inn, bothwith our acquaintances in the garrets and those in the Porter's Lodge.He thought he had seen Fanny somewhere: he felt certain that he had:but it is no wonder that he should not accurately remember her, forthe poor little thing never chose to tell him where she had met him:he himself had seen her at a period, when his own views both ofpersons and of right and wrong were clouded by the excitement ofdrinking and dancing, and also little Fanny was very much changed andworn by the fever and agitation, and passion and despair, which thepast three weeks had poured upon the head of that little victim. Bornedown was the head now, and very pale and wan the face; and many andmany a time the sad eyes had looked into the postman's, as he came tothe Inn, and the sickened heart had sunk as he passed away. When Mr.Costigan's accident occurred, Fanny was rather glad to have anopportunity of being useful and doing something kind—something thatwould make her forget her own little sorrows perhaps: she felt shebore them better while she did her duty, though I dare say many a teardropped into the old Irishman's gruel. Ah, me! stir the gruel well,and have courage, little Fanny! If every body who has suffered fromyour complaint were to die of it straightway, what a fine year theundertakers would have!

Whether from compassion for his only patient, or delight in hissociety, Mr. Huxter found now occasion to visit Costigan two or threetimes in the day at least, and if any of the members of the Porter'sLodge family were not in attendance on the general, the young doctorwas sure to have some particular directions to address to those attheir own place of habitation. He was a kind fellow; he made orpurchased toys for the children; he brought them apples and brandyballs; he brought a mask and frightened them with it, and caused asmile upon the face of pale Fanny. He called Mrs. Bolton Mrs. B., andwas very intimate, familiar, and facetious with that lady, quitedifferent from that "aughty artless beast," as Mrs. Bolton nowdenominated a certain young gentleman of our acquaintance, and whomshe now vowed she never could abear.

It was from this lady, who was very free in her conversation, thatHuxter presently learned what was the illness which was evidentlypreying upon little Fan, and what had been Pen's behavior regardingher. Mrs. Bolton's account of the transaction was not, it may beimagined, entirely an impartial narrative. One would have thought fromher story that the young gentleman had employed a course of the mostpersevering and flagitious artifices to win the girl's heart, hadbroken the most solemn promises made to her, and was a wretch to behated and chastised by every champion of woman. Huxter, in his presentframe of mind respecting Arthur, and suffering under the latter'scontumely, was ready, of course, to take all for granted that was saidin the disfavor of this unfortunate convalescent. But why did he notwrite home to Clavering, as he had done previously, giving an accountof Pen's misconduct, and of the particulars regarding it, which hadnow come to his knowledge? He once, in a letter to his brother-in-law,announced that that nice young man, Mr. Pendennis, had escapednarrowly from a fever, and that no doubt all Clavering, where he wasso popular, would be pleased at his recovery; and he mentioned thathe had an interesting case of compound fracture, an officer ofdistinction, which kept him in town; but as for Fanny Bolton, he madeno more mention of her in his letters—no more than Pen himself hadmade mention of her. O you mothers at home, how much do you think youknow about your lads? How much do you think you know?

But with Bows, there was no reason why Huxter should not speak hismind, and so, a very short time after his conversation with Mrs.Bolton. Mr. Sam talked to the musician about his early acquaintancewith Pendennis; described him as a confounded conceited blackguard,and expressed a determination to punch, his impudent head as soon asever he should be well enough to stand up like a man.

Then it was that Bows on his part spoke, and told his version of thestory, whereof Arthur and little Fan were the hero and heroine; howthey had met by no contrivance of the former, but by a blunder of theold Irishman, now in bed with a broken shin—how Pen had acted withmanliness and self-control in the business—how Mrs. Bolton was anidiot; and he related the conversation which he, Bows, had had withPen, and the sentiments uttered by the young man. Perhaps Bows's storycaused some twinges of conscience in the breast of Pen's accuser, andthat gentleman frankly owned that he had been wrong with regard toArthur, and withdrew his project for punching Mr. Pendennis's head.

But the cessation of his hostility for Pen did not diminish Huxter'sattentions to Fanny, which unlucky Mr. Bows marked with his usualjealousy and bitterness of spirit. "I have but to like any body," theold fellow thought, "and somebody is sure to come and be preferred tome. It has been the same ill-luck with me since I was a lad, until nowthat I am sixty years old. What can such a man as I am expect betterthan to be laughed at? It is for the young to succeed, and to behappy, and not for old fools like me. I've played a second fiddle allthrough life," he said, with a bitter laugh; "how can I suppose theluck is to change after it has gone against me so long?" This was theselfish way in which Bows looked at the state of affairs: though fewpersons would have thought there was any cause for his jealousy, wholooked at the pale and grief-stricken countenance of the haplesslittle girl, its object. Fanny received Huxter's good-natured effortsat consolation and kind attentions kindly. She laughed now and againat his jokes and games with her little sisters, but relapsed quicklyinto a dejection which ought to have satisfied Mr. Bows that thenew-comer had no place in her heart as yet, had jealous Mr. Bows beenenabled to see with clear eyes.

But Bows did not. Fanny attributed Pen's silence somehow to Bows'sinterference. Fanny hated him. Fanny treated Bows with constantcruelty and injustice. She turned from him when he spoke—she loathedhis attempts at consolation. A hard life had Mr. Bows, and a cruelreturn for his regard.

* * * * *

When Warrington came to Shepherd's Inn as Pen's embassador, it was forMr. Bows's apartments he inquired (no doubt upon a previous agreementwith the principal for whom he acted in this delicate negotiation),and he did not so much as catch a glimpse of Miss Fanny when hestopped at the inn-gate and made his inquiry. Warrington was, ofcourse, directed to the musician's chambers, and found him tending thepatient there, from whose chamber he came out to wait upon his guest.We have said that they had been previously known to one another, andthe pair shook hands with sufficient cordiality. After a littlepreliminary talk, Warrington said that he had come from his friendArthur Pendennis, and from his family, to thank Bows for his attentionat the commencement of Pen's illness, and for his kindness inhastening into the country to fetch the major.

Bows replied that it was but his duty: he had never thought to haveseen the young gentleman alive again when he went in search of Pen'srelatives, and he was very glad of Mr. Pendennis's recovery, and thathe had his friends with him. "Lucky are they who have friends, Mr.Warrington," said the musician. "I might be up in this garret andnobody would care for me, or mind whether I was alive or dead."

"What! not the general, Mr. Bows?" Warrington asked.

"The general likes his whisky-bottle more than any thing in life," theother answered; "we live together from habit and convenience; and hecares for me no more than you do. What is it you want to ask me, Mr.Warrington? You ain't come to visit me, I know very well. Nobodycomes to visit me. It is about Fanny, the porter's daughter, you arecome—I see that very well. Is Mr. Pendennis, now he has got well,anxious to see her again? Does his lordship the Sultan propose tothrow his 'andkerchief to her? She has been very ill, sir, ever sincethe day when Mrs. Pendennis turned her out of doors—kind of a lady,wasn't it? The poor girl and myself found the young gentleman ravingin a fever, knowing nobody, with nobody to tend him but his drunkenlaundress—she watched day and night by him. I set off to fetch hisuncle. Mamma comes and turns Fanny to the right about. Uncle comes andleaves me to pay the cab. Carry my compliments to the ladies andgentleman, and say we are both very thankful, very. Why, a countesscouldn't have behaved better, and for an apothecary's lady, as I'mgiven to understand Mrs. Pendennis was—I'm sure her behavior is mostuncommon aristocratic and genteel. She ought to have a double giltpestle and mortar to her coach."

It was from Mr. Huxter that Bows had learned Pen's parentage, nodoubt, and if he took Pen's part against the young surgeon, andFanny's against Mr. Pendennis, it was because the old gentleman was inso savage a mood, that his humor was to contradict every body.

Warrington was curious, and not ill pleased at the musician's tauntsand irascibility. "I never heard of these transactions," he said, "orgot but a very imperfect account of them from Major Pendennis. Whatwas a lady to do? I think (I have never spoken with her on thesubject) she had some notion that the young woman and my friend Penwere on—on terms of—of an intimacy which Mrs. Pendennis could not,of course, recognize—"

"Oh, of course not, sir. Speak out, sir; say what you mean at once,that the young gentleman of the Temple had made a victim of the girlof Shepherd's Inn, eh? And so she was to be turned out of doors—orbrayed alive in the double gilt pestle and mortar, by Jove! No, Mr.Warrington, there was no such thing: there was no victimizing, or ifthere was, Mr. Arthur was the victim, not the girl. He is an honestfellow, he is, though he is conceited, and a puppy sometimes. He canfeel like a man, and run away from temptation like a man. I own it,though I suffer by it, I own it. He has a heart, he has: but the girlhasn't sir. That girl will do any thing to win a man, and fling himaway without a pang, sir. If she flung away herself, sir, she'll feelit and cry. She had a fever when Mrs. Pendennis turned her out ofdoors; and she made love to the doctor, Doctor Goodenough, who came tocure her. Now she has taken on with another chap—another sawbones ha,ha! d——it, sir, she likes the pestle and mortar, and hangs round thepill boxes, she's so fond of 'em, and she has got a fellow from SaintBartholomew's, who grins through a horse collar for her sisters, andcharms away her melancholy. Go and see, sir: very likely he's in thelodge now. If you want news about Miss Fanny, you must ask at thedoctor's shop, sir, not of an old fiddler like me—Good-by, sir.There's my patient calling."

And a voice was heard from the captain's bedroom, a well-known voice,which said, "I'd loike a dthrop of dthrink, Bows, I'm thirstee." Andnot sorry, perhaps, to hear that such was the state of things, andthat Pen's forsaken was consoling herself, Warrington took his leaveof the irascible musician.

As luck would have it, he passed the lodge door just as Mr. Huxter wasin the act of frightening the children with the mask whereof we havespoken, and Fanny was smiling languidly at his farces. Warringtonlaughed bitterly. "Are all women like that?" he thought. "I thinkthere's one that's not," he added, with a sigh.

At Piccadilly, waiting for the Richmond omnibus, George fell in withMajor Pendennis, bound in the same direction, and he told the oldgentleman of what he had seen and heard respecting Fanny.

Major Pendennis was highly delighted: and as might be expected of sucha philosopher, made precisely the same observation as that which hadescaped from Warrington. "All women are the same," he said. "Lapetite se console. Dayme, when I used to read 'Télémaque' at school,Calypso ne pouvait se consoler—you know the rest, Warrington—Iused to say it was absard. Absard, by Gad, and so it is. And so she'sgot a new soupirant has she, the little porteress? Dayvlish nicelittle girl. How mad Pen will be—eh, Warrington? But we must break itto him gently, or he'll be in such a rage that he will be going afterher again. We must ménager the young fellow."

"I think Mrs. Pendennis ought to know that Pen acted very well in thebusiness. She evidently thinks him guilty, and according to Mr. Bows,Arthur behaved like a good fellow," Warrington said.

"My dear Warrington," said the major, with a look of some alarm. "InMrs. Pendennis's agitated state of health and that sort of thing, thebest way, I think, is not to say a single word about the subject—or,stay, leave it to me: and I'll talk to her—break it to her gently,you know, and that sort of a thing. I give you my word I will. And soCalypso's consoled, is she?" And he snigg*red over this gratifyingtruth, happy in the corner of the omnibus during the rest ofthe journey.

Pen was very anxious to hear from his envoy what had been the resultof the latter's mission; and as soon as the two young men could bealone, the embassador spoke in reply to Arthur's eager queries.

"You remember your poem, Pen, of Ariadne in Naxos," Warrington said;"devilish bad poetry it was, to be sure."

"Apres?" asked Pen, in a great state of excitement.

"When Theseus left Ariadne, do you remember what happened to her,young fellow?"

"It's a lie, it's a lie! You don't mean that!" cried out Pen, startingup, his face turning red.

"Sit down, stoopid," Warrington said, and with two fingers pushed Penback into his seat again. "It's better for you as it is, young one;"he said sadly, in reply to the savage flush in Arthur's face.

FOREIGN GROUND.

[Illustration]

Worth Major Pendennis fulfilled his promise to Warrington so far as tosatisfy his own conscience, and in so far to ease poor Helen withregard to her son, as to make her understand that all connectionbetween Arthur and the odious little gate-keeper was at an end, andthat she need have no further anxiety with respect to an imprudentattachment or a degrading marriage on Pen's part. And that youngfellow's mind was also relieved (after he had recovered the shock tohis vanity) by thinking that Miss Fanny was not going to die of lovefor him, and that no unpleasant consequences were to be apprehendedfrom the luckless and brief connection.

So the whole party were free to carry into effect their projectedContinental trip, and Arthur Pendennis, rentier, voyageant avec MadamePendennis and Mademoiselle Bell, and George Warrington, particulier,age de 32 ans, taille 6 pieds (Anglais), figure ordinaire, cheveuxnoirs, barbe idem, &c., procured passports from the consul of H.M. theKing of the Belgians at Dover, and passed over from that port toOstend, whence the party took their way leisurely, visiting Bruges andGhent on their way to Brussels and the Rhine. It is not our purpose todescribe this oft-traveled tour, or Laura's delight at the tranquiland ancient cities which she saw for the first time, or Helen's wonderand interest at the Beguine convents which they visited, or the almostterror with which she saw the black-veiled nuns with out-stretchedarms kneeling before the illuminated altars, and beheld the strangepomps and ceremonials of the Catholic worship. Bare-footed friars inthe streets, crowned images of Saints and Virgins in the churchesbefore which people were bowing down and worshiping, in directdefiance, as she held, of the written law; priests in gorgeous robes,or lurking in dark confessionals, theatres opened, and people dancingon Sundays; all these new sights and manners shocked and bewilderedthe simple country lady; and when the young men after their eveningdrive or walk returned to the widow and her adopted daughter, theyfound their books of devotion on the table, and at their entranceLaura would commonly cease reading some of the psalms or the sacredpages which, of all others Helen loved. The late events connected withher son had cruelly shaken her; Laura watched with intense, thoughhidden anxiety, every movement of her dearest friend; and poor Pen wasmost constant and affectionate in waiting upon his mother, whosewounded bosom yearned with love toward him, though there was a secretbetween them, and an anguish or rage almost on the mother's part, tothink that she was dispossessed somehow of her son's heart, or thatthere were recesses in it which she must not or dared not enter. Shesickened as she thought of the sacred days of boyhood when it had notbeen so—when her Arthur's heart had no secrets, and she was his allin all: when he poured his hopes and pleasures, his childish griefs,vanities, triumphs into her willing and tender embrace; when her homewas his nest still; and before fate, selfishness, nature, had drivenhim forth on wayward wings—to range on his own flight—to sing hisown song—and to seek his own home and his own mate. Watching thisdevouring care and racking disappointment in her friend, Laura oncesaid to Helen, "If Pen had loved me as you wished, I should havegained him, but I should have lost you, mamma, I know I should; and Ilike you to love me best. Men do not know what it is to love as we do,I think,"—and Helen, sighing, agreed to this portion of the younglady's speech, though she protested against the former part. For mypart, I suppose Miss Laura was right in both statements, and withregard to the latter assertion especially, that it is an old andreceived truism—love is an hour with us: it is all night and all daywith a woman. Damon has taxes, sermon, parade, tailors' bills,parliamentary duties, and the deuce knows what to think of; Delia hasto think about Damon—Damon is the oak (or the post), and stands up,and Delia is the ivy or the honey-suckle whose arms twine about him.Is it not so, Delia? Is it not your nature to creep about his feet andkiss them, to twine round his trunk and hang there; and Damon's tostand like a British man with his hands in his breeches pocket, whilethe pretty fond parasite clings round him?

Old Pendennis had only accompanied our friends to the water's edge,and left them on board the boat, giving the chief charge of the littleexpedition to Warrington. He himself was bound on a brief visit to thehouse of a great man, a friend of his, after which sojourn he proposedto join his sister-in-law at the German watering-place, whither theparty was bound. The major himself thought that his long attentions tohis sick family had earned for him a little relaxation—and though thebest of the partridges were thinned off, the pheasants were still tobe shot at Stillbrook, where the noble owner still was; old Pendennisbetook himself to that hospitable mansion and disported there withgreat comfort to himself. A royal duke, some foreigners of note, someillustrious statesmen, and some pleasant people visited it: it did theold fellow's heart good to see his name in the "Morning Post," amongthe list of the distinguished company which the Marquis of Steyne wasentertaining at his country house at Stillbrook. He was a very usefuland pleasant personage in a country house. He entertained the youngmen with queer little anecdotes and grivoises stories on theirshooting parties, or in their smoking-room, where they laughed at himand with him. He was obsequious with the ladies of a morning, in therooms dedicated to them. He walked the new arrivals about the park andgardens, and showed them the carte du pays, and where there was thebest view of the mansion, and where the most favorable point to lookat the lake: he showed where the timber was to be felled, and wherethe old road went before the new bridge was built, and the hill cutdown; and where the place in the wood was where old Lord Lynxdiscovered Sir Phelim O'Neal on his knees before her ladyship, &c.&c.; he called the lodge keepers and gardeners by their names; he knewthe number of domestics that sat down in the housekeeper's room, andhow many dined in the servants' hall; he had a word for every body,and about every body, and a little against every body. He wasinvaluable in a country house, in a word: and richly merited andenjoyed his vacation after his labors. And perhaps while he was thusdeservedly enjoying himself with his country friends, the major wasnot ill-pleased at transferring to Warrington the command of thefamily expedition to the Continent, and thus perforce keeping him inthe service of the ladies—a servitude which George was only toowilling to undergo for his friend's sake, and for that of a societywhich he found daily more delightful. Warrington was a good Germanscholar and was willing to give Miss Laura lessons in the language,who was very glad to improve herself, though Pen, for his part, wastoo weak or lazy now to resume his German studies. Warrington acted ascourier and interpreter; Warrington saw the baggage in and out ofships, inns, and carriages, managed the money matters, and put thelittle troop into marching order. Warrington found out where theEnglish church was, and, if Mrs. Pendennis and Miss Laura wereinclined to go thither, walked with great decorum along with them.Warrington walked by Mrs. Pendennis's donkey, when that lady went outon her evening excursions; or took carriages for her; or got"Galignani" for her; or devised comfortable seats under the lime treesfor her, when the guests paraded after dinner, and the Kursaal band atthe bath, where our tired friends stopped, performed their pleasantmusic under the trees. Many a fine whiskered Prussian or French dandy,come to the bath for the "Trente et quarante" cast glances oflonging toward the pretty, fresh-colored English girl who accompaniedthe pale widow, and would have longed to take a turn with her at thegalop or the waltz. But Laura did not appear in the ball-room,except once or twice, when Pen vouchsafed to walk with her; and as forWarrington that rough diamond had not had the polish of a dancingmaster, and he did not know how to waltz—though he would have likedto learn, if he could have had such a partner as Laura. Such apartner! psha, what had a stiff bachelor to do with partners andwaltzing? what was he about, dancing attendance here? drinking insweet pleasure at a risk he knows not of what after sadness andregret, and lonely longing? But yet he staid on. You would have saidhe was the widow's son, to watch his constant care and watchfulness ofher; or that he was an adventurer, and wanted to marry her fortune, orat any rate, that he wanted some very great treasure or benefit from her—and very likely he did—for ours, as the reader has possibly alreadydiscovered, is a Selfish Story, and almost every person, according to hisnature, more or less generous than George, and according to the way ofthe world as it seems to us, is occupied about Number One. So Warringtonselfishly devoted himself to Helen, who selfishly devoted herself to Pen,who selfishly devoted himself to himself at this present period, havingno other personage or object to occupy him, except, indeed, his mother'shealth, which gave him a serious and real disquiet; but though theysate together, they did not talk much, and the cloud was alwaysbetween them.

[Illustration]

Every day Laura looked for Warrington, and received him with morefrank and eager welcome. He found himself talking to her as he didn'tknow himself that he could talk. He found himself performing acts ofgallantry which astounded him after the performance: he found himselflooking blankly in the glass at the crow's-feet round his eyes, and atsome streaks of white in his hair, and some intrusive silver bristlesin his grim, blue beard. He found himself looking at the young bucksat the bath—at the blond, tight-waisted Germans—at the caperingFrenchmen, with their lackered mustaches and trim varnished boots—atthe English dandies, Pen among them, with their calm domineering air,and insolent languor: and envied each one of these some excellence orquality of youth, or good looks which he possessed, and of whichWarrington felt the need. And every night, as the night came, hequitted the little circle with greater reluctance; and, retiring tohis own lodging in their neighborhood, felt himself the more lonelyand unhappy. The widow could not help seeing his attachment. Sheunderstood, now, why Major Pendennis (always a tacit enemy of herdarling project) had been so eager that Warrington should be of theirparty. Laura frankly owned her great, her enthusiastic, regard forhim: and Arthur would make no movement. Arthur did not choose to seewhat was going on; or did not care to prevent, or actually encouraged,it. She remembered his often having said that he could not understandhow a man proposed to a woman twice. She was in torture—at secretfeud with her son, of all objects in the world the dearest to her—indoubt, which she dared not express to herself, about Laura—averse toWarrington, the good and generous. No wonder that the healing watersof Rosenbad did not do her good, or that Doctor von Glauber, the bathphysician, when he came to visit her, found that the poor lady made noprogress to recovery. Meanwhile Pen got well rapidly; slept withimmense perseverance twelve hours out of the twenty-four; ate hugemeals; and, at the end of a couple of months, had almost got back thebodily strength and weight which he had possessed before his illness.

After they had passed some fifteen days at their place of rest andrefreshment, a letter came from Major Pendennis announcing his speedyarrival at Rosenbad, and, soon after the letter, the major himselfmade his appearance accompanied by Morgan his faithful valet, withoutwhom the old gentleman could not move. When the major traveled he worea jaunty and juvenile traveling costume; to see his back still youwould have taken him for one of the young fellows whose slim waist andyouthful appearance Warrington was beginning to envy. It was not untilthe worthy man began to move, that the observer remarked that Time hadweakened his ancient knees, and had unkindly interfered to impede theaction of the natty little varnished boots in which the old travelerstill pinched his toes. There were magnates both of our own countryand of foreign nations present that autumn at Rosenbad. The elderPendennis read over the strangers' list with great gratification onthe night of his arrival, was pleased to find several of hisacquaintances among the great folks, and would have the honor ofpresenting his nephew to a German Grand duch*ess, a Russian Princess,and an English Marquis, before many days were over: nor was Pen by anymeans averse to making the acquaintance of these great personages,having a liking for polite life, and all the splendors and amenitiesbelonging to it. That very evening the resolute old gentlemen, leaningon his nephew's arm, made his appearance in the halls of the Kursaal,and lost or won a napoleon or two at the table of Trente etquarante. He did not play to lose, he said, or to win, but he did asother folks did, and betted his napoleon and took his luck as it came.He pointed out the Russians and Spaniards gambling for heaps of gold,and denounced their eagerness as something sordid and barbarous; anEnglish gentleman should play where the fashion is play, but shouldnot elate or depress himself at the sport; and he told how he had seenhis friend the Marquis of Steyne, when Lord Gaunt, lose eighteenthousand at a sitting, and break the bank three nights running atParis, without ever showing the least emotion at his defeat orvictory—"And that's what I call being an English gentleman, Pen, mydear boy," the old gentleman said, warming as he prattled about hisrecollections—"what I call the great manner only remains with us andwith a few families in France." And as Russian princesses passed him,whose reputation had long ceased to be doubtful, and damaged Englishladies, who are constantly seen in company of their faithful attendantfor the time being in these gay haunts of dissipation, the old major,with eager garrulity and mischievous relish told his nephew wonderfulparticulars regarding the lives of these heroines; and diverted theyoung man with a thousand scandals. Egad, he felt himself quite youngagain, he remarked to Pen, as, rouged and grinning, her enormouschasseur behind her bearing her shawl, the Princess Obstropski smiledand recognized and accosted him. He remembered her in '14 when she wasan actress of the Paris Boulevard, and the Emperor Alexander'said-de-camp Obstropski (a man of great talents, who knew a good dealabout the Emperor Paul's death, and was a devil to play) married her.He most courteously and respectfully asked leave to call upon theprincess, and to present to her his nephew, Mr. Arthur Pendennis; andhe pointed out to the latter a half-dozen of other personages whosenames were as famous, and whose histories were as edifying. What wouldpoor Helen have thought, could she have heard those tales, or known towhat kind of people her brother-in-law was presenting her son? Onlyonce, leaning on Arthur's arm, she had passed through the room wherethe green tables were prepared for play, and the croaking croupierswere calling out their fatal words of Rouge gagne and Couleurperd. She had shrunk terrified out of the pandemonium, imploring Pen,extorting from him a promise, on his word of honor, that he wouldnever play at those tables; and the scene which so frightened thesimple widow, only amused the worldly old veteran, and made him youngagain! He could breath the air cheerfully which stifled her. Her rightwas not his right: his food was her poison. Human creatures areconstituted thus differently, and with this variety the marvelousworld is peopled. To the credit of Mr. Pen, let it be said, that hekept honestly the promise made to his mother, and stoutly told hisuncle of his intention to abide by it.

[Illustration]

When the major arrived, his presence somehow cast a damp upon at leastthree persons of our little party—upon Laura, who had any thing butrespect for him; upon Warrington, whose manner toward him showed aninvoluntary haughtiness and contempt; and upon the timid and alarmedwidow, who dreaded lest he should interfere with her darling, thoughalmost desperate projects for her boy. And, indeed, the major, unknownto himself, was the bearer of tidings which were to bring about acatastrophe in the affairs of all our friends.

Pen with his two ladies had apartments in the town of Rosenbad; honestWarrington had lodgings hard by; the major, on arrival at Rosenbad,had, as befitted his dignity, taken up his quarters at one of thegreat hotels, at the Roman Emperor or the Four Seasons, where two orthree hundred gamblers, pleasure-seekers, or invalids, sate down andover-ate themselves daily at the enormous table d'hote. To this hotelPen went on the morning after the major's arrival dutifully to pay hisrespects to his uncle, and found the latter's sitting-room dulyprepared and arranged by Mr. Morgan, with the major's hats brushed,and his coats laid out: his dispatch-boxes and umbrella-cases, hisguide-books, passports, maps, and other elaborate necessaries of theEnglish traveler, all as trim and ready as they could be in theirmaster's own room in Jermyn-street. Every thing was ready, from themedicine-bottle fresh filled from the pharmacien's, down to the oldfellow's prayer-book, without which he never traveled, for he made apoint of appearing at the English church at every place which hehonored with a stay. "Every body did it," he said; "every Englishgentleman did it," and this pious man would as soon have thought ofnot calling upon the English embassador in a continental town, as ofnot showing himself at the national place of worship.

The old gentleman had been to take one of the baths for which Rosenbadis famous, and which every body takes, and his after-bath toilet wasnot yet completed when Pen arrived. The elder called out to Arthur ina cheery voice from the inner apartment, in which he and Morgan wereengaged, and the valet presently came in, bearing a little packet toPen's address—Mr. Arthur's letters and papers, Morgan said, which hehad brought from Mr. Arthur's chambers in London, and which consistedchiefly of numbers of the "Pall Mall Gazette," which our friend Mr.Finucane thought his collaborateur would like to see. The paperswere tied together: the letters in an envelope, addressed to Pen, inthe last-named gentleman's handwriting.

Among the letters there was a little note addressed, as a formerletter we have heard of had been, to "Arthur Pendennis, Esquire,"which Arthur opened with a start and a blush, and read with a verykeen pang of interest, and sorrow, and regard. She had come toArthur's house, Fanny Bolton said—and found that he was gone—goneaway to Germany without ever leaving a word for her—or answer to herlast letter, in which she prayed but for one word of kindness—or thebooks which he had promised her in happier times, before he was ill,and which she would like to keep in remembrance of him. She said shewould not reproach those who had found her at his bedside when he wasin the fever, and knew nobody, and who had turned the poor girl awaywithout a word. She thought she should have died, she said, of that,but Doctor Goodenough had kindly tended her, and kept her life, when,perhaps, the keeping of it was of no good, and she forgave every body:and as for Arthur, she would pray for him forever. And when he was soill, and they cut off his hair, she had made so free as to keep onelittle lock for herself, and that she owned. And might she still keepit, or would his mamma order that that should be gave up too? She waswilling to obey him in all things, and couldn't but remember that oncehe was so kind, oh! so good and kind! to his poor Fanny. When MajorPendennis, fresh and smirking from his toilet, came out of his bedroomto his sitting-room, he found Arthur with this note before him, and anexpression of savage anger on his face, which surprised the eldergentleman. "What news from London, my boy?" he rather faintly asked;"are the duns at you that you look so glum?"

"Do you know any thing about this letter, sir?" Arthur asked.

"What letter, my good sir?" said the other drily, at once perceivingwhat had happened.

"You know what I mean—about, about Miss—about Fanny Bolton—thepoor dear little girl," Arthur broke out. "When was she in my room?Was she there when I was delirious—I fancied she was—was she? Whosent her out of my chambers? Who intercepted her letters to me? Whodared to do it? Did you do it, uncle?"

"It's not my practice to tamper with gentlemen's letters, or to answerdamned impertinent questions," Major Pendennis cried out, in a greattremor of emotion and indignation. "There was a girl in your roomswhen I came up at great personal inconveinence, daymy—and to meetwith a return of this kind for my affection to you, is not pleasant,by Gad, sir—not at all pleasant."

"That's not the question, sir," Arthur said hotly—"and—and, I begyour pardon, uncle. You were, you always have been, most kind to me:but I say again, did you say any thing harsh to this poor girl. Didyou send her away from me?"

"I never spoke a word to the girl," the uncle said, "and I never senther away from you, and know no more about her, and wish to know nomore about her, than about the man in the moon."

"Then it's my mother that did it," Arthur broke out. "Did my mothersend that poor child away?"

"I repeat I know nothing about it, sir," the elder said testily.
"Let's change the subject, if you please."

"I'll never forgive the person who did it," said Arthur, bouncing upand seizing his hat.

The major cried out, "Stop, Arthur, for God's sake, stop;" but beforehe had uttered his sentence Arthur had rushed out of the room, and atthe next minute the major saw him striding rapidly down the streetthat led toward his home.

"Get breakfast!" said the old fellow to Morgan, and he wagged his headand sighed as he looked out of the window. "Poor Helen—poor soul!There'll be a row. I knew there would: and begad all the fat's inthe fire."

When Pen reached home he only found Warrington in the ladies'drawing-room, waiting their arrival in order to conduct them to theroom where the little English colony at Rosenbad held their Sundaychurch. Helen and Laura had not appeared as yet; the former wasailing, and her daughter was with her. Pen's wrath was so great thathe could not defer expressing it. He flung Fanny's letter across thetable to his friend. "Look there, Warrington," he said; "she tended mein my illness, she rescued me out of the jaws of death, and this isthe way they have treated the dear little creature. They have kept herletters from me; they have treated me like a child, and her like adog, poor thing! My mother has done this."

"If she has, you must remember it is your mother," Warringtoninterposed.

"It only makes the crime the greater, because it is she who has doneit," Pen answered. "She ought to have been the poor girl's defender,not her enemy: she ought to go down on her knees and ask pardon ofher. I ought! I will! I am shocked at the cruelty which has been shownher. What? She gave me her all, and this is her return! She sacrificesevery thing for me, and they spurn her."

"Hush!" said Warrington, "they can hear you from the next room."

"Hear; let them hear!" Pen cried out, only so much the louder. "Thosemay overhear my talk who intercept my letters. I say this poor girlhas been shamefully used, and I will do my best to right her; I will."

The door of the neighboring room opened and Laura came forth with paleand stern face. She looked at Pen with glances from which beamedpride, defiance, aversion. "Arthur, your mother is very ill," shesaid; "it is a pity that you should speak so loud as to disturb her."

"It is a pity that I should have been obliged to speak at all," Penanswered. "And I have more to say before I have done."

"I should think what you have to say will hardly be fit for me tohear," Laura said, haughtily.

"You are welcome to hear it or not, as you like," said Mr. Pen. "Ishall go in now and speak to my mother."

Laura came rapidly forward, so that she should not be overheard by herfriend within. "Not now, sir," she said to Pen. "You may kill her ifyou do. Your conduct has gone far enough to make her wretched."

"What conduct?" cried out Pen, in a fury. "Who dares impugn it? Whodares meddle with me? Is it you who are the instigator of thispersecution?"

"I said before it was a subject of which it did not become me to hearor to speak," Laura said. "But as for mamma, if she had actedotherwise than she did with regard to—to the person about whom youseem to take such an interest, it would have been I that must havequitted your house, and not that—that person."

"By heavens! this is too much," Pen cried out, with a violentexecration.

"Perhaps that is what you wished," Laura said, tossing her head up."No more of this, if you please; I am not accustomed to hear suchsubjects spoken of in such language;" and with a stately courtesy theyoung lady passed to her friend's room, looking her adversary full inthe face as she retreated and closed the door upon him.

Pen was bewildered with wonder, perplexity, fury, at this monstrousand unreasonable persecution. He burst out into a loud and bitterlaugh as Laura quitted him, and with sneers and revilings, as a manwho jeers under an operation, ridiculed at once his own pain and hispersecutor's anger. The laugh, which was one of bitter humor, and nounmanly or unkindly expression of suffering under most cruel andunmerited torture, was heard in the next apartment, as some of hisunlucky previous expressions had been, and, like them, entirelymisinterpreted by the hearers. It struck like a dagger into thewounded and tender heart of Helen; it pierced Laura, and inflamed thehigh-spirited girl, with scorn and anger. "And it was to this hardenedlibertine," she thought—"to this boaster of low intrigues, that Ihad given my heart away." "He breaks the most sacred laws," thoughtHelen. "He prefers the creature of his passion to his own mother; andwhen he is upbraided, he laughs, and glories in his crime. 'She gaveme her all,' I heard him say it," argued the poor widow; "and heboasts of it, and laughs, and breaks his mother's heart." The emotion,the shame, the grief, the mortification almost killed her. She feltshe should die of his unkindness.

Warrington thought of Laura's speech—"Perhaps that is what youwished." "She loves Pen still," he said. "It was jealousy made herspeak."—"Come away, Pen. Come away, and let us go to church and getcalm. You must explain this matter to your mother. She does not appearto know the truth: nor do you quite, my good fellow. Come away, andlet us talk about it." And again he muttered to himself, "'Perhapsthat is what you wished.' Yes, she loves him. Why shouldn't she lovehim? Whom else would I have her love? What can she be to me but thedearest, and the fairest, and the best of women?"

So, leaving the women similarly engaged within, the two gentlemenwalked away, each occupied with his own thoughts, and silent for aconsiderable space. "I must set this matter right," thought honestGeorge, "as she loves him still—I must set his mind right about theother woman." And with this charitable thought, the good fellow beganto tell more at large what Bows had said to him regarding MissBolton's behavior and fickleness, and he described how the girl was nobetter than a little light-minded flirt; and, perhaps, he exaggeratedthe good humor and contentedness which he had himself, as he thought,witnessed in her behavior in the scene with Mr. Huxter.

Now, all Bows's statements had been colored by an insane jealousy andrage on that old man's part; and instead of allaying Pen's renascentdesire to see his little conquest again, Warrington's accountsinflamed and angered Pendennis, and made him more anxious than beforeto set himself right, as he persisted in phrasing it, with Fanny. Theyarrived at the church-door presently; but scarce one word of theservice, and not a syllable of Mr. Shamble's sermon, did either ofthem comprehend, probably—so much was each engaged with his ownprivate speculations. The major came up to them after the service,with his well-brushed hat and wig, and his jauntiest, most cheerfulair. He complimented them upon being seen at church; again he saidthat every comme-il-faut person made a point of attending theEnglish service abroad; and he walked back with the young men,prattling to them in garrulous good-humor, and making bows to hisacquaintances as they passed; and thinking innocently that Pen andGeorge were both highly delighted by his anecdotes, which theysuffered to run on in a scornful and silent acquiescence.

At the time of Mr. Shamble's sermon (an erratic Anglican divine hiredfor the season at places of English resort, and addicted to debts,drinking, and even to roulette, it was said), Pen, chafing under thepersecution which his womankind inflicted upon him, had beenmeditating a great act of revolt and of justice, as he had workedhimself up to believe; and Warrington on his part had been thinkingthat a crisis in his affairs had likewise come, and that it wasnecessary for him to break away from a connection which every day mademore and more wretched and dear to him. Yes, the time was come. Hetook those fatal words, "Perhaps that is what you wished," as a textfor a gloomy homily, which he preached to himself, in the dark pew ofhis own heart, while Mr. Shamble was feebly giving utterance to hissermon.

"FAIROAKS TO LET."

[Illustration]

Our poor widow (with the assistance of her faithful Martha ofFairoaks, who laughed and wondered at the German ways, andsuperintended the affairs of the simple household) had made a littlefeast in honor of Major Pendennis's arrival, of which, however, onlythe major and his two younger friends partook, for Helen sent to saythat she was too unwell to dine at their table, and Laura bore hercompany. The major talked for the party, and did not perceive, orchoose to perceive, what a gloom and silence pervaded the other twosharers of the modest dinner. It was evening before Helen and Lauracame into the sitting-room to join the company there. She came inleaning on Laura, with her back to the waning light, so that Arthurcould not see how palid and woe-stricken her face was, and as she wentup to Pen, whom she had not seen during the day, and placed her fondarms on his shoulder and kissed him tenderly, Laura left her, andmoved away to another part of the room. Pen remarked that his mother'svoice and her whole frame trembled, her hand was clammy cold as sheput it up to his forehead, piteously embracing him. The spectacle ofher misery only added, somehow, to the wrath and testiness of theyoung man. He scarcely returned the kiss which the suffering lady gavehim: and the countenance with which he met the appeal of her look washard and cruel. "She persecutes me," he thought within himself, "andshe comes to me with the air of a martyr." "You look very ill, mychild," she said. "I don't like to see you look in that way." And shetottered to a sofa, still holding one of his passive hands in herthin, cold, clinging fingers.

"I have had much to annoy me, mother," Pen said with a throbbingbreast: and as he spoke Helen's heart began to beat so, that she satealmost dead and speechless with terror.

Warrington, Laura, and Major Pendennis, all remained breathless,aware that a storm was about to break.

"I have had letters from London," Arthur continued, "and one that hasgiven me more pain than I ever had in my life. It tells me that formerletters of mine have been intercepted and purloined away from me;that—that a young creature who has shown the greatest love and carefor me, has been most cruelly used by—by you, mother."

"For God's sake stop," cried out Warrington. "She's ill—don't you seeshe is ill?"

"Let him go on," said the widow faintly.

"Let him go on and kill her," said Laura, rushing up to her mother'sside. "Speak on, sir, and see her die."

"It is you who are cruel," cried Pen, more exasperated and moresavage, because his own heart, naturally soft and weak, revoltedindignantly at the injustice of the very suffering which was laid athis door. "It is you that are cruel, who attribute all this pain tome: it is you who are cruel with your wicked reproaches, your wickeddoubts of me, your wicked persecutions of those who love me—yes,those who love me, and who brave every thing for me, and whom youdespise and trample upon because they are of lower degree than you.Shall I tell you what I will do—what I am resolved to do, now that Iknow what your conduct has been? I will, go back to this poor girlwhom you turned out of my doors, and ask her to come back and share myhome with me. I'll defy the pride which persecutes her, and thepitiless suspicion which insults her and me."

"Do you mean, Pen, that you—" here the widow, with eager eyes andout-stretched hands, was breaking out, but Laura stopped her;"Silence, hush, dear mother," she cried and the widow hushed. Savagelyas Pen spoke, she was only too eager to hear what more he had to say,"Go on, Arthur, go on, Arthur," was all she said, almost swooning awayas she spoke.

"By Gad, I say he shan't go on, or I won't hear him, by Gad," themajor said, trembling too in his wrath. "If you choose, sir, after allwe've done for you, after all I've done for you myself, to insult yourmother and disgrace your name, by allying yourself with a low-bornkitchen-girl, go and do it, by Gad, but let us, ma'am have no more todo with him. I wash my hands of you, sir—I wash my hands of you. I'man old fellow—I ain't long for this world. I come of as ancient andhonorable a family as any in England, by Gad, and I did hope, before Iwent off the hooks, by Gad, that the fellow that I'd liked, andbrought up, and nursed through life, by Jove, would do something toshow me that our name—yes, the name of Pendennis, by Gad, was leftundishonored behind us, but if he won't, dammy, I say, amen. By G—,both my father and my brother Jack were the proudest men in England,and I never would have thought that there would come this disgrace tomy name—never—and—and I'm ashamed that it's Arthur Pendennis." Theold fellow's voice here broke off into a sob: it was a second timethat Arthur had brought tears from those wrinkled lids.

The sound of his breaking voice stayed Pen's anger instantly, and hestopped pacing the room, as he had been doing until that moment. Laurawas by Helen's sofa; and Warrington had remained hitherto an almostsilent, but not uninterested spectator of the family storm. As theparties were talking, it had grown almost dark; and after the lullwhich succeeded the passionate outbreak of the major, George's deepvoice, as it here broke trembling into the twilight room, was heardwith no small emotion by all.

"Will you let me tell you something about myself, my kind friends?" hesaid, "you have been so good to me, ma'am—you have been so kind tome, Laura—I hope I may call you so sometimes—my dear Pen and I havebeen such friends that—that I have long wanted to tell you my story,such as it is, and would have told it to you earlier but that it is asad one, and contains another's secret. However, it may do good forArthur to know it—it is right that every one here should. It willdivert you from thinking about a subject, which, out of a fatalmisconception, has caused a great deal of pain to all of you. May Iplease tell you, Mrs. Pendennis?"

"Pray speak," was all Helen said; and indeed she was not much heeding;her mind was full of another idea with which Pen's words had suppliedher, and she was in a terror of hope that what he had hinted might beas she wished.

George filled himself a bumper of wine and emptied it, and began tospeak. "You all of you know how you see me," he said, "A man without adesire to make an advance in the world; careless about reputation; andliving in a garret and from hand to mouth, though I have friends and aname, and I dare say capabilities of my own, that would serve me if Ihad a mind. But mind I have none. I shall die in that garret mostlikely, and alone. I nailed myself to that doom in early life. Shall Itell you what it was that interested me about Arthur years ago, andmade me inclined toward him when first I saw him? The men from ourcollege at Oxbridge brought up accounts of that early affair with theChatteris actress, about whom Pen has often talked to me since; andwho, but for the major's generalship, might have been yourdaughter-in-law, ma'am. I can't see Pen in the dark, but he blushes,I'm sure; and I dare say Miss Bell does; and my friend MajorPendennis, I dare say, laughs as he ought to do—for he won. Whatwould have been Arthur's lot now had he been tied at nineteen to anilliterate woman older than himself, with no qualities in commonbetween them to make one a companion for the other, no equality, noconfidence, and no love speedily? What could he have been but mostmiserable? And when he spoke just now and threatened a similar union,be sure it was but a threat occasioned by anger, which you must giveme leave to say, ma'am, was very natural on his part, for after agenerous and manly conduct—let me say who know the circ*mstanceswell—most generous and manly and self-denying (which is rare withhim)—he has met from some friends of his with a most unkindsuspicion, and has had to complain of the unfair treatment of anotherinnocent person, toward whom he and you all are under muchobligation."

The widow was going to get up here, and Warrington, seeing her attemptto rise, said, "Do I tire you, ma'am?"

"O no—go on—go on," said Helen, delighted, and he continued.

"I liked him, you see, because of that early history of his, which hadcome to my ears in college gossip, and because I like a man, if youwill pardon me for saying so, Miss Laura, who shows that he can have agreat unreasonable attachment for a woman. That was why we becamefriends—and are all friends here—for always, aren't we?" he added,in a lower voice, leaning over to her, "and Pen has been a greatcomfort and companion to a lonely and unfortunate man.

"I am not complaining of my lot, you see; for no man's is what hewould have it; and up in my garret, where you left the flowers, andwith my old books and my pipe for a wife, I am pretty contented, andonly occasionally envy other men, whose careers in life are morebrilliant, or who can solace their ill fortune by what Fate and my ownfault has deprived me of—the affection of a woman or a child." Herethere came a sigh from somewhere near Warrington in the dark, and ahand was held out in his direction, which, however, was instantlywithdrawn, for the prudery of our females is such, that before allexpression of feeling, or natural kindness and regard, a woman istaught to think of herself and the proprieties, and to be ready toblush at the very slightest notice; and checking, as, of course, itought, this spontaneous motion, modesty drew up again, kindlyfriendship shrank back ashamed of itself, and Warrington resumed hishistory. "My fate is such as I made it, and not lucky for me or forothers involved in it.

"I, too, had an adventure before I went to college; and there was noone to save me as Major Pendennis saved Pen. Pardon me, Miss Laura, ifI tell this story before you. It is as well that you all of you shouldhear my confession. Before I went to college, as a boy of eighteen, Iwas at a private tutor's and there, like Arthur, I became attached, orfancied I was attached, to a woman of a much lower degree and agreater age than my own. You shrink from me—"

"No I don't," Laura said, and here the hand went out resolutely, andlaid itself in Warrington's. She had divined his story from someprevious hints let fall by him, and his first words at itscommencement.

"She was a yeoman's daughter in the neighborhood," Warrington said,with rather a faltering voice, "and I fancied—what all young menfancy. Her parents knew who my father was, and encouraged me, with allsorts of coarse artifices and scoundrel flatteries, which I see now,about their house. To do her justice, I own she never cared for me butwas forced into what happened by the threats and compulsion of herfamily. Would to God that I had not been deceived: but in thesematters we are deceived because we wish to be so, and I thought Iloved that poor woman.

"What could come of such a marriage? I found, before long, that I wasmarried to a boor. She could not comprehend one subject thatinterested me. Her dullness palled upon me till I grew to loathe it.And after some time of a wretched, furtive union—I must tell you all—I found letters somewhere (and such letters they were!) which showedme that her heart, such as it was, had never been mine, but had alwaysbelonged to a person of her own degree.

"At my father's death, I paid what debts I had contracted at college,and settled every shilling which remained to me in an annuity upon—upon those who bore my name, on condition that they should hidethemselves away, and not assume it. They have kept that condition, asthey would break it, for more money. If I had earned fame orreputation, that woman would have come to claim it: if I had made aname for myself, those who had no right to it would have borne it; andI entered life at twenty, God help me—hopeless and ruined beyondremission. I was the boyish victim of vulgar cheats, and, perhaps, itis only of late I have found out how hard—ah, how hard—it is toforgive them. I told you the moral before, Pen; and now I have toldyou the fable. Beware how you marry out of your degree. I was made fora better lot than this, I think: but God has awarded me this one—andso, you see, it is for me to look on, and see others successful andothers happy, with a heart that shall be as little bitter aspossible."

"By Gad, sir," cried the major, in high good humor, "I intended you tomarry Miss Laura here."

"And, by Gad, Master Shallow, I owe you a thousand pound," Warringtonsaid.

"How d'ye mean a thousand? it was only a pony, sir," replied the majorsimply, at which the other laughed.

As for Helen, she was so delighted, that she started up, and said,"God bless you—God forever bless you, Mr. Warrington;" and kissedboth his hands, and ran up to Pen, and fell into his arms.

"Yes, dearest mother," he said as he held her to him, and with a nobletenderness and emotion, embraced and forgave her. "I am innocent, andmy dear, dear mother has done me a wrong."

"Oh, yes, my child, I have wronged you, thank God, I have wrongedyou!" Helen whispered. "Come away, Arthur—not here—I want to ask mychild to forgive me—and—and my God, to forgive me; and to bless you,and love you, my son."

He led her, tottering, into her room, and closed the door, as thethree touched spectators of the reconciliation looked on in pleasedsilence. Ever after, ever after, the tender accents of that voicefaltering sweetly at his ear—the look of the sacred eyes beaming withan affection unutterable—the quiver of the fond lips smilingmournfully—were remembered by the young man. And at his best moments,and at his hours of trial and grief, and at his times of success orwell doing, the mother's face looked down upon him, and blessed himwith its gaze of pity and purity, as he saw it in that night when sheyet lingered with him; and when she seemed, ere she quite left him, anangel, transfigured and glorified with love—for which love, as forthe greatest of the bounties and wonders of God's provision for us,let us kneel and thank Our Father.

The moon had risen by this time; Arthur recollected well afterward howit lighted up his mother's sweet pale face. Their talk, or his rather,for she scarcely could speak, was more tender and confidential than ithad been for years before. He was the frank and generous boy of herearly days and love. He told her the story, the mistake regardingwhich had caused her so much pain—his struggles to fly fromtemptation, and his thankfulness that he had been able to overcome it.He never would do the girl wrong, never; or wound his own honor or hismother's pure heart. The threat that he would return was uttered in amoment of exasperation, of which he repented. He never would see heragain. But his mother said yes he should; and it was she who had beenproud and culpable—and she would like to give Fanny Boltonsomething—and she begged her dear boy's pardon for opening the letter—and she would write to the young girl, if—if she had time. Poorthing! was it not natural that she should love her Arthur? And againshe kissed him, and she blessed him.

As they were talking the clock struck nine, and Helen reminded himhow, when he was a little boy, she used to go up to his bedroom atthat hour, and hear him say Our Father. And once more, oh, once more,the young man fell down at his mother's sacred knees, and sobbed outthe prayer which the Divine Tenderness uttered for us, and which hasbeen echoed for twenty ages since by millions of sinful and humbledmen. And as he spoke the last words of the supplication, the mother'shead fell down on her boy's, and her arms closed round him, andtogether they repeated the words "for ever and ever," and "Amen."

A little time after, it might have been a quarter of an hour, Lauraheard Arthur's voice calling from within, "Laura! Laura!" She rushedinto the room instantly, and found the young man still on his kneesand holding his mother's hand. Helen's head had sunk back and wasquite pale in the moon. Pen looked round, scared with a ghastly terror"Help, Laura, help!" he said—"she's fainted—she's—"

Laura screamed, and fell by the side of Helen. The shriek broughtWarrington and Major Pendennis and the servants to the room. Thesainted woman was dead. The last emotion of her soul here was joy, tobe henceforth uncheckered and eternal. The tender heart beat no more—it was to have no more pangs, no more doubts, no more griefs andtrials. Its last throb was love; and Helen's last breath was abenediction.

The melancholy party bent their way speedily homewards, and Helen waslaid by her husband's side at Clavering, in the old church where shehad prayed so often. For a while Laura went to stay with Dr. Portman,who read the service over his dear sister departed, amidst his ownsobs and those of the little congregation which assembled roundHelen's tomb. There were not many who cared for her, or who spoke ofher when gone. Scarcely more than of a nun in a cloister did peopleknow of that pious and gentle lady. A few words among the cottagerswhom her bounty was accustomed to relieve, a little talk from house tohouse, at Clavering, where this lady, told how their neighbor died ofa complaint in the heart; while that speculated upon the amount ofproperty which the widow had left; and a third wondered whether Arthurwould let Fairoaks or live in it, and expected that he would not belong getting through his property—this was all, and except with oneor two who cherished her, the kind soul was forgotten by the nextmarket-day. Would you desire that grief for you should last for afew more weeks? and does after-life seem less solitary, provided thatour names, when we "go down into silence," are echoing on this side ofthe grave yet for a little while, and human voices are still talkingabout us? She was gone, the pure soul, whom only two or three lovedand knew. The great blank she left was in Laura's heart, to whom herlove had been every thing, and who had now but to worship her memory."I am glad that she gave me her blessing before she went away,"Warrington said to Pen; and as for Arthur, with a humbleacknowledgment and wonder at so much affection, he hardly dared to askof Heaven to make him worthy of it, though he felt that a saint therewas interceding for him.

All the lady's affairs were found in perfect order, and her littleproperty ready for transmission to her son, in trust for whom she heldit. Papers in her desk showed that she had long been aware of thecomplaint, one of the heart, under which she labored, and knew itwould suddenly remove her: and a prayer was found in her hand-writing,asking that her end might be, as it was, in the arms of her son.

Laura and Arthur talked over her sayings, all of which the former mostfondly remembered, to the young man's shame somewhat, who thought howmuch greater her love had been for Helen than his own. He referredhimself entirely to Laura to know what Helen would have wished shouldbe done; what poor persons she would have liked to relieve; whatlegacies or remembrances she would have wished to transmit. Theypacked up the vase which Helen in her gratitude had destined to Dr.Goodenough, and duly sent it to the kind doctor: a silver coffee-pot,which she used, was sent off to Portman: a diamond ring with her hair,was given with affectionate greeting to Warrington.

It must have been a hard day for poor Laura when she went over toFairoaks first, and to the little room which she had occupied, andwhich was hers no more, and to the widow's own blank chamber in whichthose two had passed so many beloved hours. There, of course, were theclothes in the wardrobe, the cushion on which she prayed, the chair atthe toilet: the glass that was no more to reflect her dear sad face.After she had been here awhile, Pen knocked and led her down stairs tothe parlor again, and made her drink a little wine, and said, "Godbless you," as she touched the glass. "Nothing shall ever be changedin your room," he said, "it is always your room—it is always mysister's room. Shall it not be so, Laura?" and Laura said, "Yes!"

Among the widow's papers was found a packet, marked by the widow"Letters from Laura's father," and which Arthur gave to her. They werethe letters which had passed between the cousins in the early daysbefore the marriage of, either of them. The ink was faded in whichthey were written: the tears dried out that both perhaps had shed overthem: the grief healed now whose bitterness they chronicled: thefriends doubtless united whose parting on earth had caused to bothpangs so cruel. And Laura learned fully now for the first time whatthe tie was which had bound her so tenderly to Helen: how faithfullyher more than mother had cherished her father's memory, how truly shehad loved him, how meekly resigned him.

One legacy of his mother's Pen remembered, of which Laura could haveno cognizance. It was that wish of Helen's to make some present toFanny Bolton; and Pen wrote to her, putting his letter under anenvelope to Mr. Bows, and requesting that gentleman to read it beforehe delivered it to Fanny. "Dear Fanny," Pen said, "I have toacknowledge two letters from you, one of which was delayed in myillness," (Pen found the first letter in his mother's desk after herdecease, and the reading it gave him a strange pang), "and to thankyou, my kind nurse and friend, who watched me so tenderly during myfever. And I have to tell you that the last words of my dear mother,who is no more, were words of good-will and gratitude to you fornursing me: and she said she would have written to you had she hadtime—that she would like to ask your pardon if she had harshlytreated you—and that she would beg you to show your forgiveness byaccepting some token of friendship and regard from her." Pen concludedby saying that his friend, George Warrington, Esq., of Lamb-courtTemple, was trustee of a little sum of money, of which the interestwould be paid to her until she became of age, or changed her name,which would always be affectionately remembered by her gratefulfriend, A. Pendennis. The sum was in truth but small, although enoughto make a little heiress of Fanny Bolton, whose parents were appeased,and whose father said Mr. P. had acted quite as the gentleman—thoughBows growled out that to plaster a wounded heart with a bank-note wasan easy kind of sympathy; and poor Fanny felt only too clearly thatPen's letter was one of farewell.

"Sending hundred-pound notes to porters' daughters is all dev'lishwell," old Major Pendennis said to his nephew (whom, as the proprietorof Fairoaks and the head of the family, he now treated with markeddeference and civility), "and as there was a little ready money at thebank, and your poor mother wished it, there's perhaps no harm done.But my good lad, I'd have you to remember that you've not above fivehundred a year, though, thanks to me, the world gives you credit forbeing a doosid deal better off; and, on my knees, I beg you, my boy,don't break into your capital. Stick to it, sir; don't speculate withit, sir; keep your land, and don't borrow on it. Tatham tells me thatthe Chatteris branch of the railway may—will almost certainly passthrough Chatteris, and if it can be brought on this side of the Brawl,sir, and through your fields, they'll be worth a dev'lish deal ofmoney, and your five hundred a year will jump up to eight or nine.Whatever it is, keep it, I implore you, keep it. And I say, Pen, Ithink you should give up living in those dirty chambers in the Templeand get a decent lodging. And I should have a man, sir, to wait uponme; and a horse or two in town in the season. All this will prettywell swallow up your income, and I know you must live close. Butremember you have a certain place in society, and you can't afford tocut a poor figure in the world. What are you going to do in thewinter? You don't intend to stay down here, or, I suppose, to go onwriting for that—what-d'ye-call'em—that newspaper?"

"Warrington and I are going abroad again, sir, for a little, and thenwe shall see what is to be done," Arthur replied.

"And you'll let Fairoaks, of course? Good school in the neighborhood;cheap country: dev'lish nice place for East India Colonels or familieswanting to retire. I'll speak about it at the club; there are lots offellows at the club want a place of that sort."

"I hope Laura will live in it for the winter, at least, and will makeit her home," Arthur replied: at which the major pish'd, and psha'd,and said that there ought to be convents, begad, for English ladies,and wished that Miss Bell had not been there to interfere with thearrangements of the family, and that she would mope herself to deathalone in that place.

Indeed, it would have been a very dismal abode for poor Laura, who wasnot too happy either in Doctor Portman's household, and in the townwhere too many things reminded her of the dear parent whom she hadlost. But old Lady Rockminster, who adored her young friend Laura, assoon as she read in the paper of her loss, and of her presence in thecountry, rushed over from Baymouth, where the old lady was staying,and insisted that Laura should remain six months, twelve months, allher life with her; and to her ladyship's house, Martha from Fairoaks,as femme de chambre, accompanied her young mistress.

Pen and Warrington saw her depart. It was difficult to say which ofthe young men seemed to regard her the most tenderly. "Your cousin ispert and rather vulgar, my dear, but he seems to have a good heart,"little Lady Rockminster said, who said her say about every body—"butI like Bluebeard best. Tell, me is he touche au coeur?"

"Mr. Warrington has been long—engaged," Laura said dropping her eyes.

"Nonsense, child! And good heavens, my dear! that's a pretty diamondcross. What do you mean by wearing it in the morning?"

"Arthur—my brother gave it to me just now. It was—it was—" Shecould not finish the sentence. The carriage passed over the bridge,and by the dear, dear gate of Fairoaks—home no more.

OLD FRIENDS.

It chanced at that great English festival, at which all London takes aholiday upon Epsom Downs, that a great number of the personages towhom we have been introduced in the course of this history, wereassembled to see the Derby. In a comfortable open carriage, which hadbeen brought to the ground by a pair of horses, might be seen Mrs.Bungay, of Paternoster-row, attired like Solomon in all his glory, andhaving by her side modest Mrs. Shandon, for whom, since thecommencement of their acquaintance, the worthy publisher's lady hadmaintained a steady friendship. Bungay, having recreated himself witha copious luncheon, was madly shying at the sticks hard by, till theperspiration ran off his bald pate. Shandon was shambling about amongthe drinking tents and gipsies: Finucane constant in attendance on thetwo ladies, to whom gentlemen of their acquaintance, and connectedwith the publishing house, came up to pay a visit.

Among others, Mr. Archer came up to make her his bow, and told Mrs.Bungay who was on the course. Yonder was the prime minister: hislordship had just told him to back Borax for the race; but Archerthought Muffineer the better horse. He pointed out countless dukes andgrandees to the delighted Mrs. Bungay. "Look yonder in the GrandStand," he said. "There sits the Chinese embassador with the mandarinsof his suite. Fou-choo-foo brought me over letters of introductionfrom the Governor-general of India, my most intimate friend, and I wasfor some time very kind to him, and he had his chop-sticks laid forhim at my table whenever he chose to come and dine. But he brought hisown cook with him, and—would you believe it, Mrs. Bungay?—one day,when I was out, and the embassador was with Mrs. Archer in our gardeneating gooseberries, of which the Chinese are passionately fond, thebeast of a cook, seeing my wife's dear little Blenheim spaniel (that wehad from the Duke of Maryborough himself, whose ancestor's life Mrs.Archer's great-great-grandfather saved at the battle of Malplaquet),seized upon the poor little devil, cut his throat, and skinned him,and served him up stuffed with forced meat in the second course."

"Law!" said Mrs. Bungay.

"You may fancy my wife's agony when she knew what had happened! Thecook came screaming up-stairs, and told us that she had found poorFido's skin in the area, just after we had all of us tasted of thedish! She never would speak to the embassador again—never; and, uponmy word, he has never been to dine with us since. The Lord Mayor, whodid me the honor to dine, liked the dish very much; and, eaten withgreen peas, it tastes rather like duck."

"You don't say so, now!" cried the astonished publisher's lady.

"Fact, upon my word. Look at that lady in blue, seated by theembassador: that is Lady Flamingo, and they say she is going to bemarried to him, and return to Pekin with his Excellency. She isgetting her feet squeezed down on purpose. But she'll only crippleherself, and will never be able to do it—never. My wife has thesmallest foot in England, and wears shoes for a six-year's old child;but what is that to a Chinese lady's foot, Mrs. Bungay?"

"Who is that carriage as Mr. Pendennis is with, Mr. Archer?" Mrs.Bungay presently asked. "He and Mr. Warrington was here just now. He's'aughty in his manners, that Mr. Pendennis, and well he may be, forI'm told he keeps tip-top company. As he 'ad a large fortune lefthim, Mr. Archer? He's in black still, I see."

"Eighteen hundred a year in land, and twenty-two thousand five hundredin the three-and-a-half per cents.; that's about it," said Mr. Archer.

"Law! why you know every thing Mr. A.!" cried the lady of Paternoster
Row.

"I happen to know, because I was called in about poor Mrs. Pendennis'swill," Mr. Archer replied. "Pendennis's uncle, the major, seldom doesany thing without me; and as he is likely to be extravagant we've tiedup the property, so that he can't make ducks and drakes with it. Howdo you do, my Lord?—Do you know that gentleman, ladies? You have readhis speeches in the House; it is Lord Rochester."

"Lord Fiddlestick," cried out Finucane, from the box. "Sure it's Tom
Staples, of the Morning Advertiser, Archer."

"Is it?" Archer said, simply. "Well I'm very short-sighted, and uponmy word I thought it was Rochester. That gentleman with the doubleopera-glass (another nod) is Lord John; and the tall man with him,don't you know him? is Sir James."

"You know 'em because you see 'em in the house," growled Finucane.

"I know them because they are kind enough to allow me to call them mymost intimate friends," Archer continued. "Look at the Duke ofHampshire; what a pattern of a fine old English gentleman! He nevermisses 'the Derby.' 'Archer,' he said to me only yesterday, 'I havebeen at sixty-five Derbies! appeared on the field for the first timeon a piebald pony when I was seven years old, with my father, thePrince of Wales, and Colonel Hanger; and only missing two races—onewhen I had the measles at Eton, and one in the Waterloo year, when Iwas with my friend Wellington in Flanders.'"

"And who is that yellow carriage, with the pink and yellow parasols,that Mr. Pendennis is talking to, and ever so many gentlemen?" askedMrs. Bungay.

"That is Lady Clavering, of Clavering Park, next estate to my friendPendennis. That is the young son and heir upon the box; he's awfullytipsy, the little scamp! and the young lady is Miss Amory, LadyClavering's daughter by a first marriage, and uncommonly sweet upon myfriend Pendennis; but I've reason to think he has his heart fixedelsewhere. You have heard of young Mr. Foker—the great brewer, Foker,you know—he was going to hang himself in consequence of a fatalpassion for Miss Amory, who refused him, but was cut down just in timeby his valet, and is now abroad, under a keeper."

"How happy that young fellow is!" sighed Mrs. Bungay. "Who'd havethought when he came so quiet and demure to dine with us, three orfour years ago, he would turn out such a grand character! Why, I sawhis name at court the other day, and presented by the Marquis ofSteyne and all; and in every party of the nobility his name's down, assure as a gun."

"I introduced him a good deal when he first came up to town," Mr.
Archer said, "and his uncle, Major Pendennis, did the rest. Halloo!
There's Cobden here, of all men in the world! I must go and speak to
him. Good-by, Mrs. Bungay. Good morning, Mrs. Shandon."

An hour previous to this time, and at a different part of the course,there might have been seen an old stage-coach, on the battered roof ofwhich a crowd of shabby raffs were stamping and hallooing, as thegreat event of the day—the Derby race—rushed over the green sward,and by the shouting millions of people assembled to view thatmagnificent scene. This was Wheeler's (the "Harlequin's Head") drag,which had brought down a company of choice spirits from Bow-street,with a slap-up luncheon in the "boot." As the whirling race flashedby, each of the choice spirits bellowed out the name of the horse orthe colors which he thought or he hoped might be foremost. "TheCornet!" "It's Muffineer!" "It's blue sleeves!'" "Yallow cap! yallowcap! yallow cap!" and so forth, yelled the gentlemen sportsmen duringthat delicious and thrilling minute before the contest was decided;and as the fluttering signal blew out, showing the number of thefamous horse Podasokus as winner of the race, one of the gentlemen onthe "Harlequin's Head" drag sprang up off the roof, as if he was apigeon and about to fly away to London or York with the news.

But his elation did not lift him many inches from his standing-place,to which he came down again on the instant, causing the boards of thecrazy old coach-roof to crack with the weight of his joy. "Hurrah,hurrah!" he bawled out, "Podasokus is the horse! Supper for tenWheeler, my boy. Ask you all round of course, and damn the expense."

[Illustration]

And the gentlemen on the carriage, the shabby swaggerers, the dubiousbucks, said, "Thank you—congratulate you, colonel; sup with you withpleasure:" and whispered to one another, "The colonel stands to winfifteen hundred, and he got the odds from a good man, too."

And each of the shabby bucks and dusky dandies began to eye hisneighbor with suspicion, lest that neighbor, taking his advantage,should get the colonel into a lonely place and borrow money of him.And the winner on Podasokus could not be alone during the whole ofthat afternoon, so closely did his friends watch him and each other.

At another part of the course you might have seen a vehicle, certainlymore modest, if not more shabby than that battered coach which hadbrought down the choice spirits from the Harlequin's Head; this wascab No. 2002, which had conveyed a gentleman and two ladies from thecab-stand in the Strand: whereof one of the ladies, as she sate on thebox of the cab enjoying with her mamma and their companion a repast oflobster-salad and bitter ale, looked so fresh and pretty that many ofthe splendid young dandies who were strolling about the course, andenjoying themselves at the noble diversion of sticks, and talking tothe beautifully dressed ladies in the beautiful carriages on the hill,forsook these fascinations to have a glance at the smiling androsy-cheeked lass on the cab. The blushes of youth and good-humormantled on the girl's cheeks, and played over that fair countenancelike the pretty shining cloudlets on the serene sky over head; theelder lady's cheek was red too; but that was a permanent mottled rose,deepening only as it received fresh draughts of pale ale andbrandy-and-water, until her face emulated the rich shell of thelobster which she devoured.

The gentleman who escorted these two ladies was most active inattendance upon them: here on the course, as he had been during theprevious journey. During the whole of that animated and delightfuldrive from London, his jokes had never ceased. He spoke up undauntedlyto the most awful drags full of the biggest and most solemn guardsmen;as to the humblest donkey-chaise in which Bob the dustman was drivingMolly to the race. He had fired astonishing volleys of what is called"chaff" into endless windows as he passed; into lines of grinninggirls' schools; into little regiments of shouting urchins hurrahingbehind the railings of their classical and commercial academies; intocasem*nts whence smiling maid-servants, and nurses tossing babies, ordemure old maiden ladies with dissenting countenances, were looking.And the pretty girl in the straw bonnet with pink ribbon, and hermamma the devourer of lobsters, had both agreed that when he was in"spirits" there was nothing like that Mr. Sam. He had crammed the cabwith trophies won from the bankrupt proprietors of the sticks hard by,and with countless pincushions, wooden-apples, backy-boxes,Jack-in-the-boxes, and little soldiers. He had brought up a gipsy witha tawny child in her arms to tell the fortunes of the ladies; and theonly cloud which momentarily obscured the sunshine of that happyparty, was when the teller of fate informed the young lady that shehad had reason to beware of a fair man, who was false to her: that shehad had a bad illness, and that she would find that a dark man wouldprove true.

The girl looked very much abashed at this news: her mother and theyoung man interchanged signs of wonder and intelligence. Perhaps theconjuror had used the same words to a hundred different carriageson that day.

Making his way solitary among the crowd and the carriages, and noting,according to his wont, the various circ*mstances and characters whichthe animated scene presented, a young friend of ours came suddenlyupon cab 2002, and the little group of persons assembled on theoutside of the vehicle. As he caught sight of the young lady on thebox, she started and turned pale: her mother became redder than ever:the heretofore gay and triumphant Mr. Sam. immediately assumed afierce and suspicious look, and his eyes turned savagely from FannyBolton (whom the reader no doubt, has recognized in the young lady ofthe cab) to Arthur Pendennis, advancing to meet her.

Arthur too, looked dark and suspicious on perceiving Mr. SamuelHuxter in company with his old acquaintances: but his suspicion wasthat of alarmed morality, and, I dare say, highly creditable to Mr.Arthur: like the suspicion of Mrs. Lynx, when she sees Mr. Brown andMrs. Jones talking together, or when she remarks Mrs. Lamb twice orthrice in a handsome opera-box. There may be no harm in theconversation of Mr. B. and Mrs. J.: and Mrs. Lamb's opera box (thoughshe notoriously can't afford one) may be honestly come by: but yet amoralist like Mrs. Lynx has a right to the little precautionaryfright: and Arthur was no doubt justified in adopting that severedemeanor of his.

Fanny's heart began to patter violently: Huxter's fists, plunged intothe pockets of his paletot, clenched themselves involuntarily, andarmed themselves, as it were, in ambush: Mrs. Bolton began to talkwith all her might, and with a wonderful volubility: and Lor! she wasso 'appy to see Mr. Pendennis, and how well he was a lookin', and we'dbeen talkin' about Mr. P. only jest before; hadn't we, Fanny? and ifthis was the famous Hepsom races that they talked so much about, shedidn't care, for her part, if she never saw them again. And how wasMajor Pendennis, and that kind Mr. Warrington, who brought Mr. P'sgreat kindness to Fanny; and she never would forget it, never: and Mr.Warrington was so tall, he almost broke his 'ead up against theirlodge door. You recollect Mr. Warrington a knockin' of his head—don'tyou, Fanny?

While Mrs. Bolton was so discoursing, I wonder how many thousands ofthoughts passed through Fanny's mind, and what dear times, sadstruggles, lonely griefs, and subsequent shame-faced consolations wererecalled to her? What pangs had the poor little thing, as she thoughthow much she had loved him, and that she loved him no more? There hestood, about whom she was going to die ten months since, dandified,supercilious, with a black crape to his white hat, and jet buttons inhis shirt front: and a pink in his coat, that some one else hadprobably given him: with the tightest lavender-colored gloves sewnwith black: and the smallest of canes. And Mr. Huxter wore no gloves,and great blucher boots, and smelt very much of tobacco certainly; andlooked, oh, it must be owned, he looked as if a bucket of water woulddo him a great deal of good! All these thoughts, and a myriad ofothers rushed through Fanny's mind as her mamma was delivering herselfof her speech, and as the girl, from under her eyes, surveyedPendennis—surveyed him entirely from head to foot, the circle on hiswhite forehead that his hat left when he lifted it (his beautiful,beautiful hair had grown again), the trinkets at his watch-chain, thering on his hand under his glove, the neat shining boot, so, so unlikeSam's high-low!—and after her hand had given a little twitteringpressure to the lavender-colored kid grasp which was held out to it,and after her mother had delivered herself of her speech, all Fannycould find to say was, "This is Mr. Samuel Huxter whom you knewformerly, I believe, sir; Mr. Samuel, you know you knew Mr. Pendennisformerly—and—and—will you take a little refreshment?" Theselittle words tremulous and uncolored as they were, yet were understoodby Pendennis in such a manner as to take a great load of suspicionfrom off his mind—of remorse, perhaps from his heart. The frown onthe countenance of the prince of Fairoaks disappeared, and agood-natured smile and a knowing twinkle of the eyes illuminated hishighness's countenance. "I am very thirsty," he said, "and I will beglad to drink your health, Fanny; and I hope Mr. Huxter will pardon mefor having been very rude to him the last time we met, and when I wasso ill and out of spirits, that indeed I scarcely knew what I said."And herewith the lavender-colored dexter kid-glove was handed out, intoken of amity, to Huxter.

The dirty fist in the young surgeon's pocket was obliged to undoubleitself, and come out of its ambush disarmed. The poor fellow himselffelt, as he laid it in Pen's hand, how hot his own was, and howblack—it left black marks on Pen's gloves; he saw them—he would haveliked to have clenched it again and dashed it into the other'sgood-humored face; and have seen, there upon that ground, with Fanny,with all England looking on, which was the best man—he Sam Huxter ofBartholomew's, or that grinning dandy.

Pen with ineffable good-humor took a glass—he didn't mind what itwas—he was content to drink after the ladies; and he filled it withfrothing lukewarm beer, which he pronounced to be delicious, and whichhe drank cordially to the health of the party.

As he was drinking and talking on in an engaging manner, a young ladyin a shot dove-colored dress, with a white parasol lined with pink,and the prettiest dove-colored boots that ever stepped, passed by Pen,leaning on the arm of a stalwart gentleman with a military mustache.The young lady clenched her little fist, and gave a mischievousside-look as she passed Pen. He of the mustaches burst out into ajolly laugh. He had taken off his hat to the ladies of cab No. 2002.You should have seen Fanny Bolton's eyes watching after thedove-colored young lady. Immediately Huxter perceived the directionwhich they took, they ceased looking after the dove-colored nymph, andthey turned and looked into Sam Huxter's orbs with the most artlessgood-humored expression.

"What a beautiful creature!" Fanny said. "What a lovely dress! Did youremark, Mr. Sam, such little, little hands?"

"It was Capting Strong," said Mrs. Bolton: "and who was the youngwoman, I wonder?"

"A neighbor of mine in the country—Miss Amory," Arthur said—"Lady
Clavering's daughter. You've seen Sir Francis often in Shepherd's Inn,
Mrs. Bolton."

As he spoke, Fanny built up a perfect romance in three volumes—love—faithlessness—splendid marriage at St. George's, Hanover-square—broken-hearted maid—and Sam Huxter was not the hero of thatstory—poor Sam, who by this time had got out an exceedingly rank Cubacigar, and was smoking it under Fanny's little nose.

After that confounded prig Pendennis joined and left the party thesun was less bright to Sam Huxter, the sky less blue—the sticks hadno attraction for him—the bitter beer hot and undrinkable—the worldwas changed. He had a quantity of peas and a tin pea-shooter in thepocket of the cab for amusem*nt on the homeward route. He didn't takethem out, and forgot their existence until some other wag, on theirreturn from the races, fired a volley into Sam's sad face; upon whichsalute, after a few oaths indicative of surprise, he burst into asavage and sardonic laugh.

But Fanny was charming all the way home. She coaxed, and snuggled, andsmiled. She laughed pretty laughs; she admired everything; she tookout the darling little jack-in-the-boxes, and was so obliged to Sam.And when they got home, and Mr. Huxter, still with darkness on hiscountenance, was taking a frigid leave of her—she burst into tears,and said he was a naughty, unkind thing.

Upon which, with a burst of emotion, almost as emphatic as hers, theyoung surgeon held the girl in his arms—swore that she was an angel,and that he was a jealous brute; owned that he was unworthy of her,and that he had no right to hate Pendennis; and asked her, imploredher, to say once more that she—

That she what?—The end of the question and Fanny's answer werepronounced by lips that were so near each other, that no bystandercould hear the words. Mrs. Bolton only said, "Come, come, Mr. H.—nononsense, if you please; and I think you've acted like a wickedwretch, and been most uncommon cruel to Fanny, that I do."

When Arthur left No. 2002, he went to pay his respects to the carriageto which, and to the side of her mamma, the dove colored author ofMes Larmes had by this time returned. Indefatigable old MajorPendennis was in waiting upon Lady Clavering, and had occupied theback seat in her carriage; the box being in possession of youngHopeful, under the care of Captain Strong.

A number of dandies, and men of a certain fashion—of military bucks,of young rakes of the public offices, of those who may be styled men'smen rather than ladies'—had come about the carriage during itsstation on the hill—and had exchanged a word or two with LadyClavering, and a little talk (a little "chaff" some of the mostelegant of the men styled their conversation) with Miss Amory. Theyhad offered her sportive bets, and exchanged with her all sorts offree-talk and knowing innuendoes. They pointed out to her who was onthe course: and the "who" was not always the person a young ladyshould know.

When Pen came up to Lady Clavering's carriage, he had to push his waythrough a crowd of these young bucks who were paying their court toMiss Amory, in order to arrive as near that young lady, who beckonedhim by many pretty signals to her side.

"Je l'ai vue," she said; "elle a de bien beaux yeux; vous êtes unmonstre!"

"Why monster?" said Pen, with a laugh; "Honi soit qui mal y pense.
My young friend, yonder, is as well protected as any young lady in
Christendom. She has her mamma on one side, her 'prétendu' on the
other. Could any harm happen to a girl between those two?"

"One does not know what may or may not arrive," said Miss Blanche. inFrench, "when a girl has the mind, and when she is pursued by a wickedmonster like you. Figure to yourself, colonel, that I come to findmonsieur, your nephew, near to a cab, by two ladies, and a man, oh,such a man! and who ate lobsters, and who laughed, who laughed!"

"It did not strike me that the man laughed," Pen said. "And as forlobsters, I thought he would have liked to eat me after the lobsters.He shook hands with me, and griped me so, that he bruised my gloveblack and blue. He is a young surgeon. He comes from Clavering. Don'tyou remember the gilt pestle and mortar in High-street?"

"If he attends you when you are sick," continued Miss Amory, "he willkill you. He will serve you right; for you are a monster."

The perpetual recurrence to the word "monster" jarred upon Pen. "Shespeaks about these matters a great deal too lightly," he thought. "IfI had been a monster, as she calls it, she would have received me justthe same. This is not the way in which an English lady should speak orthink. Laura would not speak in that way, thank God!" and as hethought so, his own countenance fell.

"Of what are you thinking? Are you going to bouder me at present?"Blanche asked. "Major, scold your méchant nephew. He does not amuseme at all. He is as béte as Captain Crackenbury."

"What are you saying about me, Miss Amory?" said the guardsman, with agrin. "If it's any thing good, say it in English, for I don'tunderstand French when it's spoke so devilish quick."

"It ain't any thing good, Crack," said Crackenbury's fellow, CaptainClinker. "Let's come away, and don't spoil sport. They say Pendennisis sweet upon her."

"I'm told he's a devilish clever fellow," sighed Crackenbury. "LadyViolet Lebas says he's a devilish clever fellow. He wrote a work, or apoem, or something; and he writes those devilish clever things inthe—in the papers you know. Dammy, I wish I was a cleverfellow, Clinker."

"That's past wishing for, Crack, my boy," the other said. "I can'twrite a good book, but I think I can make a pretty good one on theDerby. What a flat Clavering is! And the Begum! I like that old Begum.She's worth ten of her daughter. How pleased the old girl was atwinning the lottery!"

"Clavering's safe to pay up, ain't he?" asked Captain Crackenbury. "Ihope so," said his friend; and they disappeared, to enjoy themselvesamong the sticks.

Before the end of the day's amusem*nts, many more gentlemen of LadyClavering's acquaintance came up to her carriage, and chatted with theparty which it contained. The worthy lady was in high spirits andgood-humor, laughing and talking according to her wont, and offeringrefreshments to all her friends, until her ample baskets and bottleswere emptied, and her servants and postillions were in such a royalstate of excitement as servants and postillions commonly are upon theDerby day.

The major remarked that some of the visitors to the carriage appearedto look with rather queer and meaning glances toward its owner. "Howeasily she takes it!" one man whispered to another. "The Begum's madeof money," the friend replied. "How easily she takes what?" thoughtold Pendennis. "Has any body lost any money?" Lady Clavering said shewas happy in the morning because Sir Francis had promised her notto bet.

Mr. Welbore, the country neighbor of the Claverings, was passing thecarriage, when he was called back by the Begum, who rallied him forwishing to cut her. "Why didn't he come before? Why didn't he come tolunch?" Her ladyship was in great delight, she told him—she toldevery body—that she had won five pounds in a lottery. As she conveyedthis piece of intelligence to him, Mr. Welbore looked so particularlyknowing, and withal melancholy, that a dismal apprehension seized uponMajor Pendennis. "He would go and look after the horses and thoserascals of postillions, who were so long in coming round." When hecame back to the carriage, his usually benign and smirking countenancewas obscured by some sorrow. "What is the matter with you now?" thegood-natured Begum asked. The major pretended a headache from thefatigue and sunshine of the day. The carriage wheeled off the courseand took its way Londonwards, not the least brilliant equipage in thatvast and picturesque procession. The tipsy drivers dashed gallantlyover the turf, amid the admiration of foot-passengers, the ironicalcheers of the little donkey-carriages and spring vans, and the loudobjurgations of horse-and-chaise men, with whom the reckless post-boyscame in contact. The jolly Begum looked the picture of good humor asshe reclined on her splendid cushions; the lovely Sylphide smiled withlanguid elegance. Many an honest holiday-maker with his family waddedinto a tax-cart, many a cheap dandy working his way home on his wearyhack, admired that brilliant turn-out, and thought, no doubt, howhappy those "swells" must be. Strong sat on the box still, with alordly voice calling to the post-boys and the crowd. Master Frank hadbeen put inside of the carriage and was asleep there by the side ofthe major, dozing away the effects of the constant luncheon andchampagne of which he had freely partaken.

The major was revolving in his mind meanwhile the news the receipt ofwhich had made him so grave. "If Sir Francis Clavering goes on in thisway," Pendennis the elder thought, "this little tipsy rascal will beas bankrupt as his father and grandfather before him. The Begum'sfortune can't stand such drains upon it: no fortune can stand them:she has paid his debts half-a-dozen times already. A few years more ofthe turf, and a few coups like this will ruin her."

"Don't you think we could get up races at Clavering, mamma?" MissAmory asked. "Yes, we must have them there again. There were racesthere in the old times, the good old times. It's a national amusem*ntyou know: and we could have a Clavering ball: and we might have dancesfor the tenantry, and rustic sports in the park—Oh, it would hecharming."

"Capital fun," said mamma. "Wouldn't it, major?"

"The turf is a very expensive amusem*nt, my dear lady," MajorPendennis answered, with such a rueful face, that the Begum ralliedhim, and asked laughingly whether he had lost money on the race?

After a slumber of about an hour and a half, the heir of the housebegan to exhibit symptoms of wakefulness, stretching his youthful armsover the major's face, and kicking his sister's knees as she sateopposite to him. When the amiable youth was quite restored toconsciousness, he began a sprightly conversation.

"I say, ma," he said, "I've gone and done it this time, I have." "Whathave you gone and done, Franky, dear?" asked mamma. "How much isseventeen half-crowns?" "Two pound and half-a-crown, ain't it? I drewBorax in our lottery, but I bought Podasokus and Man-milliner ofLeggat minor for two open tarts and a bottle of ginger beer."

"You little wicked gambling creature, how dare you begin so soon?"cried Miss Amory.

"Hold your tongue, if you please. Who ever asked your leave,miss?" the brother said. "And I say, ma—"

"Well, Franky, dear?"

"You'll tip me all the same, you know, when I go back—" and here hebroke out into a laugh. "I say, ma, shall I tell you something?"

The Begum expressed her desire to hear this something, and her son andheir continued:

"When me and Strong was down at the grand stand after the race, and Iwas talking to Leggat minor, who was there with his governor; I saw palook as savage as a bear. And I say, ma, Leggat minor told me that heheard his governor say that pa had lost seven thousand backing thefavorite. I'll never back the favorite when I'm of age. No, no—hangme if I do: leave me alone, Strong, will you?"

"Captain Strong! Captain Strong! is this true?" cried out theunfortunate Begum. "Has Sir Francis been betting again? He promised mehe wouldn't. He gave me his word of honor he wouldn't."

Strong, from his place on the box, had overheard the end of youngClavering's communication, and was trying in vain to stop hisunlucky tongue.

"I'm afraid it's true, ma'am," he said, turning round. "I deplore theloss as much as you can. He promised me as he promised you; but theplay is too strong for him! he can't refrain from it."

Lady Clavering at this sad news burst into a fit of tears. Shedeplored her wretched fate as the most miserable of woman. Shedeclared she would separate, and pay no more debts for this ungratefulman. She narrated with tearful volubility a score of stories only too authentic, which showed how her husband had deceived, and howconstantly she had befriended him: and in this melancholy condition,while young Hopeful was thinking about the two guineas which hehimself had won; and the major revolving, in his darkened mind,whether certain plans which he had been forming had better not beabandoned; the splendid carriage drove up at length to the Begum'shouse in Grosvenor-place; the idlers and boys lingering about theplace to witness, according to public wont, the close of the Derbyday, cheering the carriage as it drew up, and envying the happy folkswho descended from it.

"And it's for the son of this man that I am made a beggar!" Blanchesaid, quivering with anger, as she walked up stairs leaning on themajor's arm—"for this cheat—for this black-leg—for this liar—forthis robber of women."

"Calm yourself, my dear Miss Blanche," the old gentleman said; "I praycalm yourself. You have been hardly treated, most unjustly. Butremember that you have always a friend in me; and trust to an oldfellow who will try and serve you."

And the young lady, and the heir of the hopeful house of Clavering,having retired to their beds, the remaining three of the Epsom partyremained for some time in deep consultation.

EXPLANATIONS.

[Illustration]

Almost a year, as the reader will perceive, has passed since an eventdescribed a few pages back. Arthur's black coat is about to beexchanged for a blue one. His person has undergone other more pleasingand remarkable changes. His wig has been laid aside, and his hair,though somewhat thinner, has returned to public view. And he has hadthe honor of appearing at court in the uniform of a cornet of theClavering troop of the——shire Yeomanry Cavalry, being presented tothe sovereign by the Marquis of Steyne.

This was a measure strongly and pathetically urged by Arthur's uncle.The major would not hear of a year passing before this ceremony ofgentlemanhood was gone through. The old gentleman thought that hisnephew should belong to some rather more select club than theMegatherium; and has announced every where in the world hisdisappointment that the young man's property has turned out not by anymeans as well as he could have hoped, and is under fifteen hundreda year.

That is the amount at which Pendennis's property is set down in theworld, where his publishers begin to respect him much more thanformerly, and where even mammas are by no means uncivil to him. For ifthe pretty daughters are, naturally, to marry people of very differentexpectations, at any rate, he will be eligible for the plain ones; andif the brilliant and fascinating Myra is to hook an earl, poor littleBeatrice, who has one shoulder higher than the other, must hang on tosome boor through life, and why should not Mr. Pendennis be hersupport? In the very first winter after the accession to his mother'sfortune, Mrs. Hawxby in a country-house caused her Beatrice to learnbilliards from Mr. Pendennis, and would be driven by nobody but him inthe pony carriage, because he was literary and her Beatrice wasliterary too, and declared that the young man, under the instigationof his horrid old uncle, had behaved most infamously in trifling withBeatrice's feelings. The truth is, the old gentleman, who knew Mrs.Hawxby's character, and how desperately that lady would practice uponunwary young men, had come to the country-house in question andcarried Arthur out of the danger of her immediate claws, though notout of the reach of her tongue. The elder Pendennis would have had hisnephew pass a part of the Christmas at Clavering, whither the familyhad returned; but Arthur had not the heart for that. Clavering was toonear poor old Fairoaks; and that was too full of sad recollections forthe young man.

We have lost sight of the Claverings, too, until their reappearanceupon the Epsom race-ground, and must give a brief account of them inthe interval. During the past year, the world has not treated anymember of the Clavering family very kindly. Lady Clavering, one of thebest-natured women that ever enjoyed a good dinner, or made a slip ingrammar, has had her appetite and good-nature sadly tried by constantfamily grievances, and disputes such as make the efforts of the bestFrench cook unpalatable, and the most delicately-stuffed sofa-cushionhard to lie on. "I'd rather have a turnip, Strong, for dessert, thanthat pineapple, and all them Muscatel grapes, from Clavering," sayspoor Lady Clavering, looking at her dinner-table, and confiding hergriefs to her faithful friend, "if I could but have a little quiet toeat it with. Oh, how much happier I was when I was a widow, and beforeall this money fell in to me!"

The Clavering family had indeed made a false start in life, and hadgot neither comfort, nor position, nor thanks for the hospitalitieswhich they administered, nor a return of kindness from the people whomthey entertained. The success of their first London season wasdoubtful; and their failure afterward notorious. "Human patience wasnot great enough to put up with Sir Francis Clavering," people said."He was too hopelessly low, dull, and disreputable. You could not saywhat, but there was a taint about the house and its entourages. Whowas the Begum, with her money, and without her h's, and where did shecome from? What an extraordinary little piece of conceit the daughterwas, with her Gallicised graces and daring affectations, not fit forwell-bred English girls to associate with! What strange people werethose they assembled round about them! Sir Francis Clavering was agambler, living notoriously in the society of blacklegs andprofligates. Hely Clinker, who was in his regiment, said that he notonly cheated at cards, but showed the white feather. What could LadyRockminster have meant by taking her up?" After the first season,indeed, Lady Rockminster, who had taken up Lady Clavering, put herdown; the great ladies would not take their daughters to her parties;the young men who attended them behaved with the most odious freedomand scornful familiarity; and poor Lady Clavering herself avowed thatshe was obliged to take what she called "the canal" into her parlor,because the tiptops wouldn't come.

She had not the slightest ill-will toward "the canal," the poor, dearlady, or any pride about herself, or idea that she was better than herneighbor; but she had taken implicitly the orders which, on her entryinto the world, her social godmother had given her: she had beenwilling to know whom they knew, and ask whom they asked. The "canal,"in fact, was much pleasanter than what is called "society;" but, as wesaid before, that to leave a mistress is easy, while, on the contrary,to be left by her is cruel; so you may give up society without anygreat pang, or any thing but a sensation of relief at the parting; butsevere are the mortifications and pains you have if society givesup you.

One young man of fashion we have mentioned, who at least, it mighthave been expected, would have been found faithful among thefaithless, and Harry Foker, Esq., was indeed that young man. But hehad not managed matters with prudence, and the unhappy passion atfirst confided to Pen became notorious and ridiculous to the town, wascarried to the ears of his weak and fond mother, and finally broughtunder the cognizance of the bald-headed and inflexible Foker senior.

When Mr. Foker learned this disagreeable news, there took placebetween him and his son a violent and painful scene which ended in thepoor little gentleman's banishment from England for a year, with apositive order to return at the expiration of that time and completehis marriage with his cousin, or to retire into private life and threehundred a year altogether, and never see parent or brewery more. Mr.Henry Foker went away, then, carrying with him that grief and carewhich passes free at the strictest custom-houses, and whichproverbially accompanies the exile, and with this crape over his eyes,even the Parisian Boulevard looked melancholy to him, and the sky ofItaly black.

To Sir Francis Clavering, that year was a most unfortunate one. Theevents described in the last chapter came to complete the ruin of theyear. It was that year of grace in which, as our sporting readers mayremember, Lord Harrowhill's horse (he was a classical young nobleman,and named his stud out of the Iliad)—when Podasokus won the "Derby,"to the dismay of the knowing ones, who pronounced the winning horse'sname in various extraordinary ways, and who backed Borax, who wasnowhere in the race. Sir Francis Clavering, who was intimate with someof the most rascally characters of the turf, and, of course, hadvaluable "information," had laid heavy odds against the winning horse,and backed the favorite freely, and the result of his dealings was, ashis son correctly stated to poor Lady Clavering, a loss of seventhousand pounds.

Indeed, it was a cruel blow upon the lady, who had discharged herhusband's debts many times over; who had received as many times hisoaths and promises of amendment; who had paid his money-lenders andhorse-dealers; who had furnished his town and country houses, and whowas called upon now instantly to meet this enormous sum, the penaltyof her cowardly husband's extravagance. It has been described informer pages how the elder Pendennis had become the adviser of theClavering family, and, in his quality of intimate friend of the house,had gone over every room of it, and even seen that ugly closet whichwe all of us have, and in which, according to the proverb, the familyskeleton is locked up. About the baronet's pecuniary matters, if themajor did not know, it was because Clavering himself did not knowthem, and hid them from himself and others in such a hopelessentanglement of lies that it was impossible for adviser or attorney orprincipal to get an accurate knowledge of his affairs. But, concerningLady Clavering, the major was much better informed; and when theunlucky mishap of the "Derby" arose, he took upon himself to becomecompletely and thoroughly acquainted with all her means, whatsoeverthey where; and was now accurately informed of the vast and repeatedsacrifices which the widow Amory had made in behalf of herpresent husband.

He did not conceal—and he had won no small favor from Miss Blanche byavowing it—his opinion, that Lady Clavering's daughter had beenhardly treated at the expense of her son by her second marriage: andin his conversations with Lady Clavering had fairly hinted that hethought Miss Blanche ought to have a better provision. We have saidthat he had already given the widow to understand that he knew allthe particulars of her early and unfortunate history, having been inIndia at the time when—when the painful circ*mstances occurred whichhad ended in her parting from her first husband. He could tell herwhere to find the Calcutta newspaper which contained the account ofAmory's trial, and he showed, and the Begum was not a little gratefulto him for his forbearance, how being aware all along of this mishapwhich had befallen her, he had kept all knowledge of it to himself,and been constantly the friend of her family.

"Interested motives, my dear Lady Clavering," he said, "of course Imay have had. We all have interested motives, and mine I don't concealfrom you, was to make a marriage between my nephew and your daughter."To which Lady Clavering, perhaps with some surprise that the majorshould choose her family for a union with his own, said she was quitewilling to consent.

But frankly he said, "My dear lady, my boy has but five hundred ayear, and a wife with ten thousand pounds to her fortune wouldscarcely better him. We could do better for him than that, permit meto say, and he is a shrewd, cautious young fellow who has sown hiswild oats now—who has very good parts and plenty of ambition—andwhose object in marrying is to better himself. If you and Sir Francischose—and Sir Francis, take my word for it, will refuse younothing—you could put Arthur in a way to advance very considerably inthe world, and show the stuff which he has in him. Of what use is thatseat in Parliament to Clavering, who scarcely ever shows his face inthe House, or speaks a word there? I'm told by gentlemen who heard myboy at Oxbridge, that he was famous as an orator, begad!—and once puthis foot into the stirrup and mount him, I've no doubt he won't be the last of the field ma'am. I've tested the chap, and know him prettywell, I think. He is much too lazy, and careless, and flighty afellow, to make a jog-trot journey, and arrive, as your lawyers do, atthe end of their lives! but give him a start and good friends, and anopportunity, and take my word for it, he'll make himself a name thathis sons shall be proud of. I don't see any way for a fellow like himto parvenir, but by making a prudent marriage—not with a beggerlyheiress—to sit down for life upon a miserable fifteen hundred ayear—but with somebody whom he can help, and who can help him forwardin the world, and whom he can give a good name and a station in thecountry, begad, in return for the advantages which she brings him. Itwould be better for you to have a distinguished son-in-law, than tokeep your husband on in Parliament, who's of no good to himself or toany body else there, and that's, I say, why I've been interested aboutyou, and offer you what I think a good bargain for both."

"You know I look upon Arthur as one of the family almost now," saidthe good-natured Begum; "he comes and goes when he likes; and the moreI think of his dear mother, the more I see there's few people sogood—none so good to me. And I'm sure I cried when I heard of herdeath, and would have gone into mourning for her myself, only blackdon't become me. And I know who his mother wanted him to marry—Laura, I mean—whom old Lady Rockminster has taken such a fancy to,and no wonder. She's a better girl than my girl. I know both, And myBetsy—Blanche, I mean—ain't been a comfort to me, major. It's LauraPenn ought to marry."

"Marry on five hundred a year! My dear good soul, you are mad!" MajorPendennis said. "Think over what I have said to you. Do nothing inyour affairs with that unhappy husband of yours without consulting me;and remember that old Pendennis is always your friend."

For some time previous, Pen's uncle had held similar language to MissAmory. He had pointed out to her the convenience of the match which hehad at heart, and was bound to say, that mutual convenience was of allthings the very best in the world to marry upon—the only thing. "Lookat your love-marriages, my dear young creature. The love-match peopleare the most notorious of all for quarreling, afterward; and a girlwho runs away with Jack to Gretna Green, constantly runs away with Tomto Switzerland afterward. The great point in marriage is for people toagree to be useful to one another. The lady brings the means, and thegentleman avails himself of them. My boy's wife brings the horse, andbegad, Pen goes in and wins the plate. That's what I call a sensibleunion. A couple like that have something to talk to each other aboutwhen they come together. If you had Cupid himself to talk to—ifBlanche and Pen were Cupid and Psyche, begad—they'd begin to yawnafter a few evenings, if they had nothing but sentiment to speak on."

As for Miss Amory, she was contented enough with Pen as long as therewas nobody better. And how many other young ladies are likeher?—and how many love marriages carry on well to the last?—and howmany sentimental firms do not finish in bankruptcy?—and how manyheroic passions don't dwindle down into despicable indifference, orend in shameful defeat?

These views of life and philosophy the major was constantly, accordingto his custom, inculcating to Pen, whose mind was such that he couldsee the right on both sides of many questions, and comprehending thesentimental life which was quite out of the reach of the honestmajor's intelligence, could understand the practical life too, andaccommodate himself, or think he could accommodate himself to it. Soit came to pass that during the spring succeeding his mother's deathhe became a good deal under the influence of his uncle's advice, anddomesticated in Lady Clavering's house; and in a measure was acceptedby Miss Amory without being a suitor, and was received without beingengaged. The young people were extremely familiar, without beingparticularly sentimental, and met and parted with each other inperfect good-humor. "And I," thought Pendennis, "am the fellow whoeight years ago had a grand passion, and last year was raging in afever about Briseis!"

Yes, it was the same Pendennis, and time had brought to him, as to therest of us, its ordinary consequences, consolations, developments. Wealter very little. When we talk of this man or that woman being nolonger the same person whom we remember in youth, and remark (ofcourse to deplore) changes in our friends, we don't, perhaps,calculate that circ*mstance only brings out the latent defect orquality, and does not create it. The selfish languor and indifferenceof to-day's possession is the consequence of the selfish ardor ofyesterday's pursuit: the scorn and weariness which cries vanitasvanitatum is but the lassitude of the sick appetite palled withpleasure: the insolence of the successful parvenu is only thenecessary continuance of the career of the needy struggler: our mentalchanges are like our gray hairs or our wrinkles—but the fulfillmentof the plan of mortal growth and decay: that which is snow-white nowwas glossy black once; that which is sluggish obesity to-day wasboisterous rosy health a few years back; that calm weariness,benevolent, resigned, and disappointed, was ambition, fierce andviolent, but a few years since, and has only settled into submissiverepose after many a battle and defeat. Lucky he who can bear hisfailure so generously, and give up his broken sword to Fate theConqueror with a manly and humble heart! Are you not awe-stricken,you, friendly reader, who, taking the page up for a moment's lightreading, lay it down, perchance, for a graver reflection—to think howyou, who have consummated your success or your disaster, may beholding marked station, or a hopeless and nameless place, in thecrowds who have passed through how many struggles of defeat, success,crime, remorse, to yourself only known!—who may have loved and growncold, wept and laughed again, how often!—to think how you are thesame, You, whom in childhood you remember, before the voyage of lifebegan? It has been prosperous, and you are riding into port, thepeople huzzaing and the guns saluting,—and the lucky captain bowsfrom the ship's side, and there is a care under the star on his breastwhich no body knows of: or you are wrecked, and lashed, hopeless, to asolitary spar out at sea:—the sinking man and the successful one arethinking each about home, very likely, and remembering the time whenthey were children; alone on the hopeless spar, drowning out of sight;alone in the midst of the crowd applauding you.

CONVERSATIONS.

[Illustration]

Our good-natured Begum was at first so much enraged at this lastinstance of her husband's duplicity and folly, that she refused togive Sir Francis Clavering any aid in order to meet his debts ofhonor, and declared that she would separate from him, and leave him tothe consequences of his incorrigible weakness and waste. After thatfatal day's transactions at the Derby, the unlucky gambler was in sucha condition of mind that he was disposed to avoid every body—alikehis turf-associates with whom he had made debts which he trembled lesthe should not have the means of paying, and his wife, hislong-suffering banker, on whom he reasonably doubted whether he shouldbe allowed any longer to draw. When Lady Clavering asked the nextmorning whether Sir Francis was in the house, she received answer thathe had not returned that night, but had sent a messenger to his valet,ordering him to forward clothes and letters by the bearer. Strong knewthat he should have a visit or a message from him in the course ofthat or the subsequent day, and accordingly got a note beseeching himto call upon his distracted friend F. C., at Short's Hotel,Blackfriars, and ask for Mr. Francis there. For the baronet was agentleman of that peculiarity of mind that he would rather tell a liethan not, and always began a contest with fortune by running away andhiding himself. The boots of Mr. Short's establishment, who carriedClavering's message to Grosvenor-place, and brought back hiscarpet-bag, was instantly aware who was the owner of the bag, and heimparted his information to the footman who was laying thebreakfast-table, who carried down the news to the servant's hall, whotook it to Mrs. Bonner, my lady's housekeeper and confidential maid,who carried it to my lady. And thus every single person in theGrosvenor-place establishment knew that Sir Francis was in hiding,under the name of Francis, at an inn in the Blackfriar's-road. And SirFrancis's coachman told the news to other gentlemen's coachmen, whocarried it to their masters, and to the neighboring Tattersall's,where very gloomy anticipations were formed that Sir Francis Claveringwas about to make a tour in the Levant.

In the course of that day the number of letters addressed to SirFrancis Clavering, Bart., which found their way to his hall table, wasquite remarkable. The French cook sent in his account to my lady; thetradesmen who supplied her ladyship's table, and Messrs. Finer andGimcrack, the mercers and ornamental dealers, and Madame Crinoline,the eminent milliner, also forwarded their little bills to herladyship in company with Miss Amory's private, and by no meansinconsiderable, account at each establishment.

In the afternoon of the day after the Derby, when Strong (after acolloquy with his principal at Short's hotel, whom he found crying anddrinking Curaçoa) called to transact business according to his customat Grosvenor-place, he found all these suspicious documents ranged inthe baronet's study; and began to open them and examine them with arueful countenance.

Mrs. Bonner, my lady's maid and housekeeper, came down upon him whileengaged in this occupation. Mrs. Bonner, a part of the family, and asnecessary to her mistress as the chevalier was to Sir Francis, was ofcourse on Lady Clavering's side in the dispute between her and herhusband, and as by duty bound even more angry than her ladyship herself.

"She won't pay if she takes my advice," Mrs. Bonner said. "You'llplease to go back to Sir Francis, Captain—and he lurking about in alow public-house and don't dare to face his wife like a man;—and saythat we won't pay his debts no longer. We made a man of him, we tookhim out of jail (and other folks too perhaps), we've paid his debtsover and over again—we set him up in Parliament and gave him a housein town and country, and where he don't dare to show his face, theshabby sneak! We've given him the horse he rides, and the dinner heeats, and the very clothes he has on his back; and we will give him nomore. Our fortune, such as is left of it, is left to ourselves, and wewont waste any more of it on this ungrateful man. We'll give himenough to live upon and leave him, that's what we'll do: and that'swhat you may tell him from Susan Bonner."

Susan Bonner's mistress hearing of Strong's arrival sent for him atthis juncture, and the chevalier went up to her ladyship not withouthopes that he should find her more tractable than her factotum Mrs.Bonner. Many a time before had he pleaded his client's cause with LadyClavering and caused her good-nature to relent. He tried again oncemore. He painted in dismal colors the situation in which he had foundSir Francis: and would not answer for any consequences which mightensue if he could not find means of meeting his engagements. "Killhisself," laughed Mrs. Bonner, "kill hisself, will he? Dying's thebest thing he could do." Strong vowed that he had found him with therazors on the table; but at this, in her turn, Lady Clavering laughedbitterly. "He'll do himself no harm, as long as there's a shillingleft of which he can rob a poor woman. His life's quite safe, captain:you may depend upon that. Ah! it was a bad day that ever I set eyeson him."

"He's worse than the first man," cried out my lady's aid-de-camp. "Hewas a man, he was—a wild devil, but he had the courage of aman—whereas this fellow—what's the use of my lady paying his bills,and selling her diamonds, and forgiving him? He'll be as bad againnext year. The very next chance he has he'll be a cheating of her, androbbing of her; and her money will go to keep a pack of rogues andswindlers—I don't mean you, captain—you've been a good friend to usenough, bating we wish we'd never set eyes on you."

The chevalier saw from the words which Mrs. Bonner had let slipregarding the diamonds, that the kind Begum was disposed to relentonce more at least, and that there were hopes still for his principal.

"Upon my word, ma'am," he said, with a real feeling of sympathy forLady Clavering's troubles, and admiration for her untiringgood-nature, and with a show of enthusiasm which advanced not a littlehis graceless patron's cause—"any thing you say against Clavering, orMrs. Bonner here cries out against me, is no better than we deserve,both of us, and it was an unlucky day for you when you saw either. Hehas behaved cruelly to you; and if you were not the most generous andforgiving woman in the world, I know there would be no chance for him.But you can't let the father of your son be a disgraced man, and sendlittle Frank into the world with such a stain upon him. Tie him down;bind him by any promises you like: I vouch for him that he willsubscribe them."

"And break 'em," said Mrs. Bonner.

"And keep 'em this time," cried out Strong. "He must keep them. If youcould have seen how he wept, ma'am! 'Oh, Strong,' he said to me, 'it'snot for myself I feel now: it's for my boy—it's for the best woman inEngland, whom I have treated basely—I know I have.' He didn't intendto bet upon this race, ma'am—indeed he didn't. He was cheated intoit: all the ring was taken in. He thought he might make the bet quitesafely, without the least risk. And it will be a lesson to him for allhis life long. To see a man cry—Oh, it's dreadful."

"He don't think much of making my dear missus cry," said Mrs.
Bonner—"poor dear soul!—look if he does, captain."

"If you've the soul of a man, Clavering," Strong said to hisprincipal, when he recounted this scene to him, "you'll keep yourpromise this time: and, so help me Heaven! if you break word with her,I'll turn against you, and tell all."

"What, all?" cried Mr. Francis, to whom his embassador brought thenews back at Short's hotel, where Strong found the baronet crying anddrinking Curaçoa.

"Psha! Do you suppose I am a fool?" burst out Strong. "Do you supposeI could have lived so long in the world, Frank Clavering, with outhaving my eyes about me? You know I have but to speak, and you are abeggar to-morrow. And I am not the only man who knows your secret."

"Who else does?" gasped Clavering.

"Old Pendennis does, or I am very much mistaken. He recognized the manthe first night he saw him, when he came drunk into your house."

"He knows it, does he?" shrieked out Clavering. "Damn him—kill him."

"You'd like to kill us all, wouldn't you old boy?" said Strong, with asneer, puffing his cigar.

The baronet dashed his weak hand against his forehead; perhaps theother had interpreted his wish rightly. "Oh, Strong!" he cried, "if Idared, I'd put an end to myself, for I'm the d—est miserable dog inall England. It's that that makes me so wild and reckless. It's thatwhich makes me take to drink (and he drank, with a trembling hand, abumper of his fortifier—the Curaçoa), and to live about with thesethieves. I know they're thieves, every one of em, d—d thieves.And—and how can I help it?—and I didn't know it, you know—and, bygad, I'm innocent—and until I saw the d—d scoundrel first, I knew nomore about it than the dead—and I'll fly, and I'll go abroad out ofthe reach of the confounded hells, and I'll bury myself in a forest,by gad! and hang myself up to a tree—and, oh—I'm the most miserablebeggar in all England!" And so with more tears, shrieks, and curses,the impotent wretch vented his grief and deplored his unhappy fate;and, in the midst of groans and despair and blasphemy, vowed hismiserable repentance.

The honored proverb which declares that to be an ill wind which blowsgood to nobody, was verified in the case of Sir Francis Clavering, andanother of the occupants of Mr. Strong's chambers in Shepherd's Inn.The man was "good," by a lucky hap, with whom Colonel Altamont madehis bet; and on the settling day of the Derby—as Captain Clinker, whowas appointed to settle Sir Francis Clavering's book for him (for LadyClavering, by the advice of Major Pendennis, would not allow thebaronet to liquidate his own money transactions), paid over the notesto the baronet's many creditors—Colonel Altamont had the satisfactionof receiving the odds of thirty to one in fifties, which he had takenagainst the winning horse of the day.

Numbers of the colonel's friends were present on the occasion tocongratulate him on his luck—all Altamont's own set, and the gentswho met in the private parlor of the convivial Wheeler, my host of theHarlequin's Head, came to witness their comrade's good fortune, andwould have liked, with a generous sympathy for success, to share init. "Now was the time," Tom Driver had suggested to the colonel, "tohave up the specie ship that was sunk in the Gulf of Mexico, with thethree hundred and eighty thousand dollars on board, besides bars anddoubloons." "The Tredyddlums were very low—to be bought for an oldsong—never was such an opportunity for buying shares," Mr. Keightleyinsinuated; and Jack Holt pressed forward his tobacco-smugglingscheme, the audacity of which pleased the colonel more than any otherof the speculations proposed to him. Then of the Harlequin's Headboys: there was Jack Hackstraw, who knew of a pair of horses which thecolonel must buy; Tom Fleet, whose satirical paper, "The Swell,"wanted but two hundred pounds of capital to be worth a thousand a yearto any man—"with such a power and influence, colonel, you rogue, andthe entrée of all the green-rooms in London," Tom urged; whilelittle Moss Abrams entreated the colonel not to listen to these absurdfellows with their humbugging speculations, but to invest his money insome good bills which Moss could get for him, and which would returnhim fifty per cent, as safe as the Bank of England.

Each and all of these worthies came round the colonel with theirvarious blandishments; but he had courage enough to resist them, andto button up his notes in the pocket of his coat, and go home toStrong, and "sport" the outer door of the chambers. Honest Strong hadgiven his fellow-lodger good advice about all his acquaintances; andthough, when pressed, he did not mind frankly taking twenty poundshimself out of the colonel's winnings, Strong was a great deal tooupright to let others cheat him.

He was not a bad fellow when in good fortune, this Altamont. Heordered a smart livery for Grady, and made poor old Costigan shedtears of quickly dried gratitude by giving him a five-pound note aftera snug dinner at the Back-Kitchen, and he bought a green shawl forMrs. Bolton, and a yellow one for Fanny: the most brilliant"sacrifices" of a Regent-street haberdasher's window. And a short timeafter this, upon her birth-day, which happened in the month of June,Miss Amory received from "a friend" a parcel containing an enormousbrass-inlaid writing-desk, in which there was a set of amethysts, themost hideous eyes ever looked upon—a musical snuff-box, and twokeepsakes of the year before last, and accompanied with a couple ofgown-pieces of the most astounding colors, the receipt of which goodsmade the Sylphide laugh and wonder immoderately. Now it is a fact thatColonel Altamont had made a purchase of cigars and French silks fromsome duffers in Fleet-street about this period; and he was found byStrong in the open Auction-room, in Cheapside, having invested somemoney in two desks, several pairs of richly-plated candlesticks, adinner épergne and a bagatelle-board. The dinner épergne remained atchambers and figured at the banquets there, which the colonel gavepretty freely. It seemed beautiful in his eyes, until Jack Holt saidit looked as if it had been taken in "a bill." And Jack Holtcertainly knew.

The dinners were pretty frequent at chambers, and Sir Francis Claveringcondescended to partake of them constantly. His own house wasshut up; the successor of Mirobolant, who had sent in his bills soprematurely, was dismissed by the indignant Lady Clavering; theluxuriance of the establishment was greatly pruned and reduced. One ofthe large footmen was cashiered, upon which the other gave warning,not liking to serve without his mate, or in a family where on'y onefootman was kep'. General and severe economical reforms were practicedby the Begum in her whole household, in consequence of theextravagance of which her graceless husband had been guilty. Themajor, as her ladyship's friend; Strong, on the part of poorClavering; her ladyship's lawyer, and the honest Begum herself,executed these reforms with promptitude and severity. After paying thebaronet's debts, the settlement of which occasioned considerablepublic scandal, and caused the baronet to sink even lower in theworld's estimation than he had been before, Lady Clavering quittedLondon for Tunbridge Wells in high dudgeon, refusing to see herreprobate husband, whom nobody pitied. Clavering remained in Londonpatiently, by no means anxious to meet his wife's just indignation,and sneaked in and out of the House of Commons, whence he and CaptainRaff and Mr. Marker would go to have a game at billiards and a cigar:or showed in the sporting public-houses; or might be seen lurkingabout Lincoln's Inn and his lawyers', where the principals kept himfor hours waiting, and the clerks winked at each other, as he sat intheir office. No wonder that he relished the dinners at Shepherd'sInn, and was perfectly resigned there: resigned? he was so happynowhere else; he was wretched among his equals, who scorned him; buthere he was the chief guest at the table, where they continuallyaddressed him with "Yes, Sir Francis," and "No, Sir Francis," where hetold his wretched jokes, and where he quavered his dreary littleFrench song, after Strong had sung his jovial chorus, and honestCostigan had piped his Irish ditties. Such a jolly menage as Strong's,with Grady's Irish stew, and the chevalier's brew of punch afterdinner, would have been welcome to many a better man than Clavering,the solitude of whose great house at home frightened him, where he wasattended only by the old woman who kept the house, and his valet whosneered at him.

"Yes, dammit," said he, to his friends in Shepherd's Inn. "That fellowof mine, I must turn him away, only I owe him two years' wages, cursehim, and can't ask my lady. He brings me my tea cold of a morning,with a dem'd leaden tea-spoon, and he says my lady's sent all theplate to the banker's because it ain't safe. Now ain't it hard thatshe won't trust me with a single tea-spoon—ain't it ungentlemanlike,Altamont? You know my lady's of low birth—that is—I beg yourpardon—hem—that is, it's most cruel of her not to show moreconfidence in me. And the very servants begin to laugh—the damscoundrels! I'll break every bone in their great hulking bodies, curse'em, I will. They don't answer my bell: and—and, my man was atVauxhall last night with one of my dress shirts and my velvetwaistcoat on, I know it was mine—the confounded impudentblackguard—and he went on dancing before my eyes, confound him; I'msure he'll live to be hanged—he deserves to be hanged—all thoseinfernal rascals of valets."

He was very kind to Altamont now: he listened to the colonel's loudstories when Altamont described how—when he was working his way homeonce from New Zealand, where he had been on a whaling expedition—heand his comrades had been obliged to shirk on board at night, toescape from their wives, by Jove—and how the poor devils put out intheir canoes when they saw the ship under sail, and paddled madlyafter her: how he had been lost in the bush once for three months inNew South Wales, when he was there once on a trading speculation: howhe had seen Boney at Saint Helena, and been presented to him with therest of the officers of the Indiaman of which he was a mate—to allthese tales (and over his cups Altamont told many of them; and, itmust be owned, lied and bragged a great deal) Sir Francis now listenedwith great attention; making a point of drinking wine with Altamont atdinner and of treating him with every distinction.

"Leave him alone, I know what he's a-coming to," Altamont said,laughing to Strong, who remonstrated with him, "and leave me alone; Iknow what I'm a-telling, very well. I was officer on board anIndiaman, so I was; I traded to New South Wales, so I did, in a shipof my own, and lost her. I became officer to the Nawaub, so I did;only me and my royal master have had a difference, Strong—that's it.Who's the better or the worse for what I tell? or knows any thingabout me? The other chap is dead—shot in the bush, and his bodyreckonized at Sydney. If I thought any body would split, do you thinkI wouldn't wring his neck? I've done as good before now, Strong—Itold you how I did for the overseer before I took leave—but in fairfight, I mean—in fair fight; or, rayther, he had the best of it. Hehad his gun and bay'net, and I had only an ax. Fifty of 'em sawit—ay, and cheered me when I did it—and I'd do it again,—him,wouldn't I? I ain't afraid of any body; and I'd have the life of theman who split upon me. That's my maxim, and pass me the liquor—Youwouldn't turn on a man. I know you. You're an honest feller, and willstand by a feller, and have looked death in the face like a man. Butas for that lily-livered sneak—that poor lyin', swindlin', cringin'cur of a Clavering—who stands in my shoes—stands in my shoes, hanghim! I'll make him pull my boots off and clean 'em, I will. Ha, ha!"Here he burst out into a wild laugh, at which Strong got up and putaway the brandy-bottle. The other still laughed good-humoredly."You're right, old boy," he said; "you always keep your head cool, youdo—and when I begin to talk too much—I say, when I begin to pitch,I authorize you, and order you, and command you, to put away therum-bottle."

"Take my counsel, Altamont," Strong said, gravely, "and mind how youdeal with that man. Don't make it too much his interest to get rid ofyou; or who knows what he may do?"

The event for which, with cynical enjoyment, Altamont had been on thelook-out, came very speedily. One day, Strong being absent upon anerrand for his principal, Sir Francis made his appearance in thechambers, and found the envoy of the Nawaub alone. He abused the worldin general for being heartless and unkind to him: he abused his wifefor being ungenerous to him: he abused Strong for beingungrateful—hundreds of pounds had he given Ned Strong—been hisfriend for life and kept him out of jail, by Jove—and now Ned wastaking her ladyship's side against him and abetting her in herinfernal, unkind treatment of him. "They've entered into a conspiracyto keep me penniless, Altamont," the baronet said: "they don't give meas much pocket-money as Frank has at school."

"Why don't you go down to Richmond and borrow of him, Clavering?"Altamont broke out with a savage laugh. "He wouldn't see his poor oldbeggar of a father without pocket-money, would he?"

"I tell you, I've been obliged to humiliate myself cruelly," Claveringsaid. "Look here, sir—look here, at these pawn-tickets! Fancy amember of Parliament and an old English baronet, by gad! obliged toput a drawing-room clock and a Buhl inkstand up the spout; and a goldduck's head paper-holder, that I dare say cost my wife five pound, forwhich they'd only give me fifteen-and-six! Oh, it's a humiliatingthing, sir, poverty to a man of my habits; and it's made me shedtears, sir—tears; and that d—d valet of mine—curse him, I wish hewas hanged!—has had the confounded impudence to threaten to tell mylady: as if the things in my own house weren't my own, to sell or tokeep, or to fling out of window if I chose—by gad! the confoundedscoundrel."

"Cry a little; don't mind cryin' before me—it'll relieve you,Clavering" the other said. "Why, I say, old feller, what a happyfeller I once thought you, and what a miserable son of a gun youreally are!"

"It's a shame that they treat me so, ain't it," Clavering wenton—for, though ordinarily silent and apathetic, about his own griefsthe baronet could whine for an hour at a time. "And—and, by gad, sir,I haven't got the money to pay the very cab that's waiting for me atthe door; and the porteress, that Mrs. Bolton, lent me threeshillin's, and I don't like to ask her for any more: and I asked thatd—d old Costigan, the confounded old penniless Irish miscreant, andhe hadn't got a shillin', the beggar; and Campion's out of town, orelse he'd do a little bill for me, I know he would."

"I thought you swore on your honor to your wife that you wouldn't putyour name to paper," said Mr. Altamont, puffing at his cigar.

"Why does she leave me without pocket-money then? Damme, I must havemoney," cried out the baronet. "Oh, Am—, Oh, Altamont, I'm the mostmiserable beggar alive."

"You'd like a chap to lend you a twenty-pound-note, wouldn't you now?"the other asked.

"If you would, I'd be grateful to you forever—forever, my dearestfriend," cried Clavering. "How much would you give? Will you give afifty-pound bill, at six months, for half down and half in plate,"asked Altamont.

"Yes, I would, so help me—, and pay it on the day," screamedClavering. "I'll make it payable at my banker's: I'll do any thingyou like."

[Illustration]

"Well, I was only chaffing you. I'll give you twenty pound."

"You said a pony," interposed Clavering; "my dear fellow, you said apony, and I'll be eternally obliged to you; and I'll not take it as agift—only as a loan, and pay you back in six months. I take my oathI will."

"Well—well—there's the money, Sir Francis Clavering. I ain't a badfellow. When I've money in my pocket, dammy, I spend it like a man.Here's five-and-twenty for you. Don't be losing it at the hells now.Don't be making a fool of yourself. Go down to Clavering Park, andit'll keep you ever so long. You needn't 'ave butchers' meat: there'spigs I dare say on the premises: and you can shoot rabbits for dinner,you know, every day till the game comes in. Besides, the neighborswill ask you about to dinner, you know, sometimes: for you are abaronet, though you have outrun the constable. And you've got thiscomfort, that I'm off your shoulders for a good bit to come—p'rapsthis two years—if I don't play; and I don't intend to touch theconfounded black and red: and by that time my lady, as you call her—Jimmy, I used to say—will have come round again; and you'll be readyfor me, you know, and come down handsomely to yours truly."

At this juncture of their conversation Strong returned, nor did thebaronet care much about prolonging the talk, having got the money: andhe made his way from Shepherd's Inn, and went home and bullied hisservant in a manner so unusually brisk and insolent, that the manconcluded his master must have pawned some more of the housefurniture, or at any rate, have come into possession of someready money.

"And yet I've looked over the house, Morgan, and I don't think he hastook any more of the things," Sir Francis's valet said to MajorPendennis's man, as they met at their club soon after. "My lady lockedup a'most all the befews afore she went away, and he couldn't takeaway the picters and looking-glasses in a cab: and he wouldn't spoutthe fenders and fire-irons—he ain't so bad as that. But he's gotmoney somehow. He's so dam'd imperent when he have. A few nights ago Isor him at Vauxhall, where I was a polkin with Lady Hemly Babewood'sgals—a wery pleasant room that is, and an uncommon good lot in it,hall except the 'ousekeeper, and she's methodisticle—I was apolkin—you're too old a cove to polk, Mr. Morgan—and 'ere's your'ealth—and I 'appened to 'ave on some of Clavering's abberdashery,and he sor it too; and he didn't dare so much as speak a word."

"How about the house in St. John's Wood?" Mr. Morgan asked.

"Execution in it.—Sold up hevery thing: ponies and pianna, andBrougham, and all. Mrs. Montague Rivers hoff to Boulogne—non estinwentus, Mr. Morgan. It's my belief she put the execution in herself:and was tired of him."

"Play much?" asked Morgan.

"Not since the smash. When your governor, and the lawyers, and my ladyand him had that tremenduous scene: he went down on his knees, my ladytold Mrs. Bonner, as told me—and swoar as he never more would touch acard or a dice, or put his name to a bit of paper; and my lady wasa-goin' to give him the notes down to pay his liabilities after therace: only your governor said (which he wrote it on a piece of paper,and passed it across the table to the lawyer and my lady), that someone else had better book up for him, for he'd have kep' some of themoney. He's a sly old cove, your gov'nor." The expression of "oldcove," thus flippantly applied by the younger gentleman to himself andhis master, displeased Mr. Morgan exceedingly. On the first occasion,when Mr. Lightfoot used the obnoxious expression, his comrade's angerwas only indicated by a silent frown; but on the second offense,Morgan, who was smoking his cigar elegantly, and holding it on the tipof his penknife, withdrew the cigar from his lips, and took his youngfriend to task.

"Don't call Major Pendennis an old cove, if you'll 'ave the goodness,Lightfoot, and don't call me an old cove, nether. Such wordsain't used in society; and we have lived in the fust society, both at'ome and foring. We've been intimate with the fust statesmen ofEurope. When we go abroad we dine with Prince Metternitch and LouyPhilup reg'lar. We go here to the best houses, the tip-tops, I tellyou. We ride with Lord John and the noble Whycount at the edd ofForing Affairs. We dine with the Earl of Burgrave, and are consultedby the Marquis of Steyne in every think. We ought to know athing or two, Mr. Lightfoot. You're a young man, I'm an old cove, asyou say. We've both seen the world, and we both know that it ain'tmoney, nor bein' a baronet, nor 'avin' a town and country 'ouse, nor apaltry five or six thousand a year."

"It's ten, Mr. Morgan," cried Mr. Lightfoot, with great animation.

"It may have been, sir," Morgan said, with calm severity; "itmay have been Mr. Lightfoot, but it ain't six now, nor five, sir. It'sbeen doosedly dipped and cut into, sir, by the confounded extravyganceof your master, with his helbow-shakin' and his bill discountin', andhis cottage in the Regency Park, and his many wickednesses. He's a badun, Mr. Lightfoot—a bad lot, sir, and that you know. And it ain'tmoney, sir—not such money as that, at any rate, come from a Calcuttarattorney, and I dessay wrung out of the pore starving blacks—thatwill give a pusson position in society, as you know very well. We'veno money, but we go every where; there's not a housekeeper's room,sir, in this town of any consiquince, where James Morgan ain'twelcome. And it was me who got you into this club, Lightfoot, as youvery well know, though I am an old cove, and they would haveblackballed you without me, as sure as your name is Frederic."

"I know they would, Mr. Morgan," said the other, with much humility.

"Well, then, don't call me an old cove, sir. It ain't gentlemanlike,Frederic Lightfoot, which I knew you when you was a cab-boy, and whenyour father was in trouble, and got you the place you have now whenthe Frenchman went away. And if you think, sir, that because you'remaking up to Mrs. Bonner, who may have saved her two thousandpound—and I dare say she has in five-and-twenty years as she havelived confidential maid to Lady Clavering—yet, sir, you must rememberwho put you into that service, and who knows what you were before,sir, and it don't become you, Frederic Lightfoot, to call me anold cove."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Morgan—I can't do more than make an
apology—will you have a glass, sir, and let me drink your 'ealth?"
"You know I don't take sperrits, Lightfoot," replied Morgan, appeased.
"And so you and Mrs. Bonner is going to put up together, are you?"

"She's old, but two thousand pound's a good bit, you see, Mr. Morgan.And we'll get the 'Clavering Arms' for a very little; and that'll beno bad thing when the railroad runs through Clavering. And when we arethere, I hope you'll come and see us, Mr. Morgan."

"It's a stoopid place, and no society," said Mr. Morgan. "I know itwell. In Mrs. Pendennis's time we used to go down reg'lar, and thehair refreshed me after the London racket."

"The railroad will improve Mr. Arthur's property," remarked Lightfoot.
"What's about the figure of it, should you say, sir?"

"Under fifteen hundred, sir," answered Morgan; at which the other, whoknew the extent of poor Arthur's acres, thrust his tongue in hischeek, but remained wisely silent.

"Is his man any good, Mr. Morgan?" Lightfoot resumed.

"Pigeon ain't used to society as yet; but he's young and has goodtalents, and has read a good deal, and I dessay he will do very well,"replied Morgan. "He wouldn't quite do for this kind of thing,Lightfoot, for he ain't seen the world yet."

When the pint of sherry for which Mr. Lightfoot called, upon Mr.Morgan's announcement that he declined to drink spirits, had beendiscussed by the two gentlemen, who held the wine up to the light, andsmacked their lips, and winked their eyes at it, and rallied thelandlord as to the vintage, in the most approved manner ofconnoisseurs, Morgan's ruffled equanimity was quite restored, and hewas prepared to treat his young friend with perfect good-humor.

"What d'you think about Miss Amory, Lightfoot?—tell us in confidence,now—do you think we should do well—you understand—if we make MissA. into Mrs. A. P.? Comprendy vous?"

"She and her ma's always quarrelin'," said Mr. Lightfoot. "Bonner ismore than a match for the old lady, and treats Sir Francis like that—likethis year spill, which I fling into the grate. But she daren'tsay a word to Miss Amory. No more dare none of us. When a visitorcomes in, she smiles and languishes, you'd think that butter wouldn'tmelt in her mouth: and the minute he is gone, very likely, she flaresup like a little demon, and says things fit to send you wild. If Mr.Arthur comes, it's 'Do let's sing that there delightful song!' or,'Come and write me them pooty verses in this halbum!' and very likelyshe's been a rilin' her mother, or sticking pins into her maid, aminute before. She do stick pins into her and pinch her. Mary Hannshowed me one of her arms quite black and blue; and I recklect Mrs.Bonner, who's as jealous of me as a old cat, boxed her ears forshowing me. And then you should see Miss at luncheon, when there'snobody but the family! She makes b'leave she never eats, and my! youshould only jest see her. She has Mary Hann to bring her up plum-cakesand creams into her bedroom; and the cook's the only man in the houseshe's civil to. Bonner says, how, the second season in London,Mr. Soppington was a-goin' to propose for her, and actially came oneday, and sor her fling a book into the fire, and scold her mother so,that he went down softly by the back droring-room door, which he camein by; and next thing we heard of him was, he was married to MissRider. Oh, she's a devil, that little Blanche, and that's my candigapinium, Mr. Morgan."

"Apinion, not apinium, Lightfoot, my good fellow," Mr. Morgan said,with parental kindness, and then asked of his own bosom with a sigh,why the deuce does my governor want Master Arthur to marry such a girlas this? and the tête-à-tête of the two gentlemen was broken up bythe entry of other gentlemen, members of the club—when fashionabletown-talk, politics, cribbage, and other amusem*nts ensued, and theconversation became general.

The Gentleman's Club was held in the parlor of the Wheel of Fortunepublic-house, in a snug little by-lane, leading out of one of thegreat streets of May Fair, and frequented by some of the most selectgentlemen about town. Their masters' affairs, debts, intrigues,adventures; their ladies' good and bad qualities and quarrels withtheir husbands; all the family secrets were here discussed withperfect freedom and confidence, and here, when about to enter into anew situation, a gentleman was enabled to get every requisiteinformation regarding the family of which he proposed to become amember. Liveries it may be imagined were excluded from this selectprecinct; and the powdered heads of the largest metropolitan footmenmight bow down in vain, entreating admission into the Gentleman'sClub. These outcast giants in plush took their beer in an outerapartment of the Wheel of Fortune, and could no more get an entry intothe club room than a Pall Mall tradesman or a Lincoln's Inn attorneycould get admission into Bay's or Spratt's. And it is because theconversation which we have been permitted to overhear here, in somemeasure explains the characters and bearings of our story, that wehave ventured to introduce the reader into a society so exclusive.

THE WAY OF THE WORLD.

[Illustration]

A short time after the piece of good fortune which befel ColonelAltamont at Epsom, that gentleman put into execution his projectedforeign tour, and the chronicler of the polite world who goes down toLondon-bridge for the purpose of taking leave of the people of fashionwho quit this country, announced that among the company on board theSoho to Antwerp last Saturday, were "Sir Robert, Lady, and the MissesHodge; Mr. Sergeant Kewsy, and Mrs. and Miss Kewsy; Colonel Altamont,Major Coddy, &c." The colonel traveled in state, and as became agentleman: he appeared in a rich traveling costume: he drankbrandy-and-water freely during the passage, and was not sick, as someof the other passengers were; and he was attended by his body servant,the faithful Irish legionary who had been for some time in waitingupon himself and Captain Strong in their chambers of Shepherd's Inn.

The chevalier partook of a copious dinner at Blackwall with hisdeparting friend the colonel, and one or two others, who drank manyhealths to Altamont at that liberal gentleman's expense. "Strong, oldboy," the chevalier's worthy chum said, "if you want a little money,now's your time. I'm your man. You're a good feller, and have been agood feller to me, and a twenty pound note, more or less, will make noodds to me." But Strong said, no, he didn't want any money; he wasflush, quite flush—"that is, not flush enough to pay you back yourlast loan, Altamont, but quite able to carry on for some time tocome"—and so, with a not uncordial greeting between them, the twoparted. Had the possession of money really made Altamont more honestand amiable than he had hitherto been, or only caused him to seemmore amiable in Strong's eyes? Perhaps he really was better; and moneyimproved him. Perhaps it was the beauty of wealth Strong saw andrespected. But he argued within himself "This poor devil, this unluckyoutcast of a returned convict, is ten times as good a fellow as myfriend Sir Francis Clavering, Bart. He has pluck and honesty, in hisway. He will stick to a friend, and face an enemy. The other never hadcourage to do either. And what is it that has put the poor devil undera cloud? He was only a little wild, and signed his father-in-law'sname. Many a man has done worse, and come to no wrong, and holds hishead up. Clavering does. No, he don't hold his head up: he never didin his best days." And Strong, perhaps, repented him of the falsehoodwhich he had told to the free-handed colonel, that he was not in wantof money; but it was a falsehood on the side of honesty, and thechevalier could not bring down his stomach to borrow a second timefrom his outlawed friend. Besides, he could get on. Clavering hadpromised him some: not that Clavering's promises were much to bebelieved, but the chevalier was of a hopeful turn, and trusted in manychances of catching his patron, and waylaying some of those strayremittances and supplies, in the procuring of which for his principallay Mr. Strong's chief business.

He had grumbled about Altamont's companionship in the Shepherd's Innchambers; but he found those lodgings more glum now without hispartner than with him. The solitary life was not agreeable to hissocial soul; and he had got into extravagant and luxurious habits,too, having a servant at his command to run his errands, to arrangehis toilet, and to cook his meal. It was rather a grand and touchingsight now to see the portly and handsome gentleman painting his ownboots, and broiling his own mutton chop. It has been before statedthat the chevalier had a wife, a Spanish lady of Vittoria, who hadgone back to her friends, after a few months' union with the captain,whose head she broke with a dish. He began to think whether he shouldnot go back and see his Juanita. The chevalier was growing melancholyafter the departure of his friend the colonel; or, to use his ownpicturesque expression, was "down on his luck." These moments ofdepression and intervals of ill-fortune occur constantly in the livesof heroes; Marius at Minturnae, Charles Edward in the Highlands,Napoleon before Elba. What great man has not been called upon to faceevil fortune? From Clavering no supplies were to be had for some time.The five-and-twenty pounds, or "pony" which the exemplary baronet hadreceived from Mr. Altamont, had fled out of Clavering's keeping asswiftly as many previous ponies. He had been down the river with achoice party of sporting gents, who dodged the police and landed inEssex, where they put up Billy Bluck to fight Dick the cabman, whomthe baronet backed, and who had it all his own way for thirteenrounds, when, by an unluckly blow in the windpipe, Billy killed him."It's always my luck, Strong," Sir Francis said; "the betting wasthree to one on the cabman, and I thought myself as sure of thirtypounds, as if I had it in my pocket. And dammy, I owe my manLightfoot fourteen pound now which he's lent and paid for me: and heduns me—the confounded impudent blackguard: and I wish to Heaven Iknew any way of getting a bill done, or of screwing a little out of mylady! I'll give you half, Ned, upon my soul and honor, I'll give youhalf if you can get any body to do us a little fifty."

[Illustration]

But Ned said sternly that he had given his word of honor, as agentleman, that he would be no party to any future bill-transactionsin which her husband might engage (who had given his word of honortoo), and the chevalier said that he, at least, would keep his word,and Would black his own boots all his life rather than break hispromise. And what is more, he vowed he would advise Lady Claveringthat Sir Francis was about to break his faith toward her, upon thevery first hint which he could get that such was Clavering'sintention. Upon this information Sir Francis Clavering, according tohis custom, cried and cursed very volubly. He spoke of death as hisonly resource. He besought and implored his dear Strong, his bestfriend, his dear old Ned, not to throw him over; and when he quittedhis dearest Ned, as he went down the stairs of Shepherd's Inn, sworeand blasphemed at Ned as the most infernal villain, and traitor, andblackguard, and coward under the sun, and wished Ned was in his grave,and in a worse place, only he would like the confounded ruffian tolive, until Frank Clavering had had his revenge out of him.

In Strong's chambers the baronet met a gentleman whose visits werenow, as it has been shown, very frequent in Shepherd's Inn, Mr. SamuelHuxter, of Clavering. That young fellow, who had poached the walnutsin Clavering Park in his youth, and had seen the baronet drive throughthe street at home with four horses, and prance up to church withpowdered footmen, had an immense respect for his member, and aprodigious delight in making his acquaintance. He introduced himself,with much blushing and trepidation, as a Clavering man—son of Mr.Huxter, of the market-place—father attended Sir Francis's keeper,Coxwood, when his gun burst and took off three fingers—proud to makeSir Francis's acquaintance. All of which introduction Sir Francisreceived affably. And honest Huxter talked about Sir Francis to thechaps at Bartholomew's; and told Fanny, in the lodge, that, after all,there was nothing like a thorough-bred un, a regular good old Englishgentleman, one of the olden time! To which Fanny replied, that shethought Sir Francis was an ojous creature—she didn't know why—butshe couldn't a-bear him—she was sure he was wicked, and low, andmean—she knew he was; and when Sam to this replied that Sir Franciswas very affable, and had borrowed half a sov' of him quite kindly,Fanny burst into a laugh, pulled Sam's long hair (which was not yet ofirreproachable cleanliness), patted his chin, and called him astoopid, stoopid, old foolish stoopid, and said that Sir Francis wasalways borrering money of every body, and that Mar had actiallyrefused him twice, and had to wait three months to get seven shillingswhich he had borrered of 'er.

"Don't say 'er but her, borrer but borrow, actially but actually,Fanny," Mr. Huxter replied—not to a fault in her argument, but togrammatical errors in her statement.

"Well then, her, and borrow, and hactually—there then, you stoopid,"said the other; and the scholar made such a pretty face that thegrammar master was quickly appeased, and would have willingly givenher a hundred more lessons on the spot at the price which he tookfor that one.

Of course Mrs. Bolton was by, and I suppose that Fanny and Mr. Samwere on exceedingly familiar and confidential terms by this time, andthat time had brought to the former certain consolations, and soothedcertain regrets, which are deucedly bitter when they occur, but whichare, no more than tooth-pulling, or any other pang, eternal.

As you sit, surrounded by respect and affection; happy, honored, andflattered in your old age; your foibles gently indulged; your leastwords kindly cherished; your garrulous old stories received for thehundredth time with dutiful forbearance, and never-failinghypocritical smiles; the women of your house constant in theirflatteries; the young men hushed and attentive when you begin tospeak; the servants awe-stricken; the tenants cap in hand, and readyto act in the place of your worship's horses when your honor takes adrive—it has often struck you, O thoughtful Dives! that this respect,and these glories, are for the main part transferred, with yourfee-simple, to your successor—that the servants will bow, and thetenants shout, for your son as for you; that the butler will fetch himthe wine (improved by a little keeping) that's now in your cellar; andthat, when your night is come, and the light of your life is gonedown, as sure as the morning rises after you and without you, the sunof prosperity and flattery shines on your heir. Men come and bask inthe halo of consols and acres that beams round about him: thereverence is transferred with the estate; of which, with all itsadvantages, pleasures, respect, and good-will, he in turn becomes thelife-tenant. How long do you wish or expect that your people willregret you? How much time does a man devote to grief before he beginsto enjoy? A great man must keep his heir at his feast like a livingmemento mori. If he holds very much by life, the presence of theother must be a constant sting and warning. "Make ready to go," saysthe successor to your honor; "I am waiting: and I could hold it aswell as you."

What has this reference to the possible reader, to do with any of thecharacters of this history? Do we wish to apologize for Pen because hehas got a white hat, and because his mourning for his mother isfainter? All the lapse of years, all the career of fortune, all theevents of life, however strongly they may move or eagerly excite him,never can remove that sainted image from his heart, or banish thatblessed love from its sanctuary. If he yields to wrong, the dear eyeswill look sadly upon him when he dares to meet them; if he does well,endures pain, or conquers temptation, the ever present love will greethim, he knows, with approval and pity; if he falls, plead for him; ifhe suffers, cheer him;—be with him and accompany him always untildeath is past, and sorrow and sin are no more. Is this mere dreamingor, on the part of an idle storyteller, useless moralizing? May notthe man of the world take his moment, too, to be grave and thoughtful?Ask of your own hearts and memories, brother and sister, if we do notlive in the dead; and (to speak reverently) prove God by love?

Of these matters Pen and Warrington often spoke in many a solemn andfriendly converse in after days; and Pendennis's mother was worshipedin his memory, and canonized there, as such a saint ought to be. Luckyhe in life who knows a few such women! A kind provision of Heaven itwas, that sent us such; and gave us to admire that touching andwonderful spectacle of innocence, and love, and beauty.

But as it is certain that if, in the course of these sentimentalconversations, any outer stranger, Major Pendennis for instance, hadwalked into Pen's chambers, Arthur and Warrington would have stoppedtheir talk, and chosen another subject, and discoursed about theOpera, or the last debate in Parliament, or Miss Jones's marriage withCaptain Smith, or what not—so let us imagine that the public steps inat this juncture, and stops the confidential talk between author andreader, and begs us to resume our remarks about this world, with whichboth are certainly better acquainted than with that other one intowhich we have just been peeping.

On coming into his property, Arthur Pendennis at first comportedhimself with a modesty and equanimity which obtained his friendWarrington's praises, though Arthur's uncle was a little inclined toquarrel with his nephew's meanness of spirit, for not assuming greaterstate and pretensions now that he had entered on the enjoyment of hiskingdom. He would have had Arthur installed in handsome quarters, andriding on showy park hacks, or in well-built cabriolets, every day. "Iam too absent," Arthur said, with a laugh, "to drive a cab in London;the omnibuses would cut me in two, or I should send my horse's headinto the ladies' carriage windows; and you wouldn't have me drivenabout by my servant like an apothecary, uncle?" No, Major Pendenniswould on no account have his nephew appear like an apothecary; theaugust representative of the house of Pendennis must not so demeanhimself. And when Arthur, pursuing his banter, said, "And yet, Idaresay, sir, my father was proud enough when he first set up hisgig," the old major hemmed and ha'd, and his wrinkled face reddenedwith a blush as he answered, "You know what Bonaparte said, sir, 'Ilfaut laver son linge sale en famille.' There is no need, sir, for youto brag that your father was a—a medical man. He came of a mostancient but fallen house, and was obliged to reconstruct the familyfortunes as many a man of good family has done before him. You arelike the fellow in Sterne, sir—the marquis who came to demand hissword again. Your father got back yours for you. You are a man oflanded estate, by Gad, sir, and a gentleman—never forget you are agentleman."

Then Arthur slily turned on his uncle the argument which he had heardthe old gentleman often use regarding himself. "In the society which Ihave the honor of frequenting through your introduction, who cares toask about my paltry means or my humble gentility, uncle?" he asked."It would be absurd of me to attempt to compete with the great folks;and all that thay can ask from us is, that we should have a decentaddress and good manners."

"But for all that, sir, I should belong to a better Club or two," theuncle answered: "I should give an occasional dinner, and select mysociety well; and I should come out of that horrible garret in theTemple, sir." And so Arthur compromised by descending to the secondfloor in Lamb-court: Warrington still occupying his old quarters, andthe two friends being determined not to part one from the other.Cultivate kindly, reader, those friendships of your youth: it is onlyin that generous time that they are formed. How different theintimacies of after days are, and how much weaker the grasp of yourown hand after it has been shaken about in twenty years' commerce withthe world, and has squeezed and dropped a thousand equally carelesspalms! As you can seldom fashion your tongue to speak a new languageafter twenty, the heart refuses to receive friendship pretty soon: itgets too hard to yield to the impression.

So Pen had many acquaintances, and being of a jovial and easy turn,got more daily: but no friend like Warrington; and the two mencontinued to live almost as much in common as the Knights of theTemple, riding upon one horse (for Pen's was at Warrington's service),and having their chambers and their servitor in common.

Mr. Warrington had made the acquaintance of Pen's friends ofGrosvenor-place during their last unlucky season in London, and hadexpressed himself no better satisfied with Sir Francis and LadyClavering and her ladyship's daughter than was the public in general."The world is right," George said, "about those people. The young menlaugh and talk freely before those ladies, and about them. The girlsees people whom she has no right to know, and talks to men with whomno girl should have an intimacy. Did you see those two reprobatesleaning over Lady Clavering's carriage in the Park the other day, andleering under Miss Blanche's bonnet? No good mother would let herdaughter know those men, or admit them within her doors."

"The Begum is the most innocent and good-natured soul alive,"interposed Pen. "She never heard any harm of Captain Blackball, orread that trial in which Charley Lovelace figures. Do you suppose thathonest ladies read and remember the Chronique Scandaleuse as well asyou, you old grumbler?"

"Would you like Laura Bell to know those fellows?" Warrington asked,his face turning rather red. "Would you let any woman you loved becontaminated by their company? I have no doubt that poor Begum isignorant of their histories. It seems to me she is ignorant of a greatnumber of better things. It seems to me that your honest Begum is nota lady, Pen. It is not her fault, doubtless, that she has not had theeducation, or learned the refinements of a lady."

"She is as moral as Lady Portsea, who has all the world at her balls,and as refined as Mrs. Bull, who breaks the king's English, and hashalf-a-dozen dukes at her table," Pen answered, rather sulkily. "Whyshould you and I be more squeamish than the rest of the world? Why arewe to visit the sins of her fathers on this harmless, kind creature?She never did any thing but kindness to you or any mortal soul. As faras she knows she does her best. She does not set up to be more thanshe is. She gives you the best dinners she can buy, and the bestcompany she can get. She pays the debts of that scamp of a husband ofhers. She spoils her boy like the most virtuous mother in England. Heropinion about literary matters, to be sure, is not much; and I daresayshe never read a line of Wordsworth, or heard of Tennyson inher life."

"No more has Mrs. Flanagan the laundress," growled out Pen's Mentor;"no more has Betty the housemaid; and I have no word of blame againstthem. But a high-souled man doesn't make friends of these. Agentleman doesn't choose these for his companions, or bitterly rues itafterward if he do. Are you, who are setting up to be a man of theworld and philosopher, to tell me that the aim of life is to guttlethree courses and dine off silver? Do you dare to own to yourself thatyour ambition in life is good claret, and that you'll dine with any,provided you get a stalled ox to feed on? You call me a Cynic—why,what a monstrous Cynicism it is, which you and the rest of you men ofthe world admit. I'd rather live upon raw turnips and sleep in ahollow tree, or turn backwoodsman or savage, than degrade myself tothis civilization, and own that a French cook was the thing in lifebest worth living for."

"Because you like a raw beef-steak and a pipe afterward," broke outPen, "you give yourself airs of superiority over people, whose tastesare more dainty, and are not ashamed of the world they live in. Whogoes about professing particular admiration, or esteem, or friendship,or gratitude, even for the people one meets every day? If A. asks meto his house, and gives me his best, I take his good things for whatthey are worth, and no more. I do not profess to pay him back infriendship, but in the convention's money of society. When we part, wepart without any grief. When we meet, we are tolerably glad to see oneanother. If I were only to live with my friends, your black muzzle,old George, is the only face I should see."

"You are your uncle's pupil," said Warrington, rather sadly; "and youspeak like a worldling."

"And why not?" asked Pendennis; "why not acknowledge the world I standupon, and submit to the conditions of the society which we live in andlive by? I am older than you, George, in spite of your grizzledwhiskers, and have seen much more of the world than you have in yourgarret here, shut up with your books and your reveries and your ideasof one-and-twenty. I say, I take the world as it is, and being of it,will not be ashamed of it. If the time is out of joint, have I anycalling or strength to set it right?"

"Indeed, I don't think you have much of either," growled Pen'sinterlocutor.

"If I doubt whether I am better than my neighbor," Arthurcontinued—"if I concede that I am no better—I also doubt whether heis better than I. I see men who begin with ideas of universal reform,and who, before their beards are grown, propound their loud plans forthe regeneration of mankind, give up their schemes after a few yearsof bootless talking and vain-glorious attempts to lead their fellows;and after they have found that men will no longer hear them, as indeedthey never were in the least worthy to be heard, sink quietly into therank and file—acknowledging their aims impracticable, or thankfulthat they were never put into practice. The fiercest reformers growcalm, and are fain to put up with things as they are: the loudestRadical orators become dumb, quiescent placemen: the most ferventLiberals, when out of power, become humdrum Conservatives, ordownright tyrants or despots in office. Look at Thiers, look atGuizot, in opposition and in place! Look at the Whigs appealingto the country, and the Whigs in power! Would you say that the conductof these men is an act of treason, as the Radicals bawl—who wouldgive way in their turn, were their turn ever to come? No, only thatthey submit to circ*mstances which are stronger than they—march asthe world marches toward reform, but at the world's pace (and themovements of the vast body of mankind must needs be slow)—forego thisscheme as impracticable, on account of opposition—that as immature,because against the sense of the majority—are forced to calculatedrawbacks and difficulties, as well as to think of reforms andadvances—and compelled finally to submit, and to wait, and tocompromise."

"The Right Honorable Arthur Pendennis could not speak better, or bemore satisfied with himself, if he was First Lord of the Treasury andChancellor of the Exchequer," Warrington said.

"Self-satisfied? Why self-satisfied?" continued Pen. "It seems to methat my skepticism is more respectful and more modest than therevolutionary ardor of other folks. Many a patriot of eighteen, many aspouting-club orator, would turn the bishops out of the House of Lordsto-morrow, and throw the lords out after the bishops, and throw thethrone into the Thames after the peers and the bench. Is that man moremodest than I, who take these institutions as I find them, and waitfor time and truth to develop, or fortify, or (if you like) destroythem? A college tutor, or a nobleman's toady, who appears one fine dayas my right reverend lord, in a silk apron and a shovel-hat, andassumes benedictory airs over me, is still the same man we remember atOxbridge, when he was truckling to the tufts, and bullying the poorunder-graduates in the lecture-room. An hereditary legislator, whopasses his time with jockeys and blacklegs and ballet-girls, and whois called to rule over me and his other betters, because hisgrandfather made a lucky speculation in the funds, or found a coal ortin-mine on his property, or because his stupid ancestor happened tobe in command of ten thousand men as brave as himself, who overcametwelve thousand Frenchmen, or fifty thousand Indians—such a man, Isay, inspires me with no more respect than the bitterest democrat canfeel toward him. But, such as he is, he is a part of the old societyto which we belong: and I submit to his lordship with acquiescence;and he takes his place above the best of us at all dinner parties, andthere bides his time. I don't want to chop his head off with aguillotine, or to fling mud at him in the streets. When they call sucha man a disgrace to his order; and such another, who is good andgentle, refined and generous, who employs his great means in promotingevery kindness and charity, and art and grace of life, in the kindestand most gracious manner, an ornament to his rank—the question as tothe use and propriety of the order is not in the least affected oneway or other. There it is, extant among us, a part of our habits, thecreed of many of us, the growth of centuries, the symbol of a mostcomplicated tradition—there stand my lord the bishop and my lord thehereditary legislator—what the French call transactions both ofthem—representing in their present shape mail-clad barons anddouble-sworded chiefs (from whom their lordships the hereditaries,for the most part, don't descend), and priests, professing to holdan absolute truth and a divinely inherited power, the which truthabsolute our ancestors burned at the stake, and denied there; thewhich divine transmissible power still exists in print—to bebelieved, or not, pretty much at choice; and of these, I say, Iacquiesce that they exist, and no more. If you say that these schemes,devised before printing was known, or steam was born; when thought wasan infant, scared and whipped; and truth under its guardians wasgagged, and swathed, and blindfolded, and not allowed to lift itsvoice, or to look out or to walk under the sun; before men werepermitted to meet, or to trade, or to speak with each other—if anyone says (as some faithful souls do) that these schemes are for ever,and having been changed, and modified constantly are to be subject tono farther development or decay, I laugh, and let the man speak. But Iwould have toleration for these, as I would ask it for my ownopinions; and if they are to die, I would rather they had a decent andnatural than an abrupt and violent death."

"You would have sacrificed to Jove," Warrington said, "had you livedin the time of the Christian persecutions."

"Perhaps I would," said Pen, with some sadness. "Perhaps I am acoward—perhaps my faith is unsteady; but this is my own reserve. WhatI argue here is that I will not persecute. Make a faith or a dogmaabsolute, and persecution becomes a logical consequence; and Dominicburns a Jew, or Calvin an Arian, or Nero a Christian, or Elizabeth orMary a Papist or Protestant; or their father both or either, accordingto his humor; and acting without any pangs of remorse—but, on thecontrary, with strict notions of duty fulfilled. Make dogma absolute,and to inflict or to suffer death becomes easy and necessary; andMahomet's soldiers shouting 'Paradise! Paradise!' and dying on theChristian spears, are not more or less praiseworthy than the same menslaughtering a townful of Jews, or cutting off the heads of allprisoners who would not acknowledge that there was but one prophetof God."

"A little while since, young one," Warrington said, who had beenlistening to his friend's confessions neither without sympathy norscorn, for his mood led him to indulge in both, "you asked me why Iremained out of the strife of the world, and looked on at the greatlabor of my neighbor without taking any part in the struggle. Why,what a mere dilettante you own yourself to be, in this confession ofgeneral skepticism, and what a listless spectator yourself! You aresix-and-twenty years old, and as blase as a rake of sixty. Youneither hope much, nor care much, nor believe much. You doubt aboutother men as much as about yourself. Were it made of suchpococuranti as you, the world would be intolerable; and I had ratherlive in a wilderness of monkeys, and listen to their chatter, than ina company of men who denied every thing."

"Were the world composed of Saint Bernards or Saint Dominics, it wouldbe equally odious," said Pen, "and at the end of a few scores of yearswould cease to exist altogether. Would you have every man with hishead shaved, and every woman in a cloister—carrying out to the fullthe ascetic principle? Would you have conventicle hymns twanging fromevery lane in every city in the world? Would you have all the birds ofthe forest sing one note and fly with one feather? You call me askeptic because I acknowledge what is; and in acknowledging that, beit linnet or lark, a priest or parson, be it, I mean, any single oneof the infinite varieties of the creatures of God (whose very name Iwould be understood to pronounce with reverence, and never to approachbut with distant awe), I say that the study and acknowledgment of thatvariety among men especially increases our respect and wonder for theCreator, Commander, and Ordainer of all these minds, so different andyet so united—meeting in a common adoration, and offering up eachaccording to his degree and means of approaching the Divine centre,his acknowledgment of praise and worship, each singing (to recur tothe bird simile) his natural song."

"And so, Arthur, the hymn of a saint, or the ode of a poet, or thechant of a Newgate thief, are all pretty much the same in yourphilosophy," said George.

"Even that sneer could be answered were it to the point," Pendennisreplied; "but it is not; and it could be replied to you, that even tothe wretched outcry of the thief on the tree, the wisest and the bestof all teachers we know of, the untiring Comforter and Consoler,promised a pitiful hearing and a certain hope. Hymns of saints! Odesof poets! who are we to measure the chances and opportunities, themeans of doing, or even judging, right and wrong, awarded to men; andto establish the rule for meting out their punishments and rewards? Weare as insolent and unthinking in judging of men's morals as of theirintellects. We admire this man as being a great philosopher, and setdown the other as a dullard, not knowing either, or the amount oftruth in either, or being certain of the truth any where. We sing TeDeum for this hero who has won a battle, and De Profundis for thatother one who has broken out of prison, and has been caught afterwardby the policemen. Our measure of rewards and punishments is mostpartial and incomplete, absurdly inadequate, utterly worldly, and wewish to continue it into the next world. Into that next and awfulworld we strive to pursue men, and send after them our impotent partyverdicts of condemnation or acquittal. We set up our paltry littlerods to measure Heaven immeasurable, as if, in comparison to that,Newton's mind or Pascal's or Shakspeare's was any loftier than mine;as if the ray which travels from the sun would reach me sooner thanthe man who blacks my boots. Measured by that altitude, the tallestand the smallest among us are so alike diminutive and pitifully base,that I say we should take no count of the calculation, and it is ameanness to reckon the difference."

"Your figure fails there, Arthur," said the other, better pleased; "ifeven by common arithmetic we can multiply as we can reduce almostinfinitely, the Great Reckoner must take count of all; and the smallis not small, or the great great, to his infinity."

"I don't call those calculations in question," Arthur said: "I onlysay that yours are incomplete and premature; false in consequence,and, by every operation, multiplying into wider error. I do notcondemn the man who murdered Socrates and damned Galileo. I say thatthey damned Galileo and murdered Socrates."

"And yet but a moment since you admitted the propriety of acquiescencein the present, and, I suppose, all other tyrannies?"

"No: but that if an opponent menaces me, of whom and without cost ofblood and violence I can get rid, I would rather wait him out, andstarve him out, than fight him out. Fabius fought Hannibalskeptically. Who was his Roman coadjutor, whom we read of in Plutarchwhen we were boys, who scoffed at the other's procrastination anddoubted his courage, and engaged the enemy and was beaten forhis pains?"

In these speculations and confessions of Arthur, the reader mayperhaps see allusions to questions which, no doubt, have occupied anddiscomposed himself, and which he has answered by very differentsolutions to those come to by our friend. We are not pledgingourselves for the correctness of his opinions, which readers willplease to consider are delivered dramatically, the writer being nomore answerable for them, than for the sentiments uttered by any othercharacter of the story: our endeavor is merely to follow out, in itsprogress, the development of the mind of a worldly and selfish, butnot ungenerous or unkind, or truth-avoiding man. And it will be seenthat the lamentable stage to which his logic at present has broughthim, is one of general skepticism and sneering acquiescence in theworld as it is; or if you like so to call it, a belief qualified withscorn in all things extant. The tastes and habits of such a manprevent him from being a boisterous demagogue, and his love of truthand dislike of cant keep him from advancing crude propositions, suchas many loud reformers are constantly ready with; much more ofuttering downright falsehoods in arguing questions or abusingopponents, which he would die or starve rather than use. It was not inour friend's nature to be able to utter certain lies; nor was hestrong enough to protest against others, except with a polite sneer;his maxim being, that he owed obedience to all Acts of Parliament, aslong as they were not repealed.

And to what does this easy and skeptical life lead a man? FriendArthur was a Sadducee, and the Baptist might be in the Wildernessshouting to the poor, who were listening with all their might andfaith to the preacher's awful accents and denunciations of wrath orwoe or salvation; and our friend the Sadducee would turn his sleekmule with a shrug and a smile from the crowd, and go home to the shadeof his terrace, and muse over preacher and audience, and turn to hisroll of Plato, or his pleasant Greek song-book babbling of honey andHybla, and nymphs and fountains and love. To what, we say, does thisskepticism lead? It leads a man to a shameful loneliness andselfishness, so to speak—the more shameful, because it is sogood-humored and conscienceless and serene. Conscience! What isconscience? Why accept remorse? What is public or private faith?Mythuses alike enveloped in enormous tradition. If seeing andacknowledging the lies of the world, Arthur, as see them you can withonly too fatal a clearness, you submit to them without any protestfarther than a laugh: if plunged yourself in easy sensuality, youallow the whole wretched world to pass groaning by you unmoved: if thefight for the truth is taking place, and all men of honor are on theground armed on the one side or the other, and you alone are to lie onyour balcony and smoke your pipe out of the noise and the danger, youhad better have died, or never have been at all, than such asensual coward.

"The truth, friend!" Arthur said, imperturbably; "where is the truth?Show it me. That is the question between us. I see it on both sides. Isee it in the Conservative side of the house, and among the Radicals,and even on the ministerial benches. I see it in this man who worshipsby act of Parliament, and is rewarded with a silk apron and fivethousand a year; in that man, who, driven fatally by the remorselesslogic of his creed, gives up every thing, friends, fame, dearest ties,closest vanities, the respect of an army of churchmen, the recognizedposition of a leader, and passes over, truth-impelled, to the enemy,in whose ranks he will serve henceforth as a nameless privatesoldier:—I see the truth in that man, as I do in his brother, whoselogic drives him to quite a different conclusion, and who, afterhaving passed a life in vain endeavors to reconcile an irreconcileablebook, flings it at last down in despair, and declares, with tearfuleyes, and hands up to heaven, his revolt and recantation. If the truthis with all these, why should I take side with any one of them? Someare called upon to preach: let them preach. Of these preachers thereare somewhat too many, methinks, who fancy they have the gift. But wecan not all be parsons in church, that is clear. Some must sit silentand listen, or go to sleep mayhap. Have we not all our duties? Thehead charity-boy blows the bellows; the master canes the other boys inthe organ-loft; the clerk sings out Amen from the desk; and the beadlewith the staff opens the door for his Reverence, who rustles in silkup to the cushion. I won't cane the boys, nay, or say Amen always, oract as the church's champion and warrior, in the shape of the beadlewith the staff; but I will take off my hat in the place, and say myprayers there too, and shake hands with the clergyman as he steps onthe grass outside. Don't I know that his being there is a compromise,and that he stands before me an Act of Parliament? That the church heoccupies was built for other worship? That the Methodist chapel isnext door; and that Bunyan the tinker is bawling out the tidings ofdamnation on the common hard by? Yes, I am a Sadducee; and I takethings as I find them, and the world, and the Acts of Parliament ofthe world, as they are; and as I intend to take a wife, if I findone—not to be madly in love and prostrate at her feet like afool—not to worship her as an angel, or to expect to find her assuch—but to be good-natured to her, and courteous, expectinggood-nature and pleasant society from her in turn. And so, George, ifever you hear of my marrying, depend on it, it won't be a romanticattachment on my side: and if you hear of any good place underGovernment, I have no particular scruples that I know of, which wouldprevent me from accepting your offer."

"O Pen, you scoundrel! I know what you mean," here Warrington brokeout. "This is the meaning of your skepticism, of your quietism, ofyour atheism, my poor fellow. You're going to sell yourself, andHeaven help you! You're going to make a bargain which will degrade youand make you miserable for life, and there's no use talking of it. Ifyou are once bent on it, the devil won't prevent you."

"On the contrary, he's on my side, isn't he, George?" said Pen with alaugh. "What good cigars these are! Come down and have a little dinnerat the Club; the chef's in town, and he'll cook a good one for me.No, you won't? Don't be sulky, old boy, I'm going down to—to thecountry to-morrow."

WHICH ACCOUNTS PERHAPS FOR CHAPTER XXIII.

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The information regarding the affairs of the Claveringfamily, which Major Pendennis had acquired through Strong, and by hisown personal interference as the friend of the house, was such asalmost made the old gentleman pause in any plans which he might haveonce entertained for his nephew's benefit. To bestow upon Arthur awife with two such fathers-in-law as the two worthies whom theguileless and unfortunate Lady Clavering had drawn in her marriageventures, was to benefit no man. And though the one, in a manner,neutralized the other, and the appearance of Amory or Altamont inpublic would be the signal for his instantaneous withdrawal andcondign punishment—for the fugitive convict had cut down the officerin charge of him—and a rope would be inevitably his end, if he cameagain under British authorities; yet, no guardian would like to securefor his ward a wife, whose parent was to be got rid of in such a way;and the old gentleman's notion always had been that Altamont, with thegallows before his eyes, would assuredly avoid recognition; while, atthe same time, by holding the threat of his discovery over Clavering,the latter, who would lose every thing by Amory's appearance, would bea slave in the hands of the person who knew so fatal a secret.

But if the Begum paid Clavering's debts many times more, her wealthwould be expended altogether upon this irreclaimable reprobate: andher heirs, whoever they might be, would succeed but to an emptiedtreasury; and Miss Amory, instead of bringing her husband a goodincome and a seat in Parliament, would bring to that individual herperson only, and her pedigree with that lamentable note of sus percoll at the name of the last male of her line.

There was, however, to the old schemer revolving these things in hismind, another course yet open; the which will appear to the reader whomay take the trouble to peruse a conversation, which presently ensued,between Major Pendennis and the honorable baronet, the member forClavering.

When a man, under pecuniary difficulties, disappears from among hisusual friends and equals—dives out of sight, as it were, from theflock of birds in which he is accustomed to sail, it is wonderful atwhat strange and distant nooks he comes up again for breath. I haveknown a Pall Mall lounger and Rotten Row buck, of no inconsiderablefashion, vanish from among his comrades of the Clubs and the Park, andbe discovered, very happy and affable, at an eighteenpenny ordinary inBillingsgate: another gentleman, of great learning and wit, when outrunning the constables (were I to say he was a literary man, somecritics would vow that I intended to insult the literary profession),once sent me his address at a little public-house called the "Foxunder the Hill," down a most darksome and cavernous archway in theStrand. Such a man, under such misfortunes, may have a house, but heis never in his house; and has an address where letters may be left;but only simpletons go with the hopes of seeing him. Only a few of thefaithful know where he is to be found, and have the clew to hishiding-place. So, after the disputes with his wife, and themisfortunes consequent thereon, to find Sir Francis Clavering at homewas impossible. "Ever since I hast him for my book, which is fourteenpound, he don't come home till three o'clock, and purtends to beasleep when I bring his water of a mornin', and dodges hout when I'mdown stairs," Mr. Lightfoot remarked to his friend Morgan; andannounced that he should go down to my Lady, and be butler there, andmarry his old woman. In like manner, after his altercations withStrong, the baronet did not come near him, and fled to other haunts,out of the reach of the chevalier's reproaches; out of the reach ofconscience, if possible, which many of us try to dodge and leavebehind us by changes of scenes and other fugitive stratagems.

So, though the elder Pendennis, having his own ulterior object, wasbent upon seeing Pen's country neighbor and representative inParliament, it took the major no inconsiderable trouble and timebefore he could get him into such a confidential state andconversation, as were necessary for the ends which the major had inview. For since the major had been called in as family friend, and hadcognizance of Clavering's affairs, conjugal and pecuniary, the baronetavoided him: as he always avoided all his lawyers and agents whenthere was an account to be rendered, or an affair of business to bediscussed between them; and never kept any appointment but when itsobject was the raising of money. Thus, previous to catching this mostshy and timorous bird, the major made more than one futile attempt tohold him; on one day it was a most innocent-looking invitation todinner at Greenwich, to meet a few friends; the baronet accepted,suspected something, and did not come; leaving the major (who indeedproposed to represent in himself the body of friends) to eat hiswhitebait done: on another occasion the major wrote and asked forten minutes' talk, and the baronet instantly acknowledged the note,and made the appointment at four o'clock the next day at Bays'sprecisely (he carefully underlined the "precisely"); but though fouro'clock came, as in the course of time and destiny it could not dootherwise, no Clavering made his appearance. Indeed, if he hadborrowed twenty pounds of Pendennis, he could not have been moretimid, or desirous of avoiding the major; and the latter found that itwas one thing to seek a man, and another to find him.

Before the close of that day in which Strong's patron had given thechevalier the benefit of so many blessings before his face and cursesbehind his back, Sir Francis Clavering who had pledged his word andhis oath to his wife's advisers to draw or accept no more bills ofexchange, and to be content with the allowance which his victimizedwife still awarded him, had managed to sign his respectable name to apiece of stamped paper, which the baronet's friend, Mr. Moss Abrams,had carried off, promising to have the bill "done" by a party withwhose intimacy Mr. Abrams was favored. And it chanced that Strongheard of this transaction at the place where the writings had beendrawn—in the back parlor, namely, of Mr. Santiago's cigar-shop,where the chevalier was constantly in the habit of spending an hour inthe evening.

"He is at his old work again," Mr. Santiago told his customer. "He andMoss Abrams were in my parlor. Moss sent out my boy for a stamp. Itmust have been a bill for fifty pound. I heard the baronet tell Mossto date it two months back. He will pretend that it is an old bill,and that he forgot it when he came to a settlement with his wife theother day. I daresay they will give him some more money now he isclear." A man who has the habit of putting his unlucky name to"promises to pay" at six months, has the satisfaction of knowing, too,that his affairs are known and canvassed, and his signature handedround among the very worst knaves and rogues of London.

Mr. Santiago's shop was close by St. James's-street and Bury-street,where we have had the honor of visiting our friend Major Pendennis inhis lodgings. The major was walking daintily toward his apartment, asStrong, burning with wrath and redolent of Havanna, strode along thesame pavement opposite to him.

"Confound these young men: how they poison every thing with theirsmoke," thought the major. "Here comes a fellow with mustaches and acigar. Every fellow who smokes and wears mustaches is a low fellow.Oh! it's Mr. Strong—I hope you are well, Mr. Strong?" and the oldgentleman, making a dignified bow to the chevalier, was about to passinto his house; directing toward the lock of the door, with tremblinghand, the polished door-key.

We have said, that, at the long and weary disputes and conferencesregarding the payment of Sir Francis Clavering's last debts, Strongand Pendennis had both been present as friends and advisers of thebaronet's unlucky family. Strong stopped and held out his hand to hisbrother negotiator, and old Pendennis put out toward him a couple ofungracious fingers.

"What is your good news?" said Major Pendennis, patronizing the otherstill farther, and condescending to address to him an observation, forold Pendennis had kept such good company all his life, that he vaguelyimagined he honored common men by speaking to them. "Still in town,Mr. Strong? I hope I see you well."

"My news is bad news, sir," Strong answered; "it concerns our friendsat Tunbridge Wells, and I should like to talk to you about it.Clavering is at his old tricks again, Major Pendennis."

"Indeed! Pray do me the favor to come into my lodging," cried themajor with awakened interest; and the pair entered and took possessionof his drawing-room. Here seated, Strong unburdened himself of hisindignation to the major, and spoke at large of Clavering'srecklessness and treachery. "No promises will bind him sir," he said."You remember when we met, sir, with my lady's lawyer, how he wouldn'tbe satisfied with giving his honor, but wanted to take his oath on hisknees to his wife, and rang the bell for a Bible, and swore perditionon his soul if he ever would give another bill. He has been signingone this very day, sir: and will sign as many more as you please forready money: and will deceive any body, his wife or his child, or hisold friend, who has backed him a hundred times. Why, there's a bill ofhis and mine will be due next week—"

"I thought we had paid all—"

"Not that one," Strong said, blushing. "He asked me not to mention it,and—and—I had half the money for that, major. And they will be downon me. But I don't care for it; I'm used to it. It's Lady Claveringthat riles me. It's a shame that that good-natured woman, who has paidhim out of jail a score of times, should be ruined by hisheartlessness. A parcel of bill-stealers, boxers, any rascals, get hismoney; and he don't scruple to throw an honest fellow over. Would youbelieve it, sir, he took money of Altamont—you know whom I mean."

"Indeed? of that singular man, who I think came tipsy once to Sir
Francis's house?" Major Pendennis said, with impenetrable countenance.
"Who is Altamont, Mr. Strong?"

"I am sure I don't know, if you don't know," the chevalier answered,with a look of surprise and suspicion.

"To tell you frankly," said the major, "I have my suspicions. Isuppose—mind, I only suppose—that in our friend Clavering's life—who, between you and me, Captain Strong, we must own is about as loosea fish as any in my acquaintance—there are, no doubt, some queersecrets and stories which he would not like to have known: none of uswould. And very likely this fellow, who calls himself Altamont, knowssome story against Clavering, and has some hold on him, and gets moneyout of him on the strength of his information. I know some of the bestmen of the best families in England who are paying through the nose inthat way. But their private affairs are no business of mine, Mr.Strong; and it is not to be supposed that because I go and dine witha man, I pry into his secrets, or am answerable for all his pastlife. And so with our friend Clavering, I am most interested for hiswife's sake, and her daughter's, who is a most charming creature: andwhen her ladyship asked me, I looked into her affairs, and tried toset them straight; and shall do so again, you understand, to the hestof my humble power and ability, if I can make myself useful. And if Iam called upon—you understand, if I am called upon—and—by-the-way,this Mr. Altamont, Mr. Strong? How is this Mr. Altamont? I believe youare acquainted with him. Is he in town?"

"I don't know that I am called upon to know where he is, MajorPendennis," said Strong, rising and taking up his hat in dudgeon, forthe major's patronizing manner and impertinence of caution offendedthe honest gentleman not a little.

Pendennis's manner altered at once from a tone of hauteur to one ofknowing good-humor. "Ah, Captain Strong, you are cautious too, I see;and quite right, my good sir, quite right. We don't know what earswalls may have, sir, or to whom we may be talking; and as a man of theworld, and an old soldier—an old and distinguished soldier, I havebeen told, Captain Strong—you know very well that there is no use inthrowing away your fire; you may have your ideas, and I may put twoand two together and have mine. But there are things which don'tconcern him that many a man had better not know, eh, captain? andwhich I, for one, won't know until I have reason for knowing them: andthat I believe is your maxim too. With regard to our friend thebaronet, I think with you, it would be most advisable that he shouldbe checked in his imprudent courses; and most strongly reprehend anyman's departure from his word, or any conduct of his which can giveany pain to his family, or cause them annoyance in any way. That is myfull and frank opinion, and I am sure it is yours."

"Certainly," said Mr. Strong, drily.

"I am delighted to hear it; delighted, that an old brother soldiershould agree with me so fully. And I am exceedingly glad of the luckymeeting which has procured me the good fortune of your visit. Goodevening. Thank you. Morgan, show the door to Captain Strong."

And Strong, preceded by Morgan, took his leave of Major Pendennis; thechevalier not a little puzzled at the old fellow's prudence; and thevalet, to say the truth, to the full as much perplexed at his master'sreticence. For Mr. Morgan, in his capacity of accomplished valet,moved here and there in a house as silent as a shadow; and, as it sohappened, during the latter part of his master's conversation with hisvisitor, had been standing very close to the door, and had overheardnot a little of the talk between, the two gentlemen, and a great dealmore than he could understand.

"Who is that Altamont? know any thing about him and Strong?" Mr.Morgan asked of Mr. Lightfoot, on the next convenient occasion whenthey met at the Club.

"Strong's his man of business, draws the governor's bills, andindosses 'em, and does his odd jobs and that; and I supposeAltamont's in it too," Mr. Lightfoot replied. "That kite-flying, youknow, Mr. M. always takes two or three on 'em to set the paper going.Altamont put the pot on at the Derby, and won a good bit of money. Iwish the governor could get some somewhere, and I could get mybook paid up."

"Do you think my lady would pay his debts again?" Morgan asked "Findout that for me, Lightfoot, and I'll make it worth your while my boy."

Major Pendennis had often said with a laugh, that his valet Morgan wasa much richer man than himself: and, indeed, by a long course ofcareful speculation, this wary and silent attendant had been amassinga considerable sum of money, during the years which he had passed inthe major's service, where he had made the acquaintance of many othervalets of distinction, from whom he had learned the affairs of theirprincipals. When Mr. Arthur came into his property, but not untilthen, Morgan had surprised the young gentleman, by saying that he hada little sum of money, some fifty or a hundred pound, which he wantedto lay out to advantage; perhaps the gentlemen in the Temple, knowingabout affairs and business and that, could help a poor fellow to agood investment? Morgan would be very much obliged to Mr. Arthur, mostgrateful and obliged indeed, if Arthur could tell him of one. WhenArthur laughingly replied, that he knew nothing about money matters,and knew no earthly way of helping Morgan, the latter, with the utmostsimplicity, was very grateful, very grateful indeed, to Mr. Arthur,and if Mr. Arthur should want a little money before his rents waspaid perhaps he would kindly remember that his uncle's old andfaithful servant had some as he would like to put out: and be mostproud if he could be useful anyways to any of the family.

The Prince of Fairoaks, who was tolerably prudent and had no need ofready money, would as soon have thought of borrowing from his uncle'sservant as of stealing the valet's pocket-handkerchief, and was on thepoint of making some haughty reply to Morgan's offer, but was checkedby the humor of the transaction. Morgan a capitalist! Morgan offeringto lend to him! The joke was excellent. On the other hand, the manmight be quite innocent, and the proposal of money a simple offer ofgood-will. So Arthur withheld the sarcasm that was rising to his lips,and contented himself by declining Mr. Morgan's kind proposal. Hementioned the matter to his uncle, however, and congratulated thelatter on having such a treasure in his service.

It was then that the major said that he believed Morgan had beengetting devilish rich for a devilish long time; in fact he had boughtthe house in Bury-street, in which his master was a lodger; and hadactually made a considerable sum of money, from his acquaintance withthe Clavering family and his knowledge obtained through his masterthat the Begum would pay all her husband's debts, by buying up as manyof the baronet's acceptances as he could raise money to purchase. Ofthese transactions the major, however, knew no more than most gentlemendo of their servants, who live with us all our days and arestrangers to us, so strong custom is, and so pitiless the distinctionbetween class and class.

"So he offered to lend you money, did he?" the elder Pendennisremarked to his nephew. "He's a dev'lish sly fellow, and a dev'lishrich fellow; and there's many a nobleman would like to have such avalet in his service, and borrow from him too. And he ain't a bitchanged, Monsieur Morgan. He does his work just as well as ever—he'salways ready to my bell—steals about the room like a cat—he's sodev'lishly attached to me, Morgan!"

On the day of Strong's visit, the major bethought him of Pen's story,and that Morgan might help him, and rallied the valet regarding hiswealth with that free and insolent way which so high-placed agentleman might be disposed to adopt toward so unfortunate a creature.

"I hear that you have got some money to invest, Morgan," said themajor.

It's Mr. Arthur has been telling, hang him, thought the valet.

"I'm glad my place is such a good one."

"Thank you, sir—I've no reason to complain of my place, nor of mymaster," replied Morgan, demurely.

"You're a good fellow: and I believe you are attached to me; and I'mglad you get on well. And I hope you'll be prudent, and not be takinga public-house or that kind of thing."

A public-house, thought Morgan—me in a public-house!—the oldfool!—Dammy, if I was ten years younger I'd set in Parlyment before Idied, that I would. "No, thank you kindly, sir. I don't think of thepublic line, sir. And I've got my little savings pretty well putout, sir."

"You do a little in the discounting way, eh, Morgan?"

"Yes, sir, a very little—I—I beg your pardon, sir—might I be sofree as to ask a question—"

"Speak on, my good fellow," the elder said, graciously.

"About Sir Francis Clavering's paper, sir? Do you think he's anylonger any good, sir? Will my lady pay on 'em, any more, sir?"

"What, you've done something in that business already?"

"Yes, sir, a little," replied Morgan, dropping down his eyes. "And Idon't mind owning, sir, and I hope I may take the liberty of saying,sir, that a little more would make me very comfortable if it turnedout as well as the last."

"Why, how much have you netted by him, in Gad's name?" asked themajor.

"I've done a good bit, sir, at it: that I own, sir. Having someinformation, and made acquaintance with the fam'ly through yourkindness, I put on the pot, sir."

"You did what?"

"I laid my money on, sir—I got all I could, and borrowed, and boughtSir Francis's bills; many of 'em had his name, and the gentleman's asis just gone out, Edward Strong, Esquire, sir: and of course I know ofthe blow hup and shindy as is took place in Grosvenor-place, sir:and as I may as well make my money as another, I'd be very muchobleeged to you if you'd tell me whether my lady will come downany more."

Although Major Pendennis was as much surprised at this intelligenceregarding his servant, as if he had heard that Morgan was a disguisedmarquis, about to throw off his mask and assume his seat in the Houseof Peers; and although he was of course indignant at the audacity ofthe fellow who had dared to grow rich under his nose, and without hiscognizance; yet he had a natural admiration for every man whor*presented money and success, and found himself respecting Morgan,and being rather afraid of that worthy, as the truth began todawn upon him.

"Well, Morgan," said he, "I mustn't ask how rich you are; and thericher the better for your sake, I'm sure. And if I could give you anyinformation that could serve you, I would speedily help you. Butfrankly, if Lady Clavering asks me whether she shall pay any more ofSir Francis's debts, I shall advise and I hope she won't, though Ifear she will—and that is all I know. And so you are aware that SirFrancis is beginning again in his—eh—reckless and imprudent course?"

"At his old games, sir—can't prevent that gentleman. He will do it."

"Mr. Strong was saying that a Mr. Moss Abrams was the holder of one of
Sir Francis Covering's notes. Do you know any thing of this Mr.
Abrams, or the amount of the bill?"

"Don't know the bill—know Abrams quite well, sir."

"I wish you would find out about it for me. And I wish you would findout where I can see Sir Francis Clavering, Morgan."

And Morgan said, "thank you, sir, yes, sir, I will, sir;" and retiredfrom the room, as he had entered it, with his usual stealthy respectand quiet humility; leaving the major to muse and wonder over what hehad just heard.

The next morning the valet informed Major Pendennis that he had seenMr. Abrams; what was the amount of the bill that gentleman wasdesirous to negotiate; and that the baronet would be sure to be in theback parlor of the Wheel of Fortune Tavern that day at one o'clock.

To this appointment Sir Francis Clavering was punctual, and as at oneo'clock he sat in the parlor of the tavern in question, surrounded byspittoons, Windsor chairs, cheerful prints of boxers, trotting horses,and pedestrians, and the lingering of last night's tobacco fumes—asthe descendant of an ancient line sate in this delectable place,accommodated with an old copy of Bell's Life in London, much blottedwith beer, the polite Major Pendennis walked into the apartment.

"So it's you, old boy?" asked the baronet, thinking that Mr. Moss
Abrams had arrived with the money.

"How do you do, Sir Francis Clavering? I wanted to see you, andfollowed you here," said the major, at sight of whom the other'scountenance fell. Now that he had his opponent before him, the majorwas determined to make a brisk and sudden attack upon him, and wentinto action at once. "I know," he continued, "who is the exceedinglydisreputable person for whom you took me, Clavering; and the errandwhich brought you here."

"It ain't your business, is it?" asked the baronet, with a sulky anddeprecatory look. "Why are you following me about and taking thecommand, and meddling in my affairs, Major Pendennis? I've never doneyou any harm, have I? I've never had your money. And I don'tchoose to be dodged about in this way, and domineered over. I don'tchoose it, and I won't have it. If Lady Clavering has any proposal tomake to me, let it be done in the regular way, and through thelawyers. I'd rather not have you."

"I am not come from Lady Clavering," the major said, "but of my ownaccord, to try and remonstrate with you, Clavering, and see if you canbe kept from ruin. It is but a month ago that you swore on your honor,and wanted to get a Bible to strengthen the oath, that you wouldaccept no more bills, but content yourself with the allowance whichLady Clavering gives you. All your debts were paid with that proviso,and you have broken it; this Mr. Abrams has a bill of yours forsixty pounds."

"It's an old bill. I take my solemn oath it's an old bill," shriekedout the baronet.

"You drew it yesterday, and you dated three months back purposely. ByGad, Clavering, you sicken me with lies, I can't help telling you so.I've no patience with you, by Gad. You cheat every body, yourselfincluded. I've seen a deal of the world, but I never met your equal athumbugging. It's my belief you had rather lie than not."

"Have you come here, you old, old beast, to tempt me to—to pitch intoyou, and—and knock your old head off?" said the baronet, with apoisonous look of hatred at the major.

"What, sir?" shouted out the old major, rising to his feet andclasping his cane, and looking so fiercely, that the baronet's toneinstantly changed toward him.

"No, no," said Clavering piteously, "I beg your pardon. I didn't meanto be angry, or say any thing unkind, only you're so damned harsh tome, Major Pendennis. What is it you want of me? Why have you beenhunting me so? Do you want money out of me too? By Jove, you knowI've not got a shilling,"—and so Clavering, according to his custom,passed from a curse into a whimper.

Major Pendennis saw from the other's tone, that Clavering knew hissecret was in the major's hands.

"I've no errand from any body, or no design upon you," Pendennis said,"but an endeavor, if it's not too late, to save you and your familyfrom utter ruin, through the infernal recklessness of your courses. Iknew your secret—"

"I didn't know it when I married her; upon my oath I didn't know ittill the d—d scoundrel came back and told me himself; and it's themisery about that which makes me so reckless, Pendennis; indeed itis;" the baronet cried, clasping his hands.

"I knew your secret from the very first day when I saw Amory comedrunk into your dining-room in Grosvenor-place. I never forget faces.I remember that fellow in Sidney a convict, and he remembers me. Iknow his trial, the date of his marriage, and of his reported death inthe bush. I could swear to him. And I know that you are no moremarried to Lady Clavering than I am. I've kept your secret wellenough, for I've not told a single soul that I know it—not your wife,not yourself till now."

"Poor Lady C., it would cut her up dreadfully," whimpered Sir Francis;"and it wasn't my fault, major; you know it wasn't."

"Rather than allow you to go on ruining her as you do, I will tellher, Clavering, and tell all the world too; that is what I swear Iwill do, unless I can come to some terms with you, and put some curbon your infernal folly. By play, debt, and extravagance of all kind,you've got through half your wife's fortune, and that of herlegitimate heirs, mind—her legitimate heirs. Here it must stop. Youcan't live together. You're not fit to live in a great house likeClavering; and before three years more were over would not leave ashilling to carry on. I've settled what must be done. You shall havesix hundred a year; you shall go abroad and live on that. You mustgive up Parliament, and get on as well as you can. If you refuse, Igive you my word I'll make the real state of things known to-morrow;I'll swear to Amory, who, when identified, will go back to the countryfrom whence he came, and will rid the widow of you and himselftogether. And so that boy of yours loses at once all title to oldSnell's property, and it goes to your wife's daughter. Ain't I makingmyself pretty clearly understood?"

"You wouldn't be so cruel to that poor boy, would you, Pendennis?"asked the father, pleading piteously; "hang it, think about him. He'sa nice boy: though he's dev'lish wild, I own—he's dev'lish wild."

"It's you who are cruel to him," said the old moralist. "Why, sir,you'll ruin him yourself inevitably in three years."

"Yes, but perhaps I won't have such dev'lish bad luck, you know; theluck must turn: and I'll reform, by Gad, I'll reform. And if you wereto split on me, it would cut up my wife so; you know it would, mostinfernally."

"To be parted from you," said the old major, with a sneer; "you knowshe won't live with you again."

"But why can't Lady C. live abroad, or at Bath, or at Tunbridge, or atthe doose, and I go on here?" Clavering continued. "I like being herebetter than abroad, and I like being in Parliament. It's dev'lishconvenient being in Parliament. There's very few seats like mine left;and if I gave it to 'em, I should not wonder the ministry would giveme an island to govern, or some dev'lish good thing; for you know I'ma gentleman of dev'lish good family, and have a handle to my name,and—and that sort of thing, Major Pendennis. Eh, don't you see? Don'tyou think they'd give me something dev'lish good if I was to playmy cards well? And then, you know, I'd save money, and be kept out ofthe way of the confounded hells and rouge et noir—and—and so I'drather not give up Parliament, please." For at one instant to hate anddefy a man, at the next to weep before him, and at the next to beperfectly confidential and friendly with him, was not an unusualprocess with our versatile-minded baronet.

"As for your seat in Parliament," the major said, with something of ablush on his cheek, and a certain tremor, which the other did not see"you must part with that, Sir Francis Clavering, to—to me."

"What! are you going into the House, Major Pendennis?"

"No—not I; but my nephew, Arthur, is a very clever fellow, and wouldmake a figure there: and when Clavering had two members, his fathermight very likely have been one; and—and I should like Arthur to bethere," the major said.

"Dammy, does he know it, too?" cried out Clavering.

"Nobody knows any thing out of this room," Pendennis answered; "and ifyou do this favor for me, I hold my tongue. If not, I'm a man of myword, and will do what I have said."

"I say, major," said Sir Francis, with a peculiarly humble smile,"you—you couldn't get me my first quarter in advance, could you, likethe best of fellows? You can do any thing with Lady Clavering; and,upon my oath, I'll take up that bill of Abrams. The little damscoundrel, I know he'll do me in the business—he always does; and ifyou could do this for me, we'd see, major."

"And I think your best plan would be to go down in September toClavering to shoot, and take my nephew with you, and introduce him.Yes, that will be the best time. And we will try and manage about theadvance." (Arthur may lend him that, thought old Pendennis. Confoundhim, a seat in Parliament is worth a hundred and fifty pounds.) "And,Clavering, you understand, of course, my nephew knows nothing aboutthis business. You have a mind to retire: he is a Clavering man, and agood representative for the borough; you introduce him, and yourpeople vote for him—you see."

"When can you get me the hundred and fifty, major? When shall I comeand see you? Will you be at home this evening or to-morrow morning?Will you have any thing here? They've got some dev'lish good bittersin the bar. I often have a glass of bitters, it sets one up so."

The old major would take no refreshment; but rose and took his leaveof the baronet, who walked with him to the door of the Wheel ofFortune, and then strolled into the bar, where he took a glass of ginand bitters with the landlady there: and a gentleman connected withthe ring (who boarded at the Wheel of F.) coming in, he and SirFrancis Clavering and the landlord talked about the fights and thenews of the sporting world in general; and at length Mr. Moss Abramsarrived with the proceeds of the baronet's bill, from which his ownhandsome commission was deducted, and out of the remainder Sir Francis"stood" a dinner at Greenwich to his distinguished friend, and passedthe evening gayly at Vauxhall. Meanwhile Major Pendennis, calling acab in Piccadilly, drove to Lamb-court, Temple, where he speedily wascloseted with his nephew in deep conversation.

After their talk they parted on very good terms, and it was inconsequence of that unreported conversation, whereof the readernevertheless can pretty well guess the bearing, that Arthur expressedhimself as we have heard in the colloquy with Warrington, which isreported in the last chapter.

When a man is tempted to do a tempting thing, he can find a hundredingenious reasons for gratifying his liking; and Arthur thought verymuch that he would like to be in Parliament, and that he would like todistinguish himself there, and that he need not care much what side hetook, as there was falsehood and truth on every side. And on this andon other matters he thought he would compromise with his conscience,and that Sadduceeism was a very convenient and good-humored professionof faith.

PHILLIS AND CORYDON.

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On a picturesque common in the neighborhood of Tunbridge Wells, LadyClavering had found a pretty villa, whither she retired after herconjugal disputes at the end of that unlucky London season. MissAmory, of course, accompanied her mother, and Master Clavering camehome for the holidays, with whom Blanche's chief occupation was tofight and quarrel. But this was only a home pastime, and the youngschool-boy was not fond of home sports. He found cricket, and horses,and plenty of friends at Tunbridge. The good-natured Begum's house wasfilled with a constant society of young gentlemen of thirteen, who ateand drank much too copiously of tarts and Champagne, who rode races onthe lawn, and frightened the fond mother; who smoked and madethemselves sick, and the dining-room unbearable to Miss Blanche. Shedid not like the society of young gentlemen of thirteen.

As for that fair young creature, any change, as long as it was change,was pleasant to her; and for a week or two she would have likedpoverty and a cottage, and bread and cheese; and, for a night,perhaps, a dungeon and bread and water, and so the move to Tunbridgewas by no means unwelcome to her. She wandered in the woods, andsketched trees and farm-houses; she read French novels habitually; shedrove into Tunbridge Wells pretty often, and to any play, or ball, orconjuror, or musician who might happen to appear in the place; sheslept a great deal; she quarreled with mamma and Frank during themorning; she found the little village school and attended it, andfirst fondled the girls and thwarted the mistress, then scolded thegirls and laughed at the teacher; she was constant at church, ofcourse. It was a pretty little church, of immense antiquity—a littleAnglo-Norman bijou, built the day before yesterday, and decoratedwith all sorts of painted windows, carved saints' heads, giltScripture texts, and open pews. Blanche began forthwith to work a mostcorrect high-church altar-cover for the church. She passed for a saintwith the clergyman for a while, whom she quite took in, and whom shecoaxed, and wheedled, and fondled so artfully, that poor Mrs. Smirke,who at first was charmed with her, then bore with her, then wouldhardly speak to her, was almost mad with jealousy. Mrs. Smirke was thewife of our old friend Smirke, Pen's tutor and poor Helen's suitor. Hehad consoled himself for her refusal with a young lady from Claphamwhom his mamma provided. When the latter died, our friend's viewsbecame every day more and more pronounced. He cut off his coat collar,and let his hair grow over his back. He rigorously gave up the curlwhich he used to sport on his forehead, and the tie of his neckclothof which he was rather proud. He went without any tie at all. He wentwithout dinner on Fridays. He read the Roman Hours, and intimated thathe was ready to receive confessions in the vestry. The most harmlesscreature in the world, he was denounced as a black and a mostdangerous Jesuit and Papist, by Muffin of the Dissenting chapel, andMr. Simeon Knight at the old church. Mr. Smirke had built his chapelof ease with the money left him by his mother at Clapham. Lord! lord!what would she have said to hear a table called an altar! to seecandlesticks on it! to get letters signed on the Feast of SaintSo-and-so, or the Vigil of Saint What-do-you-call-'em! All thesethings did the boy of Clapham practice; his faithful wife followinghim. But when Blanche had a conference of near two hours in the vestrywith Mr. Smirke, Belinda paced up and down on the grass, where therewere only two little grave-stones as yet; she wished that she had athird there: only, only he would offer very likely to that creature,who had infatuated him, in a fortnight. No, she would retire; shewould go into a convent, and profess, and leave him. Such bad thoughtshad Smirke's wife and his neighbors regarding him; these, thinking himin direct correspondence with the bishop of Rome; that, bewailingerrors to her even more odious and fatal; and yet our friend meant noearthly harm. The post-office never brought him any letters from thePope; he thought Blanche, to be sure, at first, the most pious,gifted, right-thinking, fascinating person he had ever met; and hermanner of singing the chants delighted him—but after a while he beganto grow rather tired of Miss Amory, her ways and graces grew stalesomehow; then he was doubtful about Miss Amory; then she made adisturbance in his school, lost her temper, and rapped the children'sfingers. Blanche inspired this admiration and satiety, somehow, inmany men. She tried to please them, and flung out all her graces atonce; came down to them with all her jewels on, all her smiles, andcajoleries, and coaxings, and ogles. Then she grew tired of them andof trying to please them, and never having cared about them, droppedthem: and the men grew tired of her, and dropped her too. It was ahappy night for Belinda when Blanche went away; and her husband, withrather a blush and a sigh, said "he had been deceived in her; he hadthought her endowed with many precious gifts, he feared they were meretinsel; he thought she had been a right-thinking person, he feared shehad merely made religion an amusem*nt—she certainly had quite losther temper to the schoolmistress, and beat Polly Rucker's knucklescruelly." Belinda flew to his arms, there was no question about thegrave or the veil any more. He tenderly embraced her on the forehead."There is none like thee, my Belinda," he said, throwing his fine eyesup to the ceiling, "precious among women!" As for Blanche, from theinstant she lost sight of him and Belinda, she never thought or caredabout either any more.

But when Arthur went down to pass a few days at Tunbridge Wells withthe Begum, this stage of indifference had not arrived on MissBlanche's part or on that of the simple clergyman. Smirke believed herto be an angel and wonder of a woman. Such a perfection he had neverseen, and sate listening to her music in the summer evenings,open-mouthed, rapt in wonder, tea-less, and bread-and-butterless.Fascinating as he had heard the music of the opera to be—he had neverbut once attended an exhibition of that nature (which he mentionedwith a blush and a sigh—it was on that day when he had accompaniedHelen and her son to the play at Chatteris)—he could not conceive anything more delicious, more celestial, he had almost said, than MissAmory's music. She was a most gifted being: she had a precious soul:she had the most remarkable talents—to all outward seeming, the mostheavenly disposition, &c. It was in this way that, being then at theheight of his own fever and bewitchment for Blanche, Smirke discoursedto Arthur about her.

The meeting between the two old acquaintances had been very cordial.Arthur loved any body who loved his mother; Smirke could speak on thattheme with genuine feeling and emotion. They had a hundred things totell each other of what had occurred in their lives. "Arthur wouldperceive," Smirke said, "that his—his views on Church matters haddeveloped themselves since their acquaintance." Mrs. Smirke, a mostexemplary person, seconded them with all her endeavors. He had builtthis little church on his mother's demise, who had left him providedwith a sufficiency of worldly means. Though in the cloister himself,he had heard of Arthur's reputation. He spoke in the kindest and mostsaddened tone; he held his eyelids down, and bowed his fair head onone side. Arthur was immensely amused with him; with his airs; withhis follies and simplicity; with his blank stock and long hair; withhis real goodness, kindness, friendliness of feeling. And his praisesof Blanche pleased and surprised our friend not a little, and made himregard her with eyes of particular favor.

The truth is, Blanche was very glad to see Arthur; as one is glad tosee an agreeable man in the country, who brings down the last news andstories from the great city; who can talk better than most countryfolks, at least can talk that darling London jargon, so dear andindispensable to London people, so little understood by persons outof the world. The first day Pen came down, he kept Blanche laughingfor hours after dinner. She sang her songs with redoubled spirit. Shedid not scold her mother; she fondled and kissed her to the honestBegum's surprise. When it came to be bed-time, she said, "Déjà!"with the prettiest air of regret possible; and was really quite sorryto go to bed, and squeezed Arthur's hand quite fondly. He on his sidegave her pretty palm a very cordial pressure. Our young gentleman wasof that turn, that eyes very moderately bright dazzled him.

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"She is very much improved," thought Pen, looking out into the night,"very much. I suppose the Begum won't mind my smoking with the windowopen. She's a jolly good old woman, and Blanche is immensely improved.I liked her manner with her mother to-night. I liked her laughing waywith that stupid young cub of a boy, whom they oughtn't to allow toget tipsy. She sang those little verses very prettily; they weredevilish pretty verses too, though I say it who shouldn't say it." Andhe hummed a tune which Blanche had put to some verses of his own. "Ah!what a fine night! How jolly a cigar is at night! How pretty thatlittle Saxon church looks in the moonlight! I wonder what oldWarrington's doing? Yes, she's a dayvlish nice little thing, as myuncle says."

"O heavenly!" here broke out a voice from a clematis-covered casem*ntnear—a girl's voice: it was the voice of the author of Mes Larmes.

Pen burst into a laugh. "Don't tell about my smoking," he said,leaning out of his own window.

"O! go on! I adore it," cried the lady of Mes Larmes. "Heavenlynight! Heavenly, heavenly moon! but I most shut my window, and nottalk to you on account of les moeurs. How droll they are, lesmoeurs! Adieu." And Pen began to sing the good night to Don Basilio.

The next day they were walking in the fields together, laughing andchattering—the gayest pair of friends. They talked about the days oftheir youth, and Blanche was prettily sentimental. They talked aboutLaura, dearest Laura—Blanche had loved her as a sister: was she happywith that odd Lady Rockminster? Wouldn't she come and stay with themat Tunbridge? O, what walks they would take together! What songs theywould sing—the old, old songs. Laura's voice was splendid. DidArthur—she must call him Arthur—remember the songs they sang in thehappy old days, now he was grown such a great man, and had such asuccès? &c. &c.

And the day after, which was enlivened with a happy ramble throughthe woods to Penshurst, and a sight of that pleasant Park and Hall,came that conversation with the curate which we have narrated, andwhich made our young friend think more and more.

"Is she all this perfection?" he asked himself. "Has she becomeserious and religious? Does she tend schools, and visit the poor? Isshe kind to her mother and brother? Yes, I am sure of that, I haveseen her." And walking with his old tutor over his little parish, andgoing to visit his school, it was with inexpressible delight that Penfound Blanche seated instructing the children, and fancied to himselfhow patient she must be, how good-natured, how ingenuous, how reallysimple in her tastes, and unspoiled by the world.

"And do you really like the country?" he asked her, as they walkedtogether.

"I should like never to see that odious city again. O Arthur—that is,Mr.—well, Arthur, then—one's good thoughts grow up in these sweetwoods and calm solitudes, like those flowers which won't bloom inLondon, you know. The gardener comes and changes our balconies once aweek. I don't think I shall bear to look London in the face again—itsodious, smoky, brazen face! But, heigho!"

"Why that sigh, Blanche?" "Never mind why."

"Yes, I do mind why. Tell me, tell me every thing."

"I wish you hadn't come down;" and a second edition of Mes Soupirscame out.

"You don't want me, Blanche?"

"I don't want you to go away. I don't think this house will be veryhappy without you, and that's why I wish that you never had come."

Mes Soupirs were here laid aside, and Mes Larmes had begun.

Ah! What answer is given to those in the eyes of a young woman? Whatis the method employed for drying them? What took place? O ringdovesand roses, O dews and wildflowers, O waving greenwoods and balmy airsof summer! Here were two battered London rakes, taking themselves infor a moment, and fancying that they were in love with each other,like Phillis and Corydon!

When one thinks of country houses and country walks, one wonders thatany man is left unmarried.

TEMPTATION

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Easy and frank-spoken as Pendennis commonly was with Warrington, howcame it that Arthur did not inform the friend and depository of allhis secrets, of the little circ*mstances which had taken place at thevilla near Tunbridge Wells? He talked about the discovery of his oldtutor Smirke, freely enough, and of his wife, and of his Anglo-Normanchurch, and of his departure from Clapham to Rome; but, when askedabout Blanche, his answers were evasive or general; he said she was agood-natured, clever little thing—that, rightly guided, she mightmake no such bad wife after all; but that he had for the moment nointention of marriage, that his days of romance were over, that he wascontented with his present lot, and so forth.

In the mean time there came occasionally to Lamb Court, Temple, prettylittle satin envelopes, superscribed in the neatest handwriting, andsealed with one of those admirable ciphers, which, if Warrington hadbeen curious enough to watch his friend's letters, or indeed if thecipher had been decipherable, would have shown George that Mr. Arthurwas in correspondence with a young lady whose initials were B. A. Tothese pretty little compositions Mr. Pen replied in his best andgallantest manner; with jokes, with news of the town, with points ofwit, nay, with pretty little verses very likely, in reply to theversicles of the Muse of "Mes Larmes." Blanche we know rhymes with"branch," and "stanch," and "launch," and no doubt a gentleman ofPen's ingenuity would not forego these advantages of position, andwould ring the pretty little changes upon these pleasing notes. Indeedwe believe that those love-verses of Mr. Pen's, which had sucha pleasing success in the "Roseleaves," that charming Annual edited byLady Violet Lebas, and illustrated by portraits of the female nobilityby the famous artist Pinkney, were composed at this period of ourhero's life; and were first addressed to Blanche, per post, beforethey figured in print, cornets as it were to Pinkney'spictorial garland.

"Verses are all very well," the elder Pendennis said, who found Penscratching down one of these artless effusions at the Club as he waswaiting for his dinner; "and letter-writing if mamma allows it, andbetween such old country friends of course there may be acorrespondence, and that sort of thing—but mind, Pen, and don'tcommit yourself, my boy. For who knows what the doose may happen? Thebest way is to make your letters safe. I never wrote a letter in allmy life that would commit me, and demmy, sir, I have had someexperience of women." And the worthy gentleman, growing more garrulousand confidential with his nephew as he grew older, told many affectinginstances of the evil results consequent upon this want of caution tomany persons in "society;"—how from using too ardent expressions insome poetical notes to the widow Naylor, young Spoony had subjectedhimself to a visit of remonstrance from the widow's brother, ColonelFlint; and thus had been forced into a marriage with a woman oldenough to be his mother: how when Louisa Salter had at lengthsucceeded in securing young Sir John Bird, Hopwood, of the Blues,produced some letters which Miss S. had written to him, and caused awithdrawal on Bird's part, who afterward was united to Miss Stickney,of Lyme Regis, &c. The major, if he had not reading, had plenty ofobservation, and could back his wise saws with a multitude of moderninstances, which he had acquired in a long and careful perusal of thegreat book of the world.

Pen laughed at the examples, and blushing a little at his uncle'sremonstrances, said that he would bear them in mind and be cautious.He blushed, perhaps, because he had borne them in mind; because hewas cautious: because in his letters to Miss Blanche he had frominstinct or honesty perhaps refrained from any avowals which mightcompromise him. "Don't you remember the lesson I had, sir, in LadyMirabel's—Miss Fotheringay's affair? I am not to be caught again,uncle," Arthur said with mock frankness and humility. Old Pendenniscongratulated himself and his nephew heartily on the latter's prudenceand progress, and was pleased at the position which Arthur was takingas a man of the world.

No doubt, if Warrington had been consulted, his opinion would havebeen different; and he would have told Pen that the boy's foolishletters were better than the man's adroit compliments and slipperygallantries; that to win the woman he loves, only a knave or a cowardadvances under cover, with subterfuges, and a retreat secured behindhim: but Pen spoke not on this matter to Mr. Warrington, knowingpretty well that he was guilty, and what his friend's verdictwould be.

Colonel Altamont had not been for many weeks absent on his foreigntour, Sir Francis Clavering having retired meanwhile into thecountry pursuant to his agreement with Major Pendennis, when the illsof fate began to fall rather suddenly and heavily upon the soleremaining partner of the little firm of Shepherd's Inn. When Strong,at parting with Altamont, refused the loan proffered by the latter inthe fullness of his purse and the generosity of his heart, he madesuch a sacrifice to conscience and delicacy as caused him many anafter-twinge and pang; and he felt—it was not very many hours in hislife he had experienced the feeling—that in this juncture of hisaffairs he had been too delicate and too scrupulous. Why should afellow in want refuse a kind offer kindly made? Why should a thirstyman decline a pitcher of water from a friendly hand, because it was alittle soiled? Strong's conscience smote him for refusing what theother had fairly come by, and generously proffered: and he thoughtruefully, now it was too late, that Altamont's cash would have been aswell in his pocket as in that of the gambling-house proprietor atBaden or Ems, with whom his Excellency would infallibly leave hisDerby winnings. It was whispered among the tradesmen,bill-discounters, and others who had commercial dealings with CaptainStrong, that he and the baronet had parted company, and that thecaptain's "paper" was henceforth of no value. The tradesmen,who had put a wonderful confidence in him hitherto—for who couldresist Strong's jolly face and frank and honest demeanor?—now beganto pour in their bills with a cowardly mistrust and unanimity. Theknocks at the Shepherd's Inn Chambers' door were constant, andtailors, bootmakers, pastrycooks who had furnished dinners, in theirown persons, or by the boys their representatives, held levees onStrong's stairs. To these were added one or two persons of a lessclamorous but far more sly and dangerous sort—the young clerks oflawyers, namely, who lurked about the Inn, or concerted with Mr.Campion's young man in the chambers hard by, having in their dismalpocketbooks copies of writs to be served on Edward Strong, requiringhim to appear on an early day next term before our Sovereign Lady theQueen, and answer to, &c., &c.

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From this invasion of creditors, poor Strong, who had not a guinea inhis pocket, had, of course, no refuge but that of the Englishman'scastle, into which he retired, shutting the outer and inner door uponthe enemy, and not quitting his stronghold until after nightfall.Against this outer barrier the foe used to come and knock and curse invain, while the chevalier peeped at them from behind the littlecurtain which he had put over the orifice of his letter-box; and hadthe dismal satisfaction of seeing the faces of furious clerk and fierydun, as they dashed up against the door and retreated from it. But asthey could not be always at his gate, or sleep on his staircase, theenemies of the chevalier sometimes left him free.

Strong, when so pressed by his commercial antagonists, was not quitealone in his defense against them, but had secured for himself an allyor two. His friends were instructed to communicate with him by asystem of private signals: and they thus kept the garrison fromstarving by bringing in necessary supplies, and kept up Strong's heartand prevented him from surrendering, by visiting him and cheering himin his retreat. Two of Ned's most faithful allies were Huxter and MissFanny Bolton: when hostile visitors were prowling about the Inn,Fanny's little sisters were taught a particular cry or jödel, whichthey innocently whooped in the court: when Fanny and Huxter came up tovisit Strong, they archly sang this same note at his door; when thatbarrier was straightway opened, the honest garrison came out smiling,the provisions and the pot of porter were brought in, and, in thesociety of his faithful friends, the beleaguered one passed acomfortable night. There are some men who could not live under thisexcitement, but Strong was a brave man, as we have said, who had seenservice and never lost heart in peril.

But besides allies, our general had secured for himself, underdifficulties, that still more necessary aid—a retreat. It has beenmentioned in a former part of this history, how Messrs. Costigan andBows lived in the house next door to Captain Strong, and that thewindow of one of their rooms was not very far off the kitchen-windowwhich was situated in the upper story of Strong's chambers. A leadenwater-pipe and gutter served for the two; and Strong, looking out fromhis kitchen one day, saw that he could spring with great ease up tothe sill of his neighbor's window, and clamber up the pipe whichcommunicated from one to the other. He had laughingly shown thisrefuge to his chum, Altamont; and they had agreed that it would be aswell not to mention the circ*mstance to Captain Costigan, whose dunswere numerous, and who would be constantly flying down the pipe intotheir apartments if this way of escape were shown to him.

But now that the evil days were come, Strong made use of the passage,and one afternoon burst in upon Bows and Costigan with his jolly face,and explained that the enemy was in waiting on his staircase, and thathe had taken this means of giving them the slip. So while Mr. Marks'said-de-camps were in waiting in the passage of No. 3, Strong walkeddown the steps of No. 4, dined at the Albion, went to the play, andreturned home at midnight, to the astonishment of Mrs. Bolton andFanny, who had not seen him quit his chambers and could not conceivehow he could have passed the line of sentries.

Strong bore this siege for some weeks with admirable spirit andresolution, and as only such an old and brave soldier would, for thepains and privations which he had to endure were enough to depress anyman of ordinary courage; and what vexed and "riled" him (to use hisown expression) was the infernal indifference and cowardly ingratitudeof Clavering, to whom he wrote letter after letter, which the baronetnever acknowledged by a single word, or by the smallest remittance,though a five-pound note, as Strong said, at that time would have beena fortune to him.

But better days were in store for the chevalier, and in the midst ofhis despondency and perplexities there came to him a most welcome aid,"Yes, if it hadn't been for this good fellow here," said Strong; "fora good fellow you are, Altamont, my boy, and hang me if I don't standby you as long as I live; I think, Pendennis, it would have been allup with Ned Strong. It was the fifth week of my being kept a prisoner,for I couldn't be always risking my neck across that water-pipe, andtaking my walks abroad through poor old Cos's window, and my spiritwas quite broken, sir—dammy, quite beat, and I was thinking ofputting an end to myself, and should have done it in another week,when who should drop down from heaven but Altamont!"

"Heaven ain't exactly the place, Ned," said Altamont. "I came fromBaden-Baden," said he, "and I'd had a deuced lucky month there,that's all."

"Well, sir, he took up Marks's bill, and he paid the other fellowsthat were upon me, like a man, sir, that he did," said Strong,enthusiastically.

"And I shall be very happy to stand a bottle of claret for thiscompany, and as many more as the company chooses," said Mr. Altamont,with a blush. "Hallo! waiter, bring us a magnum of the right sort, doyou hear? And we'll drink our healths all round, sir—and may everygood fellow like Strong find another good fellow to stand by him at apinch. That's my sentiment, Mr. Pendennis, though I don't like yourname." "No! And why?" asked Arthur.

Strong pressed the colonel's foot under the table here; and Altamont,rather excited, filled up another bumper, nodded to Pen, drank off hiswine, and said, "He was a gentleman, and that was sufficient, andthey were all gentlemen."

The meeting between these "all gentlemen" took place at Richmond,whither Pendennis had gone to dinner, and where he found the chevalierand his friend at table in the coffee-room. Both of the latter wereexceedingly hilarious, talkative, and excited by wine; and Strong, whowas an admirable story-teller, told the story of his own siege, andadventures, and escapes with great liveliness and humor, and describedthe talk of the sheriff's officers at his door, the pretty littlesignals of Fanny, the grotesque exclamations of Costigan when thechevalier burst in at his window, and his final rescue by Altamont, ina most graphic manner, and so as greatly to interest his hearers.

"As for me, it's nothing," Altamont said. "When a ship's paid off, achap spends his money, you know. And it's the fellers at the black andred at Baden-Baden that did it. I won a good bit of money there, andintend to win a good bit more, don't I, Strong? I'm going to take himwith me. I've got a system. I'll make his fortune, I tell you. I'llmake your fortune, if you like—dammy, every body's fortune. But whatI'll do, and no mistake, boys, I promise you. I'll put in for thatlittle Fanny. Dammy, sir, what do you think she did? She had twopound, and I'm blest if she didn't go and lend it to Ned Strong!Didn't she, Ned? Let's drink her health."

"With all my heart," said Arthur, and pledged this toast with thegreatest cordiality.

Mr. Altamont then began, with the greatest volubility, and at greatlength, to describe his system. He said that it was infallible, ifplayed with coolness; that he had it from a chap at Baden, who hadlost by it, it was true, but because he had not capital enough; if hecould have stood one more turn of the wheel, he would have all hismoney back; that he and several more chaps were going to make a bank,and try it; and that he would put every shilling he was worth into it,and had come back to this country for the express purpose of fetchingaway his money, and Captain Strong; that Strong should play for him;that he could trust Strong and his temper much better than he couldhis own, and much better than Bloundell-Bloundell or the Italian that"stood in." As he emptied his bottle, the colonel described at fulllength all his plans and prospects to Pen, who was interested inlistening to his story, and the confessions of his daring and lawlessgood-humor.

"I met that queer fellow Altamont the other day," Pen said to hisuncle, a day or two afterward.

"Altamont? What Altamont? There's Lord Westport's son," said themajor.

"No, no; the fellow who came tipsy into Clavering's dining-room oneday when we were there," said the nephew, laughing; "and he said hedid not like the name of Pendennis, though he did me the honor tothink that I was a good fellow."

"I don't know any man of the name of Altamont, I give you my honor,"said the impenetrable major; "and as for your acquaintance, I thinkthe less you have to do with him the better, Arthur."

Arthur laughed again. "He is going to quit the country, and make hisfortune by a gambling system. He and my amiable college acquaintance,Bloundell, are partners, and the colonel takes out Strong with him asaid-de-camp. What is it that binds the chevalier and Clavering,I wonder?"

"I should think, mind you, Pen, I should think, but of course I haveonly the idea, that there has been something in Clavering's previouslife which gives these fellows, and some others, a certain power overhim; and if there should be such a secret, which is no affair of ours,my boy, dammy, I say, it ought to be a lesson to a man to keep himselfstraight in life, and not to give any man a chance over him."

"Why, I think you have some means of persuasion over Clavering,uncle, or why should he give me that seat in Parliament?"

"Clavering thinks he ain't fit for Parliament!" the major answered."No more he is. What's to prevent him from putting you or any bodyelse into his place if he likes? Do you think that the Government orthe Opposition would make any bones about accepting the seat if heoffered it to them? Why should you be more squeamish than the firstmen, and the most honorable men, and men of the highest birth andposition in the country, begad?" The major had an answer of this kindto most of Pen's objections, and Pen accepted his uncle's replies, notso much because he believed them, but because he wished to believethem. We do a thing—which of us has not? not because "every body doesit," but because we like it; and our acquiescence, alas! proves notthat every body is right, but that we and the rest of the world arepoor creatures alike.

At his next visit to Tunbridge, Mr. Pen did not forget to amuse MissBlanche with the history which he had learned at Richmond of thechevalier's imprisonment, and of Altamont's gallant rescue. And afterhe had told his tale in his usual satirical way, he mentioned withpraise and emotion little Fanny's generous behavior to the chevalier,and Altamont's enthusiasm in her behalf.

Miss Blanche was somewhat jealous, and a good deal piqued and curiousabout Fanny. Among the many confidential little communications whichArthur made to Miss Amory in the course of their delightful ruraldrives and their sweet evening walks, it may be supposed that our herowould not forget a story so interesting to himself and so likely to beinteresting to her, as that of the passion and care of the poor littleAriadne of Shepherd's Inn. His own part in that drama he described, todo him justice, with becoming modesty; the moral which he wished todraw from the tale being one in accordance with his usual satiricalmood, viz., that women get over their first loves quite as easily asmen do (for the fair Blanche, in their intimes conversations, didnot cease to twit Mr. Pen about his notorious failure in his ownvirgin attachment to the Fotheringay), and, number one beingwithdrawn, transfer themselves to number two without much difficulty.And poor little Fanny was offered up in sacrifice as an instance toprove this theory. What griefs she had endured and surmounted, whatbitter pangs of hopeless attachment she had gone through, what time ithad taken to heal those wounds of the tender little bleeding heart,Mr. Pen did not know, or perhaps did not choose to know; for he was atonce modest and doubtful about his capabilities as a conqueror ofhearts, and averse to believe that he had executed any dangerousravages on that particular one, though his own instance and argumenttold against himself in this case; for if, as he said, Miss Fanny wasby this time in love with her surgical adorer, who had neither goodlooks, nor good manners, nor wit, nor any thing but ardor and fidelityto recommend him, must she not in her first sickness of thelove-complaint, have had a serious attack, and suffered keenly for aman, who had certainly a number of the showy qualities which Mr.Huxter wanted?

"You wicked, odious creature," Miss Blanche said, "I believe that youare enraged with Fanny for being so impudent as to forget you, andthat you are actually jealous of Mr. Huxter." Perhaps Miss Amory wasright, as the blush which came in spite of himself and tingled uponPendennis's cheek (one of those blows with which a man's vanity isconstantly slapping his face), proved to Pen that he was angry tothink he had been superseded by such a rival. By such a fellow asthat! without any conceivable good quality! Oh, Mr. Pendennis!(although this remark does not apply to such a smart fellow as you) ifNature had not made that provision for each sex in the credulity ofthe other, which sees good qualities where none exist, good looks indonkeys' ears, wit in their numskulls, and music in their bray, therewould not have been near so much marrying and giving in marriage asnow obtains, and as is necessary for the due propagation andcontinuance of the noble race to which we belong!

"Jealous or not," Pen said, "and, Blanche, I don't say no, I shouldhave liked Fanny to have come to a better end than that. I don't likehistories that end in that cynical way; and when we arrive at theconclusion of the story of a pretty girl's passion, to find such afigure as Huxter's at the last page of the tale. Is all life acompromise, my lady fair, and the end of the battle of love an ignoblesurrender? Is the search for the Cupid which my poor little Psychepursued in the darkness—the god of her soul's longing—the God of theblooming cheek and rainbow pinions—to result in Huxter, smelling oftobacco and gallypots? I wish, though I don't see it in life, thatpeople could be like Jenny and Jessamy, or my lord and lady Clementinain the storybook and fashionable novels, and at once under theceremony, and, as it were, at the parson's benediction, becomeperfectly handsome and good and happy ever after."

"And don't you intend to be good and happy, pray, Monsieurle Misanthrope—and are you very discontented with your lot—and willyour marriage be a compromise "—(asked the author of "Mes Larmes,"with a charming moue)—"and is your Psyche an odious vulgar wretch?You wicked, satirical creature, I can't abide you! You take the heartsof young things, play with them, and fling them away with scorn. Youask for love and trample on it. You—you make me cry, that you do,Arthur, and—and don't—and I won't be consoled in that way—and Ithink Fanny was quite right in leaving such a heartless creature."

"Again, I don't say no," said Pen, looking very gloomily at Blanche,and not offering by any means to repeat the attempt at consolation,which had elicited that sweet monosyllable "don't" from the younglady. "I don't think I have much of what people call heart; but Idon't profess it. I made my venture when I was eighteen, and lightedmy lamp and went in search of Cupid. And what was my discovery oflove!—a vulgar dancing woman. I failed, as every body does, almostevery body; only it is luckier to fail before marriage than after."

"Merci du choix, Monsieur" said the Sylphide, making a courtesy.

"Look, my little Blanche," said Pen, taking her hand, and with hisvoice of sad good-humor; "at least I stoop to no flatteries."

"Quite the contrary," said Miss Blanche.

"And tell you no foolish lies, as vulgar men do. Why should you and I,with our experience, ape romance and dissemble passion? I do notbelieve Miss Blanche Amory to be peerless among the beautiful, nor thegreatest poetess, nor the most surpassing musician, any more than Ibelieve you to be the tallest woman in the whole world—like thegiantess whose picture we saw as we rode through the fair yesterday.But if I don't set you up as a heroine, neither do I offer you yourvery humble servant as a hero. But I think you are—well, there, Ithink you are very sufficiently good-looking."

"Merci," Miss Blanche said, with another courtesy.

"I think you sing charmingly. I'm sure you're clever. I hope andbelieve that you are good-natured, and that you will becompanionable."

"And so, provided I bring you a certain sum of money and a seat inParliament, you condescend to fling to me your royalpocket-handkerchief," said Blanche. "Que dhonneur! We used to callyour Highness the Prince of Fairoaks. What an honor to think that I amto be elevated to the throne, and to bring the seat in Parliament asbacksheesh to the sultan! I am glad I am clever, and that I can playand sing to your liking; my songs will amuse my lord's leisure."

"And if thieves are about the house," said Pen, grimly pursuing thesimile, "forty besetting thieves in the shape of lurking cares andenemies in ambush and passions in arms, my Morgiana will dance roundme with a tambourine, and kill all my rogues and thieves with a smile.Won't she?" But Pen looked as if he did not believe that she would."Ah, Blanche," he continued after a pause, "don't be angry; don't behurt at my truth-telling. Don't you see that I always take you at yourword? You say you will be a slave and dance—I say, dance. You say, 'Itake you with what you bring;' I say, 'I take you with what youbring.' To the necessary deceits and hypocrisies of our life, why addany that are useless and unnecessary? If I offer myself to you becauseI think we have a fair chance of being happy together, and because byyour help I may get for both of us a good place and a notundistinguished name, why ask me to feign raptures and counterfeitromance, in which neither of us believe? Do you want me to come wooingin a Prince Prettyman's dress from the masquerade warehouse, and topay you compliments like Sir Charles Grandison? Do you want me to makeyou verses as in the days when we were—when we were children? I willif you like, and sell them to Bacon and Bungay afterward. Shall I feedmy pretty princess with bonbons."

"Mais j'adore les bonbons, moi," said the little Sylphide, with aqueer, piteous look.

"I can buy a hatful at Fortnum and Mason's for a guinea. And it shallhave its bonbons, its pootty little sugar-plums, that it shall," Pensaid, with a bitter smile. "Nay, my dear, nay my dearest littleBlanche, don't cry. Dry the pretty eyes, I can't bear that;" and heproceeded to offer that consolation which the circ*mstance required,and which the tears, the genuine tears of vexation, which now sprangfrom the angry eyes of the author of "Mes Larmes" demanded.

The scornful and sarcastic tone of Pendennis quite frightened andovercame the girl. "I—I don't want your consolation. I—I neverwas—so—spoken to bef—by any of my—my—by any body"—she sobbedout, with much simplicity.

"Any body!" shouted out Pen, with a savage burst of laughter, andBlanche blushed one of the most genuine blushes which her cheek hadever exhibited, and she cried out, "O, Arthur, vous êtes un hommeterrible!" She felt bewildered, frightened, oppressed, the worldlylittle flirt who had been playing at love for the last dozen years ofher life, and yet not displeased at meeting a master.

"Tell me, Arthur," she said, after a pause in this strangelove-making. "Why does Sir Francis Clavering give up his seat inParliament?"

"Au fait, why does he give it to me?" asked Arthur, now blushing inhis turn.

"You always mock me, sir," she said. "If it is good to be in
Parliament, why does Sir Francis go out?"

"My uncle has talked him over. He always said that you were notsufficiently provided for. In the—the family disputes, when yourmamma paid his debts so liberally, it was stipulated, I suppose, thatyou—that is, that I—that is, upon my word, I don't know why he goesout of Parliament," Pen said, with rather a forced laugh. "You see,Blanche, that you and I are two good little children, and that thismarriage has been arranged for us by our mammas and uncles, and thatwe must be obedient, like a good little boy and girl."

So, when Pen went to London, he sent Blanche a box of bonbons, eachsugar plum of which was wrapped up in ready-made French verses, of themost tender kind; and, besides, dispatched to her some poems of hisown manufacture, quite as artless and authentic; and it was no wonderthat he did not tell Warrington what his conversations with Miss Amoryhad been, of so delicate a sentiment were they, and of a nature sonecessarily private.

And if, like many a worse and better man, Arthur Pendennis, thewidow's son, was meditating an apostasy, and going to sell himselfto—we all know whom—at least the renegade did not pretend to be abeliever in the creed to which he was ready to swear. And if everywoman and man in this kingdom, who has sold her or himself for moneyor position, as Mr. Pendennis was about to do, would but purchase acopy of his memoirs, what tons of volumes the Publishers wouldsell!

IN WHICH PEN BEGINS HIS CANVASS.

[Illustration]

Melancholy as the great house at Clavering Park had been in the daysbefore his marriage, when its bankrupt proprietor was a refugee inforeign lands, it was not much more cheerful now when Sir FrancisClavering came to inhabit it. The greater part of the mansion was shutup, and the baronet only occupied a few of the rooms on the groundfloor, where his housekeeper and her assistant from the lodge gatewaited upon the luckless gentleman in his forced retreat, and cooked apart of the game which he spent the dreary mornings in shooting.Lightfoot, his man, had passed over to my lady's service; and, as Penwas informed in a letter from Mr. Smirke, who performed the ceremony,had executed his prudent intention of marrying Mrs. Bonner, my lady'swoman, who, in her mature years, was stricken with the charms of theyouth, and endowed him with her savings and her mature person. To belandlord and landlady of the Clavering Arms was the ambition of bothof them; and it was agreed that they were to remain in LadyClavering's service until quarter-day arrived, when they were to takepossession of their hotel. Pen graciously promised that he would givehis election dinner there, when the baronet should vacate his seat inthe young man's favor; and, as it had been agreed by his uncle, towhom Clavering seemed to be able to refuse nothing, Arthur came downin September on a visit to Clavering Park, the owner of which was veryglad to have a companion who would relieve his loneliness, and perhapswould lend him a little ready money.

Pen furnished his host with the desirable supplies a couple of daysafter he had made his appearance at Clavering: and no sooner werethese small funds in Sir Francis's pocket, than the latter found hehad business at Chatteris and at the neighboring watering-places, ofwhich——shire boasts many, and went off to see to his affairs, whichwere transacted, as might be supposed, at the county race-grounds andbilliard-rooms. Arthur could live alone well enough, having manymental resources and amusem*nts which did not require other persons'company: he could walk with the game-keeper of a morning, and for theevenings there was a plenty of books and occupation for a literarygenius like Mr. Arthur, and who required but a cigar and a sheet ofpaper or two to make the night pass away pleasantly. In truth, in twoor three days he had found the society of Sir Francis Claveringperfectly intolerable; and it was with a mischievous eagerness andsatisfaction that he offered Clavering the little pecuniary aid whichthe latter according to his custom solicited; and supplied him withthe means of taking flight from his own house.

Besides, our ingenious friend had to ingratiate himself with thetownspeople of Clavering, and with the voters of the borough which hehoped to represent; and he set himself to this task with only the moreeagerness, remembering how unpopular he had before been in Clavering,and determined to vanquish the odium which he had inspired among thesimple people there. His sense of humor made him delight in this task.Naturally rather reserved and silent in public, he became on a suddenas frank, easy, and jovial, as Captain Strong. He laughed with everybody who would exchange a laugh with him, shook hands right and left,with what may be certainly called a dexterous cordiality; made hisappearance at the market-day and the farmers' ordinary; and, in fine,acted like a consummate hypocrite, and as gentlemen of the highestbirth and most spotless integrity act when they wish to makethemselves agreeable to their constituents, and have some end to gainof the country folks. How is it that we allow ourselves not to bedeceived, but to be ingratiated so readily by a glib tongue, a readylaugh, and a frank manner? We know, for the most part, that it isfalse coin, and we take it: we know that it is flattery, which itcosts nothing to distribute to every body, and we had rather have itthan be without it. Friend Pen went about at Clavering, laboriouslysimple and adroitly pleased, and quite a different being from thescornful and rather sulky young dandy whom the inhabitants rememberedten years ago.

The Rectory was shut up. Doctor Portman was gone, with his gout andhis family, to Harrowgate—an event which Pen deplored very much in aletter to the doctor, in which, in a few kind and simple words, heexpressed his regret at not seeing his old friend, whose advice hewanted and whose aid he might require some day: but Pen consoledhimself for the doctor's absence by making acquaintance with Mr.Simcoe, the opposition preacher, and with the two partners of thecloth-factory at Chatteris, and with the Independent preacher there, allof whom he met at the Clavering Athenaeum, which the Liberal party hadset up in accordance with the advanced spirit of the age, and perhapsin opposition to the aristocratic old reading-room, into which theEdinburgh Review had once scarcely got an admission, and where notradesmen were allowed an entrance He propitiated the youngerpartner of the cloth-factory, by asking him to dine in a friendlyway at the Park; he complimented the Honorable Mrs. Simcoe with haresand partridges from the same quarter, and a request to read herhusband's last sermon; and being a little unwell one day, the rascaltook advantage of the circ*mstance to show his tongue to Mr. Huxter,who sent him medicines and called the next morning. How delighted oldPendennis would have been with his pupil! Pen himself was amused withthe sport in which he was engaged, and his success inspired him with awicked good-humor.

[Illustration]

And yet, as he walked out of Clavering of a night, after "presiding"at a meeting of the Athenaeum, or working through an evening with Mrs.Simcoe, who, with her husband, was awed by the young Londoner'sreputation, and had heard of his social successes; as he passed overthe old familiar bridge of the rushing Brawl, and heard thatwell-remembered sound of waters beneath, and saw his own cottage ofFairoaks among the trees, their darkling outlines clear against thestarlit sky, different thoughts no doubt came to the young man's mind,and awakened pangs of grief and shame there. There still used to be alight in the windows of the room which he remembered so well, and inwhich the saint who loved him had passed so many hours of care andyearning and prayer. He turned away his gaze from the faint lightwhich seemed to pursue him with its wan reproachful gaze, as though itwas his mother's spirit watching and warning. How clear the night was!How keen the stars shone; how ceaseless the rush of the flowingwaters; the old home trees whispered, and waved gently their darkheads and branches over the cottage roof. Yonder, in the faintstarlight glimmer, was the terrace where, as a boy, he walked ofsummer evenings, ardent and trustful, unspotted, untried, ignorant ofdoubts or passions; sheltered as yet from the world's contamination inthe pure and anxious bosom of love…. The clock of the near towntolling midnight, with a clang disturbs our wanderer's reverie, andsends him onward toward his night's resting-place, through the lodgeinto Clavering avenue, and under the dark arcades of therustling limes.

When he sees the cottage the next time, it is smiling in sunset; thosebedroom windows are open where the light was burning the night before;and Pen's tenant, Captain Stokes, of the Bombay Artillery, (whosemother, old Mrs. Stokes, lives in Clavering), receives his landlord'svisit with great cordiality: shows him over the grounds and the newpond he has made in the back-garden from the stables; talks to himconfidentially about the roof and chimneys, and begs Mr. Pendennis toname a day when he will do himself and Mrs. Stokes the pleasure to,&c. Pen, who has been a fortnight in the country, excuses himself fornot having called sooner upon the captain by frankly owning that hehad not the heart to do it. "I understand you, sir," the captain says;and Mrs. Stokes who had slipped away at the ring of the bell (how oddit seemed to Pen to ring the bell!) comes down in her best gown,surrounded by her children. The young ones clamber about Stokes: theboy jumps into an arm-chair. It was Pen's father's arm-chair;and Arthur remembers the days when he would as soon have thought ofmounting the king's throne as of seating himself in that arm-chair. Heasks if Miss Stokes—she is the very image of her mamma—if she canplay? He should like to hear a tune on that piano. She plays. He hearsthe notes of the old piano once more, enfeebled by age, but he doesnot listen to the player. He is listening to Laura singing as in thedays of their youth, and sees his mother bending and beating time overthe shoulder of the girl.

The dinner at Fairoaks given in Pen's honor by his tenant, and atwhich old Mrs. Stokes, Captain Glanders, Squire Hobnell, and theclergyman and his lady, from Tinckleton, were present, was very stupidand melancholy for Pen, until the waiter from Clavering (who aided thecaptain's stable-boy and Mrs. Stokes's butler) whom Pen remembered asa street boy, and who was now indeed barber in that place, dropped aplate over Pen's shoulder, on which Mr. Hobnell (who also employedhim) remarked, "I suppose, Hodson, your hands are slippery withbear's-grease. He's always dropping the crockery about, that Hodsonis—haw, haw!" On which Hodson blushed, and looked so disconcerted,that Pen burst out laughing; and good humor and hilarity were theorder of the evening. For the second course there was a hare andpartridges top and bottom, and when after the withdrawal of theservants, Pen said to the Vicar of Tinckleton, "I think, Mr. Stooks,you should have asked Hodson to cut the hare," the joke was takeninstantly by the clergyman, who was followed in the course of a fewminutes by Captains Stokes and Glanders, and by Mr. Hobnell, whoarrived rather late, but with an immense guffaw.

While Mr. Pen was engaged in the country in the above schemes, ithappened that the lady of his choice, if not of his affections, cameup to London from the Tunbridge villa, bound upon shopping expeditionsor important business, and in company of old Mrs. Bonner, her mother'smaid, who had lived and quarreled with Blanche many times since shewas an infant, and who now being about to quit Lady Clavering'sservice for the hymeneal state, was anxious like a good soul to bestowsome token of respectful kindness upon her old and young mistressbefore she quitted them altogether, to take her post as the wife ofLightfoot, and landlady of the Clavering Arms.

The honest woman took the benefit of Miss Amory's taste to make thepurchase which she intended to offer her ladyship; and requested thefair Blanche to choose something for herself that should be to herliking, and remind her of her old nurse who had attended her throughmany a wakeful night, and eventful teething, and childish fever, andwho loved her like a child of her own a'most. These purchases weremade, and as the nurse insisted on buying an immense Bible forBlanche, the young lady suggested that Bonner should purchase a largeJohnson's Dictionary for her mamma. Each of the two women mightcertainly profit by the present made to her.

Then Mrs. Bonner invested money in some bargains in linendrapery,which might be useful at the Clavering Arms, and bought a redand yellow neck-handkerchief, which Blanche could see at once wasintended for Mr. Lightfoot. Younger than herself by at leastfive-and-twenty years, Mrs. Bonner regarded that youth with a fondnessat once parental and conjugal, and loved to lavish ornaments on hisperson, which already glittered with pins, rings, shirt-studs, and chainsand seals, purchased at the good creature's expense.

[Illustration]

It was in the Strand that Mrs. Bonner made her purchases, aided byMiss Blanche, who liked the fun very well, and when the old lady hadbought every thing that she desired, and was leaving the shop,Blanche, with a smiling face, and a sweet bow to one of the shop,said, "Pray, sir, will you have the kindness to show us the way toShepherd's Inn."

Shepherd's Inn was but a few score of yards off, Old Castle Street wasclose by, the elegant young shopman pointed out the turning which theyoung lady was to take, and she and her companion walked offtogether. "Shepherd's Inn! what can you want in Shepherd's Inn, MissBlanche?" Bonner inquired. "Mr. Strong lives there. Do you want to goand see the captain?"

"I should like to see the captain very well. I like the captain; butit is not him I want. I want to see a dear little good girl, who wasvery kind to—to Mr. Arthur when he was so ill last year, and savedhis life almost; and I want to thank her, and ask her if she wouldlike any thing. I looked out several of my dresses on purpose thismorning, Bonner!" and she looked at Bonner as if she had a right toadmiration, and had performed an act of remarkable virtue. Blanche,indeed, was very fond of sugar-plums; she would have fed the poor uponthem, when she had had enough, and given a country girl a ball dresswhen she had worn it and was tired of it.

"Pretty girl, pretty young woman!" mumbled Mrs. Bonner. "I know Iwant no pretty young women come about Lightfoot," and in imaginationshe peopled the Clavering Arms with a Harem of the most hideouschambermaids and barmaids.

Blanche, with pink and blue, and feathers, and flowers, and trinkets(that wondrous invention, a châtelaine, was not extant yet, or shewould have had one, we may be sure), and a shot silk dress, and awonderful mantle, and a charming parasol, presented a vision ofelegance and beauty such as bewildered the eyes of Mrs. Bolton, whowas scrubbing the lodge-floor of Shepherd's Inn, and causedBetsy-Jane, and Ameliar-Ann to look with delight.

Blanche looked on them with a smile of ineffable sweetness andprotection; like Rowena going to see Ivanhoe; like Marie Antoinettevisiting the poor in the famine; like the Marchioness of Carabasalighting from her carriage and four at a pauper-tenant's door, andtaking from John No. II., the packet of Epsom salts for the invalid'sbenefit, carrying it with her own imperial hand into the sickroom—Blanche felt a queen stepping down from her throne to visit asubject, and enjoyed all the bland consciousness of doing agood action.

"My good woman! I want to see Fanny—Fanny Bolton; is she here?"

Mrs. Bolton had a sudden suspicion, from the splendor of Blanche'sappearance, that it must be a play-actor, or something worse.

"What do you want with Fanny, pray?" she asked.

"I am Lady Clavering's daughter—you have heard of Sir Francis
Clavering? And I wish very much indeed to see Fanny Bolton."

"Pray step in, Miss—Betsy-Jane, where's Fanny?"

Betsy-Jane said Fanny had gone into No. 3 staircase, on which Mrs.Bolton said she was probably in Strong's rooms, and bade the child goand see if she was there.

"In Captain Strong's rooms! oh, let us go to Captain Strong's rooms,"cried out Miss Blanche. "I know him very well. You dearest littlegirl, show us the way to Captain Strong!" cried out Miss Blanche, forthe floor reeked with the recent scrubbing, and the goddess did notlike the smell of brown soap. And as they passed up the stairs, agentleman by the name of Costigan, who happened to be swaggering aboutthe court, and gave a very knowing look with his "oi" under Blanche'sbonnet, remarked to himself, "That's a devilish foine gyurll, bedad,goan up to Sthrong and Altamont: they're always having foine gyurllsup their stairs."

"Halloo—hwhat's that?" he presently said, looking up at the windows:from which some piercing shrieks issued.

At the sound of the voice of a distressed female the intrepid Cosrushed up the stairs as fast as his old legs would carry him, beingnearly overthrown by Strong's servant, who was descending the stair.Cos found the outer door of Strong's chambers opened, and began tothunder at the knocker. After many and fierce knocks, the inner doorwas partially unclosed, and Strong's head appeared.

"It's oi, me boy. Hwhat's that noise, Sthrong?" asked Costigan.

"Go to the d—" was the only answer, and the door was shut on Cos'svenerable red nose, and he went down stairs muttering threats at theindignity offered to him, and vowing that he would have satisfaction.In the meanwhile the reader, more lucky than Captain Costigan, willhave the privilege of being made acquainted with the secret which waswithheld from that officer.

It has been said of how generous a disposition Mr. Altamont was, andwhen he was well supplied with funds, how liberally he spent them. Ofa hospitable turn, he had no greater pleasure than drinking in companywith other people; so that there was no man more welcome at Greenwichand Richmond than the Emissary of the Nawaub of Lucknow.

Now it chanced that on the day when Blanche and Mrs. Bonner ascendedthe staircase to Strong's room in Shepherd's Inn, the colonel hadinvited Miss Delaval of the——Theatre Royal, and her mother, Mrs.Hodge, to a little party down the river, and it had been agreed thatthey were to meet at Chambers, and thence walk down to a port in theneighboring Strand to take water. So that when Mrs. Bonner and MesLarmes came to the door, where Grady, Altamont's servant, wasstanding, the domestic said, "Walk in, ladies," with the utmostaffability, and led them into the room, which was arranged as if theyhad been expected there. Indeed, two bouquets of flowers, bought atCovent Garden that morning, and instances of the tender gallantry ofAltamont, were awaiting his guests upon the table. Blanche smelt atthe bouquet, and put her pretty little dainty nose into it, andtripped about the room, and looked behind the curtains, and at thebooks and prints, and at the plan of Clavering estate hanging up onthe wall; and had asked the servant for Captain Strong, and had almostforgotten his existence and the errand about which she had come,namely, to visit Fanny Bolton; so pleased was she with the newadventure, and the odd, strange, delightful, droll little idea ofbeing in a bachelor's chambers in a queer old place in the city!

Grady meanwhile, with a pair of ample varnished boots, haddisappeared into his master's room. Blanche had hardly the leisureto remark how big the boots were, and how unlike Mr. Strong's.

"The women's come," said Grady, helping his master to the boots.

"Did you ask 'em if they would take a glass of any thing?" asked
Altamont.

Grady came out—"He says, will you take any thing to drink?" thedomestic asked of them; at which Blanche, amused with the artlessquestion, broke out into a pretty little laugh, and asked of Mrs.Bonner, "Shall we take any thing to drink?"

"Well, you may take it or lave it," said Mr. Grady, who thought hisoffer slighted, and did not like the contemptuous manners of thenewcomers, and so left them.

"Will we take any thing to drink?" Blanche asked again: and againbegan to laugh.

"Grady," bawled out a voice from the chamber within:—a voice thatmade Mrs. Bonner start.

Grady did not answer: his song was heard from afar off, from thekitchen, his upper room, where Grady was singing at his work.

"Grady, my coat!" again roared the voice from within.

"Why, that is not Mr. Strong's voice," said the Sylphide, still halflaughing. "Grady my coat!—Bonner, who is Grady my coat? We oughtto go away."

Bonner still looked quite puzzled at the sound of the voice which shehad heard.

The bedroom door here opened and the individual who had called out
"Grady, my coat," appeared without the garment in question.

He nodded to the women, and walked across the room. "I beg yourpardon, ladies. Grady, bring my coat down, sir! Well, my dears, it's afine day, and we'll have a jolly lark at——"

He said no more; for here Mrs. Bonner, who had been looking at himwith scared eyes, suddenly shrieked out, "Amory! Amory!" and fell backscreaming and fainting in her chair.

The man, so apostrophized, looked at the woman an instant, and,rushing up to Blanche, seized her and kissed her. "Yes, Betsy," hesaid, "by G—it is me. Mary Bonner knew me. What a fine gal we'vegrown! But it's a secret, mind. I'm dead, though I'm your father. Yourpoor mother don't know it. What a pretty gal we've grown! Kissme—kiss me close, my Betsy! D—it, I love you: I'm your old father."

Betsy or Blanche looked quite bewildered, and began to scream too—once, twice, thrice; and it was her piercing shrieks which CaptainCostigan heard as he walked the court below.

At the sound of these shrieks the perplexed parent clasped his hands(his wristbands were open, and on one brawny arm you could see letterstattooed in blue), and, rushing to his apartment, came back with aneau de Cologne bottle from his grand silver dressing-case, with thefragrant contents of which he began liberally to sprinkle Bonnerand Blanche.

The screams of these women brought the other occupants of the chamberinto the room: Grady from his kitchen, and Strong from his apartmentin the upper story. The latter at once saw from the aspect of the twowomen what had occurred.

"Grady, go and wait in the court," he said, "and if any body comes—you understand me."

"Is it the play-actress and her mother?" said Grady.

"Yes—confound you—say that there's nobody in Chambers, and theparty's off for to-day."

"Shall I say that, sir? and after I bought them bokays?" asked Gradyof his master.

"Yes," said Amory, with a stamp of his foot; and Strong going to thedoor, too, reached it just in time to prevent the entrance of CaptainCostigan, who had mounted the stair.

The ladies from the theatre did not have their treat to Greenwich, nordid Blanche pay her visit to Fanny Bolton on that day. And Cos, whotook occasion majestically to inquire of Grady what the mischief was,and who was crying?—had for answer that 'twas a woman, another ofthem, and that they were, in Grady's opinion, the cause of 'most allthe mischief in the world.

IN WHICH PEN BEGINS TO DOUBT ABOUT HIS ELECTION.

[Illustration]

While Pen, in his own county, was thus carrying on his selfish plansand parliamentary schemes, news came to him that Lady Rockminster hadarrived at Baymouth, and had brought with her our friend Laura. At theannouncement that Laura his sister was near him, Pen felt ratherguilty. His wish was to stand higher in her esteem, perhaps, than inthat of any other person in the world. She was his mother's legacy tohim. He was to be her patron and protector in some sort. How would shebrave the news which he had to tell her; and how should he explain theplans which he was meditating? He felt as if neither he nor Blanchecould bear Laura's dazzling glance of calm scrutiny, and as if hewould not dare to disclose his worldly hopes and ambitions to thatspotless judge. At her arrival at Baymouth, he wrote a letter thitherwhich contained a great number of fine phrases and protests ofaffection, and a great deal of easy satire and raillery; in the midstof all which Mr. Pen could not help feeling that he was in a panic,and that he was acting like a rogue and hypocrite.

How was it that a single country-girl should be the object of fear andtrembling to such an accomplished gentleman as Mr. Pen? His worldlytactics and diplomacy, his satire and knowledge of the world, couldnot bear the test of her purity, he felt somehow. And he had to own tohimself that his affairs were in such a position, that he could nottell the truth to that honest soul. As he rode from Clavering toBaymouth he felt as guilty as a school-boy, who doesn't know hislesson and is about to face the awful master. For is not truth themaster always, and does she not have the power and hold the book?

Under the charge of her kind, though somewhat wayward and absolute,patroness, Lady Rockminster, Laura had seen somewhat of the world inthe last year, had gathered some accomplishments, and profited by thelessons of society. Many a girl who had been accustomed to that toogreat tenderness in which Laura's early life had been passed, wouldhave been unfitted for the changed existence which she now had tolead. Helen worshiped her two children, and thought, as home-bredwomen will, that all the world was made for them, or to be consideredafter them. She tended Laura with a watchfulness of affection whichnever left her. If she had a headache, the widow was as alarmed as ifthere had never been an aching head before in the world. She slept andwoke, read, and moved under her mother's fond superintendence, whichwas now withdrawn from her, along with the tender creature whoseanxious heart would beat no more. And painful moments of grief anddepression no doubt Laura had, when she stood in the great carelessworld alone. Nobody heeded her griefs or her solitude. She was notquite the equal, in social rank, of the lady whose companion she was,or of the friends and relatives of the imperious, but kindold dowager.

Some, very likely, bore her no good-will—some, perhaps, slighted her:it might have been that servants were occasionally rude; theirmistress certainly was often. Laura not seldom found herself in familymeetings, the confidence and familiarity of which she felt wereinterrupted by her intrusion; and her sensitiveness of course waswounded at the idea that she should give or feel this annoyance. Howmany governesses are there in the world, thought cheerful Laura—howmany ladies, whose necessities make them slaves and companions byprofession! What bad tempers and coarse unkindness have not these toencounter! How infinitely better my lot is with these really kind andaffectionate people than that of thousands of unprotected girls! Itwas with this cordial spirit that our young lady adapted herself toher new position; and went in advance of her fortune with atrustful smile.

Did you ever know a person who met Fortune in that way, whom thegoddess did not regard kindly? Are not even bad people won by aconstant cheerfulness and a pure and affectionate heart? When thebabes in the wood, in the ballad, looked up fondly and trustfully atthose notorious rogues whom their uncle had set to make away with thelittle folks, we all know how one of the rascals relented, and madeaway with the other—not having the heart to be unkind to so muchinnocence and beauty. Oh happy they who have that virgin, loving trustand sweet smiling confidence in the world, and fear no evil becausethey think none! Miss Laura Bell was one of these fortunate persons;and besides the gentle widow's little cross, which, as we have seen,Pen gave her, had such a sparkling and brilliant koh-i-noor in herbosom, as is even more precious than that famous jewel; for it notonly fetches a price, and is retained by its owner in another worldwhere diamonds are stated to be of no value, but here, too, is ofinestimable worth to its possessor; is a talisman against evil, andlightens up the darkness of life, like Cogia Hassan's famous stone.

So that before Miss Bell had been a year in Lady Rockminster's house,there was not a single person in it whose love she had not won by theuse of this talisman. From the old lady to the lowest dependent of herbounty, Laura had secured the good-will and kindness of every body.With a mistress of such a temper, my lady's woman (who had endured hermistress for forty years, and had been clawed and scolded and jibedevery day and night in that space of time), could not be expected tohave a good temper of her own; and was at first angry against MissLaura, as she had been against her ladyship's fifteen precedingcompanions. But when Laura was ill at Paris, this old woman nursed herin spite of her mistress, who was afraid of catching the fever, andabsolutely fought for her medicine with Martha from Fairoaks, nowadvanced to be Miss Laura's own maid. As she was recovering, Grandjeanthe chef wanted to kill her by the numbers of delicacies which hedressed for her, and wept when she ate her first slice of chicken. TheSwiss major-domo of the house celebrated Miss Bell's praises in almostevery European language, which he spoke with indifferentincorrectness; the coachman was happy to drive her out; the page criedwhen he heard she was ill; and Calverley and Coldstream (those twofootmen, so large, so calm ordinarily, and so difficult to move),broke out into extraordinary hilarity at the news of herconvalescence, and intoxicated the page at a wine shop, to feteLaura's recovery. Even Lady Diana Pynsent (our former acquaintance Mr.Pynsent had married by this time), Lady Diana, who had had aconsiderable dislike to Laura for some time, was so enthusiastic as tosay that she thought Miss Bell was a very agreeable person, and thatgrandmamma had found a great trouvaille in her. All this good-willand kindness Laura had acquired, not by any arts, not by any flattery,but by the simple force of good-nature, and by the blessed gift ofpleasing and being pleased.

On the one or two occasions when he had seen Lady Rockminster, the oldlady, who did not admire him, had been very pitiless and abrupt withour young friend, and perhaps Pen expected when he came to Baymouth tofind Laura installed in her house in the quality of humble companion,and treated no better than himself. When she heard of his arrival shecame running down stairs, and I am not sure that she did not embracehim in the presence of Calverley and Coldstream: not that thosegentleman ever told: if the fractus orbis had come to a smash, ifLaura, instead of kissing Pen, had taken her scissors and snipped offhis head—Calverly and Coldstream would have looked on impavidly,without allowing a grain of powder to be disturbed by the calamity.

Laura had so much improved in health and looks that Pen could not butadmire her. The frank and kind eyes which met his, beamed with goodhealth; the cheek which he kissed blushed with beauty. As he looked ather, artless and graceful, pure and candid, he thought he had neverseen her so beautiful. Why should he remark her beauty now so much,and remark too to himself that he had not remarked it sooner? He tookher fair trustful hand and kissed it fondly: he looked in her brightclear eyes, and read in them that kindling welcome which he was alwayssure to find there. He was affected and touched by the tender tone andthe pure sparkling glance; their innocence smote him somehow andmoved him.

"How good you are to me, Laura—sister!" said Pen, "I don't deservethat you should—that you should be so kind to me."

"Mamma left you to me," she said, stooping down and brushing hisforehead with her lips hastily. "You know you were to come to me whenyou were in trouble, or to tell me when you were very happy: that wasour compact, Arthur, last year, before we parted. Are you very happynow, or are you in trouble, which is it?" and she looked at him withan arch glance of kindness. "Do you like going into Parliament? Do youintend to distinguish yourself there? How I shall tremble for yourfirst speech!"

"Do you know about the Parliament plan, then?" Pen asked.

"Know?—all the world knows! I have heard it talked about many times.
Lady Rockminster's doctor talked about it to-day. I daresay it will be
in the Chatteris paper to-morrow. It is all over the county that Sir
Francis Clavering, of Clavering, is going to retire, in behalf of Mr.
Arthur Pendennis, of Fairoaks; and that the young and beautiful Miss
Blanche Amory is—"

"What! that too?" asked Pendennis.

"That, too, dear Arthur. Tout se sait, as somebody would say, whom Iintend to be very fond of; and who I am sure is very clever andpretty. I have had a letter from Blanche. The kindest of letters. Shespeaks so warmly of you, Arthur! I hope—I know she feels what shewrites. When is it to be, Arthur? Why did you not tell me? I may comeand live with you then, mayn't I?"

"My home is yours, dear Laura, and every thing I have," Pen said. "IfI did not tell you, it was because—because—I do not know: nothing isdecided as yet. No words have passed between us. But you think Blanchecould be happy with me—don't you? Not a romantic fondness, you know.I have no heart, I think; I've told her so: only a sober-sidedattachment: and want my wife on one side of the fire and my sister onthe other, Parliament in the session and Fairoaks in the holidays, andmy Laura never to leave me until somebody who has a right comes totake her away."

Somebody who has a right—somebody with a right! Why did Pen as helooked at the girl and slowly uttered the words, begin to feel angryand jealous of the invisible somebody with the right to take her away?Anxious, but a minute ago, how she would take the news regarding hisprobable arrangements with Blanche, Pen was hurt somehow that shereceived the intelligence so easily, and took his happinessfor granted.

"Until somebody comes," Laura said, with a laugh, "I will stay at homeand be aunt Laura, and take care of the children when Blanche is inthe world. I have arranged it all. I am an excellent house-keeper. Doyou know I have been to market at Paris with Mrs. Beck, and have takensome lessons from M. Grandjean. And I have had some lessons in Parisin singing too, with the money which you sent me, you kind boy: and Ican sing much better now: and I have learned to dance, though not sowell as Blanche, and when you become a minister of state, Blancheshall present me:" and with this, and with a provoking good-humor, sheperformed for him the last Parisian courtesy.

Lady Rockminster came in while this courtesy was being performed, andgave to Arthur one finger to shake; which he took, and over which hebowed as well as he could, which, in truth, was very clumsily.

"So you are going to be married, sir," said the old lady.

"Scold him, Lady Rockminster, for not telling us," Laura said, goingaway: which, in truth, the old lady began instantly to do. "So you aregoing to marry, and to go into Parliament in place of thatgood-for-nothing Sir Francis Clavering. I wanted him to give mygrandson his seat—why did he not give my grandson his seat? I hopeyou are to have a great deal of money with Miss Amory. I wouldn'ttake her without a great deal."

"Sir Francis Clavering is tired of Parliament," Pen said, wincing,"and—and I rather wish to attempt that career. The rest of the storyis at least premature."

"I wonder, when you had Laura at home, you could take up with such anaffected little creature as that," the old lady continued.

"I am very sorry Miss Amory does not please your ladyship," said Pen,smiling.

"You mean—that it is no affair of mine, and that I am not going tomarry her. Well I'm not, and I'm very glad I am not—a little odiousthing—when I think that a man could prefer her to my Laura, I've nopatience with him, and so I tell you, Mr. Arthur Pendennis."

"I am very glad you see Laura with such favorable eyes," Pen said.

"You are very glad, and you are very sorry. What does it matter, sir,whether you are very glad or very sorry? A young man who prefers MissAmory to Miss Bell has no business to be sorry or glad. A young manwho takes up with such a crooked lump of affectation as that littleAmory—for she is crooked, I tell you she is—after seeing my Laura,has no right to hold up his head again. Where is your friendBluebeard? The tall young man, I mean—Warrington, isn't his name? Whydoes he not come down, and marry Laura? What do the young men mean bynot marrying such a girl as that? They all marry for money now. Youare all selfish and cowards. We ran away with each other and madefoolish matches in my time. I have no patience with the young men!When I was at Paris in the winter, I asked all the three attaches atthe Embassy why they did not fall in love with Miss Bell? Theylaughed—they said they wanted money. You are all selfish—you areall cowards."

"I hope before you offered Miss Bell to the attaches," said Pen, withsome heat, "you did her the favor to consult her?"

"Miss Bell has only a little money. Miss Bell must marry soon.Somebody must make a match for her, sir; and a girl can't offerherself," said the old dowager, with great state. "Laura, my dear,I've been telling your cousin that all the young men are selfish; andthat there is not a pennyworth of romance left among them. He is asbad as the rest."

"Have you been asking Arthur why he won't marry me?" said Laura, witha kindling smile, coming back and taking her cousin's hand. (She hadbeen away, perhaps, to hide some traces of emotion, which she did notwish others to see). "He is going to marry somebody else; and I intendto be very fond of her, and to go and live with them, provided he thendoes not ask every bachelor who comes to his house, why he does notmarry me?"

* * * * *

The terrors of Pen's conscience being thus appeased, and hisexamination before Laura over without any reproaches on the part ofthe latter, Pen began to find that his duty and inclination led himconstantly to Baymouth, where Lady Rockminster informed him that aplace was always reserved for him at her table. "And I recommend youto come often," the old lady said, "for Grandjean is an excellentcook, and to be with Laura and me will do your manners good. It iseasy to see that you are always thinking about yourself. Don't blushand stammer—almost all young men are always thinking aboutthemselves. My sons and grandsons always were until I cured them. Comehere, and let us teach you to behave properly; you will not have tocarve, that is done at the side-table. Hecker will give you as muchwine as is good for you; and on days when you are very good andamusing you shall have some Champagne. Hecker, mind what I say, Mr.Pendennis is Miss Laura's brother; and you will make him comfortable,and see that he does not have too much wine, or disturb me while I amtaking my nap after dinner. You are selfish; I intend to cure you ofbeing selfish. You will dine here when you have no other engagements;and if it rains you had better put up at the hotel." As long as thegood lady could order every body round about her, she was not hard toplease; and all the slaves and subjects of her little dowager courttrembled before her, but loved her.

She did not receive a very numerous or brilliant society. The doctor,of course, was admitted as a constant and faithful visitor; the vicarand his curate; and on public days the vicar's wife and daughters, andsome of the season visitors at Baymouth were received at the oldlady's entertainments: but generally the company was a small one, andMr. Arthur drank his wine by himself, when Lady Rockminster retired totake her doze, and to be played and sung to sleep by Lauraafter dinner.

"If my music can give her a nap," said the good-natured girl, "ought Inot to be very glad that I can do so much good? Lady Rockminstersleeps very little of nights: and I used to read to her until I fellill at Paris, since when she will not hear of my sitting up."

"Why did you not write to me when you were ill?" asked Pen, with ablush.

"What good could you do me? I had Martha to nurse me; and the doctorevery day. You are too busy to write to women or to think about them.You have your books and your newspapers, and your politics and yourrailroads to occupy you. I wrote when I was well."

And Pen looked at her, and blushed again, as he remembered that,during all the time of her illness, he had never written to her, andhad scarcely thought about her.

In consequence of his relationship, Pen was free to walk and ride withhis cousin constantly, and in the course of those walks and rides,could appreciate the sweet frankness of her disposition, and thetruth, simplicity, and kindliness, of her fair and spotless heart. Intheir mother's life-time, she had never spoken so openly or socordially as now. The desire of poor Helen to make an union betweenher two children, had caused a reserve on Laura's part toward Pen; forwhich, under the altered circ*mstances of Arthur's life, there was nowno necessity. He was engaged to another woman; and Laura became hissister at once—hiding, or banishing from herself, any doubts whichshe might have as to his choice; striving to look cheerfully forward,and hope for his prosperity; promising herself to do all thataffection might do to make her mother's darling happy.

Their talk was often about the departed mother. And it was from athousand stories which Laura told him that Arthur was made aware howconstant and absorbing that silent maternal devotion had been, whichhad accompanied him, present and absent, through life, and had onlyended with the fond widow's last breath. One day the people inClavering saw a lad in charge of a couple of horses at thechurch-yard-gate: and it was told over the place that Pen and Laurahad visited Helen's grave together. Since Arthur had come down intothe country, he had been there once or twice: but the sight of thesacred stone had brought no consolation to him. A guilty man doing aguilty deed: a mere speculator, content to lay down his faith andhonor for a fortune and a worldly career; and owning that his life wasbut a contemptible surrender—what right had he in the holy place?what booted it to him in the world he lived in, that others were nobetter than himself? Arthur and Laura rode by the gates of Fairoaks;and he shook hands with his tenant's children, playing on the lawn andthe terrace—Laura looked steadily at the cottage wall, at the creeperon the porch and the magnolia growing up to her window. "Mr. Pendennisrode by to-day," one of the boys told his mother, "with a lady, and hestopped and talked to us, and he asked for a bit of honeysuckle offthe porch, and gave it the lady. I couldn't see if she was pretty; shehad her veil down. She was riding one of Cramp's horses, out ofBaymouth."

As they rode over the downs between home and Baymouth, Pen did notspeak much, though they rode very close together. He was thinking whata mockery life was, and how men refuse happiness when they may haveit; or, having it, kick it down; or barter it, with their eyes open,for a little worthless money or beggarly honor. And then thethought came, what does it matter for the little space? The lives ofthe best and purest of us are consumed in a vain desire, and end in adisappointment: as the dear soul's who sleeps in her grave yonder. Shehad her selfish ambition, as much as Caesar had; and died, balked ofher life's longing. The stone covers over our hopes and our memories.Our place knows us not. "Other people's children are playing on thegrass," he broke out, in a hard voice, "where you and I used to play,Laura. And you see how the magnolia we planted has grown up since ourtime. I have been round to one or two of the cottages where my motherused to visit. It is scarcely more than a year that she is gone, andthe people whom she used to benefit care no more for her death thanfor Queen Anne's. We are all selfish: the world is selfish: there arebut a few exceptions, like you, my dear, to shine like good deeds in anaughty world, and make the blackness more dismal."

"I wish you would not speak in that way, Arthur," said Laura, lookingdown and bending her head to the honeysuckle on her breast. "When youtold the little boy to give me this, you were not selfish."

"A pretty sacrifice I made to get it for you!" said the sneerer.

"But your heart was kind and full of love when you did so. One can notask for more than love and kindness; and if you think humbly ofyourself, Arthur, the love and kindness are not diminished—are they?I often thought our dearest mother spoiled you at home, by worshipingyou; and that if you are—I hate the word—what you say, her too greatfondness helped to make you so. And as for the world, when men go outinto it, I suppose they can not be otherwise than selfish. You have tofight for yourself, and to get on for yourself, and to make a name foryourself. Mamma and your uncle both encouraged you in this ambition.If it is a vain thing, why pursue it? I suppose such a clever man asyou intend to do a great deal of good to the country, by going intoParliament, or you would not wish to be there. What are you going todo when you are in the House of Commons?"

"Women don't understand about politics, my dear," Pen said, sneeringat himself as he spoke.

"But why don't you make us understand? I could never tell about Mr.Pynsent why he should like to be there so much. He is not aclever man—"

"He certainly is not a genius, Pynsent," said Pen.

"Lady Diana says that he attends Committees all day; that then againhe is at the House all night; that he always votes as he is told; thathe never speaks; that he will never get on beyond a subordinate place,and as his grandmother tells him, he is choked with red-tape. Are yougoing to follow the same career, Arthur? What is there in it sobrilliant that you should be so eager for it? I would rather that youshould stop at home, and write books—good books, kind books, withgentle kind thoughts, such as you have, dear Arthur, and such as mightdo people good to read. And if you do not win fame, what then? You ownit is vanity, and you can live very happily without it. I must notpretend to advise; but I take you at your own word about the world;and as you own it is wicked, and that it tires you, ask you why youdon't leave it?"

"And what would you have me do?" asked Arthur.

"I would have you bring your wife to Fairoaks to live there, andstudy, and do good round about you. I would like to see your ownchildren playing on the lawn, Arthur, and that we might pray in ourmother's church again once more, dear brother. If the world is atemptation, are we not told to pray that we may not be led into it?"

"Do you think Blanche would make a good wife for a petty countrygentleman? Do you think I should become the character very well,Laura?" Pen asked. "Remember temptation walks about the hedgerows aswell as the city streets: and idleness is the greatest tempterof all."

"What does—does Mr. Warrington say?" said Laura, as a blush mountedup to her cheek, and of which Pen saw the fervor, though Laura's veilfell over her face to hide it.

Pen rode on by Laura's side silently for a while. George's name, somentioned, brought back the past to him, and the thoughts which he hadonce had regarding George and Laura. Why should the recurrence of thethought agitate him, now that he knew the union was impossible? Whyshould he be curious to know if, during the months of their intimacy,Laura had felt a regard for Warrington? From that day until thepresent time George had never alluded to his story, and Arthurremembered now that since then George had scarcely ever mentionedLaura's name.

At last he came close to her. "Tell me something, Laura," he said.

She put back her veil and looked at him. "What is it, Arthur?" sheasked—though from the tremor of her voice she guessed very well.

"Tell me—but for George's misfortune—I never knew him speak of itbefore or since that day—would you—would you have given him—whatyou refused me?"

"Yes, Pen," she said, bursting into tears.

"He deserved you better than I did," poor Arthur groaned forth, withan indescribable pang at his heart. "I am but a selfish wretch, andGeorge is better, nobler, truer, than I am. God bless him!"

"Yes, Pen," said Laura, reaching out her hand to her cousin, and heput his arm round her, and for a moment she sobbed on his shoulder.

The gentle girl had had her secret, and told it. In the widow's lastjourney from Fairoaks, when hastening with her mother to Arthur's sickbed, Laura had made a different confession; and it was only whenWarrington told his own story, and described the hopeless condition ofhis life, that she discovered how much her feelings had changed, andwith what tender sympathy, with what great respect, delight, andadmiration she had grown to regard her cousin's friend. Until she knewthat some plans she might have dreamed of were impossible, and thatWarrington reading in her heart, perhaps, had told his melancholystory to warn her, she had not asked herself whether it was possiblethat her affections could change; and had been shocked and scared bythe discovery of the truth. How should she have told it to Helen, andconfessed her shame? Poor Laura felt guilty before her friend, withthe secret which she dared not confide to her; felt as if she had beenungrateful for Helen's love and regard; felt as if she had beenwickedly faithless to Pen in withdrawing that love from him which hedid not even care to accept; humbled even and repentant beforeWarrington, lest she should have encouraged him by undue sympathy, orshown the preference which she began to feel.

The catastrophe which broke up Laura's home, and the grief and anguishwhich she felt for her mother's death, gave her little leisure forthoughts more selfish; and by the time she rallied from that grief theminor was also almost cured. It was but for a moment that she hadindulged a hope about Warrington. Her admiration and respect for himremained as strong as ever. But the tender feeling with which she knewshe had regarded him, was schooled into such calmness, that it may besaid to have been dead and passed away. The pang which it left behindwas one of humility and remorse. "O how wicked and proud I was aboutArthur," she thought, "how self-confident and unforgiving! I neverforgave from my heart this poor girl, who was fond of him, or him forencouraging her love; and I have been more guilty than she, poor,little artless creature! I, professing to love one man, could listento another only too eagerly; and would not pardon the change offeelings in Arthur, while I myself was changing and unfaithful." Andso humiliating herself, and acknowledging her weakness, the poor girlsought for strength and refuge in the manner in which she had beenaccustomed to look for them.

She had done no wrong: but there are some folks who suffer for a faultever so trifling as much as others whose stout consciences can walkunder crimes of almost any weight; and poor Laura chose to fancy thatshe had acted in this delicate juncture of her life as a very greatcriminal. She determined that she had done Pen a great injury bywithdrawing that love which, privately in her mother's hearing, shehad bestowed upon him; that she had been ungrateful to her deadbenefactress by ever allowing herself to think of another or ofviolating her promise; and that, considering her own enormous crimes,she ought to be very gentle in judging those of others, whosetemptations were much greater, very likely; and whose motives shecould not understand.

A year back Laura would have been indignant at the idea that Arthurshould marry Blanche: and her high spirit would have risen, as shethought that from worldly motives he should stoop to one so unworthy.Now when the news was brought to her of such a chance (theintelligence was given to her by old Lady Rockminster, whose speecheswere as direct and rapid as a slap on the face), the humbled girlwinced a little at the blow, but bore it meekly, and with a desperateacquiescence. "He has a right to marry, he knows a great deal more ofthe world than I do," she argued with herself. "Blanche may not be solight-minded as she seemed, and who am I to be her judge? I daresay itis very good that Arthur should go into Parliament and distinguishhimself, and my duty is to do every thing that lies in my power to aidhim and Blanche, and to make his home happy. I daresay I shall livewith them. If I am godmother to one of their children, I will leaveher my three thousand pounds!" And forthwith she began to think whatshe could give Blanche out of her small treasures, and how best toconciliate her affection. She wrote her forthwith a kind letter, inwhich, of course, no mention was made of the plans in contemplation,but in which Laura recalled old times, and spoke her good-will, and inreply to this she received an eager answer from Blanche: in which nota word about marriage was said, to be sure, but Mr. Pendennis wasmentioned two or three times in the letter, and they were to behenceforth, dearest Laura, and dearest Blanche, and loving sisters,and so forth.

When Pen and Laura reached home, after Laura's confession (Pen's nobleacknowledgment of his own inferiority, and generous expression of lovefor Warrington, causing the girl's heart to throb, and renderingdoubly keen those tears which she sobbed on his shoulder), a littleslim letter was awaiting Miss Bell in the hall, which she trembledrather guiltily as she unsealed, and which Pen blushed as herecognized; for he saw instantly that it was from Blanche.

Laura opened it hastily, and cast her eyes quickly over it, as Penkept his fixed on her, blushing.

"She dates from London," Laura said. "She has been with old Bonner,
Lady Clavering's maid. Bonner is going to marry Lightfoot the butler.
Where do you think Blanche has been?" she cried out eagerly.

"To Paris, to Scotland, to the Casino?"

"To Shepherd's Inn, to see Fanny; but Fanny wasn't there, and Blancheis going to leave a present for her. Isn't it kind of her andthoughtful?" And she handed the letter to Pen who read—

"'I saw Madame Mère who was scrubbing the room, and looked at me withvery scrubby looks; but la belle Fanny was not au logis; and asI heard that she was in Captain Strong's apartments, Bonner and Imounted au troisième to see this famous beauty. Anotherdisappointment—only the Chevalier Strong and a friend of his in theroom: so we came away, after all, without seeing the enchanting Fanny.

"'Je t'envoie mille et mille baisers. When will that horridcanvassing be over? Sleeves are worn, &c. &c. &c.'"

After dinner the doctor was reading the Times, "A young gentleman Iattended when he was here some eight or nine years ago, has come intoa fine fortune," the doctor said. "I see here announced the death ofJohn Henry Foker, Esq., of Logwood Hall, at Pau, in the Pyrenees, onthe 15th ult."

IN WHICH THE MAJOR IS BIDDEN TO STAND AND DELIVER.

[Illustration]

Any gentleman who has frequented the Wheel of Fortune public-house,where it may be remembered that Mr. James Morgan's Club was held, andwhere Sir Francis Clavering had an interview with Major Pendennis, isaware that there are three rooms for guests upon the ground floor,besides the bar where the landlady sits. One is a parlor frequented bythe public at large; to another room gentlemen in livery resort; andthe third apartment, on the door of which "Private" is painted, isthat hired by the Club of "The Confidentials," of which Messrs. Morganand Lightfoot were members.

The noiseless Morgan had listened to the conversation between Strongand Major Pendennis at the latter's own lodgings, and had carried awayfrom it matter for much private speculation; and a desire of knowledgehad led him to follow his master when the major came to the Wheel ofFortune, and to take his place quietly in the confidential room, whilePendennis and Clavering had their discourse in the parlor. There was aparticular corner in the confidential room from which you could hearalmost all that passed in the next apartment; and as the conversationbetween the two gentlemen there was rather angry, and carried on in ahigh key, Morgan had the benefit of overhearing almost the whole ofit: and what he heard, strengthened the conclusions which his mind hadpreviously formed.

"He knew Altamont at once, did he, when he saw him in Sidney?Clavering ain't no more married to my lady than I am! Altamont's theman: Altamont's a convick; young Harthur comes into Parlyment, and theGov'nor promises not to split. By Jove, what a sly old rogue it is,that old Gov'nor! No wonder he's anxious to make the match betweenBlanche and Harthur; why, she'll have a hundred thousand if she's apenny, and bring her man a seat in Parlyment into the bargain." Nobodysaw, but a physiognomist would have liked to behold, the expression ofMr. Morgan's countenance, when this astounding intelligence was madeclear to him. "But for my hage, and the confounded prejudices ofsociety," he said, surveying himself in the glass, "dammy, JamesMorgan, you might marry her yourself," But if he could not marry MissBlanche and her fortune, Morgan thought he could mend his own by thepossession of this information, and that it might be productive ofbenefit to him from very many sources. Of all the persons whom thesecret affected, the greater number would not like to have it known.For instance, Sir Francis Clavering, whose fortune it involved, wouldwish to keep it quiet; Colonel Altamont, whose neck it implicated,would naturally be desirous to hush it; and that young hupstart beast,Mr. Harthur, who was for gettin' into Parlyment on the strenth of it,and was as proud as if he was a duke with half a million a year (such,we grieve to say, was Morgan's opinion of his employer's nephew),would pay any think sooner than let the world know that he was marriedto a convick's daughter, and had got his seat in Parlyment bytrafficking with this secret. As for Lady C., Morgan thought, if she'stired of Clavering, and wants to get rid of him, she'll pay: if she'sfrightened about her son, and fond of the little beggar, she'll payall the same: and Miss Blanche will certainly come down handsome tothe man who will put her into her rights, which she was unjustlydefrauded of them, and no mistake. "Dammy," concluded the valet,reflecting upon this wonderful hand which luck had given him to play,"with such cards as these, James Morgan, you are a made man. It may bea reg'lar enewity to me. Every one of 'em must susscribe. And withwhat I've made already, I may cut business, give my old Gov'norwarning, turn gentleman, and have a servant of my own, begad."Entertaining himself with calculations such as these, that were not alittle likely to perturb a man's spirit, Mr. Morgan showed a verygreat degree of self-command by appearing and being calm, and by notallowing his future prospects in any way to interfere with hispresent duties.

One of the persons whom the story chiefly concerned, Colonel Altamont,was absent from London, when Morgan was thus made acquainted with hishistory. The valet knew of Sir Francis Clavering's Shepherd's Innhaunt, and walked thither an hour or two after the baronet andPendennis had had their conversation together. But that bird wasflown; Colonel Altamont had received his Derby winnings and was goneto the Continent. The fact of his absence was exceedingly vexatious toMr. Morgan. "He'll drop all that money at the gambling-shops on theRhind," thought Morgan, "and I might have had a good bit of it. It'sconfounded annoying to think he's gone and couldn't have waited a fewdays longer." Hope, triumphant or deferred, ambition ordisappointment, victory or patient ambush, Morgan bore all alike, withsimilar equable countenance. Until the proper day came, the major'sboots were varnished and his hair was curled, his early cup of tea wasbrought to his bedside, his oaths, rebukes, and senile satire borne,with silent, obsequious fidelity. Who would think, to see him waitingupon his master, packing and shouldering his trunks, and occasionallyassisting at table, at the country-houses where he might be staying,that Morgan was richer than his employer, and knew his secrets andother people's? In the profession Mr. Morgan was greatly respected andadmired, and his reputation for wealth and wisdom got him much renownat most supper-tables: the younger gentlemen voted him stoopid, afeller of no idears, and a fogey, in a word: but not one of them wouldnot say amen to the heartfelt prayer which some of the mostserious-minded among the gentlemen uttered, "When I die may I cut upas well as Morgan Pendennis!"

As became a man of fashion, Major Pendennis spent the autumn passingfrom house to house of such country friends as were at home to receivehim, and if the duke happened to be abroad, or the marquis inScotland, condescending to sojourn with Sir John or the plain squire.To say the truth, the old gentleman's reputation was somewhat on thewane: many of the men of his time had died out, and the occupants oftheir halls and the present wearers of their titles knew not MajorPendennis: and little cared for his traditions "of the wild Prince andPoyns," and of the heroes of fashion passed away. It must have struckthe good man with melancholy as he walked by many a London door, tothink how seldom it was now opened for him, and how often he used toknock at it—to what banquets and welcome he used to pass throughit—a score of years back. He began to own that he was no longer ofthe present age, and dimly to apprehend that the young men laughed athim. Such melancholy musings must come across many a Pall Mallphilosopher. The men, thinks he, are not such as they used to be inhis time: the old grand manner and courtly grace of life are gone:what is Castlewood House and the present Castlewood, compared to themagnificence of the old mansion and owner? The late lord came toLondon with four post-chaises and sixteen horses: all the North Roadhurried out to look at his cavalcade: the people in London streetseven stopped as his procession passed them. The present lord travelswith five bagmen in a railway carriage, and sneaks away from thestation, smoking a cigar in a brougham. The late lord in autumn filledCastlewood with company, who drank claret till midnight: the presentman buries himself in a hut on a Scotch mountain, and passes Novemberin two or three closets in an entresol at Paris, where his amusem*ntsare a dinner at a café and a box at a little theatre. What a contrastthere is between his Lady Lorraine, the Regent's Lady Lorraine, andher little ladyship of the present era! He figures to himself thefirst, beautiful, gorgeous, magnificent in diamonds and velvets,daring in rouge, the wits of the world (the old wits, the old polishedgentlemen—not the canaille of to-day with their language of thecab-stand, and their coats smelling of smoke) bowing at her feet; andthen thinks of to-day's Lady Lorraine—a little woman in a black silkgown, like a governess, who talks astronomy, and laboring classes, andemigration, and the deuce knows what, and lurks to church at eighto'clock in the morning. Abbots-Lorraine, that used to be the noblesthouse in the county, is turned into a monastery—a regular La Trappe.They don't drink two glasses of wine after dinner, and every other manat table is a country curate, with a white neckcloth, whose talk isabout Polly Higson's progress at school, or widow Watkins's lumbago."And the other young men, those lounging guardsmen and great lazydandies—sprawling over sofas and billiard-tables, and stealing offto smoke pipes in each other's bedrooms, caring for nothing,reverencing nothing, not even an old gentleman who has known theirfathers and their betters, not even a pretty woman—what a differencethere is between these men who poison the very turnips andstubble-fields with their tobacco, and the gentlemen of our time!"thinks the major; "the breed is gone—there's no use for 'em; they'rereplaced by a parcel of damned cotton-spinners and utilitarians, andyoung sprigs of parsons with their hair combed down their backs. I'mgetting old: they're getting past me: they laugh at us old boys,"thought old Pendennis. And he was not far wrong; the times and mannerswhich he admired were pretty nearly gone—the gay young men 'larked'him irreverently, while the serious youth had a grave pity and wonderat him, which would have been even more painful to bear, had the oldgentleman been aware of its extent. But he was rather simple: hisexamination of moral questions had never been very deep; it had neverstruck him perhaps, until very lately, that he was otherwise than amost respectable and rather fortunate man. Is there no old age but hiswithout reverence? Did youthful folly never jeer at other bald pates?For the past two or three years, he had begun to perceive that his daywas well nigh over, and that the men of the new time had begunto reign.

After a rather unsuccessful autumn season, then, during which he wasfaithfully followed by Mr. Morgan, his nephew Arthur being engaged, aswe have seen, at Clavering, it happened that Major Pendennis came backfor awhile to London, at the dismal end of October, when the fogs andthe lawyers come to town. Who has not looked with interest at thoseloaded cabs, piled boxes, and crowded children, rattling through thestreets on the dun October evenings; stopping at the dark houses,where they discharge nurse and infant, girls, matron, and father,whose holidays are over? Yesterday it was France and sunshine, orBroadstairs and liberty; to-day comes work and a yellow fog; and, yegods! what a heap of bills there lies in master's study. And the clerkhas brought the lawyer's papers from Chambers; and in half an hour theliterary man knows that the printer's boy will be in the passage; andMr. Smith with that little account (that particular little account)has called presentient of your arrival, and has left word that he willcall to-morrow morning at ten. Who among us has not said good-by tohis holiday; returned to dun London, and his fate; surveyed his laborsand liabilities laid out before him, and been aware of that inevitablelittle account to settle? Smith and his little account, in themorning, symbolize duty, difficulty, struggle, which you will meet,let us hope, friend, with a manly and honest heart. And you think ofhim, as the children are slumbering once more in their own beds, andthe watchful housewife tenderly pretends to sleep.

Old Pendennis had no special labors or bills to encounter on themorrow, as he had no affection at home to soothe him. He had alwaysmoney in his desk sufficient for his wants; and being by nature andhabit tolerably indifferent to the wants of other people, these latterwere not likely to disturb him. But a gentleman may be out of temperthough he does not owe a shilling: and though he may be ever soselfish, he must occasionally feel dispirited and lonely. He had hadtwo or three twinges of gout in the country-house where he had beenstaying: the birds were wild and shy, and the walking over the plowedfields had fatigued him deucedly: the young men had laughed at him,and he had been peevish at table once or twice: he had not been ableto get his whist of an evening: and, in fine, was glad to come away.In all his dealings with Morgan, his valet, he had been exceedinglysulky and discontented. He had sworn at him and abused him for manydays past. He had scalded his mouth with bad soup at Swindon. He hadleft his umbrella in the rail-road carriage: at which piece offorgetfulness, he was in such a rage, that he cursed Morgan morefreely than ever. Both the chimneys smoked furiously in his lodgings;and when he caused the windows to be flung open, he swore soacrimoniously, that Morgan was inclined to fling him out of window,too, through that opened casem*nt. The valet swore after his master,as Pendennis went down the street on his way to the Club.

Bays's was not at all pleasant. The house had been new painted, andsmelt of varnish and turpentine, and a large streak of white paintinflicted itself on the back of the old boy's fur-collared surtout.The dinner was not good: and the three most odious men in all London—old Hawkshaw, whose cough and accompaniments are fit to make any manuncomfortable; old Colonel Gripley, who seizes on all the newspapers;and that irreclaimable old bore Jawkins, who would come and dine atthe next table to Pendennis, and describe to him every inn-bill whichhe had paid in his foreign tour: each and all of these disagreeablepersonages and incidents had contributed to make Major Pendennismiserable; and the Club waiter trod on his toe as he brought him hiscoffee. Never alone appear the Immortals. The Furies always hunt incompany: they pursued Pendennis from home to the Club, and from theClub home.

While the major was absent from his lodgings, Morgan had been seatedin the landlady's parlor, drinking freely of hot brandy-and-water,and pouring out on Mrs. Brixham some of the abuse which he hadreceived from his master up-stairs. Mrs. Brixham was Morgan's slave.He was his landlady's landlord. He had bought the lease of the housewhich she rented; he had got her name and her son's to acceptances,and a bill of sale which made him master of the luckless widow'sfurniture. The young Brixham was a clerk in an insurance office, andMorgan could put him into what he called quod any day. Mrs. Brixhamwas a clergyman's widow, and Mr. Morgan, after performing his dutieson the first floor, had a pleasure in making the old lady fetch himhis boot-jack and his slippers. She was his slave. The little blackprofiles of her son and daughter; the very picture of Tiddlecotchurch, where she was married, and her poor dear Brixham lived anddied, was now Morgan's property, as it hung there over themantle-piece of his back-parlor. Morgan sate in the widow's back-room,in the ex-curate's old horse-hair study-chair, making Mrs. Brixhambring supper for him, and fill his glass again and again.

The liquor was bought with the poor woman's own coin, and hence Morganindulged in it only the more freely; and he had eaten his supper andwas drinking a third tumbler, when old Pendennis returned from theClub, and went up-stairs to his rooms. Mr. Morgan swore very savagelyat him and his bell, when he heard the latter, and finished histumbler of brandy before he went up to answer the summons.

He received the abuse consequent on this delay in silence, nor did themajor condescend to read in the flushed face and glaring eyes of theman, the anger under which he was laboring. The old gentleman'sfoot-bath was at the fire; his gown and slippers awaiting him there.Morgan knelt down to take his boots off with due subordination: and asthe major abused him from above, kept up a growl of maledictions belowat his feet. Thus, when Pendennis was crying "Confound you, sir; mindthat strap—curse you, don't wrench my foot off," Morgan sotto vocebelow was expressing a wish to strangle him, drown him, and punchhis head off.

The boots removed, it became necessary to divest Mr. Pendennis of hiscoat: and for this purpose the valet had necessarily to approach verynear to his employer; so near that Pendennis could not but perceivewhat Mr. Morgan's late occupation had been; to which he adverted inthat simple and forcible phraseology which men are sometimes in thehabit of using to their domestics; informing Morgan that he was adrunken beast, and that he smelt of brandy.

At this the man broke out, losing patience, and flinging up allsubordination? "I'm drunk, am I? I'm a beast, am I? I'm d——d, am I?you infernal old miscreant. Shall I wring your old head off, anddrownd yer in that pail of water? Do you think I'm a-goin' to bearyour confounded old harrogance, you old Wigsby! Chatter your oldhivories at me, do you, you grinning old baboon! Come on, if you are aman, and can stand to a man. Ha! you coward, knives, knives!"

"If you advance a step, I'll send it into you," said the major,seizing up a knife that was on the table near him. "Go down stairs,you drunken brute, and leave the house; send for your book and yourwages in the morning, and never let me see your insolent face again.This d——d impertinence of yours has been growing for some monthspast. You have been growing too rich. You are not fit for service. Getout of it, and out of the house."

"And where would you wish me to go, pray, out of the ouse?" asked theman, "and won't it be equal convenient to-morrow mornin'?—tooty-faymame shose, sivvaplay, munseer?"

"Silence, you beast, and go!" cried out the major.

[Illustration]

Morgan began to laugh, with rather a sinister laugh. "Look yere,Pendennis," he said, seating himself; "since I've been in this roomyou've called me beast, brute, dog: and d——d me, haven't you? How doyou suppose one man likes that sort of talk from another? How manyyears have I waited on you, and how many damns and cusses have yougiven me, along with my wages? Do you think a man's a dog, that youcan talk to him in this way? If I choose to drink a little, whyshouldn't I? I've seen many a gentleman drunk formly, and peraps havethe abit from them. I ain't a-goin' to leave this house, old feller,and shall I tell you why? The house is my house, every stick offurnitur' in it is mine, excep' your old traps, and yourshower-bath, and your wig-box. I've bought the place, I tell you, withmy own industry and perseverance. I can show a hundred pound, whereyou can show a fifty, or your damned supersellious nephew either. I'veserved you honorable, done every thing for you these dozen years, andI'm a dog, am I? I'm a beast, am I? That's the language for gentlemen,not for our rank. But I'll bear it no more. I throw up your service;I'm tired on it; I've combed your old wig and buckled your old girthsand waistbands long enough, I tell you. Don't look savage at me, I'msitting in my own chair, in my own room, a-telling the truth toyou. I'll be your beast, and your brute, and your dog, no more, MajorPendennis AlfPay."

The fury of the old gentleman, met by the servant's abrupt revolt, hadbeen shocked and cooled by the concussion, as much as if a suddenshower-bath or a pail of cold water had been flung upon him. Thateffect produced, and his anger calmed, Morgan's speech had interestedhim, and he rather respected his adversary, and his courage in facinghim, as of old days, in the fencing-room, he would have admired theopponent who hit him.

"You are no longer my servant," the major said, "and the house may beyours; but the lodgings are mine, and you will have the goodness toleave them. To-morrow morning, when we have settled our accounts, Ishall remove into other quarters. In the mean time, I desire to go tobed, and have not the slightest wish for your farther company."

"We'll have a settlement, don't you be afraid," Morgan said, gettingup from his chair. "I ain't done with you yet; nor with your family,nor with the Clavering family, Major Pendennis; and that youshall know."

"Have the goodness to leave the room, sir;—I'm tired," said themajor.

"Hah! you'll be more tired of me afore you've done," answered the man,with a sneer, and walked out of the room; leaving the major to composehimself, as best he might, after the agitation of this extraordinaryscene.

He sate and mused by his fire-side over the past events, and theconfounded impudence and ingratitude of servants; and thought how heshould get a new man: how devilish unpleasant it was for a man of hisage, and with his habits, to part with a fellow to whom he had beenaccustomed: how Morgan had a receipt for boot-varnish, which wasincomparably better and more comfortable to the feet than any he hadever tried; how very well he made mutton-broth, and tended him when hewas unwell. "Gad, it's a hard thine: to lose a fellow of that sort:but he must go," thought the major. "He has grown rich, and impudentsince he has grown rich. He was horribly tipsy and abusive tonight. Wemust part, and I must go out of the lodgings. Dammy, I like thelodgings; I'm used to 'em. It's very unpleasant, at my time of life,to change my quarters." And so on, mused the old gentleman. Theshower-bath had done him good: the testiness was gone: the loss of theumbrella, the smell of paint at the Club, were forgotten under thesuperior excitement. "Confound the insolent villain!" thought the oldgentleman. "He understood my wants to a nicety: he was the bestservant in England." He thought about his servant as a man thinks of ahorse that has carried him long and well, and that has come down withhim, and is safe no longer. How the deuce to replace him? Where can heget such another animal?

In these melancholy cogitations the major, who had donned his owndressing gown and replaced his head of hair (a little gray had beenintroduced into the coiffure of late by Mr. Truefitt, which hadgiven the major's head the most artless and respectable appearance);in these cogitations, we say, the major, who had taken off his wig andput on his night-handkerchief, sate absorbed by the fire-side, when afeeble knock came at his door, which was presently opened by thelandlady of the lodgings.

"God bless my soul, Mrs. Brixham!" cried out the major, startled thata lady should behold him in the simple appareil of his night-toilet."It—it's very late, Mrs. Brixham."

[Illustration]

"I wish I might speak to you, sir," said the landlady, very piteously."About Morgan, I suppose? He has cooled himself at the pump. Can'ttake him back, Mrs. Brixham. Impossible. I'd determined to part withhim before, when I heard of his dealings in the discount business—Isuppose you've heard of them, Mrs. Brixham? My servant's acapitalist, begad."

"O sir," said Mrs. Brixham, "I know it to my cost. I borrowed from hima little money five years ago; and though I have paid him many timesover, I am entirely in his power. I am ruined by him, sir. Every thingI had is his. He's a dreadful man." "Eh, Mrs. Brixham? tantpis—dev'lish sorry for you, and that I must quit your house afterlodging here so long: there's no help for it. I must go."

"He says we must all go, sir," sobbed out the luckless widow. "He camedown stairs from you just now—he had been drinking, and it alwaysmakes him very wicked—and he said that you had insulted him, sir, andtreated him like a dog, and spoken to him unkindly; and he swore hewould be revenged, and—and I owe him a hundred and twenty pounds,sir—and he has a bill of sale of all my furniture—and says he willturn me out of my house, and send my poor George to prison. He hasbeen the ruin of my family, that man."

"Dev'lish sorry, Mrs. Brixham; pray take a chair. What can I do?"

"Could you not intercede with him for us? George will give half hisallowance; my daughter can send something. If you will but stay on,sir, and pay a quarter's rent in advance—"

"My good madam, I would as soon give you a quarter in advance as not,if I were going to stay in the lodgings. But I can't; and I can'tafford to fling away twenty pounds, my good madam. I'm a poor half-payofficer, and want every shilling I have, begad. As far as a few poundsgoes—say five pounds—I don't say—and shall be most happy, and thatsort of thing: and I'll give it you in the morning with pleasure:but—but it's getting late, and I have made a railroad journey."

"God's will be done, sir," said the poor woman, drying her tears. "Imust bear my fate."

"And a dev'lish hard one it is, and most sincerely I pity you, Mrs.
Brixham. I—I'll say ten pounds, if you will permit me. Good night."

"Mr. Morgan, sir, when he came down stairs, and when—when I besoughthim to have pity on me, and told him he had been the ruin of myfamily, said something which I did not well understand—that he wouldruin every family in the house—that he knew something would bring youdown too—and that you should pay him for your—your insolence to him.I—I must own to you, that I went down on my knees to him, sir; and hesaid, with a dreadful oath against you, that he would have you onyour knees."

"Me?—by Gad, that is too pleasant! Where is the confounded fellow?"

"He went away, sir. He said he should see you in the morning. O, praytry and pacify him, and save me and my poor boy." And the widow wentaway with this prayer, to pass her night as she might, and look forthe dreadful morrow.

The last words about himself excited Major Pendennis so much, that hiscompassion for Mrs. Brixham's misfortunes was quite forgotten in theconsideration of his own case.

"Me on my knees?" thought he, as he got into bed: "confound hisimpudence. Who ever saw me on my knees? What the devil does the fellowknow? Gad, I've not had an affair these twenty years. I defy him." Andthe old campaigner turned round and slept pretty sound, being ratherexcited and amused by the events of the day—the last day inBury-street, he was determined it should be. "For it's impossible tostay on with a valet over me and a bankrupt landlady. What good can Ido this poor devil of a woman? I'll give her twenty pound—there'sWarrington's twenty pound, which he has just paid—but what's theuse? She'll want more, and more, and more, and that cormorant Morganwill swallow all. No, dammy, I can't afford to know poor people; andto-morrow I'll say good-by—to Mrs. Brixham and Mr. Morgan."

IN WHICH THE MAJOR NEITHER YIELDS HIS MONEY NOR HIS LIFE.

[Illustration]

Early next morning Pendennis's shutters were opened by Morgan, whoappeared as usual, with a face perfectly grave and respectful, bearingwith him the old gentleman's clothes, cans of water, and elaboratetoilet requisites.

"It's you, is it?" said the old fellow from his bed. "I shan't takeyou back again, you understand."

"I ave not the least wish to be took back agin, Major Pendennis," Mr.Morgan said, with grave dignity, "nor to serve you nor hany man. Butas I wish you to be comftable as long as you stay in my house, I cameup to do what's nessary." And once more, and for the last time, Mr.James Morgan laid out the silver dressing-case, and strapped theshining razor.

These offices concluded, he addressed himself to the major with anindescribable solemnity, and said: "Thinkin' that you would mostlikely be in want of a respectable pusson, until you suited yourself,I spoke to a young man last night, who is 'ere."

"Indeed," said the warrior in the tent-bed.

"He ave lived in the fust families, and I can vouch for hisrespectability."

"You are monstrous polite," grinned the old major. And the truth isthat after the occurrences of the previous evening, Morgan had goneout to his own Club at the Wheel of Fortune, and there finding Frosch,a courier and valet just returned from a foreign tour with young LordCubley, and for the present disposable, had represented to Mr.Frosch, that he, Morgan, had "a devil of a blow hup with his ownGov'ner and was goin' to retire from the business haltogether, andthat if Frosch wanted a tempory job, he might probbly have it byapplying in Bury street."

"You are very polite," said the major, "and your recommendation, I amsure, will have every weight."

Morgan blushed, he felt his master was "a-chaffin' of him." "The manhave waited on you before, sir," he said with great dignity. "Lord Dela Pole, sir, gave him to his nephew young Lord Cubley, and he havebeen with him on his foring tour, and not wishing to go to FitzurseCastle, which Frosch's chest is delicate, and he can not bear the coldin Scotland, he is free to serve you or not, as you choose."

"I repeat, sir, that you are exceedingly polite," said the major."Come in, Frosch—you will do very well—Mr. Morgan, will you have thegreat kindness to—"

"I shall show him what is nessary, sir, and what is customry for youto wish to ave done. Will you please to take breakfast 'ere or at theClub, Major Pendennis?"

"With your kind permission, I will breakfast here, and afterward wewill make our little arrangements."

"If you please, sir."

"Will you now oblige me by leaving the room?"

Morgan withdrew; the excessive politeness of his ex-employer made himalmost as angry as the major's bitterest words. And while the oldgentleman is making his mysterious toilet, we will alsomodestly retire.

After breakfast, Major Pendennis and his new aid-de-camp occupiedthemselves in preparing for their departure. The establishment of theold bachelor was not very complicated. He encumbered himself with nouseless wardrobe. A Bible (his mother's), a road-book, Pen's novel(calf elegant), and the Duke of Wellington's Dispatches, with a fewprints, maps, and portraits of that illustrious general, and ofvarious sovereigns and consorts of this country, and of the generalunder whom Major Pendennis had served in India, formed his literaryand artistical collection; he was always ready to march at a fewhours' notice, and the cases in which he had brought his property intohis lodgings some fifteen years before, were still in the lofts amplysufficient to receive all his goods. These, the young woman who didthe work of the house, and who was known by the name of Betty to hermistress, and of 'Slavey' to Mr. Morgan, brought down from theirresting place, and obediently dusted and cleaned under the eyes of theterrible Morgan. His demeanor was guarded and solemn; he had spoken noword as yet to Mrs. Brixham respecting his threats of the past night,but he looked as if he would execute them, and the poor widowtremblingly awaited her fate.

Old Pendennis, armed with his cane, superintended the package of hisgoods and chattels under the hands of Mr. Frosch, and the Slaveyburned such of his papers as he did not care to keep; flung opendoors and closets until they were all empty; and now all boxes andchests were closed, except his desk, which was ready to receive thefinal accounts of Mr. Morgan.

That individual now made his appearance, and brought his books. "As Iwish to speak to you in privick, peraps you will ave the kindness torequest Frosch to step down stairs," he said, on entering.

"Bring a couple of cabs, Frosch, if you please—and wait down stairsuntil I ring for you," said the major. Morgan saw Frosch down stairs,watched him go along the street upon his errand and produced his booksand accounts, which were simple and very easily settled.

"And now, sir," said he, having pocketed the check which hisex-employer gave him, and signed his name to his book with a flourish,"and now that accounts is closed between us, sir," he said, "I porposeto speak to you as one man to another" (Morgan liked the sound of hisown voice; and, as an individual, indulged in public speaking wheneverhe could get an opportunity, at the Club, or the housekeeper's room),"and I must tell you, that I'm in possussion of certinginformation."

"And may I inquire of what nature, pray?" asked the major.

"It's valuble information, Major Pendennis, as you know very well Iknow of a marriage as is no marriage—of a honorable baronet as is nomore married than I am; and which his wife is married to somebodyelse, as you know too, sir."

Pendennis at once understood all. "Ha! this accounts for yourbehavior. You have been listening at the door, sir, I suppose," saidthe major, looking very haughty; "I forgot to look at the key-holewhen I went to that public-house, or I might have suspected what sortof person was behind it."

"I may have my schemes as you may have yours, I suppose," answeredMorgan. "I may get my information, and I may act on that information,and I may find that information valuble as any body else may. A poorservant may have a bit of luck as well as a gentleman, mayn't he?Don't you be putting on your aughty looks, sir, and comin' thearistocrat over me. That's all gammon with me. I'm an Englishman, Iam, and as good as you."

"To what the devil does this tend, sir? and how does the secret whichyou have surprised concern me, I should like to know?" asked MajorPendennis, with great majesty.

"How does it concern me, indeed? how grand we are! how does it concernmy nephew, I wonder? How does it concern my nephew's seat inParlyment: and to subornation of bigamy? How does it concern that?What, are you to be the only man to have a secret, and to trade on it?Why shouldn't I go halves, Major Pendennis? I've found it out too.Look here! I ain't goin' to be unreasonable with you. Make it worth mywhile, and I'll keep the thing close. Let Mr. Arthur take his seat,and his rich wife, if you like; I don't want to marry her. But I willhave my share as sure as my name's James Morgan. And if I don't—"

"And if you don't, sir—what?" Pendennis asked. "If I don't, I split,and tell all. I smash Clavering, and have him and his wife up forbigamy—so help me, I will! I smash young Hopeful's marriage, and Ishow up you and him as makin' use of this secret, in order to squeezea seat in Parlyment out of Sir Francis, and a fortune out ofhis wife."

"Mr. Pendennis knows no more of this business than the babe unborn,sir," cried the major, aghast. "No more than Lady Clavering, than MissAmory does."

"Tell that to the marines, major," replied the valet; "that co*ck won'tfight with me."

"Do you doubt my word, you villain?"

"No bad language. I don't care one twopence'a'p'ny whether your word'strue or not. I tell you, I intend this to be a nice little annuity tome, major: for I have every one of you; and I ain't such a fool as tolet you go. I should say that you might make it five hundred a year tome among you, easy. Pay me down the first quarter now, and I'm as mumas a mouse. Just give me a note for one twenty-five. There's yourcheck-book on your desk."

"And there's this, too, you villain," cried the old gentleman. In thedesk to which the valet pointed was a little double-barreled pistol,which had belonged to Pendennis's old patron, the Indiancommander-in-chief, and which had accompanied him in many a campaign."One more word, you scoundrel, and I'll shoot you, like a mad dog.Stop—by Jove, I'll do it now. You'll assault me will you? You'llstrike at an old man, will you, you lying coward? Kneel down and sayyour prayers, sir, for by the Lord you shall die."

The major's face glared with rage at his adversary, who lookedterrified before him for a moment, and at the next, with a shriek of"Murder," sprang toward the open window, under which a policemanhappened to be on his beat. "Murder! Police!" bellowed Mr. Morgan. Tohis surprise, Major Pendennis wheeled away the table and walked to theother window, which was also open. He beckoned the policeman. "Come uphere, policeman," he said, and then went and placed himselfa*gainst the door.

"You miserable sneak," he said to Morgan; "the pistol hasn't beenloaded these fifteen years as you have known very well: if you had notbeen such a coward. That policeman is coming, and I will have him up,and have your trunks searched; I have reason to believe that you are athief, sir. I know you are. I'll swear to the things."

"You gave 'em to me—you gave 'em to me!" cried Morgan.

The major laughed. "We'll see," he said; and the guilty valetremembered some fine lawn-fronted shirts—a certain gold-headed cane—an opera-glass, which he had forgotten to bring down, and of which hehad assumed the use along with certain articles of his master'sclothes, which the old dandy neither wore nor asked for.

Policeman X entered; followed by the scared Mrs. Brixham and hermaid-of-all-work, who had been at the door and found somedifficulty in closing it against the street amateurs, who wished tosee the row. The major began instantly to speak.

"I have had occasion to discharge this drunken scoundrel," he said,"Both last night and this morning he insulted and assaulted me. I aman old man and took up a pistol. You see it is not loaded, and thiscoward cried out before he was hurt. I am glad you are come. I wascharging him with taking my property, and desired to examine histrunks and his room."

"The velvet cloak you ain't worn these three years, nor the weskits,and I thought I might take the shirts, and I—I take my hoath Iintended to put back the hopera-glass," roared Morgan, writhing withrage and terror.

"The man acknowledges that he is a thief," the major said, calmly, "Hehas been in my service for years, and I have treated him with everykindness and confidence. We will go up-stairs and examine his trunks."In those trunks Mr. Morgan had things which he would fain keep frompublic eyes. Mr. Morgan, the bill discounter, gave goods as well asmoney to his customers. He provided young spendthrifts withsnuff-boxes and pins and jewels and pictures and cigars, and of a verydoubtful quality those cigars and jewels and pictures were. Theirdisplay at a police-office, the discovery of his occult profession,and the exposure of the major's property, which he had appropriated,indeed, rather than stolen—would not have added to the reputation ofMr. Morgan. He looked a piteous image of terror and discomfiture.

"He'll smash me, will he?" thought the major. "I'll crush him now, andfinish with him."

But he paused. He looked at poor Mrs. Brixham's scared face; and hethought for a moment to himself that the man brought to bay and inprison might make disclosures which had best be kept secret, and thatit was best not to deal too fiercely with a desperate man.

"Stop," he said, "policeman. I'll speak with this man by himself." "Doyou give Mr. Morgan in charge?" said the policeman.

"I have brought no charge as yet," the major said, with a significantlook at his man.

"Thank you sir," whispered Morgan, very low.

"Go outside the door, and wait there, policeman, if you please—Now,Morgan, you have played one game with me, and you have not had thebest of it, my good man. No, begad, you've not had the best of it,though you had the best hand; and you've got to pay, too, now, youscoundrel."

"Yes, sir," said the man.

"I've only found out, within the last week, the game which you havebeen driving, you villain. Young De Boots, of the Blues, recognizedyou as the man who came to barracks, and did business one-third inmoney, one-third in Eau-de-Cologne, and one-third in French prints,you confounded demure old sinner! I didn't miss any thing, or care astraw what you'd taken, you booby; but I took the shot, and it hit—hitthe bull's-eye, begad. Dammy, sir, I'm an old campaigner." "What doyou want with me, sir?"

"I'll tell you. Your bills, I suppose, you keep about you in thatdem'd great leather pocket-book, don't you? You'll burn Mrs.Brixham's bill?"

"Sir, I ain't a-goin' to part with my property," growled the man.

"You lent her sixty pounds five years ago. She and that poor devil ofan insurance clerk, her son, have paid you fifty pounds a year eversince; and you have got a bill of sale of her furniture, and her noteof hand for a hundred and fifty pounds. She told me so last night. ByJove, sir, you've bled that poor woman enough."

"I won't give it up," said Morgan; "If I do I'm—"

"Policeman!" cried the major.

"You shall have the bill," said Morgan. "You're not going to takemoney of me, and you a gentleman?"

"I shall want you directly," said the major to X, who here entered,and who again withdrew.

"No, my good sir," the old gentleman continued; "I have not any desireto have farther pecuniary transactions with you; but we will draw outa little paper, which, you will have the kindness to sign. No,stop!—you shall write it: you have improved immensely in writing oflate, and have now a very good hand. You shall sit down and write, ifyou please—there, at that table—so—let me see—we may as well havethe date. Write 'Bury-street, St. James's, October 21, 18—.'"

And Morgan wrote as he was instructed, and as the pitiless old majorcontinued:

"I, James Morgan, having come in extreme poverty into the service ofArthur Pendennis, Esquire, of Bury-street, St. James's, a major in herMajesty's service, acknowledge that I received liberal wages and boardwages from my employer, during fifteen years. You can't object tothat, I am sure," said the major.

"During fifteen years," wrote Morgan.

"In which time, by my own care and prudence," the dictator resumed, "Ihave managed to amass sufficient money to purchase the house in whichmy master resides, and, besides, to effect other savings. Among otherpersons from whom I have had money, I may mention my present tenant,Mrs. Brixham, who, in consideration of sixty pounds advanced by mefive years since, has paid back to me the sum of two hundred and fiftypounds sterling, besides giving me a note of hand for one hundred andtwenty pounds, which I restore to her at the desire of my late master,Major Arthur Pendennis, and therewith free her furniture, of which Ihad a bill of sale. Have you written?"

"I think if this pistol was loaded, I'd blow your brains out," said
Morgan.

"No, you wouldn't. You have too great a respect for your valuablelife, my good man," the major answered. "Let us go on and begin anew sentence."

"And having, in return for my master's kindness, stolen his propertyfrom him, which I acknowledge to be now up-stairs in my trunks;and having uttered falsehoods regarding his and other honorablefamilies, I do hereby, in consideration of his clemency to me, expressmy regret for uttering these falsehoods, and for stealing hisproperty; and declare that I am not worthy of belief, and that Ihope—yes, begad—that I hope to amend for the future. Signed,James Morgan."

"I'm d—d if I sign it," said Morgan.

"My good man, it will happen to you, whether you sign or no, begad,"said the old fellow, chuckling at his own wit. "There, I shall not usethis, you understand, unless—unless I am compelled to do so. Mrs.Brixham, and our friend the policeman, will witness it, I dare say,without reading it: and I will give the old lady back her note ofhand, and say, which you will confirm, that she and you are quits. Isee there is Frosch come back with the cab for my trunks; I shall goto an hotel. You may come in now, policeman; Mr. Morgan and I havearranged our little dispute. If Mrs. Brixham will sign this paper, andyou, policeman, will do so, I shall be very much obliged to you both.Mrs. Brixham, you and your worthy landlord, Mr. Morgan, are quits. Iwish you joy of him. Let Frosch come and pack the rest of the things."

Frosch, aided by the Slavey, under the calm superintendence of Mr.Morgan, carried Major Pendennis's boxes to the cabs in waiting; andMrs. Brixham, when her persecutor was not by, came and asked aHeaven's blessing upon the major, her preserver, and the best andquietest and kindest of lodgers. And having given her a finger toshake, which the humble lady received with a courtesy, and over whichshe was ready to make a speech full of tears, the major cut short thatvaledictory oration, and walked out of the house to the hotel inJermyn street, which was not many steps from Morgan's door.

That individual, looking forth from the parlor-window, discharged anything but blessings at his parting guest; but the stout old boy couldafford not to be frightened at Mr. Morgan, and flung him a look ofgreat contempt and humor as he strutted away with his cane.

Major Pendennis had not quitted his house of Bury street many hours,and Mr. Morgan was enjoying his otium, in a dignified manner,surveying the evening fog, and smoking a cigar, on the doorsteps, whenArthur Pendennis, Esq., the hero of this history, made his appearanceat the well-known door.

"My uncle out, I suppose, Morgan?" he said to the functionary; knowingfull well that to smoke was treason, in the presence of the major.

"Major Pendennis _i_s hout, sir," said Morgan, with gravity, bowing,but not touching the elegant cap which he wore. "Major Pendennis haveleft this ouse to-day, sir, and I have no longer the honor of being inhis service, sir."

"Indeed, and where is he?"

"I believe he ave taken tempory lodgings at Cox's otel, in Jumminstreet," said Mr. Morgan; and added, after a pause, "Are you intown for some time, pray, sir? Are you in Chambers? I should like tohave the honor of waiting on you there: and would be thankful if youwould favor me with a quarter of an hour."

"Do you want my uncle to take you back?" asked Arthur, insolent andgood-natured.

"I want no such thing; I'd see him—" the man glared at him for aminute, but he stopped. "No, sir, thank you," he said in a softervoice; "it's only with you that I wish to speak, on some businesswhich concerns you; and perhaps you would favor me by walking intomy house."

"If it is but for a minute or two, I will listen to you, Morgan," saidArthur; and thought to himself, "I suppose the fellow wants me topatronize him;" and he entered the house. A card was already in thefront windows, proclaiming that apartments were to be let, and havingintroduced Mr. Pendennis into the dining-room, and offered him achair, Mr. Morgan took one himself, and proceeded to convey someinformation to him, with which the reader has already hadcognizance.

IN WHICH PENDENNIS COUNTS HIS EGGS.

[Illustration]

Our friend had arrived in London on that day only,though but for a brief visit, and having left some fellow-travelers atan hotel to which he had conveyed them from the West, he hastened tothe Chambers in Lamb-court, which were basking in as much sun as choseto visit that dreary but not altogether comfortless building. Freedomstands in lieu of sunshine in Chambers; and Templars grumble, but taketheir ease in their Inn. Pen's domestic announced to him thatWarrington was in Chambers too, and, of course, Arthur ran up to hisfriend's room straightway, and found it, as of old, perfumed with thepipe, and George once more at work at his newspapers and reviews. Thepair greeted each other with the rough cordiality which youngEnglishmen use one to another: and which carries a great deal ofwarmth and kindness under its rude exterior. Warrington smiled andtook his pipe out of his mouth, and said, "Well, young one!" Penadvanced and held out his hand, and said, "How are you, old boy?" Andso this greeting passed between two friends who had not seen eachother for months. Alphonse and Frederic would have rushed into eachother's arms and shrieked Ce bon coeur! ce cher Alphonse! over eachother's shoulders. Max and Wilhelm would have bestowed half a dozenkisses, scented with Havanna, upon each other's mustaches. "Well,young one!" "How are you, old boy?" is what two Britons say: aftersaving each other's lives, possibly, the day before. To-morrow theywill leave off shaking hands, and only wag their heads at one anotheras they come to breakfast. Each has for the other the very warmestconfidence and regard: each would share his purse with the other; andhearing him attacked would break out in the loudest and mostenthusiastic praise of his friend; but they part with a mere Good-by,they meet with a mere How-d'you-do: and they don't write to each otherin the interval. Curious modesty, strange stoical decorum of Englishfriendship! "Yes, we are not demonstrative like those confoundedforeigners," says Hardman; who not only shows no friendship, butnever felt any all his life long.

"Been in Switzerland?" says Pen. "Yes," says Warrington. "Couldn'tfind a bit of tobacco fit to smoke till we came to Strasburg, where Igot some caporal." The man's mind is full, very likely, of the greatsights which he has seen, of the great emotions with which the vastworks of nature have inspired it. But his enthusiasm is too coy toshow itself, even to his closest friend, and he veils it with a cloudof tobacco. He will speak more fully of confidential evenings,however, and write ardently and frankly about that which he is shy ofsaying. The thoughts and experience of his travel will come forth inhis writings; as the learning, which he never displays in talk,enriches his style with pregnant allusion and brilliant illustration,colors his generous eloquence, and points his wit.

The elder gives a rapid account of the places which he has visited inhis tour. He has seen Switzerland, North Italy, and the Tyrol—he hascome home by Vienna, and Dresden, and the Rhine. He speaks about theseplaces in a shy, sulky voice, as if he had rather not mention them atall, and as if the sight of them had rendered him very unhappy. Theoutline of the elder man's tour thus gloomily sketched out, the youngone begins to speak. He has been in the country—very muchbored—canvassing—uncommonly slow—he is here for a day or two, andgoing on to—to the neighborhood of Tunbridge Wells, to somefriends—that will be uncommonly slow, too. How hard it is to make anEnglishman acknowledge that he is happy!

"And the seat in Parliament, Pen? Have you made it all right?" asks
Warrington.

"All right—as soon as Parliament meets and a new writ can be issued,
Clavering retires, and I step into his shoes," says Pen.

"And under which king does Bezonian speak or die?" asked Warrington."Do we come out as Liberal Conservative, or as Government man, or onour own hook?"

"Hem! There are no politics now; every man's politics, at least, arepretty much the same. I have not got acres enough to make me aProtectionist; nor could I be one, I think, if I had all the land inthe county. I shall go pretty much with Government, and in advance ofthem upon some social questions which I have been getting up duringthe vacation; don't grin, you old Cynic, I have been getting up theBlue Books, and intend to come out rather strong on the Sanitary andColonization questions."

"We reserve to ourselves the liberty of voting againstGovernment, though, we are generally friendly. We are, however,friends of the people avant tout. We give lectures at the ClaveringInstitute, and shake hands with the intelligent mechanics. We thinkthe franchise ought to be very considerably enlarged; at the same timewe are free to accept office some day, when the House has listened toa few crack speeches from us, and the Administration perceivesour merit."

"I am not Moses," said Pen, with, as usual, somewhat of melancholy inhis voice. "I have no laws from Heaven to bring down to the peoplefrom the mountain. I don't belong to the mountain at all, or set up tobe a leader and reformer of mankind. My faith is not strong enough forthat; nor my vanity, nor my hypocrisy, great enough. I will tell nolies, George, that I promise you: and do no more than coincide inthose which are necessary and pass current, and can't be got inwithout recalling the whole circulation. Give a man at least theadvantage of his skeptical turn. If I find a good thing to say in theHouse, I will say it; a good measure, I will support it; a fair place,I will take it, and be glad of my luck. But I would no more flatter agreat man than a mob; and now you know as much about my politics as Ido. What call have I to be a Whig? Whiggism is not a divineinstitution. Why not vote with the Liberal Conservatives? They havedone for the nation what the Whigs would never have done without them.Who converted both?—the Radicals and the country outside. I think theMorning Post is often right, and Punch is often wrong. I don'tprofess a call, but take advantage of a chance. Parlonsd'autre chose."

"The next thing at your heart, after ambition, is love, I suppose?"Warrington said. "How have our young loves prospered? Are we going tochange our condition, and give up our chambers? Are you going todivorce me, Arthur, and take unto yourself a wife?"

"I suppose so. She is very good-natured and lively. She sings, and shedon't mind smoking. She'll have a fair fortune—I don't know howmuch—but my uncle augurs every thing from the Begum's generosity, andsays that she will come down very handsomely. And I think Blanche isdevilish fond of me," said Arthur, with a sigh.

"That means that we accept her caresses and her money."

"Haven't we said before that life was a transaction?" Pendennis said."I don't pretend to break my heart about her. I have told her prettyfairly what my feelings are—and—and have engaged myself to her. Andsince I saw her last, and for the last two months especially, while Ihave been in the country, I think she has been growing fonder andfonder of me; and her letters to me, and especially to Laura, seem toshow it. Mine have been simple enough—no raptures nor vows, youunderstand—but looking upon the thing as an affaire faite; and notdesirous to hasten or defer the completion."

"And Laura? how is she?" Warrington asked frankly.

"Laura, George," said Pen, looking his friend hard in the face; "byHeaven, Laura is the best, and noblest, and dearest girl the sun evershone upon." His own voice fell as he spoke: it seemed as if hecould hardly utter the words: he stretched out his hand to hiscomrade, who took it and nodded his head.

"Have you only found out that now, young un?" Warrington said after apause.

"Who has not learned things too late, George?" cried Arthur, in hisimpetuous way, gathering words and emotion as he went on. "Whose lifeis not a disappointment? Who carries his heart entire to the gravewithout a mutilation? I never knew any body who was happy quite: orwho has not had to ransom himself out of the hands of Fate with thepayment of some dearest treasure or other. Lucky if we are left aloneafterward, when we have paid our fine, and if the tyrant visits us nomore. Suppose I have found out that I have lost the greatest prize inthe world, now that it can't be mine—that for years I had an angelunder my tent, and let her go?—am I the only one—ah, dear old boy,am I the only one? And do you think my lot is easier to bear because Iown that I deserve if? She's gone from us. God's blessing be with her!She might have staid, and I lost her; it's like Undine: isn'tit, George?"

"She was in this room once," said George.

He saw her there—he heard the sweet low voice—he saw the sweet smileand eyes shining so kindly—the face remembered so fondly—thought ofin what night-watches—blest and loved always—gone now! A glass thathad held a nosegay—a Bible with Helen's hand-writing—were all thatwere left him of that brief flower of his life. Say it is a dream: sayit passes: better the recollection of a dream than an aimless wakingfrom a blank stupor.

The two friends sate in silence awhile, each occupied with his ownthoughts and aware of the other's. Pen broke it presently, by sayingthat he must go and seek for his uncle, and report progress to the oldgentleman. The major had written in a very bad humor; the major wasgetting old. "I should like to see you in Parliament, and snuglysettled with a comfortable house and an heir to the name before I makemy bow. Show me these," the major wrote, "and then, let old ArthurPendennis make room for the younger fellows: he has walked the PallMall pavé long enough."

"There is a kindness about the old heathen," said Warrington. "Hecares for somebody besides himself, at least for some other part ofhimself besides that which is buttoned into his own coat;—for you andyour race. He would like to see the progeny of the Pendennisesmultiplying and increasing, and hopes that they may inherit the land.The old patriarch blesses you from the Club window of Bays's, and iscarried off and buried under the flags of St. James's Church, in sightof Piccadilly, and the cab-stand, and the carriages going to thelevee. It is an edifying ending."

"The new blood I bring into the family," mused Pen, "is rathertainted. If I had chosen, I think my father-in-law, Amory, would nothave been the progenitor I should have desired for my race; nor mygrandfather-in-law Snell; nor our Oriental ancestors. By the way, whowas Amory? Amory was lieutenant of an Indiaman. Blanche wrote someverses about him, about the storm, the mountain wave, the seaman'sgrave, the gallant father, and that sort of thing. Amory was drownedcommanding a country ship between Calcutta and Sydney; Amory and theBegum weren't happy together. She has been unlucky in her selection ofhusbands, the good old lady, for, between ourselves, a more despicablecreature than Sir Francis Clavering, of Clavering Park, Baronet,never—" "Never legislated for his country," broke in Warrington; atwhich Pen blushed rather.

"By the way, at Baden," said Warrington, "I found our friend theChevalier Strong in great state, and wearing his orders. He told methat he had quarreled with Clavering, of whom he seemed to have almostas bad an opinion as you have, and in fact, I think, though I will notbe certain, confided to me his opinion, that Clavering was an utterscoundrel. That fellow Bloundell, who taught you card-playing atOxbridge, was with Strong; and time, I think, has brought out hisvaluable qualities, and rendered him a more accomplished rascal thanhe was during your undergraduateship. But the king of the place wasthe famous Colonel Altamont, who was carrying all before him, givingfetes to the whole society, and breaking the bank, it was said."

"My uncle knows something about that fellow—Clavering knows somethingabout him. There's something louche regarding him. But come! I mustgo to Bury-street, like a dutiful nephew." And, taking his hat, Penprepared to go.

"I will walk, too," said Warrington. And they descended the stairs,stopping, however, at Pen's chambers, which, as the reader has beeninformed, were now on the lower story.

Here Pen began sprinkling himself with Eau-de-Cologne, and carefullyscenting his hair and whiskers with that odoriferous water.

"What is the matter? You've not been smoking. Is it my pipe that haspoisoned you?" growled Warrington.

"I am going to call upon some women," said Pen. "I'm—I'm going todine with 'em. They are passing through town, and are at an hotel inJermyn-street."

Warrington looked with good-natured interest at the young fellowdandifying himself up to a pitch of completeness; and appearing atlength in a gorgeous shirt-front and neckcloth, fresh gloves, andglistening boots. George had a pair of thick high-lows, and his oldshirt was torn about the breast, and ragged at the collar, where hisblue beard had worn it.

"Well, young un," said he, simply, "I like you to be a buck, somehow.When I walk about with you, it is as if I had a rose in mybutton-hole. And you are still affable. I don't think there is anyyoung fellow in the Temple turns out like you; and I don't believe youwere ever ashamed of walking with me yet."

"Don't laugh at me, George," said Pen.

"I say, Pen," continued the other, sadly, "if you write—if you writeto Laura, I wish you would say 'God bless her' for me." Pen blushed;and then looked at Warrington; and then—and then burst into anuncontrollable fit of laughing.

"I'm going to dine with her," he said. "I brought her and LadyRockminster up from the country to-day—made two days of it—sleptlast night at Bath—I say, George, come and dine, too. I may ask anyone I please, and the old lady is constantly talking about you."

George refused. George had an article to write. George hesitated; andoh, strange to say! at last he agreed to go. It was agreed that theyshould go and call upon the ladies; and they marched away in highspirits to the hotel in Jermyn-street. Once more the dear face shoneupon him; once more the sweet voice spoke to him, and the tender handpressed a welcome.

There still wanted half-an-hour to dinner, "You will go and see youruncle now, Mr. Pendennis," old Lady Rockminster said. "You will notbring him to dinner—no—his old stories are intolerable; and I wantto talk to Mr. Warrington; I daresay he will amuse us. I think we haveheard all your stories. We have been together for two whole days, andI think we are getting tired of each other."

So obeying her ladyship's orders, Arthur went down stairs and walkedto his uncle's lodgings.

FIAT JUSTITIA.

[Illustration]

The dinner was served when Arthur returned, and LadyRockminster began to scold him for arriving late. But Laura, lookingat her cousin, saw that his face was so pale and scared, that sheinterrupted her imperious patroness; and asked, with tender alarm,what had happened? Was Arthur ill?

Arthur drank a large bumper of sherry. "I have heard the mostextraordinary news; I will tell you afterward," he said, looking atthe servants. He was very nervous and agitated during the dinner."Don't tramp and beat so with your feet under the table," LadyRockminster said. "You have trodden on Fido, and upset his saucer. Yousee Mr. Warrington keeps his boots quiet."

At the dessert—it seemed as if the unlucky dinner would never beover—Lady Rockminster said, "This dinner has been exceedingly stupid.I suppose something has happened, and that you want to speak to Laura.I will go and have my nap. I am not sure that I shall have anytea—no. Good night, Mr. Warrington. You must come again, and whenthere is no business to talk about." And the old lady, tossing up herhead, walked away from the room with great dignity.

George and the others had risen with her, and Warrington was about togo away, and was saying "Good-night" to Laura, who, of course waslooking much alarmed about her cousin, when Arthur said, "Pray, stay,George. You should hear my news too, and give me your counsel in thiscase. I hardly know how to act in it."

"It's something about Blanche, Arthur," said Laura, her heart beating,and her cheek blushing, as she thought it had never blushed inher life.

"Yes—and the most extraordinary story," said Pen. "When I left you togo to my uncle's lodgings, I found his servant, Morgan, who has beenwith him so long, at the door, and he said that he and his master hadparted that morning; that my uncle had quitted the house, and had goneto an hotel—this hotel. I asked for him when I came in; but he wasgone out to dinner. Morgan then said that he had something of a mostimportant nature to communicate to me, and begged me to step into thehouse; his house it is now. It appears the scoundrel has saved a greatdeal of money while in my uncle's service, and is now a capitalist anda millionaire, for what I know. Well, I went into the house, and whatdo you think he told me? This must be a secret between us all—atleast if we can keep it, now that it is in possession of that villain.Blanche's father is not dead. He has come to life again. The marriagebetween Clavering and the Begum is no marriage."

"And Blanche, I suppose, is her grandfather's heir," said Warrington.

"Perhaps: but the child of what a father! Amory is an escapedconvict—Clavering knows it; my uncle knows it—and it was with thispiece of information held over Clavering in terrorem that thewretched old man got him to give up his borough to me."

"Blanche doesn't know it," said Laura, "nor poor Lady Clavering."

"No," said Pen; "Blanche does not even know the history of her father.She knew that he and her mother had separated, and had heard, as achild, from Bonner, her nurse, that Mr. Amory was drowned in New SouthWales. He was there as a convict, not as a ship's captain, as the poorgirl thought. Lady Clavering has told me that they were not happy, andthat her husband was a bad character. She would tell me all, she said,some day: and I remember her saying to me, with tears in her eyes,that it was hard for a woman to be forced to own that she was glad tohear her husband was dead: and that twice in her life she should havechosen so badly. What is to be done now? The man can't show and claimhis wife: death is probably over him if he discovers himself: returnto transportation certainly. But the rascal has held the threat ofdiscovery over Clavering for some time past, and has extorted moneyfrom him time after time."

"It is our friend, Colonel Altamont, of course," said Warrington: "Isee all now."

"If the rascal comes back," continued Arthur, "Morgan, who knows hissecret, will use it over him—and having it in his possession,proposes to extort money from us all. The d—d rascal supposed I wascognizant of it," said Pen, white with anger; "asked me if I wouldgive him an annuity to keep it quiet; threatened me, me, as if I wastrafficking with this wretched old Begum's misfortune; and wouldextort a seat in Parliament out of that miserable Clavering. Goodheavens! was my uncle mad, to tamper in such a conspiracy? Fancy ourmother's son, Laura, trading on such a treason!"

"I can't fancy it, dear Arthur," said Laura; seizing Arthur's hand,and kissing it.

"No!" broke out Warrington's deep voice, with a tremor; he surveyedthe two generous and loving young people with a pang of indescribablelove and pain. "No. Our boy can't meddle with such a wretched intrigueas that. Arthur Pendennis can't marry a convict's daughter; and sit inParliament as member for the hulks. You must wash your hands of thewhole affair, Pen. You must break off. You must give no explanationsof why and wherefore, but state that family reasons render a matchimpossible. It is better that those poor women should fancy you falseto your word than that they should know the truth. Besides, you canget from that dog Clavering—I can fetch that for you easilyenough—an acknowledgement that the reasons which you have given tohim as the head of the family are amply sufficient for breaking offthe union. Don't you think with me, Laura?" He scarcely dared to lookher in the face as he spoke. Any lingering hope that he mighthave—any feeble hold that he might feel upon the last spar of hiswrecked fortune, he knew he was casting away; and he let the wave ofhis calamity close over him. Pen had started up while he was speaking,looking eagerly at him. He turned his head away. He saw Laura rise upalso and go to Pen, and once more take his hand and kiss it. "Shethinks so too—God bless her!" said George.

"Her father's shame is not Blanche's fault, dear Arthur, is it?" Laurasaid, very pale, and speaking very quickly. "Suppose you had beenmarried, would you desert her because she had done no wrong? Are younot pledged to her? Would you leave her because she is in misfortune?And if she is unhappy, wouldn't you console her? Our mother would, hadshe been here." And, as she spoke, the kind girl folded her arms roundhim, and buried her face upon his heart.

"Our mother is an angel with God," Pen sobbed out. "And you are thedearest and best of women—the dearest, the dearest and the best.Teach me my duty. Pray for me that I may do it—pure heart. God blessyou—God bless you, my sister."

"Amen," groaned out Warrington, with his head in his hands. "She isright," he murmured to himself. "She can't do any wrong, I think—that girl." Indeed, she looked and smiled like an angel. Many a dayafter he saw that smile—saw her radiant face as she looked up atPen—saw her putting back her curls, blushing and smiling, and stilllooking fondly toward him.

She leaned for a moment her little fair hand on the table, playing onit. "And now, and now," she said, looking at the two gentlemen—

"And what now?" asked George.

"And now we will have some tea," said Miss Laura, with her smile.

But before this unromantic conclusion to a rather sentimental scenecould be suffered to take place, a servant brought word that MajorPendennis had returned to the hotel, and was waiting to see hisnephew. Upon this announcement, Laura, not without some alarm, and anappealing look to Pen, which said "Behave yourself well—hold to theright, and do your duty—be gentle, but firm with your uncle"—Laura,we say, with these warnings written in her face, took leave of thetwo gentlemen, and retreated to her dormitory. Warrington, who was notgenerally fond of tea, yet grudged that expected cup very much. Whycould not old Pendennis have come in an hour later? Well, an hoursooner or later, what matter? The hour strikes at last? The inevitablemoment comes to say Farewell. The hand is shaken, the door closed,and the friend gone; and, the brief joy over, you are alone. "In whichof those many windows of the hotel does her light beam?" perhaps heasks himself as he passes down the street. He strides away to thesmoking-room of a neighboring club, and there applies himself to hisusual solace of a cigar. Men are brawling and talking loud aboutpolitics, opera-girls, horse-racing, the atrocious tyranny of thecommittee; bearing this sacred secret about him, he enters into thisbrawl. Talk away, each louder than the other. Rattle and crack jokes.Laugh and tell your wild stories. It is strange to take one's placeand part in the midst of the smoke and din, and think every man herehas his secret ego, most likely, which is sitting lonely and apart,away in the private chamber, from the loud game in which the rest ofus is joining!

Arthur, as he traversed the passages of the hotel, felt his angerrousing up within him. He was indignant to think that yonder oldgentleman whom he was about to meet, should have made him such a tooland puppet, and so compromised his honor and good name. The oldfellow's hand was very cold and shaky when Arthur took it. He wascoughing; he was grumbling over the fire; Frosch could not bring hisdressing-gown or arrange his papers as that d—d, confounded,impudent scoundrel of a Morgan. The old gentleman bemoaned himself,and cursed Morgan's ingratitude with peevish pathos.

"The confounded impudent scoundrel! He was drunk last night, andchallenged me to fight him, Pen; and, bedad, at one time I was soexcited that I thought I should have driven a knife into him; and theinfernal rascal has made ten thousand pound, I believe—and deservesto be hanged, and will be; but, curse him, I wish he could have lastedout my time. He knew all my ways, and, dammy, when I rang the bell,the confounded thief brought the thing I wanted—not like that stupidGerman lout. And what sort of time have you had in the country? Been agood deal with Lady Rockminster? You can't do better. She is one ofthe old school—vieille école, bonne école, hey? Dammy, they don'tmake gentlemen and ladies now; and in fifty years you'll hardly knowone man from another. But they'll last my time. I ain't long for thisbusiness: I am getting very old, Pen, my boy; and, gad, I was thinkingto-day, as I was packing up my little library, there's a Bible amongthe books that belonged to my poor mother; I would like you to keepthat, Pen. I was thinking, sir, that you would most likely open thebox when it was your property, and the old fellow was laid under thesod, sir," and the major coughed and wagged his old head overthe fire.

His age—his kindness, disarmed Pen's anger somewhat, and made Arthurfeel no little compunction for the deed which he was about to do. Heknew that the announcement which he was about to make would destroythe darling hope of the old gentleman's life, and create in his breasta woeful anger and commotion.

"Hey—hey—I'm off, sir," nodded the Elder; "but I'd like to read aspeech of yours in the Times before I go—'Mr. Pendennis said,Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking'—hey, sir? hey, Arthur?Begad, you look dev'lish well and healthy, sir. I always said mybrother Jack would bring the family right. You must go down into thewest, and buy the old estate, sir. Nec tenui pennâ, hey? We'll riseagain, sir—rise again on the wing—and, begad, I shouldn't besurprised that you will be a baronet before you die."

His words smote Pen. "And it is I," he thought, "that am going tofling down the poor old fellow's air-castle. Well, it must be. Heregoes. I—I went into your lodgings at Bury-street, though I did notfind you," Pen slowly began—"and I talked with Morgan, uncle."

"Indeed!" The old gentleman's cheek began to flush involuntarily, andhe muttered, "The cat's out of the bag now, begad!"

"He told me a story, sir, which gave me the deepest surprise andpain," said Pen.

The major tried to look unconcerned. "What—that story about—about—What-do-you-call-'em, hey?"

"About Miss Amory's father—about Lady Clavering's first husband, andwho he is, and what."

"Hem—a devilish awkward affair!" said the old man, rubbing his nose."I—I've been aware of that—eh—confounded circ*mstance, forsome time."

"I wish I had known it sooner, or not at all," said Arthur, gloomily.

"He is all safe," thought the senior, greatly relieved. "Gad! I shouldhave liked to keep it from you altogether—and from those two poorwomen, who are as innocent as unborn babes in the transaction."

"You are right. There is no reason why the two women should hear it;and I shall never tell them—though that villain, Morgan, perhapsmay," Arthur said, gloomily. "He seems disposed to trade upon hissecret, and has already proposed terms of ransom to me. I wish I hadknown of the matter earlier, sir. It is not a very pleasant thought tome that I am engaged to a convict's daughter."

"The very reason why I kept it from you—my dear boy. But Miss Amoryis not a convict's daughter, don't you see? Miss Amory is the daughterof Lady Clavering, with fifty or sixty thousand pounds for a fortune;and her father-in-law, a baronet and country gentleman, of highreputation, approves of the match, and gives up his seat in Parliamentto his son-in-law. What can be more simple?"

"Is it true, sir?"

"Begad, yes, it is true, of course it's true. Amory's dead. I tell youhe is dead. The first sign of life he shows, he is dead. He can'tappear. We have him at a dead-lock like the fellow in the play—theCritic, hey?—devilish amusing play, that Critic. Monstrous witty manSheridan; and so was his son. By gad, sir, when I was at the Cape, Iremember—" The old gentleman's garrulity, and wish, to conduct Arthurto the Cape, perhaps arose from a desire to avoid the subject whichwas near est his nephew's heart; but Arthur broke out, interruptinghim, "If you had told me this tale sooner, I believe you would havespared me and yourself a great deal of pain and disappointment; and Ishould not have found myself tied to an engagement from which I can't,in honor, recede."

"No, begad, we've fixed you—and a man who's fixed to a seat inParliament, and a pretty girl, with a couple of thousand a year, isfixed to no bad thing, let me tell you," said the old man.

"Great Heavens, sir!" said Arthur; "are you blind? Can't you see?"

"See what, young gentleman?" asked the other.

"See, that rather than trade upon this secret of Amory's," Arthurcried out, "I would go and join my father-in-law at the hulks! See,that rather than take a seat in Parliament as a bribe from Claveringfor silence, I would take the spoons off the table! See, that you havegiven me a felon's daughter for a wife; doomed me to poverty andshame; cursed my career when it might have been—when it might havebeen so different but for you! Don't you see that we have been playinga guilty game, and have been over-reached; that in offering to marrythis poor girl, for the sake of her money, and the advancement shewould bring, I was degrading myself, and prostituting my honor?"

"What in Heaven's name do you mean, sir?" cried the old man.

"I mean to say that there is a measure of baseness which I can'tpass," Arthur said. "I have no other words for it, and am sorry ifthey hurt you. I have felt, for months past, that my conduct in thisaffair has been wicked, sordid, and worldly. I am rightly punished bythe event, and having sold myself for money and a seat in Parliament,by losing both."

"How do you mean that you lose either?" shrieked the old gentleman.
"Who the devil's to take your fortune or your seat away from you. By
G—, Clavering shall give 'em to you. You shall have every shilling
of eighty thousand pounds."

"I'll keep my promise to Miss Amory, sir," said Arthur.

"And, begad, her parents shall keep theirs to you."

"Not so, please God," Arthur answered. "I have sinned, but, Heavenhelp me, I will sin no more. I will let Clavering off from thatbargain which was made without my knowledge. I will take no money withBlanche but that which was originally settled upon her; and I will tryto make her happy. You have done it. You have brought this on me, sir.But you knew no better: and I forgive—"

"Arthur—in God's name—in your father's, who, by Heavens, was theproudest man alive, and had the honor of the family always atheart—in mine—for the sake of a poor broken down old fellow, who hasalways been dev'lish fond of you—don't fling this chance away—I prayyou, I beg you, I implore you, my dear, dear boy, don't fling thischance away. It's the making of you. You're sure to get on. You'll bea baronet; it's three thousand a year: dammy, on my knees, there, Ibeg of you, don't do this."

And the old man actually sank down on his knees, and seizing one ofArthur's hands, looked up piteously at him. It was cruel to remark theshaking hands, the wrinkled and quivering face, the old eyes weepingand winking, the broken voice. "Ah, sir," said Arthur, with a groan."You have brought pain enough on me, spare me this. You have wished meto marry Blanche. I marry her. For God's sake, sir, rise, I can'tbear it."

"You—you mean to say that you will take her as a beggar, and be oneyourself?" said the old gentleman, rising up and coughing violently.

"I look at her as a person to whom a great calamity has befallen, andto whom I am promised. She can not help the misfortune; and as she hadmy word when she was prosperous, I shall not withdraw it now she ispoor. I will not take Clavering's seat, unless afterward it should begiven of his free will. I will not have a shilling more than heroriginal fortune."

"Have the kindness to ring the bell," said the old gentleman. "I havedone 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 CardinalWolsey—begad—'and had I but served my God as I've served you'—yes,on my knees, by Jove, to my own nephew—I mightn't havebeen—Good-night, sir, you needn't trouble yourself to call again."

Arthur took his hand, which the old man left to him; it was quitepassive and clammy. He looked very much oldened; and it seemed as ifthe contest and defeat had quite broken him.

On the next day he kept his bed, and refused to see hisnephew.

IN WHICH THE DECK BEGINS TO CLEAR.

When, arrayed in his dressing-gown, Pen walked up, according tocustom, to Warrington's chambers next morning, to inform his friend ofthe issue of the last night's interview with his uncle, and to ask, asusual, for George's advice and opinion, Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress,was the only person whom Arthur found in the dear old chambers. Georgehad taken a carpet-hag, and was gone. His address was to his brother'shouse, in Suffolk. Packages addressed to the newspaper and review forwhich he wrote lay on the table, awaiting delivery.

"I found him at the table, when I came, the dear gentleman!" Mrs.Flanagan said, "writing at his papers, and one of the candles wasburned 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 becameintolerable to him, George had walked home, and had passed the nightfinishing some work on which he was employed, and to the completion ofwhich he bent himself with all his might. The labor was done, and thenight was worn away somehow, and the tardy November dawn came andlooked in on the young man as he sate over his desk. In the next day'spaper, or quarter's review, many of us very likely admired the work ofhis genius, the variety of his illustration, the fierce vigor of hissatire, the depth of his reason. There was no hint in his writing ofthe other thoughts which occupied him, and always accompanied him inhis work—a tone more melancholy than was customary, a satire morebitter and impatient than that which he afterward showed, may havemarked the writings of this period of his life to the very few personswho knew his style or his name. We have said before, could we know theman's feelings as well as the author's thoughts—how interesting mostbooks would be! more interesting than merry. I suppose harlequin'sface behind his mask is always grave, if not melancholy—certainlyeach man who lives by the pen, and happens to read this, mustremember, if he will, his own experiences, and recall many solemnhours of solitude and labor. What a constant care sate at the side ofthe desk and accompanied him! Fever or sickness were lying possibly inthe next room: a sick child might be there, with a wife watching overit terrified and in prayer: or grief might be bearing him down, andthe cruel mist before the eyes rendering the paper scarce visible ashe wrote on it, and the inexorable necessity drove on the pen. Whatman among us has not had nights and hours like these? But to the manlyheart—severe as these pangs are, they are endurable: long as thenight seems, the dawn comes at last, and the wounds heal, and thefever abates, and rest comes, and you can afford to look back on thepast misery with feelings that are any thing but bitter.

Two or three books for reference, fragments of torn up manuscript,drawers open, pens and inkstand, lines half visible on the blottingpaper, a bit of sealing wax twisted and bitten and broken into sundrypieces—such relics as these were about the table, and Pen flunghimself down in George's empty chair—noting things according to hiswont, or in spite of himself. There was a gap in the book-case (nextto the old College Plato, with the Boniface Arms), where Helen's Bibleused to be. He has taken that with him, thought Pen. He knew why hisfriend 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, he thought. Where was such a friend, orsuch a brave heart? Where shall I ever hear such a frank voice, andkind laughter? Where shall I ever see such a true gentleman? No wondershe loved him. God bless him. What was I compared to him? What couldshe do else but love him? To the end of our days we will be herbrothers, as fate wills that we can be no more. We'll be her knights,and wait on her: and when we're old, we'll say how we loved her. Dear,dear old George!

When Pen descended to his own chambers, his eye fell on the letter-boxof his outer door, which he had previously overlooked, and there was alittle note to A. P., Esq., in George's well-known handwriting, Georgehad put into Pen's box probably as he was going away.

"Dr. Pen—I shall be half way home when you breakfast, and intend tostay over Christmas, in Norfolk, or elsewhere.

"I have my own opinion of the issue of matters about which we talkedin J——street yesterday; and think my presence de trop." Vale.G.W.

"Give my very best regards and adieux to your cousin." And so Georgewas gone, and Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, ruled over hisempty chambers.

[Illustration]

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 instantly asked for
Bluebeard, and insisted that he should come to dinner.

"Bluebeard is gone," Pen said, and he took out poor George's scrap ofpaper, and handed it to Laura, who looked at it—did not look at Penin return, but passed the paper back to him, and walked away. Penrushed into an eloquent eulogium upon his dear old George to LadyRockminister, who was astonished at his enthusiasm. She had neverheard him so warm in praise of any body; and told him with her usualfrankness, that she didn't think it had been in his nature to care somuch about any other person.

As Mr. Pendennis was passing in Waterloo-place, in one of his manywalks to the hotel where Laura lived, and whither duty to his unclecarried Arthur every day, Arthur saw issuing from Messrs. Gimcrack'scelebrated shop an old friend, who was followed to his Brougham by anobsequious shopman bearing parcels. The gentleman was in the deepestmourning: the Brougham, the driver, and the horse, were in mourning.Grief in easy circ*mstances, and supported by the comfortablestsprings and cushions, was typified in the equipage and the littlegentleman, its proprietor.

"What, Foker! Hail, Foker!" cried out Pen—the reader, no doubt, haslikewise recognized Arthur's old schoolfellow—and he held out hishand to the heir of the late lamented John Henry Foker, Esq., themaster of Logwood and other houses, the principal partner in the greatbrewery of Foker & Co.: the greater portion of Foker's Entire.

A little hand, covered with a glove of the deepest ebony, and set offby three inches of a snowy wristband, was put forth to meet Arthur'ssalutation. The other little hand held a little morocco case,containing, no doubt, something precious, of which Mr. Foker had justbecome proprietor in Messrs. Gimcrack's shop. Pen's keen eyes andsatiric turn showed him at once upon what errand Mr. Foker had beenemployed; and he thought of the heir in Horace pouring forth thegathered wine of his father's vats; and that human nature is prettymuch 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 youdo, Pen? very busy—good-by!" and he jumped into the black Brougham,and sate like a little black Care behind the black coachman. He hadblushed on seeing Pen, and showed other signs of guilt andperturbation, 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 Harrythe Fourth, and Harry the Fifth reigns in his stead. The old ministersat the brewery come and kneel before him with their books; thedraymen, 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 theyshould ever love each other very cordially. As long as one man keepsanother out of twenty thousand a year, the younger must be alwayshankering after the crown, and the wish must be the father to thethought of possession. Thank Heaven, there was no thought of moneybetween 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 mindto own for an instant that it would have entertained such—suchdreadful meanness? You make me blush for you, Arthur; you make me—"her eyes finished this sentence, and she passed her handkerchiefacross them.

"There are some truths which women will never acknowledge," Pen said,"and from which your modesty always turns away. I do not say that Iever 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," saidLaura, in a low voice. "I am glad if you were spared from that greatcrime; 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 youcould. Your acts are generous and kind: you disdain mean actions. Youtake Blanche without money, and without a bribe. Yes, thanks be toHeaven, dear brother. You could not have sold yourself away; I knewyou could not when it came to the day, and you did not. Praise be—bewhere praise is due. Why does this horrid skepticism pursue you, myArthur? Why doubt and sneer at your own heart—at every one's? Oh, ifyou knew the pain you give me—how I lie awake and think of those hardsentences, dear brother, and wish them unspoken, unthought!"

"Do I cause you many thoughts and many tears, Laura?" asked Arthur.The fullness of innocent love beamed from her in reply. A smileheavenly pure, a glance of unutterable tenderness, sympathy, pity,shone in her face—all which indications of love and purity Arthurbeheld and worshiped in her, as you would watch them in a child, asone fancies one might regard them in an angel.

"I—I don't know what I have done," he said, simply, "to have meritedsuch 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 andwicked we are; how spotless, and full of love and truth, Heaven madeyou! I think for some of you there has been no fall," he said, lookingat the charming girl with an almost paternal glance of admiration."You can't help having sweet thoughts, and doing good actions. Dearcreature! they are the flowers which you bear."

"And what else, sir?" asked Laura. "I see a sneer coming over yourface. What is it? Why does it come to drive all the goodthoughts away?"

"A sneer, is there? I was thinking, my dear, that nature in making youso good and loving did very well: but—"

"But what? What is that wicked but? and why are you always calling itup?"

"But will come in spite of us. But is reflection. But is the skeptic'sfamiliar, with whom he has made a compact; and if he forgets it, andindulges in happy day-dreams, or building of air castles, or listensto sweet music, let us say, or to the bells ringing to church, Buttaps at the door, and says, 'Master, I am here. You are my master; butI am yours. Go where you will you can't travel without me. I willwhisper to you when you are on your knees at church. I will be at yourmarriage pillow. I will sit down at your table with your children. Iwill 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 lookingat you? But said, 'If that girl had reason as well as love, she wouldlove you no more. If she knew you as you are—the sullied, selfishbeing which you know—she must part from you, and could give you nolove and no sympathy.' Didn't I say," he added fondly, "that some ofyou seem exempt from the fall? Love you know; but the knowledge ofevil is kept from you."

"What is this you young folks are talking about?" asked LadyRockminster, who at this moment made her appearance in the room,having performed in the mystic retirement of her own apartments, andunder the hands of her attendant, those elaborate toilet-rites withoutwhich 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 talkingwhen you came in, about my friend Foker, whom I met just now; and who,as your ladyship knows, has succeeded to his father's kingdom."

"He has a very fine property, he has fifteen thousand a year. He is mycousin. He is a very worthy young man. He must come and see me," saidLady 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 muchdignity; "and I have no patience with her. She has outraged everyfeeling of society. She has broken her father's heart, and thrown awayfifteen thousand a year."

"Thrown away? What has happened?" asked Pen.

"It will be the talk of the town in a day or two; and there is no needwhy I should keep the secret any longer," said Lady Rockminster, whohad written and received a dozen letters on the subject. "I had aletter yesterday from my daughter, who was staying at Drummingtonuntil all the world was obliged to go away on account of the frightfulcatastrophe 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 contractedanother attachment, and that she must die rather than fulfill hercontract. Poor Lord Rosherville, who is dreadfully embarrassed, showedhis daughter what the state of his affairs was, and that it wasnecessary that the arrangements should take place; and in fine, we allsupposed that she had listened to reason, and intended to comply withthe desires of her family. But what has happened—last Thursday shewent out after breakfast with her maid, and was married in the verychurch in Drummington Park to Mr. Hobson, her father's own chaplainand her brother's tutor; a red-haired widower with two children. Poordear Rosherville is in a dreadful way: he wishes Henry Foker shouldmarry Alice or Barbara; but Alice is marked with the small-pox, andBarbara is ten years older than he is. And, of course, now the youngman is his own master, he will think of choosing for himself. The blowon Lady Agnes is very cruel. She is inconsolable. She has the house inGrosvenor-street for her life, and her settlement, which was veryhandsome. Have you not met her? Yes, she dined one day at LadyClavering's—the first day I saw you, and a very disagreeable youngman I thought you were. But I have formed you. We have formed him,haven't we, Laura? Where is Bluebeard? let him come. That horridGrindley, the dentist, will keep me in town another week." To thelatter part of her ladyship's speech Arthur gave no ear. He wasthinking for whom could Foker be purchasing those trinkets which hewas carrying away from the jeweler's. Why did Harry seem anxious toavoid him? Could he be still faithful to the attachment which hadagitated him so much, and sent him abroad eighteen months back? Psha!The bracelets and presents were for some of Harry's old friends of theOpera or the French theatre. Rumors from Naples and Paris, rumors,such as are borne to club smoking-rooms, had announced that the youngman had found distractions; or, precluded from his virtuousattachment, the poor fellow had flung himself back upon his oldcompanions and amusem*nts—not the only man or woman whom societyforces into evil, or debars from good; not the only victim of theworld's selfish and wicked laws.

As a good thing when it is to be done can not be done too quickly,Laura was anxious that Pen's marriage intentions should be put intoexecution as speedily as possible, and pressed on his arrangementswith rather a feverish anxiety. Why could she not wait? Pen couldafford to do so with perfect equanimity, but Laura would hear of nodelay. She wrote to Pen: she implored Pen: she used every means tourge expedition. It seemed as if she could have no rest until Arthur'shappiness was complete.

She offered herself to dearest Blanche to come and stay at Tunbridgewith her, when Lady Rockminster should go on her intended visit to thereigning house of Rockminster; and although the old dowager scolded,and ordered, and commanded, Laura was deaf and disobedient: she mustgo to Tunbridge, she would go to Tunbridge: she who ordinarily had nowill of her own, and complied, smilingly, with any body's whim andcaprices, showed the most selfish and obstinate determination in thisinstance. The dowager lady must nurse herself in her rheumatism, shemust read herself to sleep; if she would not hear her maid, whosevoice croaked, and who made sad work of the sentimental passages inthe novels—Laura must go, and be with her new sister. In anotherweek, she proposed, with many loves and regards to dear LadyClavering, to pass some time with dearest Blanche.

Dearest Blanche wrote instantly in reply to dearest Laura's No. 1, tosay with what extreme delight she should welcome her sister: howcharming it would be to practice their old duets together, to wandero'er the grassy sward, and amidst the yellowing woods of Penshurst andSouthborough! Blanche counted the hours till she should embrace herdearest friend.

Laura, No. 2, expressed her delight at dearest Blanche's affectionatereply. She hoped that their friendship would never diminish; that theconfidence between them would grow in after years; that they shouldhave no secrets from each other; that the aim of the life of eachwould be to make one person happy.

Blanche, No. 2 followed in two days. "How provoking! Their house wasvery small, the two spare bedrooms were occupied by that horrid Mrs.Planter and her daughter, who had thought proper to fall ill (shealways fell ill in country houses), and she could not, or would not bemoved for some days."

Laura, No. 3. "It was indeed very provoking. L. had hoped to hear oneof dearest B.'s dear songs on Friday; but she was the more consoled towait, because Lady R. was not very well, and liked to be nursed byher. Poor Major Pendennis was very unwell, too, in the same hotel—toounwell even to see Arthur, who was constant in his calls on his uncle.Arthur's heart was full of tenderness and affection. She had knownArthur all her life. She would answer—yes, even in italics she wouldanswer—for his kindness, his goodness, and his gentleness."

Blanche, No. 3. "What is this most surprising, most extraordinaryletter from A.P.? What does dearest Laura know about it? What hashappened? What, what mystery is enveloped under his frightful reserve?"

Blanche, No. 3, requires an explanation; and it can not be bettergiven than in the surprising and mysterious letter of ArthurPendennis.

MR. AND MRS. SAM HUXTER.

"Dear Blanche," Arthur wrote, "you are always reading and dreamingpretty dramas, and exciting romances in real life, are you nowprepared to enact a part of one? And not the pleasantest part, dearBlanche—that in which the heroine takes possession of her father'spalace and wealth, and, introducing her husband to the loyal retainersand faithful vassals, greets her happy bridegroom with 'All of this ismine and thine;' but the other character—that of the luckless lady,who suddenly discovers that she is not the prince's wife, but ClaudeMelnotte's the beggar's; that of Alnaschar's wife, who comes in justas her husband has kicked over the tray of porcelain which was to bethe making of his fortune. But stay; Alnaschar, who kicked down thechina, was not a married man; he had cast his eye on the vizier'sdaughter, and his hopes of her went to the ground with the shatteredbowls and tea-cups.

"Will you be the vizier's daughter, and refuse and laugh to scornAlnaschar, or will you be the Lady of Lyons, and love the pennilessClaude Melnotte? I will act that part, if you like. I will love you mybest in return. I will do my all to make your humble life happy: forhumble 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 nostars and epaulets for the hero of our story. I shall write one or twomore stories, which will presently be forgotten. I shall be calledto the bar, and try to get on in my profession: perhaps some day, if Iam very lucky, and work very hard (which is absurd), I may get acolonial appointment, and you may be an Indian judge's lady. MeanwhileI shall buy back the Pall Mall Gazette: the publishers are tired of itsince 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 respectablesale. I will introduce you to Mr. Finucane, the sub-editor, and I knowwho, in the end, will be Mrs. Finucane—a very nice, gentle creature,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 shallhave the opera-boxes, and superintend the fashionable intelligence,and break your little heart in the poet's corner. Shall we live overthe offices?—there are four very good rooms, a kitchen, and a garretfor Laura, in Catherine-street, in the Strand; or would you like ahouse in the Waterloo-road?—it would be very pleasant, only there isthat 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 telling thetruth. Our fine day-dreams are gone. Our carriage has whirled out ofsight like Cinderella's: our house in Belgravia has been whisked awayinto the air by a malevolent Genius, and I am no more a member ofParliament than I am a Bishop on his bench in the House of Lords, or aDuke with a garter at his knee. You know pretty well what my propertyis, and your own little fortune: we may have enough with those two tolive in decent comfort; to take a cab sometimes when we go out to seeour 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? Idoubt sometimes whether you can bear the life which I offer you—atleast, it is 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 aloyal 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 youlook to a higher station, I must not bar Blanche's fortune—I willstand in the crowd, and see your ladyship go to Court where you arepresented, and you shall give me a smile from your chariot window. Isaw Lady Mirable going to the drawing-room last season: the happyhusband at her side glittered with stars and cordons. All the flowersin the garden bloomed in the coachman's bosom. Will you have these andthe chariot, or walk on foot and mend your husband's stockings?

"I can not tell you now—afterward I might, should the day come whenwe may have no secrets from one another—what has happened within thelast few hours which has changed all my prospects in life; but so itis, that I have learned something which forces me to give up the planswhich I had formed, and many vain and ambitious hopes in which I hadbeen indulging. I have written and dispatched a letter to Sir FrancisClavering, saying that I can not accept his seat in Parliament untilafter my marriage; in like manner I can not and will not accept anylarger fortune with you than that which has always belonged to yousince your grandfather's death, and the birth of your half-brother.Your good mother is not in the least aware—I hope she never maybe—of the reasons which force me to this very strange decision. Theyarise from a painful circ*mstance, which is attributable to none ofour faults; but, having once befallen, they are as fatal andirreparable as that shock which overset honest Alnaschar's porcelain,and shattered all his hopes beyond the power of mending. I write gaylyenough, for there is no use in bewailing such a hopeless mischance. Wehave not drawn the great prize in the lottery, dear Blanche: But Ishall be contented enough without it, if you can be so; and I repeat,with all my heart, that I will do my best to make you happy.

"And now, what news shall I give you? My uncle is very unwell, andtakes my refusal of the seat in Parliament in sad dudgeon: the schemewas his, poor old gentleman, and he naturally bemoans its failure. ButWarrington, Laura, and I had a council of war: they know this awfulsecret, and back me in my decision. You must love George as you lovewhat is generous and upright and noble; and as for Laura—she must beour sister, Blanche, our saint, our good angel. With two such friendsat home, what need we care for the world with-out, or who is memberfor Clavering, or who is asked or not asked to the great balls ofthe season?"

To this frank communication came back the letter from Blanche toLaura, and one to Pen himself, which perhaps his own letter justified."You are spoiled by the world," Blanche wrote; "you do not love yourpoor Blanche as she would be loved, or you would not offer thuslightly to take her or leave her. No, Arthur, you love me not—a manof the world, you have given me your plighted troth, and are ready toredeem it; but that entire affection, that love whole and abiding,where—where is that vision of my youth? I am but a pastime of yourlife, and I would be its all;—but a fleeting thought, and I would beyour whole soul. I would have our two hearts one; but ah, my Arthur,how lonely yours is! how little you give me of it! You speak of ourparting, with a smile on your lip; of our meeting, and you care not tohasten it! Is life but a disillusion, then, and are the flowers of ourgarden faded away? I have wept—I have prayed—I have passed sleeplesshours—I have shed bitter, bitter tears over your letter! To you Ibring the gushing poesy of my being—the yearnings of the soul thatlongs to be loved—that pines for love, love, love, beyond all!—thatflings itself at your feet, and cries, Love me, Arthur! Your heartbeats no quicker at the kneeling appeal of my love!—your proud eye isdimmed by no tear of sympathy!—you accept my soul's treasure asthough 'twere dross! not the pearls from the unfathomable deeps ofaffection! not the diamonds from the caverns of the heart. You treatme like a slave, and bid me bow to my master! Is this the guerdon of afree maiden—is this the price of a life's passion? Ah me! when was itotherwise? when did love meet with aught but disappointment? Could Ihope (fond fool!) to be the exception to the lot of my race; and laymy fevered brow on a heart that comprehended my own? Foolish girlthat I was! One by one, all the flowers of my young life have fadedaway; and this, the last, the sweetest, the dearest, the fondly, themadly loved, the wildly cherished—where is it? But no more of this.Heed not my bleeding heart.—Bless you, bless you always, Arthur!

"I will write more when I am more collected. My racking brain rendersthought almost impossible. I long to see Laura! She will come to usdirectly we return from the country, will she not? And you, coldone!" B.

The words of this letter were perfectly clear, and written inBlanche's neatest hand, upon her scented paper; and yet the meaning ofthe composition not a little puzzled Pen. Did Blanche mean to acceptor to refuse his polite offer? Her phrases either meant that Pen didnot love her, and she declined him, or that she took him, andsacrificed herself to him, cold as he was. He laughed sardonicallyover the letter, and over the transaction which occasioned it. Helaughed to think how Fortune had jilted him, and how he deserved hisslippery fortune. He turned over and over the musky, gilt-edgedriddle. It amused his humor: he enjoyed it as if it had been afunny story.

He was thus seated, twiddling the queer manuscript in his hand, jokinggrimly to himself, when his servant came in with a card from agentleman, who wished to speak to him very particularly. And if Penhad gone out into the passage, he would have seen sucking his stick,rolling his eyes, and showing great marks of anxiety, his oldacquaintance, Mr. Samuel Huxter.

"Mr. Huxter on particular business! Pray, beg Mr. Huxter to come in,"said Pen, amused rather; and not the less so when poor Sam appearedbefore him.

"Pray take a chair, Mr. Huxter," said Pen, in his most superb manner.
"In what way can I be of service to you?"

"I had rather not speak before the flunk—before the man, Mr.
Pendennis;" on which Mr. Arthur's attendant quitted the room.

"I'm in a fix," said Mr. Huxter, gloomily.

"Indeed."

"She sent me to you," continued the young surgeon.

"What, Fanny? Is she well? I was coming to see her, but I have had agreat deal of business since my return to London."

"I heard of you through my governor and Jack Hobnell," broke inHuxter. "I wish you joy, Mr. Pendennis, both of the borough and thelady, sir. Fanny wishes you joy, too," he added, with something ofa blush.

"There's many a slip between the cup and the lip! Who knows what mayhappen, Mr. Huxter, or who will sit in Parliament for Claveringnext session?"

"You can do any thing with my governor," continued Mr. Huxter. "Yougot him Clavering Park. The old boy was very much pleased, sir, atyour calling him in. Hobnell wrote me so. Do you think you could speakto the governor for me, Mr. Pendennis?"

"And tell him what?" "I've gone and done it, sir," said Huxter, witha particular look.

"You—you don't mean to say you have—you have done any wrong to thatdear little creature, sir," said Pen, starting up in a great fury.

"I hope not," said Huxter, with a hang-dog look: "but I've marriedher. And I know there will be an awful shindy at home. It was agreedthat I should be taken into partnership when I had passed the College,and it was to have been Huxter and Son. But I would have it,confound it. It's all over now, and the old boy's wrote to me thathe's coming up to town for drugs: he will be here to-morrow, and thenit must all come out."

"And when did this event happen?" asked Pen, not over well pleased,most likely, that a person who had once attracted some portion of hisroyal good graces should have transferred her allegiance, and consoledherself for his loss.

"Last Thursday was five weeks—it was two days after Miss Amory cameto Shepherd's Inn," Huxter answered.

Pen remembered that Blanche had written and mentioned her visit. "Iwas called in," Huxter said. "I was in the inn looking after old Cos'sleg; and about something else too, very likely: and I met Strong, whotold me there was a woman taken ill in Chambers, and went up to giveher my professional services. It was the old lady who attends MissAmory—her housekeeper, or some such thing. She was taken with stronghysterics: I found her kicking and screaming like a good one—inStrong's chamber, along with him and Colonel Altamont, and Miss Amorycrying and as pale as a sheet; and Altamont fuming about—a regularkick up. They were two hours in the chambers; and the old woman wentwhooping off in a cab. She was much worse than the young one. I calledin Grosvenor-place next day to see if I could be of any service, butthey were gone without so much as thanking me: and the day after I hadbusiness of my own to attend to—a bad business too," said Mr. Huxter,gloomily. "But it's done, and can't be undone; and we must make thebest of it."

She has known the story for a month, thought Pen, with a sharp pang ofgrief, and a gloomy sympathy—this accounts for her letter of to-day.She will not implicate her father, or divulge his secret; she wishesto let me off from the marriage—and finds a pretext—thegenerous girl!

"Do you know who Altamont is, sir?" asked Huxter, after the pauseduring which Pen had been thinking of his own affairs. "Fanny and Ihave talked him over, and we can't help fancying that it's Mrs.Lightfoot's first husband come to life again, and she who has justmarried a second. Perhaps Lightfoot won't be very sorry for it,"sighed Huxter, looking savagely at Arthur, for the demon of jealousywas still in possession of his soul; and now, and more than ever sincehis marriage, the poor fellow fancied that Fanny's heart belonged tohis rival.

"Let us talk about your affairs," said Pen. "Show me how I can be ofany service to you, Huxter. Let me congratulate you on yourmarriage, I am thankful that Fanny, who is so good, so fascinating, sokind a creature, has found an honest man, and a gentleman who willmake her happy. Show me what I can do to help you."

"She thinks you can, sir," said Huxter, accepting Pen's profferedhand, "and I'm very much obliged to you, I'm sure; and that you mighttalk over my father, and break the business to him, and my mother, whoalways has her back up about being a clergyman's daughter. Fanny ain'tof a good family, I know, and not up to us in breeding and that—butshe's a Huxter now."

[Illustration]

"The wife takes the husband's rank, of course," said Pen.

"And with a little practice in society," continued Huxter, imbibinghis stick, "she'll be as good as any girl in Clavering. You shouldhear her sing and play on the piano. Did you ever? Old Bows taughther. And she'll do on the stage, if the governor was to throw me over;but I'd rather not have her there. She can't help being a coquette,Mr. Pendennis, she can't help it. Dammy, sir! I'll be bound to say,that two or three of the Bartholomew chaps, that I've brought into myplace, are sitting with her now: even Jack Linton, that I took down asmy best man, is as bad as the rest, and she will go on singing andmaking eyes at him. It's what Bows says, if there were twenty men in aroom, and one not taking notice of her, she wouldn't be satisfieduntil the twentieth was at her elbow."

"You should have her mother with her," said Pen, laughing.

"She must keep the lodge. She can't see so much of her family as sheused. I can't, you know, sir, go on with that lot. Consider my rank inlife," said Huxter, putting a very dirty hand up to his chin.

"Au fait" said Mr. Pen, who was infinitely amused, and concerningwhom mutato nomine (and of course concerning nobody else in theworld) the fable might have been narrated.

As the two gentlemen were in the midst of this colloquy, another knockcame to Pen's door, and his servant presently announced Mr. Bows. Theold man followed slowly, his pale face blushing, and his handtrembling somewhat as he took Pen's. He coughed, and wiped his face inhis checked cotton pocket-handkerchief, and sat down, with his handson his knees, the sun shining on his bald head. Pen looked at thehomely figure with no small sympathy and kindness. This man, too, hashad his griefs, and his wounds, Arthur thought. This man, too, hasbrought his genius and his heart, and laid them at a woman's feet;where she spurned them. The chance of life has gone against him, andthe prize is with that creature yonder. Fanny's bridegroom, thusmutely apostrophized, had winked meanwhile with one eye at old Bows,and was driving holes in the floor with the cane which he loved.

"So we have lost, Mr. Bows, and here is the lucky winner," Pen said,looking hard at the old man.

"Here is the lucky winner, sir, as you say."

"I suppose you have come from my place?" asked Huxter, who, havingwinked at Bows with one eye, now favored Pen with a wink of theother—a wink which seemed to say, "Infatuated old boy—youunderstand—over head and ears in love with her—poor old fool."

"Yes, I have been there ever since you went away. It was Mrs. Sam whosent me after you: who said that she thought you might be doingsomething stupid—something like yourself, Huxter."

"There's as big fools as I am," growled the young surgeon.

"A few, p'raps," said the old man; "not many, let us trust. Yes, shesent me after you, for fear you should offend Mr. Pendennis; and Idaresay because she thought you wouldn't give her message to him, andbeg him to go and see her; and she knew I would take her errand. Didhe tell you that, sir?"

Huxter blushed scarlet, and covered his confusion with an imprecation.
Pen laughed; the scene suited his bitter humor more and more.

"I have no doubt Mr. Huxter was going to tell me," Arthur said, "andvery much flattered I am sure I shall be to pay my respects tohis wife."

"It's in Charterhouse-lane, over the baker's, on the right hand sideas you go from St. John's-street," continued Bows, without any pity."You know Smithfield, Mr. Pendennis? St. John's-street leads intoSmithfield. Dr. Johnson has been down the street many a time withragged shoes, and a bundle of penny-a-lining for the 'Gent'sMagazine.' You literary gents are better off now—eh? You ride in yourcabs, and wear yellow kid gloves now."

"I have known so many brave and good men fail, and so many quacks andimpostors succeed, that you mistake me if you think I am puffed up bymy own personal good luck, old friend," Arthur said, sadly. "Do youthink the prizes of life are carried by the most deserving? and set upthat mean test of prosperity for merit? You must feel that you are asgood as I. I have never questioned it. It is you that are peevishagainst the freaks of fortune, and grudge the good luck that befallsothers. It's not the first time you have unjustly accused me, Bows."

"Perhaps you are not far wrong, sir," said the old fellow, wiping hisbald forehead. "I am thinking about myself and grumbling; most men dowhen they get on that subject. Here's the fellow that's got the prizein the lottery; here's the fortunate youth."

"I don't know what you are driving at," Huxter said, who had been muchpuzzled as the above remarks passed between his two companions.

"Perhaps not," said Bows, drily. "Mrs. H. sent me here to look afteryou, and to see that you brought that little message to Mr. Pendennis,which you didn't, you see, and so she was right. Women always are;they have always a reason for every thing. Why, sir," he said, turninground to Pen with a sneer, "she had a reason even for giving me thatmessage. I was sitting with her after you left us, very quiet andcomfortable; I was talking away, and she was mending your shirts, whenyour two young friends, Jack Linton and Bob Blades, looked in fromBartholomew's; and then it was she found out that she had this messageto send. You needn't hurry yourself, she don't want you back again;they'll stay these two hours, I daresay."

Huxter rose with great perturbation at this news, and plunged hisstick into the pocket of his paletot, and seized his hat.

"You'll come and see us, sir, won't you?" he said to Pen. "You'll talkover the governor, won't you, sir, if I can get out of this place anddown to Clavering?"

"You will promise to attend me gratis if ever I fall ill at Fairoaks,will you, Huxter?" Pen said, good-naturedly. "I will do any thing Ican for you. I will come and see Mrs. Huxter immediately, and we willconspire together about what is to be done."

"I thought that would send him out, sir," Bows said, dropping into hischair again as soon as the young surgeon had quitted the room. "Andit's all true, sir—every word of it. She wants you back again, andsends her husband after you. She cajoles every body, the little devil.She tries it on you, on me, on poor Costigan, on the young chaps fromBartholomew's. She's got a little court of 'em already. And if there'snobody there, she practices on the old German baker in the shop, orcoaxes the black sweeper at the crossing."

"Is she fond of that fellow?" asked Pen.

"There is no accounting for likes and dislikes," Bows answered. "Yes,she is fond of him; and having taken the thing into her head, shewould not rest until she married him. They had their bans published atSt. Clement's, and nobody heard it or knew any just cause orimpediment. And one day she slips out of the porter's lodge, and hasthe business done, and goes off to Gravesend with Lothario; and leavesa note for me to go and explain all things to her ma. Bless you! theold woman knew it as well as I did, though she pretended ignorance.And so she goes, and I'm alone again. I miss her, sir, tripping alongthat court, and coming for her singing lesson; and I've no heart tolook into the porter's lodge now, which looks very empty without her,the little flirting thing. And I go and sit and dangle about herlodgings, like an old fool. She makes 'em very trim and nice, though;gets up all Huxter's shirts and clothes: cooks his little dinner, andsings at her business like a little lark. What's the use of beingangry? I lent 'em three pound to go on with: for they haven't got ashilling till the reconciliation, and pa comes down."

When Bows had taken his leave, Pen carried his letter from Blanche,and the news which he had just received, to his usual adviser, Laura.It was wonderful upon how many points Mr. Arthur, who generallyfollowed his own opinion, now wanted another person's counsel. Hecould hardly so much as choose a waistcoat without referring to MissBell: if he wanted to buy a horse he must have Miss Bell's opinion;all which marks of deference tended greatly to the amusem*nt of theshrewd old lady with whom Miss Bell lived, and whose plans regardingher protégée we have indicated.

Arthur produced Blanche's letter then to Laura, and asked her tointerpret it. Laura was very much agitated, and puzzled by thecontents of the note.

"It seems to me," she said, "as if Blanche is acting very artfully."

"And wishes so to place matters that she may take me or leave me? Isit not so?"

"It is, I am afraid, a kind of duplicity which does not augur well foryour future happiness; and is a bad reply to your own candor andhonesty, Arthur. Do you know I think, I think—I scarcely like to saywhat I think," said Laura, with a deep blush; but of course theblushing young lady yielded to her cousin's persuasion, and expressedwhat her thoughts were. "It looks to me, Arthur, as if there mightbe—there might be somebody else," said Laura, with a repetition ofthe blush.

"And if there is," broke in Arthur, "and if I am free once again, willthe best and dearest of all women—"

"You are not free, dear brother," Laura said, calmly. "You belong toanother; of whom I own it grieves me to think ill. But I can't dootherwise. It is very odd that in this letter she does not urge you totell her the reason why you have broken arrangements which would havebeen so advantageous to you; and avoids speaking on the subject. Shesomehow seems to write as if she knows her father's secret."

Pen said, "Yes, she must know it;" and told the story, which he hadjust heard from Huxter, of the interview at Shepherd's Inn. "It wasnot so that she described the meeting," said Laura; and, going to herdesk, produced from it that letter of Blanche's which mentioned hervisit to Shepherd's Inn. "Another disappointment—only the ChevalierStrong and a friend of his in the room." This was all that Blanche hadsaid. "But she was bound to keep her father's secret, Pen," Lauraadded. "And yet, and yet—it is very puzzling."

The puzzle was this, that for three weeks after this eventfuldiscovery Blanche had been, only too eager about her dearest Arthur;was urging, as strongly as so much modesty could urge, the completionof the happy arrangements which were to make her Arthur's forever; andnow it seemed as if something had interfered to mar these happyarrangements—as if Arthur poor was not quite so agreeable to Blancheas Arthur rich and a member of Parliament—as if there was somemystery. At last she said—

"Tunbridge Wells is not very far off, is it, Arthur? Hadn't you bettergo and see her?"

They had been in town a week and neither had thought of that simpleplan before!

SHOWS HOW ARTHUR HAD BETTER HAVE TAKEN A RETURN-TICKET.

[Illustration]

The train carried Arthur only too quickly to Tunbridge,though he had time to review all the circ*mstances of his life as hemade the brief journey, and to acknowledge to what sad conclusions hisselfishness and waywardness had led him. "Here is the end of hopes andaspirations," thought he, "of romance and ambitions! Where I yield orwhere I am obstinate, I am alike unfortunate; my mother implores me,and I refuse an angel! Say I had taken her: forced on me as she was,Laura would never have been an angel to me. I could not have given hermy heart at another's instigation; I never could have known her as sheis, had I been obliged to ask another to interpret her qualities andpoint out her virtues. I yield to my uncle's solicitations, andaccept, on his guarantee, Blanche, and a seat in Parliament, andwealth, and ambition, and a career; and see!—fortune comes and leavesme the wife without the dowry, which I had taken in compensation of aheart. Why was I not more honest, or am I not less so? It would havecost my poor old uncle no pangs to accept Blanche's fortune,whencesoever it came; he can't even understand, he is bitterlyindignant—heart-stricken, almost—at the scruples which actuate me inrefusing it. I dissatisfy every body. A maimed, weak, imperfectwretch, it seems as if I am unequal to any fortune. I neither makemyself nor any one connected with me happy. What prospect is there forthis poor little frivolous girl, who is to take my obscure name, andshare my fortune? I have not even ambition to excite me, orself-esteem enough to console myself, much more her, for my failure.If I were to write a book that should go through twenty editions, why,I should be the very first to sneer at my reputation. Say I couldsucceed at the bar, and achieve a fortune by bullying witnesses andtwisting evidence; is that a fame which would satisfy my longings, ora calling in which my life would be well spent? How I wish I could bethat priest opposite, who never has lifted his eyes from his breviary,except when we were in Reigate tunnel, when he could not see; or thatold gentleman next him, who scowls at him with eyes of hatred over hisnewspaper. The priest shuts his eyes to the world, but has histhoughts on the book, which is his directory to the world to come. Hisneighbor hates him as a monster, tyrant, persecutor; and fanciesburning martyrs, and that pale countenance looking on, and lighted upby the flame. These have no doubts; these march on trustfully, bearingtheir load of logic."

"Would you like to look at the paper, sir?" here interposed the stoutgentleman (it had a flaming article against the order of theblackcoated gentleman who was traveling with them in the carriage) andPen thanked him and took it, and pursued his reverie, without readingtwo sentences of the journal.

"And yet, would you take either of those men's creeds, with itsconsequences?" he thought. "Ah me! you must bear your own burden,fashion your own faith, think your own thoughts, and pray your ownprayer. To what mortal ear could I tell all, if I had a mind? or whocould understand all? Who can tell another's short-comings, lostopportunities, weigh the passions which overpower, the defects whichincapacitate reason?—what extent of truth and right his neighbor'smind is organized to perceive and to do?—what invisible and forgottenaccident, terror of youth, chance or mischance of fortune, may havealtered the whole current of life? A grain of sand may alter it, asthe flinging of a pebble may end it. Who can weigh circ*mstances,passions, temptations, that go to our good and evil account, save One,before whose awful wisdom we kneel, and at whose mercy we askabsolution? Here it ends," thought Pen; "this day or to-morrow willwind up the account of my youth; a weary retrospect, alas! a sadhistory, with many a page I would fain not look back on! But who hasnot been tired or fallen, and who has escaped without scars from thatstruggle?" And his head fell on his breast, and the young man's heartprostrated itself humbly and sadly before that Throne where sitswisdom, and love, and pity for all, and made its confession. "Whatmatters about fame or poverty!" he thought. "If I marry this woman Ihave chosen, may I have strength and will to be true to her, and tomake her happy. If I have children, pray God teach me to speak and todo the truth among them, and to leave them an honest name. There areno splendors for my marriage. Does my life deserve any? I begin a newphase of it; a better than the last may it be, I pray Heaven!"

The train stopped at Tunbridge as Pen was making these reflections;and he handed over the newspaper to his neighbor, of whom hetook leave, while the foreign clergyman in the opposite corner stillsate with his eyes on his book. Pen jumped out of the carriage then,his carpetbag in hand, and briskly determined to face his fortune.

A fly carried him rapidly to Lady Clavering's house from the station;and, as he was transported thither, Arthur composed a little speech,which he intended to address to Blanche, and which was really asvirtuous, honest, and well-minded an oration as any man of his turn ofmind, and under his circ*mstances, could have uttered. The purport ofit was—"Blanche, I cannot understand from your last letter what yourmeaning is, or whether my fair and frank proposal to you is acceptableor no. I think you know the reason which induces me to forego theworldly advantages which a union with you offered, and which I couldnot accept without, as I fancy, being dishonored. If you doubt of myaffection, here I am ready to prove it. Let Smirke be called in, andlet us be married out of hand; and with all my heart I purpose to keepmy vow, and to cherish you through life, and to be a true and a lovinghusband to you."

From the fly Arthur sprang out then to the hall-door, where he was metby a domestic whom he did not know. The man seemed to be surprised atthe approach of the gentleman with the carpet-bag, which he made noattempt to take from Arthur's hands. "Her ladyship's not at home,sir," the man remarked.

"I am Mr. Pendennis," Arthur said. "Where is Lightfoot?" "Lightfoot isgone," answered the man. "My lady is out, and my orders was—"

"I hear Miss Amory's voice in the drawing-room," said Arthur. "Takethe bag to a dressing-room, if you please;" and, passing by theporter, he walked straight toward that apartment, from which, as thedoor opened, a warble of melodious notes issued.

Our little siren was at her piano singing with all her might andfascinations. Master Clavering was asleep on the sofa, indifferent tothe music; but near Blanche sat a gentleman who was perfectlyenraptured with her strain, which was of a passionate andmelancholy nature.

As the door opened, the gentleman started up with a hullo! the musicstopped, with a little shriek from the singer; Frank Clavering woke upfrom the sofa, and Arthur came forward and said, "What, Foker! how doyou do, Foker?" He looked at the piano, and there, by Miss Amory'sside, was just such another purple-leather box as he had seen inHarry's hand three days before, when the heir of Logwood was comingout of a jeweler's shop in Waterloo-place. It was opened, and curledround the white-satin cushion within was, oh, such a magnificentserpentine bracelet, with such a blazing ruby head and diamond tail!

"How-de-do, Pendennis?" said Foker. Blanche made many motions of theshoulders, and gave signs of interest and agitation. And she put herhandkerchief over the bracelet, and then she advanced, with a handwhich trembled very much, to greet Pen. "How is dearest Laura?" shesaid. The face of Foker looking up from his profound mourning—thatface, so piteous and puzzled, was one which the reader's imaginationmust depict for himself; also that of Master Frank Clavering, who,looking at the three interesting individuals with an expression of theutmost knowingness, had only time to ejacul*te the words, "Here's ajolly go!" and to disappear snigg*ring.

[Illustration]

Pen, too, had restrained himself up to that minute; but looking stillat Foker, whose ears and cheeks tingled with blushes, Arthur burst outinto a fit of laughter, so wild and loud, that it frightened Blanchemuch more than any the most serious exhibition.

"And this was the secret, was it? Don't blush and turn away, Foker, myboy. Why, man, you are a pattern of fidelity. Could I stand betweenBlanche and such constancy—could I stand between Miss Amory andfifteen thousand a year?"

"It is not that, Mr. Pendennis," Blanche said, with great dignity. "Itis not money, it is not rank, it is not gold that moves me; but itis constancy, it is fidelity, it is a whole, trustful, loving heartoffered to me that I treasure—yes, that I treasure!" And she madefor her handkerchief, but, reflecting what was underneath it, shepaused. "I do not disown, I do not disguise—my life is abovedisguise—to him on whom it is bestowed, my heart must be foreverbare—that I once thought I loved you,—yes, thought I was beloved byyou! I own. How I clung to that faith! How I strove, I prayed, Ilonged to believe it! But your conduct always—your own words so cold,so heartless, so unkind, have undeceived me. You trifled with theheart of the poor maiden! You flung me back with scorn the troth whichI had plighted! I have explained all—all to Mr. Foker."

"That you have," said Foker, with devotion, and conviction in hislooks.

"What, all?" said Pen, with a meaning look at Blanche. "It is I am infault is it? Well, well, Blanche, be it so. I won't appeal againstyour sentence, and bear it in silence. I came down here looking tovery different things, Heaven knows, and with a heart most truly andkindly disposed toward you. I hope you may be happy with another, as,on my word, it was my wish to make you so; and I hope my honest oldfriend here will have a wife worthy of his loyalty, his constancy, andaffection. Indeed they deserve the regard of any woman—even MissBlanche Amory. Shake hands, Harry; don't look askance at me. Has anybody told you that I was a false and heartless character?"

"I think you're a—" Foker was beginning, in his wrath, when Blancheinterposed.

"Henry, not a word!—I pray you let there be forgiveness!"

"You're an angel, by Jove, you're an angel!" said Foker, at which
Blanche looked seraphically up to the chandelier.

"In spite of what has passed, for the sake of what has passed, I mustalways regard Arthur as a brother," the seraph continued; "we haveknown each other years, we have trodden the same fields, and pluckedthe same flowers together. Arthur! Henry! I beseech you to take handsand to be friends! Forgive you!—I forgive you, Arthur, with myheart I do. Should I not do so for making me so happy?"

"There is only one person of us three whom I pity, Blanche," Arthursaid, gravely, "and I say to you again, that I hope you will make thisgood fellow, this honest and loyal creature, happy."

"Happy! O Heavens!" said Harry. He could not speak. His happinessgushed out at his eyes. "She don't know—she can't know how fond I amof her, and—and who am I? a poor little beggar, and she takes me upand says she'll try and l-l-love me. I ain't worthy of so muchhappiness. Give us your hand, old boy, since she forgives you afteryour heartless conduct, and says she loves you. I'll make you welcome.I tell you I'll love every body who loves her. By—if she tells me tokiss the ground I'll kiss it. Tell me to kiss the ground! I say, tellme. I love you so. You see I love you so."

Blanche looked up seraphically again. Her gentle bosom heaved. Sheheld out one hand as if to bless Harry, and then royally permitted himto kiss it. She took up the pocket handkerchief and hid her own eyes,as the other fair hand was abandoned to poor Harry's tearful embrace.

"I swear that is a villain who deceives such a loving creature asthat," said Pen.

Blanche laid down the handkerchief, and put hand No. 2 softly on
Foker's head, which was bent down kissing and weeping over hand No. 1.
"Foolish boy!" she said, "it shall be loved as it deserves: who could
help loving such a silly creature?"

And at this moment Frank Clavering broke in upon the sentimental trio.

"I say, Pendennis!" he said.

"Well, Frank!"

"The man wants to be paid, and go back. He's had some beer."

"I'll go back with him," cried Pen. "Good-by, Blanche. God bless you,Foker, old friend. You know, neither of you want me here." He longedto be off that instant.

"Stay—I must say one word to you. One word in private, if you
please," Blanche said. "You can trust us together, can't you—Henry?"
The tone in which the word Henry was spoken, and the appeal, ravished
Foker with delight. "Trust you!" said he; "Oh, who wouldn't trust you!
Come along, Franky, my boy."

"Let's have a cigar," said Frank, as they went into the hall.

"She don't like it," said Foker, gently.

"Law bless you—_she don't mind. Pendennis used to smoke regular,"said the candid youth.

"It was but a short word I had to say," said Blanche to Pen, withgreat calm, when they were alone. "You never loved me, Mr. Pendennis."

"I told you how much," said Arthur. "I never deceived you."

"I suppose you will go back and marry Laura," continued Blanche.

"Was that what you had to say?" said Pen.

"You are going to her this very night, I am sure of it. There is nodenying it. You never cared for me."

_"Et vous?"

"Et moi c'est différent._ I have been spoilt early. I can not live outof the world, out of excitement. I could have done so, but it is toolate. If I can not have emotions, I must have the world. You wouldoffer me neither one nor the other. You are blasé in every thing,even in ambition. You had a career before you, and you would not takeit. You give it up!—for what?—for a bétise, for an absurdscruple. Why would you not have that seat, and be such a puritain?Why should you refuse what is mine by right, entendez-vous?"

"You know all then?" said Pen.

"Only within a month. But I have suspected ever since Baymouth—n'importe since when. It is not too late. He is as if he had neverbeen; and there is a position in the world before you yet. Why not sitin Parliament, exert your talent, and give a place in the world toyourself, to your wife? I take celui-là. Il est bon. 1l est riche.Il est—vous le connaissez autant que moi enfin. Think you that Iwould not prefer un homme, qui fera parler de moi? If the secretappears I am rich à millions. How does it affect me? It is not myfault. It will never appear."

"You will tell Harry every thing, won't you?"

"Je comprends. Vous refusez" said Blanche, savagely. "I will tellHarry at my own time, when we are married. You will not betray me,will you? You, having a defenseless girl's secret, will not turn uponher and use it? S'il me plait de le cacher, mon secret; pourquoi ledonnerai-je? Je l'aime, mon pauvre père, voyez-vous? I would ratherlive with that man than with you fades intriguers of the world. Imust have emotions—il m'en donne. Il m'écrit. Il écrit tres-bien,voyez-vous—comme un pirate—comme un Bohémien—comme un homme. Butfor this I would have said to my mother—Ma mère! quittons ce lâchemari, cette lâche société—retournons à mon père.

"The pirate would have wearied you like the rest," said Pen.

"Eh! Il me faut des émotions" said Blanche. Pen had never seen heror known so much about her in all the years of their intimacy as hesaw and knew now: though he saw more than existed in reality. For thisyoung lady was not able to carry out any emotion to the full; but hada sham enthusiasm, a sham hatred, a sham love, a sham taste, a shamgrief, each of which flared and shone very vehemently for an instant,but subsided and gave place to the next sham emotion.

A CHAPTER OF MATCH-MAKING.

[Illustration]

Upon the platform at Tunbridge, Pen fumed and fretted until thearrival of the evening train to London, a full half-hour—six hours itseemed to him: but even this immense interval was passed, the trainarrived, the train sped on, the London lights came in view—agentleman who forgot his carpet-bag in the train rushed at a cab, andsaid to the man, "Drive as hard as you can go to Jermyn-street." Thecabman, although a Hansom cabman, said thank you for the gratuitywhich was put into his hand, and Pen ran up the stairs of the hotel toLady Rockminster's apartments. Laura was alone in the drawing-room,reading, with a pale face, by the lamp. The pale face looked up whenPen opened the door. May we follow him? The great moments of life arebut moments like the others. Your doom is spoken in a word or two. Asingle look from the eyes: a mere pressure of the hand may decide it;or of the lips, though they can not speak.

When Lady Rockminster, who has had her after-dinner nap, gets up andgoes into her sitting-room, we may enter with her ladyship.

"Upon my word, young people!" are the first words she says, and herattendant makes wondering eyes over her shoulder. And well may she sayso; and well may the attendant cast wondering eyes; for the youngpeople are in an attitude; and Pen in such a position as every younglady who reads this has heard tell of, or has seen, or hopes, or atany rate deserves to see.

In a word, directly he entered the room, Pen went up to Laura of thepale face, who had not time even to say, What, back so soon? andseizing her outstretched and trembling hand just as she was risingfrom her chair, fell down on his knees before her, and said quickly,"I have seen her. She has engaged herself to Harry Foker—and—andNOW, Laura?"

The hand gives a pressure—the eyes beam a reply—the quivering lipsanswer, though speechless. Pen's head sinks down in the girl's lap, ashe sobs out, "Come and bless us, dear mother," and arms as tender asHelen's once more enfold him.

In this juncture it is that Lady Rockminster comes in and says, "Uponmy word, young people! Beck! leave the room. What do you want pokingyour nose in here?"

Pen starts up with looks of triumph, still holding Laura's hand. "Sheis consoling me for my misfortune, ma'am," he says.

"What do you mean by kissing her hand? I don't know what you will benext doing."

Pen kissed her ladyship's. "I have been, to Tunbridge," he says,"and seen Miss Amory; and find on my arrival that—that a villain hassupplanted me in her affections," he says with a tragedy air.

"Is that all? Is that what you were whimpering on your knees about?"says the old lady, growing angry. "You might have kept the news tillto-morrow."

"Yes—another has superseded me," goes on Pen; "but why call himvillain? He is brave, he is constant, he is young, he is wealthy, heis beautiful."

"What stuff are you talking, sir?" cried the old lady. "What hashappened?"

"Miss Amory has jilted me, and accepted Henry Foker, Esq. I found herwarbling ditties to him as he lay at her feet; presents had beenaccepted, vows exchanged, these ten days. Harry was old Mrs. Planter'srheumatism, which kept dearest Laura out of the house. He is the mostconstant and generous of men. He has promised the living of Logwood toLady Ann's husband, and given her a splendid present on her marriage;and he rushed to fling himself at Blanche's feet the instant he foundhe was free."

"And so, as you can't get Blanche, you put up with Laura, is that it,sir?" asked the old lady.

"He acted nobly," Laura said.

"I acted as she bade me," said Pen. "Never mind how, Lady Rockminster;but to the best of my knowledge and power. And if you mean that I amnot worthy of Laura, I know it, and pray Heaven to better me; and ifthe love and company of the best and purest creature in the world cando so, at least I shall have these to help me."

"Hm, hm," replied the old lady to this, looking with ratheran appeased air at the young people. "It is all very well; but Ishould have preferred Bluebeard."

And now Pen, to divert the conversation from a theme which was growingpainful to some parties present, bethought him of his interview withHuxter in the morning, and of Fanny Bolton's affairs, which he hadforgotten under the immediate pressure and excitement of his own. Andhe told the ladies how Huxter had elevated Fanny to the rank of wife,and what terrors he was in respecting the arrival of his father. Hedescribed the scene with considerable humor, taking care to dwellespecially upon that part of it which concerned Fanny's coquetry andirrepressible desire of captivating mankind; his meaning being "Yousee, Laura, I was not so guilty in that little affair; it was the girlwho made love to me, and I who resisted. As I am no longer present,the little siren practices her arts and fascinations upon others. Letthat transaction be forgotten in your mind, if you please; or visit mewith a very gentle punishment for my error."

Laura understood his meaning under the eagerness of his explanations."If you did any wrong, you repented, dear Pen," she said, "and youknow," she added, with meaning eyes and blushes, "that I have noright to reproach you."

"Hm!" grumbled the old lady; "I should have preferred Bluebeard."

"The past is broken away. The morrow is before us. I will do my bestto make your morrow happy, dear Laura," Pen said. His heart washumbled by the prospect of his happiness: it stood awe-stricken in thecontemplation of her sweet goodness and purity. He liked his wifebetter that she had owned to that passing feeling for Warrington, andlaid bare her generous heart to him. And she—very likely she wasthinking "How strange it is that I ever should have cared for another;I am vexed almost to think I care for him so little, am so littlesorry that he is gone away. Oh, in these past two months how I havelearned to love Arthur. I care about nothing but Arthur; my waking andsleeping thoughts are about him; he is never absent from me. And tothink that he is to be mine, mine! and that I am to marry him, and notto be his servant as I expected to be only this morning; for I wouldhave gone down on my knees to Blanche to beg her to let me live withhim. And now—Oh, it is too much. Oh, mother! mother, that you werehere!" Indeed, she felt as if Helen were there—by her actually,though invisibly. A halo of happiness beamed from her. She moved witha different step, and bloomed with a new beauty. Arthur saw thechange; and the old Lady Rockminster remarked it with her shrewd eyes.

"What a sly, demure little wretch you have been," she whispered toLaura—while Pen, in great spirits, was laughing, and telling hisstory about Huxter—"and how you have kept your secret!"

"How are we to help the young couple?" said Laura. Of course MissLaura felt an interest in all young couples, as generous lovers alwayslove other lovers.

"We must go and see them," said Pen. "Of course we must go and seethem," said Laura. "I intend to be very fond of Fanny. Let us go thisinstant. Lady Rockminster, may I have the carriage?"

"Go now!—why, you stupid creature, it is eleven o'clock at night. Mr.and Mrs. Huxter have got their night-caps on, I daresay. And it istime for you to go now. Good-night, Mr. Pendennis."

Arthur and Laura begged for ten minutes more.

"We will go to-morrow morning, then. I will come and fetch you with
Martha."

"An earl's coronet," said Pen, who, no doubt, was pleased himself,"will have a great effect in Lamb-court and Smithfield. Stay—LadyRockminster, will you join us in a little conspiracy?"

"How do you mean conspiracy, young man?"

"Will you please to be a little ill to-morrow; and when old Mr. Huxterarrives, will you let me call him in? If he is put into a good humorat the notion of attending a baronet in the country, what influencewon't a countess have on him? When he is softened—when he is quiteripe, we will break the secret upon him; bring in the young people,extort the paternal benediction, and finish the comedy."

"A parcel of stuff," said the old lady. "Take your hat, sir. Comeaway, Miss. There—my head is turned another way. Good-night, youngpeople." And who knows but the old lady thought of her own early daysas she went away on Laura's arm, nodding her head and hummingto herself?

With the early morning came Laura and Martha, according to
appointment; and the desired sensation was, let us hope, effected in
Lamb-court, whence the three proceeded to wait upon Mr. and Mrs.
Samuel Huxter, at their residence in Charterhouse-lane.

The two ladies looked at each other with great interest, and not alittle emotion on Fanny's part. She had not seen her "guardian," asshe was pleased to call Pen in consequence of his bequest, since theevent had occurred which had united her to Mr. Huxter.

"Samuel told me how kind you had been," she said. "You were alwaysvery kind, Mr. Pendennis. And—and I hope your friend is better, whowas took ill in Shepherd's Inn, ma'am."

"My name is Laura," said the other, with a blush. "I am—that is, Iwas—that is, I am Arthur's sister; and we shall always love you forbeing so good to him when he was ill. And when we live in the country,I hope we shall see each other. And I shall be always happy to hear ofyour happiness, Fanny."

"We are going to do what you and Huxter have done, Fanny.—Where is
Huxter? What nice, snug lodgings you've got! What a pretty cat!"

While Fanny is answering these questions in reply to Pen, Laura saysto herself—"Well, now really! is this the creature about whom wewere all so frightened? What could he see in her? She's a homelylittle thing, but such manners! Well, she was very kind to him—blessher for that." Mr. Samuel had gone out to meet his pa. Mrs. Huxtersaid that the old gentleman was to arrive that day at the Somersetcoffee-house, in the Strand; and Fanny confessed that she was in a sadtremor about the meeting. "If his parents cast him off, what are we todo?" she said. "I shall never pardon myself for bringing ruing on my'usband's 'ead. You must intercede for us, Mr. Arthur. If mortal mancan, you can bend and influence Mr. Huxter senior." Fanny stillregarded Pen in the light of a superior being, that was evident. Nodoubt Arthur thought of the past, as he marked the solemn littletragedy-airs and looks, the little ways, the little trepidations,vanities, of the little bride. As soon as the interview was over,entered Messrs. Linton and Blades, who came, of course, to visitHuxter, and brought with them a fine fragrance of tobacco. They hadwatched the carriage at the baker's door, and remarked the coronetwith awe. They asked of Fanny who was that uncommonly heavy swell whohad just driven off? and pronounced the countess was of the rightsort. And when they heard that it was Mr. Pendennis and his sister,they remarked that Pen's father was only a sawbones; and that he gavehimself confounded airs: they had been in Huxter's company on thenight of his little altercation with Pen in the Back Kitchen.

Returning homeward through Fleet-street, and as Laura was just statingto Pen's infinite amusem*nt that Fanny was very well, but that reallythere was no beauty in her—there might be, but she could not seeit—as they were locked near Temple-bar, they saw young Huxterreturning to his bride. "The governor had arrived; was at the Somersetcoffee-house—was in tolerable good humor—something about therailway: but he had been afraid to speak about—about that business.Would Mr. Pendennis try it on?"

Pen said he would go and call at that moment upon Mr. Huxter, and seewhat might be done. Huxter junior would lurk outside while that awfulinterview took place. The coronet on the carriage inspired his soulalso with wonder; and old Mr. Huxter himself beheld it with delight,as he looked from the coffee-house window on that Strand, which it wasalways a treat to him to survey.

"And I can afford to give myself a lark, sir," said Mr. Huxter,shaking hands with Pen. "Of course you know the news? We have got ourbill, sir. We shall have our branch line—our shares are up, sir—andwe buy your three fields along the Brawl, and put a pretty penny intoyour pocket, Mr. Pendennis."

"Indeed! that was good news." Pen remembered that there was a letterfrom Mr. Tatham, at Chambers, these three days; but he had not openedthe communication, being interested with other affairs.

"I hope you don't intend to grow rich, and give up practice," saidPen. "We can't lose you at Clavering, Mr. Huxter; though I hear verygood accounts of your son. My friend, Dr. Goodenough, speaks mosthighly of his talents. It is hard that a man of your eminence, though,should be kept in a country town."

"The metropolis would have been my sphere of action, sir," said Mr.Huxter, surveying the Strand. "But a man takes his business where hefinds it; and I succeeded to that of my father."

"It was my father's, too," said Pen. "I sometimes wish I had followedit."

"You, sir, have taken a more lofty career," said the old gentleman."You aspire to the senate: and to literary honors. You wield thepoet's pen, sir, and move in the circles of fashion. We keep an eyeupon you at Clavering. We read your name in the lists of the selectparties of the nobility. Why, it was only the other day that my wifewas remarking how odd it was that at a party at the Earl ofKidderminster's your name was not mentioned. To what member of thearistocracy may I ask does that equipage belong from which I saw youdescend? The Countess Dowager of Rockminster? How is her ladyship?"

"Her ladyship is not very well; and when I heard that you were comingto town, I strongly urged her to see you, Mr. Huxter," Pen said. OldHuxter felt, if he had a hundred votes for Clavering, he would givethem all to Pen.

"There is an old friend of yours in the carriage—a Clavering lady,too—will you come out and speak to her?" asked Pen. The old surgeonwas delighted to speak to a coroneted carriage in the midst of thefull Strand: he ran out bowing and smiling. Huxter junior, dodgingabout the district, beheld the meeting between his father and Laura,saw the latter put out her hand, and presently, after a littlecolloquy with Pen, beheld his father actually jump into the carriage,and drive away with Miss Bell.

There was no room for Arthur, who came back, laughing, to the youngsurgeon, and told him whither his parent was bound. During the wholeof the journey, that artful Laura coaxed and wheedled, and cajoled himso adroitly, that the old gentleman would have granted her any thing;and Lady Rockminster achieved the victory over him by complimentinghim on his skill, and professing her anxiety to consult him. What wereher ladyship's symptoms? Should he meet her ladyship's usual medicalattendant? Mr. Jones was called out of town? He should be delighted todevote his very best energies and experience to her ladyship's service.

He was so charmed with his patient, that he wrote home about her tohis wife and family; he talked of nothing but Lady Rockminster toSamuel, when that youth came to partake of beef-steak and oyster-sauceand accompany his parent to the play. There was a simple grandeur, apolite urbanity, a high-bred grace about her ladyship, which he hadnever witnessed in any woman. Her symptoms did not seem alarming; hehad prescribed—Spir:Ammon:Aromat: with a little Spir:Menth:Pip:and orange-flower, which would be all that was necessary.

"Miss Bell seemed to be on the most confidential and affectionatefooting with her ladyship. She was about to form a matrimonialconnection. All young people ought to marry. Such were her ladyship'swords: and the countess condescended to ask respecting my own family,and I mentioned you by name to her ladyship, Sam, my boy. I shall lookin to-morrow, when, if the remedies which I have prescribed for herladyship have had the effect which I anticipate, I shall probablyfollow them up by a little Spir: Lavend: Comp:—and so set my noblepatient up. What is the theater which is most frequented by the—bythe higher classes in town, hey, Sam? and to what amusem*nt will youtake an old country doctor to-night, hey, sir?"

On the next day, when Mr. Huxter called in Jermyn-street at twelveo'clock, Lady Rockminster had not yet left her room, but Miss Bell andMr. Pendennis were in waiting to receive him. Lady Rockminster hadhad a most comfortable night, and was getting on as well as possible.How had Mr. Huxter amused himself? at the theater? with his son? Whata capital piece it was, and how charming Mrs. O'Leary looked and sangit! and what a good fellow young Huxter was! liked by every body, anhonor to his profession. He has not his father's manners, I grant you,or that old-world tone which is passing away from us, but a moreexcellent, sterling fellow never lived. "He ought to practice in thecountry whatever you do, sir," said Arthur, "he ought to marry—otherpeople are going to do so—and settle."

"The very words that her ladyship used yesterday, Mr. Pendennis Heought to marry. Sam should marry, sir."

"The town is full of temptations, sir," continued Pen. The oldgentleman thought of that houri, Mrs. O'Leary.

"There is no better safeguard for a young man than an early marriagewith an honest affectionate creature."

"No better, sir, no better."

"And love is better than money, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is," said Miss Bell.

"I agree with so fair an authority," said the old gentleman with abow.

"And—and suppose, sir," Pen said, "that I had a piece of news tocommunicate to you."

"God bless my soul, Mr. Pendennis! what do you mean?" asked the oldgentleman.

"Suppose I had to tell you that a young man carried away by anirresistible passion for an admirable and most virtuous youngcreature—whom every body falls in love with—had consulted thedictates of reason and his heart, and had married. Suppose I were totell you that that man is my friend; that our excellent, our trulynoble friend the Countess Dowager of Rockminster is truly interestedabout him (and you may fancy what a young man can do in life when THATfamily is interested for him); suppose I were to tell you that youknow him—that he is here—that he is—"

"Sam, married! God bless my soul, sir, you don't mean that!"

"And to such a nice creature, dear Mr. Huxter."

"His lordship is charmed with her," said Pen, telling almost the firstfib which he has told in the course of this story.

"Married! the rascal, is he?" thought the old gentleman. "They will doit, sir," said Pen; and went and opened the door. Mr. and Mrs. SamuelHuxter issued thence, and both came and knelt down before the oldgentleman. The kneeling little Fanny found favor in his sight. Theremust have been something attractive about her, in spite ofLaura's opinion.

"Will never do so any more, sir," said Sam.

"Get up, sir," said Mr. Huxter. And they got up, and Fanny came alittle nearer and a little nearer still, and looked so pretty andpitiful, that somehow Mr. Huxter found himself kissing the littlecrying-laughing thing, and feeling as if he liked it.

"What's your name, my dear?" he said, after a minute of this sport.

"Fanny, papa," said Mrs. Samuel.

EXEUNT OMNES.

[Illustration]

Our characters are all a month older than theywere when the last-described adventures and conversations occurred,and a great number of the personages of our story have chanced tore-assemble at the little country town where we were first introducedto them. Frederic Lightfoot, formerly maître d'hôtel in the serviceof Sir Francis Clavering, of Clavering Park, Bart., has begged leaveto inform the nobility and gentry of——shire that he has taken thatwell-known and comfortable hotel, the Clavering Arms, in Clavering,where he hopes for the continued patronage of the gentlemen andfamilies of the county. "This ancient and well-established house," Mr.Lightfoot's manifesto states, "has been repaired and decorated in astyle of the greatest comfort. Gentlemen hunting with theDumplingbeare hounds will find excellent stabling and loose boxes forhorses at the Clavering Arms. A commodious billiard-room has beenattached to the hotel, and the cellars have been furnished with thechoicest wines and spirits, selected, without regard to expense, byC.L. Commercial gentlemen will find the Clavering Arms a mostcomfortable place of resort: and the scale of charges has beenregulated for all, so as to meet the economical spirit of thepresent times."

Indeed, there is a considerable air of liveliness about the old inn.The Clavering Arms have been splendidly repainted over the gate-way.The coffee-room windows are bright and fresh, and decorated withChristmas holly; the magistrates have met in petty sessions in thecard-room of the old Assembly. The farmers' ordinary is held asof old, and frequented by increased numbers, who are pleased with Mrs.Lightfoot's cuisine. Her Indian curries and Mulligatawny soup areespecially popular: Major Stokes, the respected tenant of FairoaksCottage, Captain Glanders, H. P., and other resident gentry, havepronounced in their favor, and have partaken of them more than once,both in private and at the dinner of the Clavering Institute,attendant on the incorporation of the reading-room, and when the chiefinhabitants of that flourishing little town met together and didjustice to the hostess's excellent cheer. The chair was taken by SirFrancis Clavering, Bart., supported by the esteemed rector, Dr.Portman; the vice-chair being ably filled by——Barker, Esq.(supported by the Rev. J. Simcoe and the Rev. S. Jowls), theenterprising head of the ribbon factory in Clavering, and chiefdirector of the Clavering and Chatteris Branch of the Great WesternRailway, which will be opened in another year, and upon the works ofwhich the engineers and workmen are now busily engaged.

"An interesting event, which is likely to take place in the life ofour talented townsman, Arthur Pendennis, Esq., has, we understand,caused him to relinquish the intentions which he had of offeringhimself as a candidate for our borough; and rumor whispers (says theChatteris Champion, Clavering Agriculturist, and BaymouthFisherman—that independent county paper, so distinguished for itsunswerving principles and loyalty to the British oak, and so eligiblea medium for advertisem*nts)—rumor states, says the C. C. C. A. andB.F., that should Sir Francis Clavering's failing health oblige himto relinquish his seat in Parliament, he will vacate it in favor of ayoung gentleman of colossal fortune and related to the highestaristocracy of the empire, who is about to contract a matrimonialalliance with an accomplished and LOVELY lady, connected by thenearest ties with the respected family at Clavering Park. LadyClavering and Miss Amory have arrived at the Park for the Christmasholidays; and we understand that a large number of the aristocracy areexpected, and that festivities of a peculiarly interesting nature willtake place there at the commencement of the new year."

The ingenious reader will be enabled, by the help of the aboveannouncement to understand what has taken place during the littlebreak which has occurred in our narrative. Although Lady Rockminstergrumbled a little at Laura's preference for Pendennis over Bluebeard,those who are aware of the latter's secret will understand that theyoung girl could make no other choice, and the kind old lady who hadconstituted herself Miss Bell's guardian was not ill-pleased that shewas to fulfill the great purpose in life of young ladies and marry.She informed her maid of the interesting event that very night, and ofcourse, Mrs. Beck, who was perfectly aware of every singlecirc*mstance, and kept by Martha, of Fairoaks, in the fullestknowledge of what was passing, was immensely surprised and delighted."Mr. Pendennis's income is so much; the railroad will give him somuch more, he states; Miss Bell has so much, and may probably have alittle more one day. For persons in their degree, they will be able tomanage very well. And I shall speak to my nephew Pynsent, who Isuspect was once rather attached to her—but of course that was out ofthe question" ("Oh! of course, my lady; I should think so indeed!")—"notthat you know any thing whatever about it, or have any businessto think at all on the subject—I shall speak to George Pynsent, whois now chief secretary of the Tape and Sealing Wax Office, and haveMr. Pendennis made something. And, Beck, in the morning you will carrydown my compliments to Major Pendennis, and say that I shall pay him avisit at one o'clock.—Yes," muttered the old lady, "the major must bereconciled, and he must leave his fortune to Laura's children."

Accordingly, at one o'clock, the Dowager Lady Rockminster appeared atMajor Pendennis's, who was delighted, as may be imagined, to receiveso noble a visitor. The major had been prepared, if not for the newswhich her ladyship was about to give him, at least with theintelligence that Pen's marriage with Miss Amory was broken off. Theyoung gentleman bethinking him of his uncle, for the first time thatday, it must be owned, and meeting his new servant in the hall of thehotel, asked after the major's health from Mr. Frosch; and then wentinto the coffee-room of the hotel, where he wrote a half-dozen linesto acquaint his guardian with what had occurred. "Dear uncle," hesaid, "if there has been any question between us, it is over now. Iwent to Tunbridge Wells yesterday, and found that somebody else hadcarried off the prize about which we were hesitating. Miss A., withoutany compunction for me, has bestowed herself upon Harry Foker, withhis fifteen thousand a year. I came in suddenly upon their loves, andfound and left him in possession.

"And you'll be glad to hear, Tatham writes me, that he has sold threeof my fields at Fairoaks to the Railroad Company, at a great figure. Iwill tell you this, and more when we met; and am always youraffectionate—A.P."

"I think I am aware of what you were about to tell me," the majorsaid, with a most courtly smile and bow to Pen's embassadress, "It wasa very great kindness of your ladyship to think of bringing me thenews. How well you look! How very good you are! How very kind you havealways been to that young man!"

"It was for the sake of his uncle," said Lady Rockminster, mostpolitely.

"He has informed me of the state of affairs, and written me a nicenote—yes, a nice note," continued the old gentleman; "and I find hehas had an increase to his fortune—yes; and all things considered, Idon't much regret that this affair with Miss Amory is manquée,though I wished for it once—in fact, all things considered, I am veryglad of it."

"We must console him, Major Pendennis," continued the lady; "we mustget him a wife." The truth then came across the major's mind, and hesaw for what purpose Lady Rockminster had chosen to assume the officeof embassadress.

It is not necessary to enter into the conversation which ensued, or totell at any length how her ladyship concluded a negotiation, which, intruth, was tolerably easy. There could be no reason why Pen should notmarry according to his own and his mother's wish; and as for LadyRockminster, she supported the marriage by intimations which had verygreat weight with the major, but of which we shall say nothing, as herladyship (now, of course, much advanced in years) is still alive, andthe family might be angry; and, in fine, the old gentleman was quiteovercome by the determined graciousness of the lady, and her fondnessfor Laura. Nothing, indeed, could be more bland and kind than LadyRockminster's whole demeanor, except for one moment when the majortalked about his boy throwing himself away, at which her ladyshipbroke out into a little speech, in which she made the majorunderstand, what poor Pen and his friends acknowledged very humbly,that Laura was a thousand times too good for him. Laura was fit to bethe wife of a king—Laura was a paragon of virtue and excellence. Andit must be said, that when Major Pendennis found that a lady of therank of the Countess of Rockminster seriously admired Miss Bell, heinstantly began to admire her himself.

So that when Herr Frosch was requested to walk up-stairs to LadyRockminster's apartments, and inform Miss Bell and Mr. ArthurPendennis that the major would receive them, and Laura appearedblushing and happy as she hung on Pen's arm, the major gave a shakyhand to one and the other, with no unaffected emotion and cordiality,and then went through another salutation to Laura, which caused her toblush still more. Happy blushes! bright eyes beaming with the light oflove! The story-teller turns from this group to his young audience,and hopes that one day their eyes may all shine so.

Pen having retreated in the most friendly manner, and the lovelyBlanche having bestowed her young affections upon a blushing bridegroom,with fifteen thousand a year, there was such an outbreak ofhappiness in Lady Clavering's heart and family as the good Begum hadnot known for many a year, and she and Blanche were on the mostdelightful terms of cordiality and affection. The ardent Foker pressedonward the happy day, and was as anxious as might be expected toabridge the period of mourning which had put him in possession of somany charms and amiable qualities, of which he had been only, as itwere, the heir apparent, not the actual owner, until then. The gentleBlanche, every thing that her affianced lord could desire, was notaverse to gratify the wishes of her fond Henry. Lady Clavering came upfrom Tunbridge. Milliners and jewelers were set to work and engaged toprepare the delightful paraphernalia of Hymen. Lady Clavering was insuch a good humor, that Sir Francis even benefited by it, and such areconciliation was effected between this pair, that Sir Francis cameto London, sate at the head of his own table once more, and appearedtolerably flush of money at his billiard-rooms and gambling-housesagain. One day, when Major Pendennis and Arthur went to dine inGrosvenor place, they found an old acquaintance established in thequality of major-domo, and the gentleman in black, who, with perfectpoliteness and gravity, offered them their choice of sweet or drychampagne, was no other than Mr. James Morgan. The Chevalier Strongwas one of the party; he was in high spirits and condition, andentertained the company with accounts of his amusem*nts abroad.

"It was my lady who invited me," said Strong to Arthur, under his
voice—"that fellow Morgan looked as black as thunder when I came in.
He is about no good here. I will go away first, and wait for you and
Major Pendennis at Hyde Park Gate."

Mr. Morgan helped Major Pendennis to his great coat when he wasquitting the house; and muttered something about having accepted atemporary engagement with the Clavering family.

"I have got a paper of yours, Mr. Morgan," said the old gentleman.

"Which you can show, if you please, to Sir Francis, sir, and perfectlywelcome," said Mr. Morgan, with downcast eyes. "I'm very much obligedto you, Major Pendennis, and if I can pay you for all your kindnessI will."

Arthur overheard the sentence, and saw the look of hatred whichaccompanied it, suddenly cried out that he had forgotten hishandkerchief, and ran up-stairs to the drawing-room again. Foker wasstill there; still lingering about his siren. Pen gave the siren alook full of meaning, and we suppose that the siren understood meaninglooks, for when, after finding the veracious handkerchief of which hecame in quest, he once more went out, the siren, with a laughingvoice, said, "O, Arthur—Mr. Pendennis—I want you to tell dear Laurasomething?" and she came out to the door.

"What is it?" he asked, shutting the door.

"Have you told Harry? Do you know that villain Morgan knows all."

"I know it," she said.

"Have you told Harry?"

"No, no," she said. "You won't betray me?"

"Morgan will," said Pen.

"No, he wont," said Blanche. "I have promised him—n'importe. Waituntil after our marriage—O, until after our marriage—O, how wretchedI am," said the girl, who had been all smiles, and grace, and gayetyduring the evening.

Arthur said, "I beg and implore you to tell Harry. Tell him now. It isno fault of yours. He will pardon you any thing. Tell him tonight."

"And give her this—Il est là—with my love, please; and I beg yourpardon for calling you back; and if she will be at Madame Crinoline'sat half-past three, and if Lady Rockminster can spare her, I should solike to drive with her in the park;" and she went in, singing andkissing her little hand, as Morgan the velvet-footed came up thecarpeted stair.

Pen heard Blanche's piano breaking out into brilliant music as he wentdown to join his uncle; and they walked away together. Arthur brieflytold him what he had done. "What was to be done?" he asked.

"What is to be done, begad?" said the old gentleman. "What is to bedone but to leave it alone? Begad, let us be thankful," said the oldfellow, with a shudder, "that we are out of the business, and leave itto those it concerns."

"I hope to Heaven she'll tell him," said Pen.

"Begad, she'll take her own course," said the old man. "Miss Amory isa dev'lish wide-awake girl, sir, and must play her own cards; and I'mdoosid glad you are out of it—doosid glad, begad. Who's this smoking?O, it's Mr. Strong again. He wants to put in his oar, I suppose. Itell you, don't meddle in the business, Arthur."

Strong began once or twice, as if to converse upon the subject, butthe major would not hear a word. He remarked on the moonlight onApsley House, the weather, the cab-stands—any thing but that subject.He bowed stiffly to Strong, and clung to his nephew's arm, as heturned down St. James's-street, and again cautioned Pen to leave theaffair alone. "It had like to have cost you so much, sir, that you maytake my advice," he said.

When Arthur came out of the hotel, Strong's cloak and cigar werevisible a few doors off. The jolly chevalier laughed as they met. "I'man old soldier too," he said. "I wanted to talk to you, Pendennis. Ihave heard of all that has happened, and all the chops and changesthat have taken place during my absence. I congratulate you on yourmarriage, and I congratulate you on your escape, too—you understandme. It was not my business to speak, but I know this, that a certainparty is as arrant a little—well—well, never mind what. You actedlike a man, and a trump, and are well out of it."

"I have no reason to complain," said Pen. "I went back to beg andentreat poor Blanche to tell Foker all: I hope, for her sake, shewill; but I fear not. There is but one policy, Strong, there isbut one."

"And lucky he that can stick to it," said the chevalier. "That rascalMorgan means mischief. He has been lurking about our chambers for thelast two months: he has found out that poor mad devil Amory's secret.He has been trying to discover where he was: he has been pumping Mr.Bolton, and making old Costigan drunk several times. He bribed the Innporter to tell him when we came back: and he has got into Clavering'sservice on the strength of his information. He will get very good payfor it, mark my words, the villain." "Where is Amory?" asked Pen.

"At Boulogne, I believe. I left him there, and warned him not to comeback. I have broken with him, after a desperate quarrel, such as onemight have expected with such a madman. And I'm glad to think that heis in my debt now, and that I have been the means of keeping him outof more harms than one."

"He has lost all his winnings, I suppose," said Pen.

"No: he is rather better than when he went away, or was a fortnightago. He had extraordinary luck at Baden: broke the bank severalnights, and was the fable of the place. He lied himself there, witha fellow by the name of Bloundell, who gathered about him a society ofall sorts of sharpers, male and female, Russians, Germans, French,English. Amory got so insolent, that I was obliged to thrash him oneday within an inch of his life. I couldn't help myself; the fellow hasplenty of pluck, and I had nothing for it but to hit out."

"And did he call you out?" said Pen.

"You think if I had shot him I should have done nobody any harm? No,sir; I waited for his challenge, but it never came: and the next timeI met him he begged my pardon, and said, 'Strong, I beg your pardon;you whopped me and you served me right.' I shook hands: but I couldn'tlive with him after that. I paid him what I owed him the nightbefore," said Strong with a blush. "I pawned every thing to pay him,and then I went with my last ten florins, and had a shy at theroulette. If I had lost, I should have let him shoot me in themorning. I was weary of my life. By Jove, sir, isn't it a shame that aman like me, who may have had a few bills out, but who never deserteda friend, or did an unfair action, shouldn't be able to turn his handto any thing to get bread? I made a good night, sir, at roulette,and I've done with that. I'm going into the wine business. My wife'srelations live at Cadiz. I intend to bring over Spanish wine and hams;there's a fortune to be made by it, sir—a fortune—here's my card. Ifyou want any sherry or hams, recollect Ned Strong is your man." Andthe chevalier pulled out a handsome card, stating that Strong andCompany, Shepherd's Inn, were sole agents of the celebrated DiamondManzanilla of the Duke of Garbanzos, Grandee of Spain of the FirstClass; and of the famous Toboso hams, fed on acorns only in thecountry of Don Quixote. "Come and taste 'em, sir—come and try 'em atmy chambers. You see, I've an eye to business, and by Jove, this timeI'll succeed."

Pen laughed as he took the card. "I don't know whether I shall beallowed to go to bachelors' parties," he said. "You know I'mgoing to—"

"But you must have sherry, sir. You must have sherry."

"I will have it from you, depend on it," said the other. "And I thinkyou are very well out of your other partnership. That worthy, Altamontand his daughter correspond, I hear," Pen added after a pause "Yes;she wrote him the longest rigmarole letters that I used to read: thesly little devil; and he answered under cover to Mrs. Bonner. He wasfor carrying her off the first day or two, and nothing would contenthim but having back his child. But she didn't want to come, as you mayfancy; and he was not very eager about it." Here the chevalier burstout in a laugh. "Why, sir, do you know what was the cause of ourquarrel and boxing match? There was a certain widow at Baden, a Madamela Baronne de la Cruche-cassée, who was not much better than himself,and whom the scoundrel wanted to marry; and would, but that I told herhe was married already. I don't think that she was much better than hewas. I saw her on the pier at Boulogne the day I came to England."

And now we have brought up our narrative to the point, whither theannouncement in the Chatteris Champion had already conducted us.

It wanted but very, very few days before that blissful one when Fokershould call Blanche his own; the Clavering folks had all pressed tosee the most splendid new carriage in the whole world, which wasstanding in the coach-house at the Clavering Arms; and shown, ingrateful return for drink, commonly, by Mr. Foker's head coachman.Madame Fribsby was occupied in making some lovely dresses for thetenants' daughters, who were to figure as a sort of bridemaids' chorusat the breakfast and marriage ceremony. And immense festivities wereto take place at the Park upon this delightful occasion.

"Yes, Mr. Huxter, yes; a happy tenantry, its country's pride, willassemble in the baronial hall, where the beards will wag all. The oxshall be slain, and the cup they'll drain; and the bells shall pealquite genteel; and my father-in-law, with the tear of sensibilitybedewing his eye, shall bless us at his baronial porch. That shall bethe order of proceedings, I think, Mr. Huxter; and I hope we shall seeyou and your lovely bride by her husband's side; and what will youplease to drink, sir? Mrs. Lightfoot, madam, you will give to myexcellent friend and body surgeon, Mr. Huxter, Mr. Samuel Huxter,M.R.C.S., every refreshment that your hostel affords, and place thefestive amount to my account; and Mr. Lightfoot, sir, what will youtake? though you've had enough already, I think; yes, ha."

So spoke Harry Foker in the bar of the Clavering Arms. He hadapartments at that hotel, and had gathered a circle of friends roundhim there. He treated all to drink who came. He was hail-fellow withevery man. He was so happy! He danced round Madam Fribsby, Mrs.Lightfoot's great ally, as she sate pensive in the bar. He consoledMrs. Lightfoot, who had already begun to have causes of matrimonialdisquiet; for the truth must be told, that young Lightfoot, having nowthe full command of the cellar, had none over his own unbridleddesires, and was tippling and tipsy from morning till night. And apiteous sight it was for his fond wife to behold the big youth reelingabout the yard and coffee-room, or drinking with the farmers andtradesmen his own neat wines and carefully-selected stock of spirits.

When he could find time, Mr. Morgan the butler came from the Park, andtook a glass at the expense of the landlord of the Clavering Arms. Hewatched poor Lightfoot's tipsy vagaries with savage sneers. Mrs.Lightfoot felt always doubly uncomfortable when her unhappy spouse wasunder his comrade's eye. But a few months married, and to think he hadgot to this. Madame Fribsby could feel for her. Madame Fribsby couldtell her stories of men every bit as bad. She had had her own woestoo, and her sad experience of men. So it is that nobody seems happyaltogether; and that there's bitters, as Mr. Foker remarked, in thecup of every man's life. And yet there did not seem to be any in his,the honest young fellow! It was brimming over with happiness andgood-humor.

Mr. Morgan was constant in his attentions to Foker. "And yet I don'tlike him somehow," said the candid young man to Mrs. Lightfoot. "Healways seems as if he was measuring me for my coffin somehow.Pa-in-law's afraid of him; pa-in-law's, a-hem! never mind, but ma-in-law'sa trump, Mrs. Lightfoot."

"Indeed my lady was;" and Mrs. Lightfoot owned, with a sigh, thatperhaps it had been better for her had she never left her mistress.

"No, I do not like thee, Dr. Fell: the reason why I can not tell,"continued Mr. Foker; "and he wants to be taken as my head man. Blanchewants me to take him. Why does Miss Amory like him so?"

"Did Miss Blanche like him so?" The notion seemed to disturb Mrs.Lightfoot very much; and there came to this worthy landlady anothercause for disturbance. A letter bearing the Boulogne postmark, wasbrought to her one morning, and she and her husband were quarrelingover it as Foker passed down the stairs by the bar, on his way to thePark. His custom was to breakfast there, and bask awhile in thepresence of Armida; then, as the company of Clavering tired himexceedingly, and he did not care for sporting, he would return for anhour or two to billiards and the society of the Clavering Arms; thenit would be time to ride with Miss Amory, and, after dining with her,he left her and returned modestly to his inn.

Lightfoot and his wife were quarreling over the letter. What was thatletter from abroad? Why was she always having letters from abroad? Whowrote 'em?—he would know. He didn't believe it was her brother. Itwas no business of his? It was a business of his; and, with a curse,he seized hold of his wife, and dashed at her pocket for the letter.

The poor woman gave a scream; and said, "Well, take it." Just as herhusband seized on the letter, and Mr. Foker entered at the door, shegave another scream at seeing him, and once more tried to seize thepaper. Lightfoot opened it, shaking her away, and an inclosure droppeddown on the breakfast table.

"Hands off, man alive!" cried little Harry, springing in. "Don't layhands on a woman, sir. The man that lays his hand upon a woman, savein the way of kindness, is a—hallo! it's a letter for Miss Amory.What's this, Mrs. Lightfoot?"

Mrs. Lightfoot began, in piteous tones of reproach to her husband—"You unmanly! to treat a woman so who took you off the street. O youcoward, to lay your hand upon your wife! Why did I marry you? Why didI leave my lady for you? Why did I spend eight hundred pound infitting up this house that you might drink and guzzle?"

"She gets letters, and she won't tell me who writes letters," said Mr.Lightfoot, with a muzzy voice, "it's a family affair, sir. Will youtake any thing, sir?"

"I will take this letter to Miss Amory, as I am going to the Park,"said Foker, turning very pale; and taking it up from the table, whichwas arranged for the poor landlady's breakfast, he went away.

"He's comin'—dammy, who's a-comin'? Who's J.A., Mrs. Lightfoot—curse me, who's J.A.," cried the husband.

Mrs. Lightfoot cried out, "Be quiet, you tipsy brute, do,"—andrunning to her bonnet and shawl, threw them on, saw Mr. Foker walkingdown the street, took the by-lane which skirts it, and ran as quicklyas she could to the lodge-gate, Clavering Park. Foker saw a runningfigure before him, but it was lost when he got to the lodge-gate. Hestopped and asked, "Who was that who had just come in? Mrs. Bonner,was it?" He reeled almost in his walk: the trees swam before him. Herested once or twice against the trunks of the naked limes.

Lady Clavering was in the breakfast-room with her son, and her husbandyawning over his paper. "Good-morning, Harry," said the Begum. "Here'sletters, lots of letters; Lady Rockminster will be here on Tuesdayinstead of Monday, and Arthur and the major come to-day; and Laura isto go Dr. Portman's, and come to church from there: and—what's thematter, my dear? What makes you so pale Harry?"

"Where is Blanche?" asked Harry, in a sickening voice "not down yet?"

"Blanche is always the last," said the boy, eating muffins; "she's aregular dawdle, she is. When you're not here, she lays in bed tilllunch time."

"Be quiet, Frank," said the mother.

Blanche came down presently, looking pale, and with rather an eagerlook toward Foker; then she advanced and kissed her mother, and had aface beaming with her very best smiles on when she greeted Harry.

"How do you do, sir?" she said, and put out both her hands.

"I'm ill," answered Harry. "I—I've brought a letter for you, Blanche."

"A letter, and from whom is it pray? Voyons" she said.

"I don't know—I should like to know," said Foker.

"How can I tell until I see it?" asked Blanche. "Has Mrs. Bonner nottold you?" he said, with a shaking voice; "there's some secret. Yougive her the letter, Lady Clavering."

Lady Clavering, wondering, took the letter from poor Foker's shakinghand, and looked at the superscription. As she looked at it, she toobegan to shake in every limb, and with a scared face she dropped theletter, and running up to Frank, clutched the boy to her, and burstout with a sob, "Take that away—it's impossible, it's impossible."

"What is the matter?" cried Blanche, with rather a ghastly smile, "theletter is only from—from a poor pensioner and relative of ours."

"It's not true, it's not true," screamed Lady Clavering. "No, my
Frank—is it Clavering?"

Blanche had taken up the letter, and was moving with it toward thefire, but Foker ran to her and clutched her arm, "I must see thatletter," he said; "give it to me. You shan't burn it."

"You—you shall not treat Miss Amory so in my house," cried thebaronet; "give back the letter, by Jove!"

"Read it—and look at her," Blanche cried, pointing to her mother;"it—it was for her I kept the secret! Read it, cruel man!"

And Foker opened and read the letter:

"I have not wrote, my darling Bessy, this three weeks; but this is togive her a father's blessing, and I shall come down pretty soon asquick as my note, and intend to see the ceremony, and my son-in-law.I shall put up at Bonner's. I have had a pleasant autumn, and amstaying here at an hotel where there is good company, and which iskep' in good style. I don't know whether I quite approve of yourthrowing over Mr. P. for Mr. F., and don't think Foker's such apretty name, and from your account of him he seems a muff, and nota beauty. But he has got the rowdy, which is the thing. So no more,my dear little Betsy, till we meet, from your affectionate father,"

"J. AMORY ALTAMONT."

"Read it, Lady Clavering; it is too late to keep it from you now,"said poor Foker; and the distracted woman, having cast her eyes overit, again broke out into hysterical screams, and convulsivelygrasped her son.

"They have made an outcast of you, my boy," she said. "They'vedishonored your old mother; but I'm innocent, Frank; before God, I'minnocent. I didn't know this, Mr. Foker; indeed, indeed, I didn't."

"I'm sure you didn't," said Foker, going up and kissing her hand.

"Generous, generous Harry," cried out Blanche in an ecstasy. But hewithdrew his hand, which was upon her side, and turned from her witha quivering lip. "That's different," he says.

"It was for her sake—for her sake, Harry." Again Miss Amory is in anattitude.

"There was something to be done for mine" said Foker. "I would havetaken you, whatever you were. Every thing's talked about in London. Iknew that your father had come to—to grief. You don't think itwas—it was for your connection I married you? D—it all! I've lovedyou with all my heart and soul for two years, and you've been playingwith me, and cheating me," broke out the young man, with a cry. "Oh,Blanche, Blanche, it's a hard thing, a hard thing!" and he covered hisface with his hands, and sobbed behind them.

Blanche thought, "Why didn't I tell him that night when Arthur warnedme?"

"Don't refuse her, Harry," cried Lady Clavering. "Take her, take everything I have. It's all hers, you know, at my death. This boy'sdisinherited."—(Master Frank, who had been looking as scared at thestrange scene, here burst into a loud cry.)—"Take every shilling.Give me just enough to live, and to go and hide my head with thischild, and to fly from both. Oh, they've both been bad, bad men.Perhaps he's here now. Don't let me see him. Clavering, you coward,defend me from him."

Clavering started up at this proposal. "You ain't serious, Jemima? Youdon't mean that?" he said. "You won't throw me and Frank over? Ididn't know it, so help me——. Foker I'd no more idea of it than thedead—until the fellow came and found me out, the d—d escaped convictscoundrel."

"The what?" said Foker. Blanche gave a scream.

"Yes," screamed out the baronet in his turn, "yes, a d—d runawayconvict—a fellow that forged his father-in-law's name—a d—dattorney, and killed a fellow in Botany Bay, hang him—and ran intothe Bush, curse him; I wish he'd died there. And he came to me, a goodsix years ago and robbed me; and I've been ruining myself to keep him,the infernal scoundrel! And Pendennis knows it, and Strong knows it,and that d—d Morgan knows it, and she knows it, ever so long; and Inever would tell it, never: and I kept it from my wife."

"And you saw him, and you didn't kill him, Clavering, you coward?"said the wife of Amory. "Come away, Frank; your father's a coward. Iam dishonored, but I'm your old mother, and you'll—you'll love me,won't you?"

Blanche eploree, went up to her mother; but Lady Clavering shrankfrom her with a sort of terror. "Don't touch me," she said; "you've noheart; you never had. I see all now. I see why that coward was goingto give up his place in Parliament to Arthur; yes, that coward! andwhy you threatened that you would make me give you half Frank'sfortune. And when Arthur offered to marry you without a shilling,because he wouldn't rob my boy, you left him, and you took poor Harry.Have nothing to do with her, Harry. You're good, you are. Don't marrythat—that convict's daughter. Come away, Frank, my darling; come toyour poor old mother. We'll hide ourselves; but we're honest, yes, weare honest."

All this while a strange feeling of exultation had taken possession ofBlanche's mind. That month with poor Harry had been a weary month toher. All his fortune and splendor scarcely sufficed to make the ideaof himself supportable. She was weaned of his simple ways, and sick ofcoaxing and cajoling him.

"Stay, mamma; stay, madam!" she cried out with a gesture, which wasalways appropriate, though rather theatrical; "I have no heart? haveI? I keep the secret of my mother's shame. I give up my rights to myhalf-brother and my bastard brother—yes, my rights and my fortune. Idon't betray my father, and for this I have no heart. I'll have myrights now, and the laws of my country shall give them to me. I appealto my country's laws—yes, my country's laws! The persecuted onereturns this day. I desire to go to my father." And the little ladyswept round her hand, and thought that she was a heroine.

"You will, will you?" cried out Clavering, with one of his usualoaths. "I'm a magistrate, and dammy, I'll commit him. Here's a chaisecoming; perhaps it's him. Let him come."

A chaise was indeed coming up the avenue; and the two women shriekedeach their loudest, expecting at that moment to see Altamont arrive.

The door opened, and Mr. Morgan announced Major Pendennis and Mr.Pendennis, who entered, and found all parties engaged in this fiercequarrel. A large screen fenced the breakfast-room from the hall; andit is probable that, according to his custom, Mr. Morgan had takenadvantage of the screen to make himself acquainted with allthat occurred.

It had been arranged on the previous day that the young people shouldride; and at the appointed hour in the afternoon, Mr. Foker's horsesarrived from the Clavering Arms. But Miss Blanche did not accompanyhim on this occasion. Pen came out and shook hands with him on thedoor-steps; and Harry Foker rode away, followed by his groom, inmourning. The whole transactions which have occupied the most activepart of our history were debated by the parties concerned during thosetwo or three hours. Many counsels had been given, stories told, andcompromises suggested; and at the end, Harry Foker rode away, with asad "God bless you!" from Pen. There was a dreary dinner at ClaveringPark, at which the lately installed butler did not attend; and theladies were both absent. After dinner, Pen said, "I will walk down toClavering and see if he is come." And he walked through the darkavenue, across the bridge and road by his own cottage—the once quietand familiar fields of which were flaming with the kilns and forges ofthe artificers employed on the new railroad works; and so he enteredthe town, and made for the Clavering Arms.

It was past midnight when he returned to Clavering Park. He wasexceedingly pale and agitated. "Is Lady Clavering up yet?" he asked.Yes, she was in her own sitting-room. He went up to her, and therefound the poor lady in a piteous state of tears and agitation. "It isI—Arthur," he said, looking in; and entering, he took her hand veryaffectionately and kissed it. "You were always the kindest of friendsto me, dear Lady Clavering," he said. "I love you very much. I havegot some news for you."

"Don't call me by that name," she said, pressing his hand. "You werealways a good boy, Arthur; and it's kind of you to come now—verykind. You sometimes look very like your ma, my dear."

"Dear, good Lady Clavering," Arthur repeated, with particularemphasis, "something very strange has happened."

"Has any thing happened to him?" gasped Lady Clavering. "O, it'shorrid to think I should be glad of it—horrid!"

"He is well. He has been and is gone, my dear lady. Don't alarmyourself—he is gone, and you are Lady Clavering still."

"Is it true? what he sometimes said to me," she screamed out—"thathe—"

"He was married before he married you," said Pen. "He has confessed itto-night. He will never come back." There came another shriek fromLady Clavering, as she flung her arms round Pen, and kissed him, andburst into tears on his shoulder.

What Pen had to tell, through a multiplicity of sobs andinterruptions, must be compressed briefly, for behold our prescribedlimit is reached, and our tale is coming to its end. With the BranchCoach from the railroad, which had succeeded the old Alacrity andPerseverance, Amory arrived, and was set down at the Clavering Arms.He ordered his dinner at the place under his assumed name of Altamont,and, being of a jovial turn, he welcomed the landlord, who was nothingloth, to a share of his wine. Having extracted from Mr. Lightfoot allthe news regarding the family at the Park, and found, from examininghis host, that Mrs. Lightfoot, as she said, had kept his counsel, hecalled for more wine of Mr. Lightfoot, and at the end of thissymposium, both being greatly excited, went into Mrs. Lightfoot's bar.

She was there taking tea with her friend, Madame Fribsby; andLightfoot was by this time in such a happy state as not to besurprised at any thing which might occur, so that, when Altamont shookhands with Mrs. Lightfoot as an old acquaintance, the recognition didnot appear to him to be in the least strange, but only a reasonablecause for further drinking. The gentlemen partook then ofbrandy-and-water, which they offered to the ladies, not heeding theterrified looks of one or the other.

While they were so engaged, at about six o'clock in the evening, Mr.Morgan, Sir Francis Clavering's new man, came in, and was requested todrink. He selected his favorite beverage, and the parties engaged ingeneral conversation.

After awhile Mr. Lightfoot began to doze. Mr. Morgan had repeatedlygiven hints to Mrs. Fribsby to quit the premises; but that lady,strangely fascinated, and terrified, it would seem, or persuaded byMrs. Lightfoot not to go, kept her place. Her persistenceoccasioned much annoyance to Mr. Morgan, who vented his displeasure insuch language as gave pain to Mrs. Lightfoot, and caused Mr. Altamontto say, that he was a rum customer, and not polite to the sex.

The altercation between the two gentlemen became very painful to thewomen, especially to Mrs. Lightfoot, who did every thing to soothe Mr.Morgan; and, under pretense of giving a pipe-light to the stranger,she handed him a paper on which she had privily written the words, "Heknows you. Go." There may have been something suspicious in her mannerof handing, or in her guest's of reading the paper; for when he got upa short time afterward, and said he would go to bed, Morgan rose too,with a laugh, and said it was too early to go to bed.

The stranger then said, he would go to his bedroom. Morgan said hewould show him the way.

At this the guest said, "Come up. I've got a brace of pistols up thereto blow out the brains of any traitor or skulking spy," and glared sofiercely upon Morgan, that the latter, seizing hold of Lightfoot bythe collar, and waking him, said, "John Amory, I arrest you in theQueen's name. Stand by me, Lightfoot. This capture is worth athousand pounds."

He put forward his hand as if to seize his prisoner, but the other,doubling his fist, gave Morgan with his left hand so fierce a blow onthe chest, that it knocked him back behind Mr. Lightfoot. Thatgentleman, who was athletic and courageous, said he would knock hisguest's head off, and prepared to do so, as the stranger, tearing offhis coat, and cursing both of his opponents, roared to them tocome on.

But with a piercing scream Mrs. Lightfoot flung herself before herhusband, while with another and louder shriek Madame Fribsby ran tothe stranger, and calling out "Armstrong, Johnny Armstrong!" seizedhold of his naked arm, on which a blue tattooing of a heart and M.F.were visible.

The ejacul*tion of Madame Fribsby seemed to astound and sober thestranger. He looked down upon her, and cried out, "It's Polly,by Jove."

Mrs. Fribsby continued to exclaim, "This is not Amory. This is JohnnyArmstrong, my wicked—wicked husband, married to me in St. Martin'sChurch, mate on board an Indiaman, and he left me two months after,the wicked wretch. This is John Armstrong—here's the mark on his armwhich he made for me."

The stranger said, "I am John Armstrong, sure enough, Polly. I'm JohnArmstrong, Amory, Altamont—and let 'em all come on, and try what theycan do against a British sailor. Hurray, who's for it!"

Morgan still called, "Arrest him!" But Mrs. Lightfoot said, "Arresthim! arrest you, you mean spy! What! stop the marriage and ruin mylady, and take away the Clavering Arms from us?"

"Did he say he'd take away the Clavering Arms from us?" asked Mr.Lightfoot, turning round, "Hang him, I'll throttle him." "Keep him,darling, till the coach passes to the up train. It'll he here nowdirectly."

"D—him, I'll choke him if he stirs," said Lightfoot. And so theykept Morgan until the coach came, and Mr. Amory or Armstrong went awayhack to London.

Morgan had followed him: but of this event Arthur Pendennis did notinform Lady Clavering, and left her invoking blessings upon him at herson's door, going to kiss him as he was asleep. It had been abusy day.

We have to chronicle the events of but one day more, and that was aday when Mr. Arthur, attired in a new hat, a new blue frock-coat, andblue handkerchief, in a new fancy waistcoat, new boots, and newshirt-studs (presented by the Right Honorable the Countess Dowager ofRockminster), made his appearance at a solitary breakfast-table, inClavering Park, where he could scarce eat a single morsel of food. Twoletters were laid by his worship's plate; and he chose to open thefirst, which was in a round clerk-like hand, in preference to thesecond more familiar superscription.

Note 1 ran as follows:

"GARBANZOS WINE COMPANY, SHEPHERD'S INN.—Monday.

"MY DEAR PENDENNIS—In congratulating you heartily upon the eventwhich is to make you happy for life, I send my very kindestremembrances to Mrs. Pendennis, whom I hope to know even longer than Ihave already known her. And when I call her attention to the fact,that one of the most necessary articles to her husband's comfort ispure sherry, I know I shall have her for a customer for yourworship's sake.

"But I have to speak to you of other than my own concerns. Yesterdayafternoon, a certain J.A. arrived at my chambers from Clavering, whichhe had left under circ*mstances of which you are doubtless now aware.In spite of our difference, I could not but give him food and shelter(and he partook freely both of the Garbanzos Amontillado and theToboso ham), and he told me what had happened to him, and many othersurprising adventures. The rascal married at sixteen, and hasrepeatedly since performed that ceremony—in Sidney, in New Zealand,in South America, in Newcastle, he says first, before he knew our poorfriend the milliner. He is a perfect Don Juan.

"And it seemed as if the commendatore had at last overtaken him, for,as we were at our meal, there came three heavy knocks at my outerdoor, which made our friend start. I have sustained a siege or twohere, and went to my usual place to reconnoiter. Thank my stars I havenot a bill out in the world, and besides, those gentry do not comein that way. I found that it was your uncle's late valet, Morgan, anda policeman (I think a sham policeman), and they said they had awarrant to take the person of John Armstrong, alias Amory, aliasAltamont, a runaway convict, and threatened to break in the oak. Now,sir, in my own days of captivity I had discovered a little passagealong the gutter into Bows and Costigan's window, and I sent JackAlias along this covered way, not without terror of his life, for ithad grown very cranky; and then, after a parley, let in Mons. Morganand friend.

"The rascal had been instructed about that covered way, for he madefor the room instantly, telling the policeman to go down stairs andkeep the gate; and he charged up my little staircase as if he hadknown, the premises. As he was going out of the window we heard avoice that you know, from Bow's garret, saying, 'Who are ye, and hwhatthe divvle are ye at? You'd betther leave the gutther; bedad there's aman killed himself already.'

"And as Morgan, crossing over and looking into the darkness, wastrying to see whether this awful news was true, he took a broom-stick,and with a vigorous dash broke down the pipe of communication—andtold me this morning, with great glee, that he was reminded of that'aisy sthratagem by remembering his dorling Emilie, when she acted thepawrt of Cora in the Plee—and by the bridge in Pezawro, bedad: I wishthat scoundrel Morgan had been on the bridge when the general triedhis 'sthratagem.'

"If I hear more of Jack Alias I will tell you. He has got plenty ofmoney still, and I wanted him to send some to our poor friend themilliner; but the scoundrel laughed and said, he had no more than hewanted, but offered to give any body a lock of his hair. Farewell—behappy! and believe me always truly yours.

"E. STRONG."

"And now for the other letter," said Pen. "Dear old fellow!" and hekissed the seal before he broke it.

"WARRINGTON, Tuesday.

"I must not let the day pass over without saying a God bless you, toboth of you. May heaven make you happy, dear Arthur, and dear Laura. Ithink, Pen, that you have the best wife in the world; and pray that,as such, you will cherish her and tend her. The chambers will belonely without you, dear Pen; but if I am tired, I shall have a newhome to go to in the house of my brother and sister. I am practicingin the nursery here, in order to prepare for the part of Uncle George.Farewell! make your wedding tour, and come back to your affectionate

"G. W."

Pendennis and his wife read this letter together after DoctorPortman's breakfast was over, and the guests were gone; and when thecarriage was waiting amidst the crowd at the doctor's outer gate. Butthe wicket led into the church-yard of St Mary's where the bells werepealing with all their might, and it was here, over Helen's greengrass, that Arthur showed his wife George's letter. For which of thosetwo—for grief was it or for happiness, that Laura's tears abundantlyfell on the paper? And once more, in the presence of the sacred dust,she kissed and blessed her Arthur.

There was only one marriage on that day at Clavering Church; for inspite of Blanche's sacrifices for her dearest mother, honest HarryFoker could not pardon the woman who had deceived her husband, andjustly argued that she would deceive him again. He went to thePyramids and Syria, and there left his malady behind him, and returnedwith a fine beard, and a supply of tarbooshes and nargillies, withwhich he regales all his friends. He lives splendidly, and throughPen's mediation, gets his wine from the celebrated vintages of theDuke of Garbanzos.

As for poor Cos, his fate has been mentioned in an early part of thisstory. No very glorious end could be expected to such a career. Morganis one of the most respectable men in the parish of St. James's, andin the present political movement has pronounced himself like a manand a Briton. And Bows—on the demise of Mr. Piper, who played theorgan at Clavering, little Mrs. Sam Huxter, who has the entire commandof Doctor Portman, brought Bows down from London to contest the organchair loft, and her candidate carried the chair. When Sir FrancisClavering quitted this worthless life, the same little indefatigablecanvasser took the borough by storm, and it is now represented byArthur Pendennis, Esq.. Blanche Amory, it is well known, married atParis, and the saloons of Madame la Comtesse de Montmorenci deValentinois were among the most suivis of that capital. The duelbetween the count and the young and fiery Representative of theMountain, Alcide de Mirobo, arose solely from the latter questioningat the Club the titles borne by the former nobleman. Madame deMontmorenci de Valentinois traveled after the adventure: and Bungaybought her poems, and published them, with the countess's coronetemblazoned on the countess's work.

Major Pendennis became very serious in his last days, and was neverso happy as when Laura was reading to him with her sweet voice, orlistening to his stories. For this sweet lady is the friend of the youngand the old: and her life is always passed in making other liveshappy.

"And what sort of a husband would this Pendennis be?" many areader will ask, doubting the happiness of such a marriage, and thefortune of Laura. The querists, if they meet her, are referred to thatlady herself, who, seeing his faults and wayward moods—seeing andowning that there are men better than he—loves him always with themost constant affection. His children or their mother have never hearda harsh word from him; and when his fits of moodiness and solitudeare over, welcome him back with a never-failing regard and confidence.His friend is his friend still—entirely heart-whole. That malady isnever fatal to a sound organ. And George goes through his part ofgodpapa perfectly, and lives alone. If Mr. Pen's works have procuredhim more reputation than has been acquired by his abler friend, whomno one knows, George lives contented without the fame. If the bestmen do not draw the great prizes in life, we know it has been so settledby the Ordainer of the lottery. We own, and see daily, how the falseand worthless live and prosper, while the good are called away, and thedear and young perish untimely—we perceive in every man's life themaimed happiness, the frequent falling, the bootless endeavor, thestruggle of Right and Wrong, in which the strong often succumb andthe swift fail: we see flowers of good blooming in foul places, as, in themost lofty and splendid fortunes, flaws of vice and meanness, and stainsof evil; and, knowing how mean the best of us is, let us give a hand ofcharity to Arthur Pendennis, with all his faults and shortcomings, whodoes not claim to be a hero but only a man and a brother.

THE END.