Let those who have a real heartfelt relish for London society, and the privilege of an entrée into its most select circles, admit that Major Pendennis was a man of no ordinary generosity and affection, in the sacrifice which he now made. He gave up London in May—his newspapers and his mornings—his afternoons from club to club, his little confidential visits to my ladies, his rides in Rotten Row, his dinners and his stall at the opera, his rapid escapades to Fulham or Richmond on Saturdays and Sundays, his bow from my Lord Duke or my Lord Marquis at the great London entertainments, and his name in the Morning Post of the succeeding day—his quieter little festivals, more select, secret, and delightful—all these he resigned to lock himself into a lone little country house, with a simple widow and a greenhorn of a son, a mawkish curate, and a little girl of ten years of age.
He made the sacrifice, and it was the greater that few knew the extent of it. His letters came down franked from town, and he showed the invitations to Helen with a sigh. It was beautiful and tragical to see him refuse one party after another—at least to those who could understand, as Helen didn't, the melancholy grandeur of his self-denial. Helen did not, or only smiled at the awful pathos with which the major spoke of the Court Guide in general: but young Pen looked with great respect at the great names upon the superscriptions of his uncle's letters, and listened to the major's stories about the fashionable world with constant interest and sympathy.
The elder Pendennis's rich memory was stored with thousands of these delightful tales, and he poured them into Pen's willing ear with unfailing eloquence. He knew the name and pedigree of every body in the Peerage, and every body's relations. "My dear boy," he would say, with a mournful earnestness and veracity, "you can not begin your genealogical studies too early; I wish to Heavens you would read in Debrett every day. Not so much the historical part (for the pedigrees, between ourselves, are many of them very fabulous, and there are few families that can show such a clear descent as our own) as the account of family alliances, and who is related to whom. I have known a man's career in life blasted, by ignorance on this important, this all-important subject. Why, only last month, at dinner at my Lord Hobanob's, a young man, who has lately been received among us, young Mr. Suckling (author of a work, I believe), began to speak lightly of Admiral Bowser's conduct for ratting to ministers, in what I must own is the most audacious manner. But who do you think sate next and opposite to this Mr. Suckling? Why—why, next to him was Lady Grampound Bowser's daughter, and opposite to him was Lord Grampound Bowser's son-in-law. The infatuated young man went on cutting his jokes at the admiral's expense, fancying that all the world was laughing with him, and I leave you to imagine Lady Hobanob's feelings—Hobanob's!—those of every well-bred man, as the wretchedintruwas so exposing himself.Hewill never dine again in South-street. I promise youthat."
With such discourses the major entertained his nephew, as he paced the terrace in front of the house for his two hours' constitutional walk, or as they sate together after dinner over their wine. He grieved that Sir Francis Clavering had not come down to the park, to live in it since his marriage, and to make a society for the neighborhood. He mourned that Lord Eyrie was not in the country, that he might take Pen and present him to his lordship. "He has daughters," the major said. "Who knows? you might have married Lady Emily or Lady Barbara Trehawk: but all those dreams are over; my poor fellow, you must lie on the bed which you have made for yourself."
These things to hear did young Pendennis seriously incline. They are not so interesting in print as when delivered orally; but the major's anecdotes of the great George, of the royal dukes, of the statesmen, beauties, and fashionable ladies of the day, filled young Pen's soul with longing and wonder; and he found the conversations with his guardian, which sadly bored and perplexed poor Mrs. Pendennis, for his own part, never tedious.
It can't be said that Mr. Pen's new guide, philosopher and friend, discoursed him on the most elevated subjects, or treated the subjects which he chose in the most elevated manner. But his morality, such as it was, was consistent. It might not, perhaps, tend to a man's progress in another world, but it was pretty well calculated to advance his interests in this: and then it must be remembered, that the major never for one instant doubted that his views were the only views practicable,and that his conduct was perfectly virtuous and respectable. He was a man of honor, in a word; and had his eyes, what he called, open. He took pity on this young greenhorn of a nephew, and wanted to open his eyes too.
No man, for instance, went more regularly to church, when in the country, than the old bachelor. "It don't matter so much in town, Pen," he said, "for there the women go, and the men are not missed. But when a gentleman issur ses terres, he must give an example to the country people; and if I could turn a tune, I even think I should sing. The Duke of Saint David's, whom I have the honor of knowing, always sings in the country, and let me tell you, it has a doosed fine effect from the family pew. And you are somebody down here. As long as the Claverings are away you are the first man in the parish; and as good as any. You might represent the town if you played your cards well. Your poor dear father would have done so had he lived; so might you.—Not if you marry a lady, however amiable, whom the country people won't meet.—Well, well: it's a painful subject. Let us change it, my boy." But if Major Pendennis changed the subject once, he recurred to it a score of times in the day; and the moral of his discourse always was, that Pen was throwing himself away. Now it does not require much coaxing or wheedling to make a simple boy believe that he is a very fine fellow.
Pen took his uncle's counsels to heart. He was glad enough, we have said, to listen to his elder's talk. The conversation of Captain Costigan became by no means pleasant to him, and the idea of that tipsy old father-in-law haunted him with terror. He couldn't bring that man, unshaven and reeking of punch, to associate with his mother. Even about Emily—he faltered when the pitiless guardian began to question him. "Was she accomplished?" He was obliged to own, no. "Was she clever?" Well, she had a very good average intellect: but he could not absolutely say she was clever. "Come, let us see some of her letters." So Pen confessed that he had but those three of which we have made mention—and that they were but trivial invitations or answers.
"Sheis cautious enough," the major said, drily. "She is older than you, my poor boy;" and then he apologized with, the utmost frankness and humility, and flung himself upon Pen's good feelings, begging the lad to excuse a fond old uncle, who had only his family's honor in view—for Arthur was ready to flame up in indignation whenever Miss Costigan's honesty was doubted, and swore that he would never have her name mentioned lightly, and never, never would part from her.
He repeated this to his uncle and his friends at home, and also, it must be confessed, to Miss Fotheringay and the amiable family at Chatteries, with whom he still continued to spend some portion of his time. Miss Emily was alarmed when she heard of the arrival of Pen's guardian, and rightly conceived that the major came down with hostile intentions to herself. "I suppose ye intend to leave me, now yourgrand relation, has come down from town. He'll carry ye off, and you'll forget your poor Emily, Mr. Arthur!"
Forget her! In her presence, in that of Miss Rouncy, the Columbine and Milly's confidential friend, of the company, in the presence of the captain himself, Pen swore he never could think of any other woman but his beloved Miss Fotheringay; and the captain, looking up at his foils, which were hung as a trophy on the wall of the room where Pen and he used to fence, grimly said, he would not advoise any man to meddle rashly with the affections ofhisdarling child; and would never believe his gallant young Arthur, whom he treated as his son, whom he called his son, would ever be guilty of conduct so revolting to every idaya of honor and humanity.
He went up and embraced Pen after speaking. He cried, and wiped his eye with one large dirty hand as he clasped Pen with the other. Arthur shuddered in that grasp, and thought of his uncle at home. His father-in-law looked unusually dirty and shabby; the odor of whisky-and-water was even more decided than in common. How was he to bring that man and his mother together? He trembled when he thought that he had absolutely written to Costigan (inclosing to him a sovereign, the loan of which the worthy gentleman had need), saying, that one day he hoped to sign himself his affectionate son, Arthur Pendennis. He was glad to get away from Chatteries that day; from Miss Rouncy theconfidante; from the old toping father-in-law; from the divine Emily herself. "O Emily, Emily," he cried inwardly, as he tattled homeward on Rebecca, "you little know what sacrifices I am making for you!—for you who are always so cold, so cautious, so mistrustful;" and he thought of a character in Pope to whom he had often involuntarily compared her.
Pen never rode over to Chatteries upon a certain errand, but the major found out on what errand the boy had been. Faithful to his plan, Major Pendennis gave his nephew no let or hindrance; but somehow the constant feeling that the senior's eye was upon him, an uneasy shame attendant upon that inevitable confession which the evening's conversation would be sure to elicit in the most natural, simple manner, made Pen go less frequently to sigh away his soul at the feet of his charmer than he had been wont to do previous to his uncle's arrival. There was no use trying to deceivehim: there was no pretext of dining with Smirke, or reading Greek plays with Foker; Pen felt, when he returned from one of his flying visits, that every body knew whence he came, and appeared quite guilty before his mother and guardian, over their books or their game at picquet.
Once having walked out half a mile, to the Fairoaks Inn, beyond the lodge gates, to be in readiness for the Competitor coach, which changed horses there, to take a run for Chatteries, a man on the roof touched his hat to the young gentleman: it was his uncle's man, Mr. Morgan, who was going on a message for his master, and had been took up at the lodge, as he said. And Mr. Morgan came back by the Rival, too; so that Pen had the pleasure of that domestic's company both ways.Nothing was said at home. The lad seemed to have every decent liberty; and yet he felt himself dimly watched and guarded, and that there were eyes upon him even in the presence of his Dulcinea.
In fact, Pen's suspicions were not unfounded, and his guardian had sent forth to gather all possible information regarding the lad and his interesting young friend. The discreet and ingenious Mr. Morgan, a London confidential valet, whose fidelity could be trusted, had been to Chatteries more than once, and made every inquiry regarding the past history and present habits of the captain and his daughter. He delicately cross-examined the waiters, the ostlers, and all the inmates of the bar at the George, and got from them what little they knew respecting the worthy captain. He was not held in very great regard there, as it appeared. The waiters never saw the color of his money, and were warned not to furnish the poor gentleman with any liquor for which some other party was not responsible. He swaggered sadly about the coffee-room there, consumed a tooth-pick, and looked over the paper, and if any friend asked him to dinner, he staid. Morgan heard at the George of Pen's acquaintance with Mr. Foker, and he went over to Baymouth to enter into relations with that gentleman's man: but the young student was gone to a Coast Regatta, and his servant, of course, traveled in charge of the dressing-case.
From the servants of the officers at the barracks Mr. Morgan found that the captain had so frequently and outrageously inebriated himself there, that Colonel Swallowtail had forbidden him the mess-room. The indefatigable Morgan then put himself in communication with some of the inferior actors at the theater, and pumped them over their cigars and punch, and all agreed that Costigan was poor, shabby, and given to debt and to drink. But there was not a breath upon the reputation of Miss Fotheringay; her father's courage was reported to have displayed itself on more than one occasion toward persons disposed to treat his daughter with freedom. She never came to the theater but with her father; in his most inebriated moments, that gentleman kept a watch over her; finally Mr. Morgan, from his own experience, added that he had been to see her hact, and was uncommon delighted with the performance, besides thinking her a most splendid woman.
Mrs. Creed, the pew-opener, confirmed these statements to Doctor Portman, who examined her personally, and threatened her with the terrors of the Church, one day after afternoon service. Mrs. Creed had nothing unfavorable to her lodger to divulge. She saw nobody; only one or two ladies of the theater. The captain did intoxicate himself sometimes, and did not always pay his rent regularly, but he did when he had money, or rather Miss Fotheringay did. Since the young gentleman from Clavering had been and took lessons in fencing, one or two more had come from the barracks: Sir Derby Oaks, and his young friend, Mr. Foker, which was often together: and which was always driving over from Baymouth in the tandem. But on the occasions of the lessons, Miss F. was very seldom present, and generally came down stairs to Mrs. Creed's own room.
The doctor and the major consulting together as they often did, groaned in spirit over that information. Major Pendennis openly expressed his disappointment; and, I believe the divine himself was ill-pleased at not being able to pick a hole in poor Miss Fotheringay's reputation.
Even about Pen himself, Mrs. Creed's reports were desperately favorable. "Whenever he come," Mrs. Creed said, "she always have me or one of the children with her. And Mrs. Creed, marm, says she, if you please marm, you'll on no account leave the room when that young gentleman's here. And many's the time I've seen him a lookin' as if he wished I was away, poor young man: and he took to coming in service-time, when I wasn't at home, of course: but she always had one of the boys up if her pa wasn't at home, or old Mr. Bowser with her a teaching of her her lesson, or one of the young ladies of the theayter."
It was all true: whatever encouragements might have been given him before he avowed his passion, the prudence of Miss Emily was prodigious after Pen had declared himself: and the poor fellow chafed against her hopeless reserve, which maintained his ardor as it excited his anger.
The major surveyed the state of things with a sigh. "If it were but a temporary liaison," the excellent man said, "one could bear it. A young fellow must sow his wild oats and that sort of thing. But a virtuous attachment is the deuce. It comes from the d—d romantic notions boys get from being brought up by women."
"Allow me to say, major, that you speak a little too like a man of the world," replied the doctor. "Nothing can be more desirable for Pen than a virtuous attachment for a young lady of his own rank and with a corresponding fortune—this present infatuation, of course, I must deplore as sincerely as you do. If I were his guardian I should command him to give it up."
"The very means, I tell you, to make him marry to-morrow. We have got time from him, that is all, and we must do our best with that."
"I say, major," said the doctor, at the end of the conversation in which the above subject was discussed—"I am not, of course, a play-going man—but suppose, I say, we go and see her."
The major laughed—he had been a fortnight at Fairoaks, and strange to say, had not thought of that. "Well," he said, "why not? After all, it is not my niece, but Miss Fotheringay the actress, and we have as good a right as any other of the public to see her if we pay our money." So upon a day when it was arranged that Pen was to dine at home, and pass the evening with his mother, the two elderly gentlemen drove over to Chatteries in the doctor's chaise, and there, like a couple of jolly bachelors, dined at the George Inn, before proceeding to the play.
Only two other guests were in the room—an officer of the regiment quartered at Chatteries, and a young gentleman whom the doctor thought he had somewhere seen. They left them at their meal, however, and hastened to the theater. It was Hamlet over again. Shakspearewas Article XL. of stout old Dr. Portman's creed, to which he always made a point of testifying publicly at least once in a year.
We have described the play before, and how those who saw Miss Fotheringay perform in Ophelia saw precisely the same thing on one night as on another. Both the elderly gentlemen looked at her with extraordinary interest, thinking how very much young Pen was charmed with her.
"Gad," said the major, between his teeth, as he surveyed her, when she was called forward as usual, and swept her courtesies to the scanty audience, "the young rascal has not made a bad choice."
The doctor applauded her loudly and loyally. "Upon my word," said he, "she is a very clever actress; and I must say, major, she is endowed with very considerable personal attractions."
"So that young officer thinks in the stage-box," Major Pendennis answered, and he pointed out to Doctor Portman's attention the young dragoon of the George Coffee-room, who sat in the box in question, and applauded with immense enthusiasm. She looked extremely sweet upon him too, thought the major: but that's their way—and he shut up his natty opera-glass and pocketed it, as if he wished to see no more that night. Nor did the doctor, of course, propose to stay for the after-piece, so they rose and left the theater; the doctor returning to Mrs. Portman, who was on a visit at the Deanery, and the major walking home full of thought toward the George, where he had bespoken a bed.
Sauntering slowly homeward Major Pendennis reached the George presently, and found Mr. Morgan his faithful valet, awaiting him at the door of the George Inn, who stopped his master as he was about to take a candle to go to bed, and said, with his usual air of knowing deference, "I think, sir, if you would go into the coffee-room, there's a young gentleman there as you would like to see."
"What, is Mr. Arthur here?" the major said, in great anger.
"No, sir—but his great friend, Mr. Foker, sir. Lady Hagnes Foker's son is here, sir. He's been asleep in the coffee-room since he took his dinner, and has just rung for his coffee, sir. And I think, p'raps, you might like to git into conversation with him," the valet said, opening the coffee-room door.
The major entered; and there indeed was Mr. Foker, the only occupant of the place. He was rubbing his eyes, and sate before a table decorated with empty decanters and relics of dessert. He had intended to go to the play too, but sleep had overtaken him after a copious meal, and he had flung up his legs on the bench, and indulged in a nap instead of the dramatic amusement. The major was meditating how to address the young man, but the latter prevented him that trouble.
"Like to look at the evening paper, sir?" said Mr. Foker, who was always communicative and affable; and he took up theGlobefrom his table, and offered it to the new comer.
"I am very much obliged to you," said the major, with a grateful bow and smile. "If I don't mistake the family likeness, I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Henry Foker, Lady Agnes Foker's son. I have the happiness to name her ladyship among my acquaintances—and you bear, sir, a Rosherville face."
"Hullo! I beg your pardon," Mr. Foker said, "I took you"—he was going to say—"I took you for a commercial gent." But he stopped that phrase. "To whom have I the pleasure of speaking?" he added.
"To a relative of a friend and schoolfellow of yours—Arthur Pendennis, my nephew, who has often spoken to me about you in terms of great regard. I am Major Pendennis, of whom you may have heard him speak. May I take my soda-water at your table? I have had the pleasure of sitting at your grandfather's."
"Sir, you do me proud," said Mr. Foker, with much courtesy. "And so you are Arthur Pendennis's uncle, are you?"
"And guardian," added the major.
"He's as good a fellow as ever stepped, sir," said Mr. Foker.
"I am glad you think so."
"And clever, too—I was always a stupid chap, I was—but you see, sir, I know 'em when they are clever, and like 'em of that sort.
"You show your taste and your modesty, too," said the major. "I have heard Arthur repeatedly speak of you, and he said your talents were very good."
"I'm not good at the books," Mr. Foker said, wagging his head—"never could manage that—Pendennis could—he used to do half the chaps' verses—and yet"—the young gentleman broke out—"you are his guardian; and I hope you will pardon me for saying that I think he is whatwecall a flat," the candid young gentleman said.
The major found himself on the instant in the midst of a most interesting and confidential conversation. "And how is Arthur a flat?" he asked, with a smile.
"You know," Foker answered, winking at him—he would have winked at the Duke of Wellington with just as little scruple, for he was in that state of absence, candor, and fearlessness, which a man sometimes possesses after drinking a couple of bottles of wine—"You know Arthur's a flat—about women I mean."
"He is not the first of us, my dear Mr. Harry," answered the major. "I have heard something of this—but pray tell me more.'"
"Why, sir, see—it's partly my fault. He went to the play one night—for you see I'm down here readin' for my little-go during the Long, only I come over from Baymouth pretty often in my drag—well, sir, we went to the play, and Pen was struck all of a heap with Miss Fotheringay—Costigan her real name is—an uncommon fine gal she is too; and the next morning I introduced him to the general, as we call her father—a regular old scamp—andsucha boy for the whisky-and-water!—and he's gone on being intimate there. And he's fallen in love with her—and I'm blessed if he hasn't proposed to her," Foker said, slapping his hand on the table, until all the dessert began to jingle.
"What! you know it too?" asked the major.
"Know it! don't I? and many more too. We were talking about it at mess, yesterday, and chaffing Derby Oaks—until he was as mad as a hatter. Know Sir Derby Oaks? We dined together, and he wentto the play; we were standing at the door smoking, I remember, when you passed in to dinner."
"I remember Sir Thomas Oaks, his father, before he was a baronet or a knight; he lived in Cavendish-square, and was Physician to Queen Charlotte."
"The young one is making the money spin, I can tell you," Mr. Foker said.
"And is Sir Derby Oaks," the major said, with great delight and anxiety, "anothersoupirant?"
"Anotherwhat?" inquired Mr. Foker.
"Another admirer of Miss Fotheringay?"
"Lord bless you! we call him, Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and Pen, Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. But, mind you, nothing wrong! No, no! Miss F. is a deal too wide awake for that, Major Pendennis. She plays one off against the other. What you call two strings to her bow."
"I think you seem tolerably wide awake, too, Mr. Foker," Pendennis said, laughing.
"Pretty well thank you, sir—how are you?" Foker replied, imperturbably. "I'm not clever, p'raps: but Iamrather downy; and partial friends say I know what's o'clock tolerably well. Can I tell you the time of day in any way?"
"Upon my word," the major answered, quite delighted, "I think you may be of very great service to me. You are a young man of the world, and with such one likes to deal. And as such I need not inform you that our family is by no means delighted at this absurd intrigue in which Arthur is engaged."
"I should rather think not," said Mr. Foker. "Connection not eligible. Too much beer drunk on the premises. No Irish need apply. That I take to be your meaning."
The major said it was, exactly; though in truth he did not quite understand what Mr. Foker's meaning was: and he proceeded to examine his new acquaintance regarding the amiable family into which his nephew proposed to enter, and soon got from the candid witness a number of particulars regarding the house of Costigan.
We must do Mr. Foker the justice to say that he spoke most favorably of Mr. and Miss Costigan's moral character. "You see," said he, "I think the general is fond of the jovial bowl, and if I wanted to be very certain of my money, it isn't in his pocket I'd invest it—but he has always kept a watchful eye on his daughter, and neither he nor she will stand any thing but what's honorable. Pen's attentions to her are talked about in the whole Company, and I hear all about them from a young lady who used to be very intimate with her, and with whose family I sometimes take tea in a friendly way. Miss Rouncy says, Sir Derby Oaks has been hanging about Miss Fotheringay ever since his regiment has been down here; but Pen has come in and cut him out lately, which has made the baronet so mad, that he has been very near on the point of proposing too. Wish he would; and you'd see which of the two Miss Fotheringay would jump at."
"I thought as much," the major said. "You give me a great deal of pleasure, Mr. Foker. I wish I could have seen you before."
"Didn't like to put in my oar," replied the other. "Don't speak till I'm asked, when, if there's no objections, I speak pretty freely. Heard your man had been hankering about my servant—didn't know myself what was going on until Miss Fotheringay and Miss Rouncy had the row about the ostrich feathers, when Miss R. told me every thing."
"Miss Rouncy, I gather, was the confidante of the other."
"Confidant? I believe you. Why she's twice as clever a girl as Fotheringay, and literary and that, while Miss Foth can't do much more than read."
"She can write," said the major, remembering Pen's breast pocket.
Foker broke out into a sardonic "He, he! Rouncy writes her letters," he said; "every one of 'em; and since they've quarreled, she don't know how the deuce to get on. Miss Rouncy is an uncommon pretty hand, whereas the old one makes dreadful work of the writing andspelling when Bows ain't by. Rouncy's been settin' her copies lately—she writes a beautiful hand, Rouncy does."
"I suppose you know it pretty well," said the major archly: upon which Mr. Foker winked at him again.
"I would give a great deal to have a specimen of her handwriting," continued Major Pendennis, "I dare say you could give me one."
"No, no, that would be too bad," Foker replied. "Perhaps I oughtn't to have said as much as I have. Miss F.'s writin' ain't soverybad, I dare say; only she got Miss R. to write the first letter, and has gone on ever since. But you mark my word, that till they are friends again the letters will stop."
"I hope they will never be reconciled," the major said, with great sincerity; "and I can't tell you how delighted I am to have had the good fortune of making your acquaintance. You must feel, my dear sir, as a man of the world, how fatal to my nephew's prospects in life is this step which he contemplates, and how eager we all must be to free him from this absurd engagement."
"He has come out uncommon strong," said Mr. Foker; "I have seen his verses; Rouncy copied 'em. And I said to myself when I saw 'em, 'Catchmewritin' verses to a woman—that's all.'"
"He has made a fool of himself, as many a good fellow has before him. How can we make him see his folly and cure it? I am sure you will give us what aid you can in extricating a generous young man from such a pair of schemers as this father and daughter seem to be. Love on the lady's side is out of the question."
"Love, indeed!" Foker said. "If Pen hadn't two thousand a year when he came of age—"
"If Pen hadn'twhat?" cried out the major, in astonishment.
"Two thousand a year: hasn't he got two thousand a year?—the general says he has."
"My dear friend," shrieked out the major, with an eagerness which this gentleman rarely showed, "thank you!—thank you!—I begin to see now.—Two thousand a year! Why, his mother has but five hundred a year in the world.—She is likely to live to eighty, and Arthur has not a shilling but what she can allow him."
"What! he ain't rich then?" Foker asked.
"Upon my honor, he has no more than what I say."
"And you ain't going to leave him any thing?"
The major had sunk every shilling he could scrape together on annuity, and of course was going to leave Pen nothing; but he did not tell Foker this. "How much do you think a major on half-pay can save?" he asked. "If these people have been looking at him as a fortune, they are utterly mistaken—and—and you have made me the happiest man in the world."
"Sir to you," said Mr. Foker, politely, and when they parted for the night they shook hands with the greatest cordiality; the younger gentleman promising the elder not to leave Chatteries without a further conversation in the morning. And as the major went up to his room, andMr. Foker smoked his cigar against the door pillars of the George, Pen, very likely, ten miles off, was lying in bed kissing the letter from his Emily.
The next morning before Mr. Foker drove off in his drag, the insinuating major had actually got a letter of Miss Rouncy's in his own pocket-book. Let it be a lesson to women how they write. And in very high spirits Major Pendennis went to call upon Doctor Portman at the Deanery, and told him what happy discoveries he had made on the previous night. As they sat in confidential conversation in the dean's oak breakfast parlor, they could look across the lawn and see Captain Costigan's window, at which poor Pen had been only too visible some three weeks since. The doctor was most indignant against Mrs. Creed the landlady, for her duplicity, in concealing Sir Derby Oaks's constant visits to her lodgers, and threatened to excommunicate her out of the cathedral. But the wary major thought that all things were for the best; and, having taken counsel with himself over night, felt himself quite strong enough to go and face Captain Costigan.
"I'm going to fight the dragon," he said, with a laugh, to Doctor Portman.
"And I shrive you, sir, and bid good fortune go with you," answered the doctor. Perhaps he and Mrs. Portman and Miss Mira, as they sate with their friend the dean's lady, in her drawing-room, looked up more than once at the enemy's window to see if they could perceive any signs of the combat.
The major walked round, according to the directions given him, and soon found Mrs. Creed's little door. He passed in, and as he ascended to Captain Costigan's apartment, he could hear a stamping of feet, and a great shouting of "Ha, ha!" within.
"It's Sir Derby Oaks taking his fencing lesson," said the child, who piloted Major Pendennis. "He takes it Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays."
The major knocked, and at length a tall gentleman came forth, with a foil and mask in one hand, and a fencing glove on the other.
Pendennis made him a deferential bow. "I believe I have the honor of speaking to Captain Costigan.—My name is Major Pendennis."
The captain brought his weapon up to the salute, and said—"Major, the honor is moine; I'm deloighted to see ye."
The major and Captain Costigan were old soldiers and accustomed to face the enemy, so we may presume that they retained their presence of mind perfectly; but the rest of the party assembled in Cos's sitting-room were, perhaps, a little flurried at Pendennis's apparition. Miss Fotheringay's slow heart began to beat, no doubt, for her cheek flushed up with a great healthy blush, as Lieutenant Sir Derby Oaks looked at her with a scowl. The little crooked old man in the window-seat, who had been witnessing the fencing-match between the two gentlemen (whose stamping and jumping had been such as to cause him to give up all attempts to continue writing the theater music, in the copying of which he had been engaged) looked up eagerly toward the new comer as the major of the well-blacked boots entered the apartment distributing the most graceful bows to every body present.
"Me daughter—me friend, Mr. Bows—me gallant young pupil and friend, I may call 'um, Sir Derby Oaks," said Costigan splendidly waving his hand, and pointing each of these individuals to the major's attention. "In one moment, meejor, I'm your humble servant," and to dash into the little adjoining chamber where he slept, to give a twist to his lank hair with his hair-brush (a wonderful and ancient piece), to tear off his old stock and put on a new one which Emily had constructed for him, and to assume a handsome clean collar, and the new coat which had been ordered upon the occasion of Miss Fotheringay's benefit, was with the still active Costigan the work of a minute.
After him, Sir Derby entered, and presently emerged from the same apartment, where he also cased himself in his little shell-jacket, which fitted tightly upon the young officer's big person; and which he, and Miss Fotheringay, and poor Pen too, perhaps, admired prodigiously.
Meanwhile conversation was engaged between the actress and thenew comer; and the usual remarks about the weather had been interchanged before Costigan re-entered in his new "shoot," as he called it.
"I needn't apologize to ye, meejor," he said, in his richest and most courteous manner, "for receiving ye in me shirt-sleeves."
"An old soldier can't be better employed than in teaching a young one the use of his sword," answered the major, gallantly. "I remember in old times hearing that you could use yours pretty well, Captain Costigan."
"What, ye've heard of Jack Costigan, major," said the other, greatly.
The major had, indeed; he had pumped his nephew concerning his new friend, the Irish officer; and whether he had no other knowledge of the captain than what he had thus gained, or whether he actually remembered him, we can not say. But Major Pendennis was a person of honor and undoubted veracity, and said that he perfectly well recollected meeting Mr. Costigan, and hearing him sing, at Sir Richard Strachan's table at Walcheren.
At this information, and the bland and cordial manner in which it was conveyed, Bows looked up, entirely puzzled. "But we will talk of these matters another time," the major continued, perhaps not wishing to commit himself; "it is to Miss Fotheringay that I came to pay my respects to-day;" and he performed another bow for her, so courtly and gracious, that if she had been a duchess he could not have made it more handsome.
"I had heard of your performances from my nephew, madam," the major said, "who raves about you, as I believe you know pretty well. But Arthur is but a boy, and a wild enthusiastic young fellow, whose opinions one must not takeau pied de la lettre; and I confess I was anxious to judge for myself. Permit me to say your performance delighted and astonished me. I have seen our best actresses, and, on my word, I think you surpass them all. You are as majestic as Mrs. Siddons."
"Faith, I always said so," Costigan said, winking at his daughter; "Major take a chair." Milly rose at this hint, took an unripped satin garment off the only vacant seat, and brought the latter to Major Pendennis with one of her finest courtesies.
"You are as pathetic as Miss O'Neill," he continued, bowing and seating himself; "your snatches of song reminded me of Mrs. Jordan in her best time, when we were young men, Captain Costigan; and your manner reminded me of Mars. Did you ever see the Mars, Miss Fotheringay?"
"There was two Mahers in Crow-street," remarked Miss Emily; "Fanny was well enough, but Biddy was no great things."
"Sure, the major means the god of war, Milly, my dear," interposed the parent.
"It is not that Mars I meant, though Venus, I suppose, may be pardoned for thinking about him;" the major replied, with a smile directedin full to Sir Derby Oaks, who now re-entered in his shell-jacket, but the lady did not understand the words of which he made use, nor did the compliment at all pacify Sir Derby, who, probably, did not understand it either, and at any rate received it with great sulkiness and stiffness; scowling uneasily at Miss Fotheringay, with an expression which seemed to ask, "What the deuce does this man here?"
Major Pendennis was not in the least annoyed by the gentleman's ill-humor. On the contrary, it delighted him. "So," thought he, "a rival is in the field;" and he offered up vows that Sir Derby might be, not only a rival, but a winner too, in this love-match in which he and Pen were engaged.
"I fear I interrupted your fencing lesson; but my stay in Chatteries is very short, and I was anxious to make myself known to my old fellow-campaigner Captain Costigan, and to see a lady nearer who had charmed me so much from the stage. I was not the only manéprislast night, Miss Fotheringay (if I must call you so, though your own family name is a very ancient and noble one). There was a reverend friend of mine, who went home in raptures with Ophelia; and I saw Sir Derby Oaks fling a bouquet, which no actress ever merited better. I should have brought one myself, had I known what I was going to see. Are not those the very flowers in a glass of water on the mantle-piece yonder?"
"I am very fond of flowers," said Miss Fotheringay, with a languishing ogle at Sir Derby Oaks—but the baronet still scowled sulkily.
"Sweets to the sweet—isn't that the expression of the play?" Mr. Pendennis asked, bent upon being good-humored.
"'Pon my life, I don't know. Very likely it is. I ain't much of a literary man," answered Sir Derby.
"Is it possible?" the major continued, with an air of surprise. "You don't inherit your father's love of letters, then, Sir Derby? He was a remarkably fine scholar, and I had the honor of knowing him very well."
"Indeed," said the other, and gave a sulky wag of his head.
"He saved my life," continued Pendennis.
"Did he now?" cried Miss Fotheringay, rolling her eyes first upon the major with surprise, then toward Sir Derby with gratitude—but the latter was proof against those glances; and far from appearing to be pleased that the apothecary, his father, should have saved Major Pendennis's life, the young man actually looked as if he wished the event had turned the other way.
"My father, I believe, was a very good doctor," the young gentleman said, by way of reply. "I'm not in that line myself. I wish you good morning, sir. I've got an appointment—Cos, by-by—Miss Fotheringay, good morning." And, in spite of the young lady's imploring looks and appealing smiles, the dragoon bowed stiffly out of the room, and the clatter of his saber was heard as he strode down the creaking stair; and the angry tones of his voice as he cursed little Tom Creed, who wasdisporting in the passage, and whose peg-top Sir Derby kicked away with an oath into the street.
The major did not smile in the least, though he had every reason to be amused. "Monstrous handsome young man that—as fine a looking soldier as ever I saw," he said to Costigan.
"A credit to the army and to human nature in general," answered Costigan. "A young man of refoined manners, polite affabilitee, and princely fortune. His table is sumptuous: he's adawr'd in the regiment: and he rides sixteen stone."
"A perfect champion," said the major, laughing. "I have no doubt all the ladies admire him."
"He's very well in spite of his weight, now he's young," said Milly; "but he's no conversation."
"He's best on horseback," Mr. Bows said: on which Milly replied, that the baronet had ridden third in the steeple-chase on his horse Tareaways, and the major began to comprehend that the young lady herself was not of a particular genius, and to wonder how she should be so stupid and act so well.
Costigan, with Irish hospitality, of course pressed refreshment upon his guest: and the major, who was no more hungry than you are after a Lord Mayor's dinner, declared that he should like a biscuit and a glass of wine above all things, as he felt quite faint from long fasting—but he knew that to receive small kindnesses flatters the donors very much, and that people must needs grow well disposed toward you as they give you their hospitality.
"Some of the old Madara, Milly, love," Costigan said, winking to his child—and that lady, turning to her father a glance of intelligence, went out of the room, and down the stair, where she softly summoned her little emissary Master Tommy Creed; and giving him a piece of money, ordered him to go buy a pint of Madara wine at the Grapes, and sixpennyworth of sorted biscuits at the baker's, and to return in a hurry, when he might have two biscuits for himself.
While Tommy Creed was gone on this errand, Miss Costigan sate below with Mrs. Creed, telling her landlady how Mr. Arthur Pendennis's uncle, the major, was above stairs; a nice, soft-spoken old gentleman: that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth; and how Sir Derby had gone out of the room in a rage of jealousy, and thinking what must be done to pacify both of them.
"She keeps the keys of the cellar, major," said Mr. Costigan, as the girl left the room.
"Upon my word you have a very beautiful butler," answered Pendennis, gallantly, "and I don't wonder at the young fellows raving about her. When we were of their age, Captain Costigan, I think plainer women would have done our business."
"Faith, and ye may say that, sir—and lucky is the man who gets her. Ask me friend Bob Bows here whether Miss Fotheringay's moind is not even shuparior to her person, and whether she does not possess a cultiveated intellect, a refoined understanding, and an emiable disposition?"
"O, of course," said Mr. Bows, rather drily. "Here comes Hebe blushing from the cellar. Don't you think it is time to go to rehearsal, Miss Hebe? You will be fined if you are later"—and he gave the young lady a look, which intimated that they had much better leave the room and the two elders together.
At this order Miss Hebe took up her bonnet and shawl, looking uncommonly pretty, good-humored, and smiling; and Bows gathered up his roll of papers, and hobbled across the room for his hat and cane.
"Must you go?" said the major. "Can't you give us a few minutes more, Miss Fotheringay? Before you leave us, permit an old fellow to shake you by the hand, and believe that I am proud to have had the honor of making your acquaintance, and am most sincerely anxious to be your friend."
Miss Fotheringay made a low courtesy at the conclusion of this gallant speech, and the major followed her retreating steps to the door, where he squeezed her hand with the kindest and most paternal pressure. Bows was puzzled with this exhibition of cordiality: "The lad's relatives can't be really wanting to marry him to her," he thought—and so they departed.
"Now for it," thought Major Pendennis: and as for Mr. Costigan he profited instantaneously by his daughter's absence to drink up the rest of the wine; and tossed off one bumper after another of the Madeira from the Grapes, with an eager, shaking hand. The major came up to the table, and took up his glass and drained it with a jovial smack. If it had been Lord Steyne's particular, and not public-house Cape, he could not have appeared to relish it more.
"Capital Madeira, Captain Costigan," he said. "Where do you get it? I drink the health of that charming creature in a bumper. Faith, captain, I don't wonder that the men are wild about her. I never saw such eyes in my life, or such a grand manner. I am sure she is as intellectual as she is beautiful; and I have no doubt she's as good as she is clever."
"A good girl, sir—a good girl, sir," said the delighted father; "and I pledge a toast to her with all my heart. Shall I send to the—to the cellar for another pint? It's handy by. No? Well, indeed, sir, ye may say she is a good girl, and the pride and glory of her father—honest old Jack Costigan. The man who gets her will have a jew'l to a wife, sir; and I drink his health, sir, and ye know who I mean, major."
"I am not surprised at young or old falling in love with her," said the major, "and frankly must tell you, that though I was very angry with my poor nephew Arthur, when I heard of the boy's passion—now I have seen the lady I can pardon him any extent of it. By George, I should like to enter for the race myself, if I wern't an old fellow and a poor one."
"And no better man, major, I'm sure," cried Jack, enraptured. "Your friendship, sir, delights me. Your admiration for my girl brings tears to me eyes—tears, sir—manlee tears—and when she leaves me humble home for your own more splendid mansion, I hope she'll keep a place for her poor old father, poor old Jack Costigan."—The captain suited the action to the word, and his blood-shot eyes were suffused with water, as he addressed the major.
"Your sentiments do you honor," the other said. "But, Captain Costigan, I can't help smiling at one thing you have just said."
"And what's that, sir?" asked Jack, who was at a too heroic and sentimental pitch to descend from it.
"You were speaking about our splendid mansion—my sister's house, I mean."
"I mane the park and mansion of Arthur Pendennis, Esquire, of Fairoaks Park, whom I hope to see a Mimber of Parliament for his native town of Clavering, when he is of ege to take that responsible stetion," cried the captain, with much dignity.
The major smiled as he recognized a shaft out of his own bow. It was he who had set Pen upon the idea of sitting in parliament for the neighboring borough—and the poor lad had evidently been bragging on the subject to Costigan and the lady of his affections. "Fairoaks Park, my dear sir," he said. "Do you know our history? We are of excessively ancient family certainly, but I began life with scarce enough money to purchase my commission, and my eldest brother was a country apothecary; who made every shilling he died possessed of out of his pestle and mortar."
"I have consented to waive that objection, sir," said Costigan majestically, "in consideration of the known respectability of your family."
"Curse your impudence," thought the major; but he only smiled and bowed.
"The Costigans, too, have met with misfortunes; and our house of Castle Costigan is by no manes what it was. I have known very honest men apothecaries, sir, and there's some in Dublin that has had the honor of dining at the Lord Leftenant's teeble."
"You are very kind to give us the benefit of your charity," the major continued: "but permit me to say that is not the question. You spoke just now of my little nephew as heir of Fairoaks Park, and I don't know what besides."
"Funded property, I've no doubt, meejor, and something handsome eventually from yourself."
"My good sir, I tell you the boy is the son of a country apothecary," cried out Major Pendennis; "and that when he comes of age he won't have a shilling."
"Pooh, major, you're laughing at me," said Mr. Costigan, "me young friend, I make no doubt, is heir to two thousand pounds a year."
"Two thousand fiddlesticks! I beg your pardon, my dear sir; but has the boy been humbugging you?—it is not his habit. Upon my word and honor, as a gentleman and an executor to my brother's will too, he left little more than five hundred a year behind him."
"And with aconomy, a handsome sum of money too, sir," the captain answered. "Faith, I've known a man drink his clar't, and drive his coach-and-four on five hundred a year and strict aconomy, in Ireland, sir. We'll manage on it, sir—trust Jack Costigan for that."
"My dear Captain Costigan—I give you my word that my brother did not leave a shilling to his son Arthur."
"Are ye joking with me, Meejor Pendennis?" cried Jack Costigan. "Are ye thrifling with the feelings of a father and a gentleman?"
"I am telling you the honest truth," said Major Pendennis. "Every shilling my brother had, he left to his widow: with a partial reversion, it is true, to the boy. But she is a young woman, and may marry if he offends her—or she may outlive him, for she comes of an uncommonly long-lived family. And I ask you, as a gentleman and a man of the world, what allowance can my sister, Mrs. Pendennis, make to her son out of five hundred a year, which is all her fortune—that shall enablehim to maintain himself and your daughter in the rank befitting such an accomplished young lady?"
"Am I to understand, sir, that the young gentleman, your nephew, and whom I have fosthered and cherished as the son of me bosom, is an imposther who has been thrifling with the affections of me beloved child?" exclaimed the general, with an outbreak of wrath.—"Have you yourself been working upon the feelings of the young man's susceptible nature to injuice him to break off an engagement, and with it me adored Emily's heart? Have a care, sir, how you thrifle with the honor of John Costigan. If I thought any mortal man meant to do so, be heavens I'd have his blood, sir—were he old or young."
"Mr. Costigan!" cried out the major.
"Mr. Costigan can protect his own and his daughter's honor, and will, sir," said the other. "Look at that chest of dthrawers, it contains heaps of letthers that that viper has addressed to that innocent child. There's promises there, sir, enough to fill a band-box with; and when I have dragged the scoundthrel before the courts of law, and shown up his perjury and his dishonor, I have another remedy in yondther mahogany case, sir, which shall set me right, sir, with any individual—ye mark me words, Major Pendennis—with any individual who has counseled your nephew to insult a soldier and a gentleman. What? Me daughter to be jilted, and me gray hairs dishonored by an apothecary's son. By the laws of heaven, sir, I should like to see the man that shall do it."
"I am to understand, then, that you threaten in the first place to publish the letters of a boy of eighteen to a woman of eight-and-twenty: and afterward to do me the honor of calling me out," the major said, still with perfect coolness.
"You have described my intentions with perfect accuracy, Meejor Pendennis," answered the captain, as he pulled his ragged whiskers over his chin.
"Well, well; these shall be the subjects of future arrangements, but before we come to powder and ball, my good sir—do have the kindness to think with yourself in what earthly way I have injured you? I have told you that my nephew is dependent upon his mother, who has scarcely more than five hundred a year."
"I have my own opinion of the correctness of that assertion," said the captain.
"Will you go to my sister's lawyers, Messrs. Tatham here, and satisfy yourself?"
"I decline to meet those gentlemen," said the captain, with rather a disturbed air. "If it be as you say, I have been athrociously deceived by some one, and on that person I'll be revenged."
"Is it my nephew?" cried the major, starting up and putting on his hat. "Did he ever tell you that his property was two thousand a year? If he did, I'm mistaken in the boy. To tell lies has not been a habit in our family, Mr. Costigan, and I don't think my brother's son has learned it as yet. Try and consider whether you have not deceived yourself; or adopted extravagant reports from hearsay. As for me, sir, you are atliberty to understand that I am not afraid of all the Costigans in Ireland and know quite well how to defend myself against any threats from any quarter. I come here as the boy's guardian to protest against a marriage, most absurd and unequal, that can not but bring poverty and misery with it; and in preventing it I conceive I am quite as much your daughter's friend (who I have no doubt is an honorable young lady), as the friend of my own family; and prevent the marriage I will, sir, by every means in my power. There, I have said my say, sir."
"But I have not said mine, Major Pendennis—and ye shall hear more from me," Mr. Costigan said, with a look of tremendous severity.
"'Sdeath, sir, what do you mean?" the major asked, turning round on the threshold of the door, and looking the intrepid Costigan in the face.
"Ye said, in the coorse of conversation, that ye were at the George Hotel, I think," Mr. Costigan said, in a stately manner. "A friend shall wait upon ye there before ye leave town, sir."
"Let him make haste, Mr. Costigan," cried out the major, almost beside himself with rage. "I wish you a good morning, sir." And Captain Costigan, bowed a magnificent bow of defiance to Major Pendennis over the landing-place as the latter retreated down the stairs.