Early mention has been made in this history of Mr. Garbetts, Principal Tragedian, a promising and athletic young actor, of jovial habits and irregular inclinations, with whom and Mr. Costigan there was a considerable intimacy. They were the chief ornaments of the convivial club held at the Magpie Hotel; they helped each other in various bill transactions in which they had been engaged, with the mutual loan of each other's valuable signatures. They were friends, in fine: although Mr. Garbetts seldom called at Costigan's house, being disliked by Miss Fotheringay, of whom in her turn Mrs. Garbetts was considerably jealous. The truth is, that Garbetts had paid his court to Miss Fotheringay and been refused by her, before he offered his hand to Mrs. G. Their history, however, forms no part of our present scheme—suffice it, Mr. Garbetts was called in by Captain Costigan immediately after his daughter and Mr. Bows had quitted the house, as a friend proper to be consulted at the actual juncture. He was a large man, with a loud voice and fierce aspect, who had the finest legs of the whole company, and could break a poker in mere sport across his stalwart arm.
"Run, Tommy," said Mr. Costigan to the little messenger, "and fetch Mr. Garbetts from his lodgings over the tripe shop, ye know, and tell 'em to send two glasses of whisky-and-water, hot, from the Grapes." So Tommy went his way; and presently Mr. Garbetts and the whisky came.
Captain Costigan did not disclose to him the whole of the previous events, of which the reader is in possession; but, with the aid of the spirits-and-water, he composed a letter of a threatening nature to Major Pendennis's address, in which he called upon that gentleman to offer no hindrance to the marriage projected between Mr. Arthur Pendennis and his daughter, Miss Fotheringay, and to fix an early day for its celebration: or, in any other case, to give him the satisfaction which was usual between gentlemen of honor. And should Major Pendennis be disinclined to this alternative, the captain hinted, that he would force him to accept by the use of a horsewhip, which he should employ upon the major's person. The precise terms of this letter we can not give, for reasons which shall be specified presently; but it was, no doubt, couched in the captain's finest style, and sealed elaborately with the great silver seal of the Costigans—the only bit of the family plate which the captain possessed.
Garbetts was dispatched then with this message and letter; and bidding Heaven bless 'um, the general squeezed his embassador's hand, and saw him depart. Then he took down his venerable and murderous dueling pistols, with flint locks, that had done the business of many a pretty fellow in Dublin: and having examined these, and seen that they were in a satisfactory condition, he brought from the drawer all Pen's letters and poems which he kept there, and which he always read before he permitted his Emily to enjoy their perusal.
In a score of minutes Garbetts came back, with an anxious and crestfallen countenance.
"Ye've seen 'um?" the captain said.
"Why, yes," said Garbetts.
"And when is it for?" asked Costigan, trying the lock of one of the ancient pistols, and bringing it to a level with his oi—as he called that blood-shot orb.
"When is what for?" asked Mr. Garbetts.
"The meeting, my dear fellow?"
"You don't mean to say, you mean mortal combat, captain," Garbetts said, aghast.
"What the devil else do I mean, Garbetts?—I want to shoot that man that has trajuiced me honor, or meself dthrop a victim on the sod."
"D—— if I carry challenges," Mr. Garbetts replied. "I'm a family man, captain, and will have nothing to do with pistols—take back your letter;" and, to the surprise and indignation of Captain Costigan, his emissary flung the letter down with its great sprawling superscription and blotched seal.
"Ye don't mean to say ye saw 'um and didn't give 'um the letter?" cried out the captain, in a fury.
"I saw him, but I could not have speech with him, captain," said Mr. Garbetts.
"And why the devil not?" asked the other.
"There was one there I cared not to meet, nor would you," thetragedian answered, in a sepulchral voice. "The minion Tatham was there, captain."
"The cowardly scoundthrel!" roared Costigan. "He's frightened, already going to swear the peace against me."
"I'll have nothing to do with the fighting, mark that," the tragedian doggedly said, "and I wish I'd not seen Tatham neither, nor that bit of—"
"Hold your tongue, Bob Acres. It's my belief ye're no better than a coward," said Captain Costigan, quoting Sir Lucius O'Trigger, which character he had performed with credit, both off and on the stage, and after some more parley between the couple they separated in not very good humor.
Their colloquy has been here condensed, as the reader knows the main point upon which it turned. But the latter will now see how it is impossible to give a correct account of the letter which the captain wrote to Major Pendennis, as it was never opened at all by that gentleman.
When Miss Costigan came home from rehearsal, which she did in the company of the faithful Mr. Bows, she found her father pacing up and down their apartment in a great state of agitation, and in the midst of a powerful odor of spirits-and-water, which, as it appeared, had not succeeded in pacifying his disordered mind. The Pendennis papers were on the table surrounding the empty goblets and now useless teaspoon which had served to hold and mix the captain's liquor and his friend's. As Emily entered he seized her in his arms, and cried out "Prepare yourself me child, me blessed child," in a voice of agony, and with eyes brimful of tears.
"Ye're tipsy again, papa," Miss Fotheringay said, pushing back her sire. "Ye promised me ye wouldn't take spirits before dinner."
"It's to forget me sorrows, me poor girl, that I've taken just a drop," cried the bereaved father—"it's to drown me care that I drain the bowl."
"Your care takes a deal of drowning, captain dear," said Bows, mimicking his friend's accent; "what has happened? Has the soft-spoken gentleman in the wig been vexing you?"
"The oily miscreant! I'll have his blood!" roared Cos. Miss Milly, it must be premised, had fled to her room out of his embrace, and was taking off her bonnet and shawl there.
"I thought he meant mischief. He was so uncommon civil," the other said. "What has he come to say?"
"O Bows! He has overwhellum'd me," the captain said. "There's a hellish conspiracy on foot against me poor girl; and it's me opinion that both them Pendennises, nephew and uncle, is two infernal thrators and scoundthrels, who should be conshumed from off the face of the earth."
"What is it? What has happened?" said Mr. Bows, growing rather excited.
Costigan then told him the major's statement that the young Pendennishad not two thousand, nor two hundred pounds a year; and expressed his fury that he should have permitted such an impostor to coax and wheedle his innocent girl, and that he should have nourished such a viper in his own personal bosom. "I have shaken the reptile from me, however," said Costigan; "and as for his uncle, I'll have such a revenge on that old man, as shall make 'um rue the day he ever insulted a Costigan."
"What do you mean, general?" said Bows.
"I mean to have his life, Bows—his villainous skulking life, my boy;" and he rapped upon the battered old pistol-case in an ominous and savage manner. Bows had often heard him appeal to that box of death, with which he proposed to sacrifice his enemies; but the captain did not tell him that he had actually written and sent a challenge to Major Pendennis, and Mr. Bows therefore rather disregarded the pistols in the present instance.
At this juncture Miss Fotheringay returned to the common sitting-room from her private apartment, looking perfectly healthy, happy, and unconcerned, a striking and wholesome contrast to her father, who was in a delirious tremor of grief, anger, and other agitation. She brought in a pair of ex-white satin shoes with her, which she proposed to rub as clean as might be with bread-crumb; intending to go mad with them upon next Tuesday evening in Ophelia, in which character she was to reappear on that night.
She looked at the papers on the table; stopped, as if she was going to ask a question, but thought better of it, and going to the cupboard, selected an eligible piece of bread wherewith she might operate on the satin slippers: and afterward coming back to the table, seated herself there commodiously with the shoes, and then asked her father, in her honest, Irish brogue, "What, have ye got them letthers, and pothry, and stuff, of Master Arthur's out for, pa? Sure ye don't want to be reading over that nonsense."
"O Emilee!" cried the captain, "that boy whom I loved as the boy of mee bosom is only a scoundthrel, and a deceiver, mee poor girl;" and he looked in the most tragical way at Mr. Bows, opposite: who, in his turn, gazed somewhat anxiously at Miss Costigan.
"He! pooh! Sure the poor lad's as simple as a school-boy," she said. "All them children write verses and nonsense."
"He's been acting the part of a viper to this fire-side, and a traitor in this familee," cried the captain. "I tell ye he's no better than an impostor."
"What has the poor fellow done, papa?" asked Emily.
"Done? He has deceived us in the most athrocious manner," Miss Emily's papa said. "He has thrifled with your affections, and outraged my own fine feelings. He has represented himself as a man of property, and it turruns out that he is no betther than a beggar. Haven't I often told ye he had two thousand a year? He's a pauper, I tell ye, Miss Costigan; a depindent upon the bountee of his mother; a good woman, who may marry again, who's likely to live forever, and who has but fivehundred a year. How dar he ask ye to marry into a family which has not the means of providing for ye? Ye've been grossly deceived and put upon, Milly, and it's my belief, his old ruffian of an uncle in a wig is in the plot against us."
"That soft old gentleman? What has he been doing, papa?" continued Emily still imperturbable.
Costigan informed Milly, that when she was gone, Major Pendennis told him, in his double-faced Pall Mall polite manner, that young Arthur had no fortune at all, that the major had asked him (Costigan) to go to the lawyers ("wherein he knew the scoundthrels have a bill of mine, and I can't meet them," the captain parenthetically remarked), and see the lad's father's will: and finally that an infernal swindle had been practiced upon him by the pair, and that he was resolved either on a marriage, or on the blood of both of them.
Milly looked very grave and thoughtful, rubbing the white satin shoes. "Sure, if he's no money, there's no use marrying him, papa," she said sententiously.
"Why did the villain say he was a man of prawpertee?" asked Costigan.
"The poor fellow always said he was poor," answered the girl. "'Twas you would have it he was rich, papa—and made me agree to take him."
"He should have been explicit and told us his income, Milly," answered the father. "A young fellow who rides a blood mare, and makes presents of shawls and bracelets, is an impostor, if he has no money:—and as for his uncle, bedad, I'll pull off his wig whenever I see 'um. Bows, here, shall take a message to him and tell him so. Either it's a marriage, or he meets me in the field like a man, or I tweak 'um on the nose in front of his hotel or in the gravel walks of Fairoaks Park before all the county, bedad."
"Bedad you may send somebody else with the message," said Bows, laughing. "I'm a fiddler not a fighting man, captain."
"Pooh, you've no spirit, sir," roared the general. "I'll be my own second, if no one will stand by and see me injured. And I'll take my case of pistols and shoot 'um in the coffee-room of the George."
"And so poor Arthur has no money?" sighed out Miss Costigan, rather plaintively. "Poor lad, he was a good lad too: wild and talking nonsense, with his verses and pothry and that, but a brave, generous boy, and indeed I liked him—and he liked me too," she added, rather softly, and rubbing away at the shoe.
"Why don't you marry him if you like him so?" Mr. Bows said, rather savagely. "He is not more than ten years younger than you are. His mother may relent, and you might go and live and have enough at Fairoaks Park. Why not go and be a lady? I could go on with the fiddle, and the general live on his half-pay. Why don't you marry him? You know he likes you."
"There's others that likes me as well, Bows, that has no money and that's old enough," Miss Milly said sententiously.
"Yes, d—— it," said Bows with a bitter curse—"that are old enough and poor enough and fools enough for any thing."
"There's old fools and young fools too. You've often said so, you silly man," the imperious beauty said, with a conscious glance at the old gentleman. "If Pendennis has not enough money to live upon, it's folly to talk about marrying him; and that's the long and short of it."
"And the boy?" said Mr. Bows. "By Jove! you throw a man away like an old glove, Miss Costigan."
"I don't know what you mean, Bows," said Miss Fotheringay, placidly, rubbing the second shoe. "If he had had half of two thousand a year that papa gave him, or the half of that, I would marry him. But what is the good of taking on with a beggar? We're poor enough already. There's no use in my going to live with an old lady that's testy and cross, maybe, and would grudge me every morsel of meat. (Sure, it's near dinner time, and Suky not laid the cloth yet), and then," added Miss Costigan, quite simply, "suppose there was a family?—why, papa, we shouldn't be as well off as we are now."
"'Deed then, you would not Milly dear," answered the father.
"And there's an end to all the fine talk about Mrs. Arthur Pendennis of Fairoaks Park—the member of Parliament's lady," said Milly, with a laugh. "Pretty carriages and horses we should have to ride!—that you were always talking about, papa! But it's always the same. If a man looked at me, you fancied he was going to marry me; and if he had a good coat, you fancied he was as rich as Crazes."
"—As Cr[oe]sus," said Mr. Bows.
"Well, call 'um what ye like. But it's a fact now that papa has married me these eight years a score of times. Wasn't I to be my Lady Poldoody of Oystherstown castle? Then there was the navy captain at Portsmouth, and the old surgeon at Norwich, and the Methodist preacher here last year, and who knows how many more? Well, I bet a penny, with all your scheming, I shall die Milly Costigan, at last. So poor little Arthur has no money? Stop and take dinner, Bows; we've a beautiful beefsteak pudding."
"I wonder whether she is on with Sir Derby Oaks," thought Bows, whose eyes and thoughts were always watching her. "The dodges of women beat all comprehension; and I am sure she wouldn't let the lad off so easily if she had not some other scheme on hand."
It will have been perceived that Miss Fotheringay, though silent in general, and by no means brilliant as a conversationalist, where poetry, literature, or the fine arts were concerned, could talk freely, and with good sense, too, in her own family circle. She can not justly be called a romantic person: nor were her literary acquirements great: she never opened a Shakspeare from the day she left the stage, nor, indeed, understood it during all the time she adorned the boards: but about a pudding, a piece of needle-work, or her own domestic affairs, she was as good a judge as could be found; and not being misled by a strong imagination or a passionate temper, was better enabled to keep her judgment cool.When, over their dinner, Costigan tried to convince himself and the company, that the major's statement regarding Pen's finances was unworthy of credit, and a mereruseupon the old hypocrite's part, so as to induce them, on their side, to break off the match, Miss Milly would not, for a moment, admit the possibility of deceit on the side of the adversary: and pointed out clearly that it was her father who had deceived himself, and not poor little Pen, who had tried to take them in. As for that poor lad, she said she pitied him with all her heart. And she ate an exceedingly good dinner, to the admiration of Mr. Bows, who had a remarkable regard and contempt for this woman, during, and after which repast, the party devised upon the best means of bringing this love matter to a close. As for Costigan, his idea of tweaking the major's nose vanished with his supply of after-dinner whisky-and-water; and he was submissive to his daughter, and ready for any plan on which she might decide, in order to meet the crisis which she saw was at hand.
The captain, who, as long as he had a notion that he was wronged, was eager to face and demolish both Pen and his uncle, perhaps shrank from the idea of meeting the former, and asked "what the juice they were to say to the lad if he remained steady to his engagement, and they broke from theirs?" "What? don't you know how to throw a man over?" said Bows; "ask a woman to tell you?" and Miss Fotheringay showed how this feat was to be done simply enough—nothing was more easy. "Papa writes to Arthur to know what settlements he proposes to make in the event of a marriage; and asks what his means are. Arthur writes back and says what he's got, and you'll find it's as the major says, I'll go bail. Then papa writes and says it's not enough, and the match had best be at an end."
"And, of course, you inclose a parting line, in which you say you will always regard him as a brother;" said Mr. Bows, eying her in his scornful way.
"Of course, and so I shall," answered Miss Fotheringay. "He's a most worthy young man I'm sure. I'll thank ye hand me the salt. Them filberts is beautiful."
"And there will be no noses pulled, Cos, my boy? I'm sorry you're balked," said Mr. Bows.
"'Dad I suppose not," said Cos, rubbing his own.—"What'll ye do about them letters, and verses and pomes, Milly, darling?—Ye must send 'em back."
"Wigsby would give a hundred pound for 'em," Bows said, with a sneer.
"'Deed, then he would," said Captain Costigan, who was easily led.
"Papa!" said Miss Milly, "ye wouldn't be for not sending the poor boy his letters back? Them letters and pomes is mine. They were very long and full of all sorts of nonsense, and Latin and things I couldn't understand the half of; indeed I've not read 'em all; but we'll send 'em back to him when the proper time comes." And going to a drawer, Miss Fotheringay took out from it a number of the County Chronicle and Chatteries Champion, in which Pen had written a copy of flaming versescelebrating her appearance in the character of Imogen, and putting by the leaf upon which the poem appeared (for, like ladies of her profession, she kept the favorable printed notices of her performances), she wrapped up Pen's letters, poems, passions, and fancies, and tied them with a piece of string neatly, as she would a parcel of sugar.
Nor was she in the least moved while performing this act. What hours the boy had passed over those papers! What love and longing: what generous faith and manly devotion—what watchful nights and lonely fevers might they tell of! She tied them up like so much grocery, and sate down and made tea afterward with a perfectly placid and contented heart; while Pen was yearning after her, ten miles off; and hugging her image to his soul.
Meanwhile they were wondering at Fairoaks that the major had not returned. Dr. Portman and his lady, on their way home to Clavering, stopped at Helen's lodge-gate, with a brief note for her from Major Pendennis, in which he said he should remain at Chatteries another day, being anxious to have some talk with Messrs. Tatham, the lawyers, whom he would meet that afternoon: but no mention was made of the transaction in which the writer had been engaged during the morning. Indeed the note was written at the pause after the first part of the engagement, and when the major had decidedly had the worst of the battle.
Pen did not care somehow to go into the town while his uncle was there. He did not like to have to fancy that his guardian might be spying at him from that abominable dean's grass-plat, while he was making love in Miss Costigan's drawing-room; and the pleasures of a walk (a delight which he was very rarely permitted to enjoy) would have been spoiled if he had met the man of the polished boots on that occasion. His modest love could not show in public by any outward signs, except the eyes (with which the poor fellow ogled and gazed violently, to be sure), but it was dumb in the presence of third parties; and so much the better, for of all the talk which takes place in this world, that of love-makers is surely, to the uninitiated, the most silly. It is the vocabulary without the key; it isthe lamp without the flame. Let the respected reader look or think over some old love-letters that he (or she) has had and forgotten, and try them over again. How blank and meaningless they seem! What glamour of infatuation was it which made that nonsense beautiful? One wonders that such puling and trash could ever have made one happy. And yet there were days when you kissed those silly letters with rapture—lived upon six absurd lines for a week, and until the reactionary period came, when you were restless and miserable until you got a fresh supply of folly.
That is why we decline to publish any of the letters and verses which Mr. Pen wrote at this period of his life, out of mere regard for the young fellow's character. They are too spooney and wild. Young ladies ought not to be called upon to read them in cold blood. Bide your time young women; perhaps you will get and write them on your own account soon. Meanwhile we will respect Mr. Pen's first outpourings, and keep them tied up in the newspapers with Miss Fotheringay's string, and sealed with Captain Costigan's great silver seal.
The major came away from his interview with Captain Costigan in a state of such concentrated fury as rendered him terrible to approach! "The impudent bog-trotting scamp," he thought, "dare to threatenme! Dare to talk of permitting his damned Costigans to marry with the Pendennises! Send me a challenge! If the fellow can get any thing in the shape of a genleman to carry it, I have the greatest mind in life not to balk him.—Psha! what would people say if I were to go out with a tipsy mountebank, about a row with an actress in a barn!" So when the major saw Dr. Portman, who asked anxiously regarding the issue of his battle with the dragon, Mr. Pendennis did not care to inform the divine of the general's insolent behavior, but stated that the affair was a very ugly and disagreeable one, and that it was by no means over yet.
He enjoined Doctor and Mrs. Portman to say nothing about the business at Fairoaks; whither he contented himself with dispatching the note we have before mentioned. And then he returned to his hotel, where he vented his wrath upon Mr. Morgan, his valet, "dammin and cussin up stairs and down stairs," as that gentleman observed to Mr. Foker's man, in whose company he partook of dinner in the servants' room of the George.
The servant carried the news to his master; and Mr. Foker having finished his breakfast about this time, it being two o'clock in the afternoon, remembered that he was anxious to know the result of the interview between his two friends, and having inquired the number of the major's sitting-room, went over in his brocade dressing-gown, and knocked for admission.
Major Pendennis had some business, as he had stated, respecting a lease of the widow's, about which he was desirous of consulting old Mr. Tatham, the lawyer, who had been his brother's man of business, and who had a branch-office at Clavering, where he and his son attended market and other days three or four in the week. This gentleman andhis client were now in consultation when Mr. Foker showed his grand dressing-gown and embroidered skull-cap at Major Pendennis's door.
Seeing the major engaged with papers and red-tape, and an old man with a white head, the modest youth was for drawing back—and said, "O, you're busy—call again another time." But Mr. Pendennis wanted to see him, and begged him, with a smile, to enter: whereupon Mr. Foker took off the embroidered tarboosh or fez (it had been worked by the fondest of mothers), and advanced, bowing to the gentlemen, and smiling on them graciously. Mr. Tatham had never seen so splendid an apparition before as this brocaded youth, who seated himself in an arm chair, spreading out his crimson skirts, and looking with exceeding kindness and frankness on the other two tenants of the room. "You seem to like my dressing-gown, sir," he said to Mr. Tatham. "A pretty thing, isn't it? Neat, but not in the least gaudy. And how doyoudo? Major Pendennis, sir, and how does the world treat you?"
There was that in Foker's manner and appearance which would have put an Inquisitor into good humor, and it smoothed the wrinkles under Pendennis's head of hair.
"I have had an interview with that Irishman (you may speak before my friend, Mr. Tatham here, who knows all the affairs of the family), and it has not, I own, been very satisfactory. He won't believe that my nephew is poor: he says we are both liars; he did me the honor to hint that I was a coward, as I took leave. And I thought when you knocked at the door, that you might be the gentleman whom I expect with a challenge from Mr. Costigan—that is how the world treats me, Mr. Foker."
"You don't mean that Irishman, the actress's father?" cried Mr. Tatham, who was a dissenter himself, and did not patronize the drama.
"That Irishman, the actress's father—the very man. Have not you heard what a fool my nephew has made of himself about the girl?"—Mr. Tatham, who never entered the walls of a theater, had heard nothing: and Major Pendennis had to recount the story of his nephew's loves to the lawyer, Mr. Foker coming in with appropriate comments in his usual familiar language.
Tatham was lost in wonder at the narrative. Why had not Mrs. Pendennis married a serious man, he thought—Mr. Tatham was a widower—and kept this unfortunate boy from perdition? As for Miss Costigan he would say nothing: her profession was sufficient to characterizeher. Mr. Foker here interposed to say he had known some uncommon good people in the booths, as he called the temple of the muses. Well, it might be so, Mr. Tatham hoped so—but the father, Tatham knew personally—a man of the worst character, a wine-bibber and an idler in taverns and billiard-rooms, and a notorious insolvent. "I can understand the reason, major," he said, "why the fellow would not come to my office to ascertain the truth of the statements which you made him.—We have a writ out against him and another disreputable fellow, one of the play-actors, for a bill given to Mr. Skinner of this city, a most respectable grocer and wine and spirit merchant, and a member of the Society of Friends. This Costigan came crying to Mr. Skinner—cryingin the shop, sir—and we have not proceeded against him or the other, as neither were worth powder and shot."
It was while Mr. Tatham was engaged in telling this story that a third knock came to the door, and there entered an athletic gentleman in a shabby braided frock, bearing in his hand a letter with a large blotched red seal.
"Can I have the honor of speaking with Major Pendennis in private?" he began—"I have a few words, for your ear, sir. I am the bearer of a mission from my friend Captain Costigan,"—but here the man with the bass voice paused, faltered, and turned pale—he caught sight of the red and well-remembered face of Mr. Tatham.
"Hullo, Garbetts, speak up!" cried Mr. Foker, delighted.
"Why, bless my soul, it is the other party to the bill!" said Mr. Tatham. "I say, sir; stop, I say." But Garbetts, with a face as blank as Macbeth's when Banquo's ghost appears upon him, gasped some inarticulate words, and fled out of the room.
The major's gravity was also altogether upset, and he burst out laughing. So did Mr. Foker, who said, "By Jove, it was a good 'un." So did the attorney, although by profession a serious man.
"I don't think there'll be any fight, major," young Foker said; and began mimicking the tragedian. "If there is, the old gentleman—your name Tatham?—very happy to make your acquaintance Mr. Tatham—may send the bailiffs to separate the men;" and Mr. Tatham—promised to do so. The major was by no means sorry at the ludicrous issue of the quarrel. "It seems to me, sir," he said to Mr. Foker, "that you always arrive to put me into good humor."
Nor was this the only occasion on which Mr. Foker this day was destined to be of service to the Pendennis family. We have said that he had theentréeof Captain Costigan's lodgings, and in the course of the afternoon he thought he would pay the general a visit, and hear from his own lips what had occurred in the conversation, in the morning, with Mr. Pendennis. Captain Costigan was not at home. He had received permission, nay, encouragement from his daughter, to go to the convivial club at the Magpie Hotel, where no doubt he was bragging at that moment of his desire to murder a certain ruffian; for he was not only brave, but he knew it too, and liked to take out his courage, and, as it were, give it an airing in company.
Costigan then was absent, but Miss Fotheringay was at home washing the tea-cups while Mr. Bows sate opposite to her.
"Just done breakfast I see—how do?" said Mr. Foker, popping in his little funny head.
"Get out you funny little man," cried Miss Fotheringay.
"You mean come in," answered the other.—"Here we are!" and entering the room he folded his arms and began twirling his head round and round with immense rapidity, like Harlequin in the Pantomime when he first issues from his cocoon or envelope. Miss Fotheringay laughed with all her heart: a wink of Foker's would set her off laughing, when the bitterest joke Bows ever made could not get a smile fromher, or the finest of poor Pen's speeches would only puzzle her. At the end of the harlequinade he sank down on one knee and kissed her hand. "You're the drollest little man," she said, and gave him a great good-humored slap. Pen used to tremble as he kissed her hand. Pen would have died of a slap.
These preliminaries over, the three began to talk; Mr. Foker amused his companions by recounting to them the scene which he had just witnessed of the discomfiture of Mr. Garbetts, by which they learned, for the first time, how far the general had carried his wrath against Major Pendennis. Foker spoke strongly in favor of the major's character for veracity and honor, and described him as a tip-top swell, moving in the upper circle of society, who would never submit to any deceit—much more to deceive such a charming young woman as Miss Foth.
He touched delicately upon the delicate marriage question, though he couldn't help showing that he held Pen rather cheap. In fact, he had a perhaps just contempt for Mr. Pen's high flown sentimentality; his own weakness, as he thought, not lying that way. "I knew it wouldn't do, Miss Foth," said he, nodding his little head. "Couldn't do.—Didn't like to putmyhand into the bag, but knew it couldn't do. He's too young for you: too green: a deal too green: and he turns out to be poor as Job. Can't have him at no price, can she, Mr. Bo?"
"Indeed he's a nice poor boy," said the Fotheringay, rather sadly.
"Poor little beggar," said Bows, with his hands in his pockets, and stealing up a queer look at Miss Fotheringay. Perhaps he thought and wondered at the way in which women play with men, and coax them and win them and drop them.
But Mr. Bows had not the least objection to acknowledge that he thought Miss Fotheringay was perfectly right in giving up Mr. Arthur Pendennis, and that in his idea the match was always an absurd one: and Miss Costigan owned that she thought so herself, only she couldn't send away two thousand a year. "It all comes of believing papa's silly stories," she said; "faith, I'll choose for meself another time"—and very likely the large image of Lieutenant Sir Derby Oaks entered into her mind at that instant.
After praising Major Pendennis, whom Miss Costigan declared to be a proper gentleman entirely, smelling of lavender, and as neat as a pin—and who was pronounced by Mr. Bows to be the right sort of fellow, though rather too much of an old buck, Mr. Foker suddenly bethought him to ask the pair to come and meet the major that very evening at dinner at his apartment at the George. "He agreed to dine with me, and I think after the—after the little shindy this morning, in which I must say the general was wrong, it would look kind, you know.—I know the major fell in love with you Miss Foth: he said so."
"So she may be Mrs. Pendennis still," Bows said, with a sneer—"No thank you, Mr. F.—I've dined."
"Sure, that was at three o'clock," said Miss Costigan, who had an honest appetite, "and I can't go without you."
"We'll have lobster salad and Champagne," said the little monster,who could not construe a line of Latin, or do a sum beyond the Rule of Three. Now, for lobster-salad and Champagne in an honorable manner Miss Costigan would have gone any where—and Major Pendennis actually found himself at seven o'clock, seated at a dinner-table in company with Mr. Bows, a professional fiddler, and Miss Costigan, whose father had wanted to blow his brains out a few hours before.
To make the happy meeting complete, Mr. Foker, who knew Costigan's haunts, dispatched Stoopid to the club at the Magpie, where the general was in the act of singing a pathetic song, and brought him off to supper. To find his daughter and Bows seated at the board was a surprise indeed—Major Pendennis laughed, and cordially held out his hand, which the general officer graspedavec effusion, as the French say. In fact, he was considerably inebriated, and had already been crying over his own song before he joined the little party at the George. He burst into tears more than once, during the entertainment, and called the major his dearest friend. Stoopid and Mr. Foker walked home with him; the major gallantly giving his arm to Miss Costigan. He was received with great friendliness when he called the next day, when many civilities passed between the gentlemen. On taking leave he expressed his anxious desire to serve Miss Costigan on any occasion in which he could be useful to her, and he shook hands with Mr. Foker most cordially and gratefully, and said that gentleman had done him the very greatest service.
"All right," said Mr. Foker: and they parted with mutual esteem.
On his return to Fairoaks the next day, Major Pendennis did not say what had happened to him on the previous night, or allude to the company in which he had passed it. But he engaged Mr. Smirke to stop to dinner; and any person accustomed to watch his manner might have remarked that there was something constrained in his hilarity and talkativeness, and that he was unusually gracious and watchful in his communications with his nephew. He gave Pen an emphatic God-bless-you, when the lad went to bed; and as they were about to part for the night, he seemed as if he was going to say something to Mrs. Pendennis, but he bethought him that if he spoke he might spoil her night's rest, and allowed her to sleep in peace.
The next morning he was down in the breakfast-room earlier than was his custom, and saluted every body there with great cordiality. The post used to arrive commonly about the end of this meal. When John, the old servant entered, and discharged the bag of its letters and papers, the major looked hard at Pen as the lad got his—Arthur blushed, and put his letter down. He knew the hand, it was that of old Costigan, and he did not care to read it in public. Major Pendennis knew the letter, too. He had put it into the post himself in Chatteries the day before.
He told little Laura to go away, which the child did, having a thorough dislike to him; and as the door closed on her, he took Mrs. Pendennis's hand, and giving her a look full of meaning, pointed to the letter under the newspaper which Pen was pretending to read. "Willyou come into the drawing-room?" he said. "I want to speak to you." And she followed him, wondering, into the hall.
"What is it?" she said, nervously.
"The affair is at an end," Major Pendennis said. "He has a letter there giving him his dismissal. I dictated it myself yesterday. There are a few lines from the lady, too, bidding him farewell. It is all over."
Helen ran back to the dining-room, her brother following. Pen had jumped at his letter the instant they were gone. He was reading it, with a stupefied face. It stated what the major had said, that Mr. Costigan was most gratified for the kindness with which Arthur had treated his daughter, but that he was only now made aware of Mr. Pendennis's pecuniary circumstances. They were such that marriage was at present out of the question, and considering the great disparity in the age of the two, a future union was impossible. Under these circumstances, and with the deepest regret and esteem for him, Mr. Costigan bade Arthur farewell, and suggested that he should cease visiting, for some time at least, at his house.
A few lines from Miss Costigan were inclosed. She acquiesced in the decision of her papa. She pointed out that she was many years older than Arthur, and that an engagement was not to be thought of. She would always be grateful for his kindness to her, and hoped to keep his friendship. But at present, and until the pain of the separation should be over, she entreated they should not meet.
Pen read Costigan's letter and its inclosure mechanically, hardly knowing what was before his eyes. He looked up wildly, and saw his mother and uncle regarding him with sad faces. Helen's, indeed, was full of tender maternal anxieties.
"What—what is this?" Pen said. "It's some joke. This is not her writing. This is some servant's writing. Who's playing these tricks upon me?"
"It comes under her father's envelope," the major said. "Those letters you had before were not in her hand: that is hers."
"How do you know?" said Pen, very fiercely.
"I saw her write it," the uncle answered, as the boy started up; and his mother, coming forward, took his hand. He put her away.
"How came you to see her? How came you between me and her? What have I ever done to you that you should.—Oh, it's not true, it's not true!"—Pen broke out with a wild execration. "She can't have done it of her own accord. She can't mean it. She's pledged to me. Who has told her lies to break her from me?"
"Lies are not told in the family, Arthur," Major Pendennis replied. "I told her the truth, which was, that you had no money to maintain her, for her foolish father had represented you to be rich. And when she knew how poor you were, she withdrew at once, and without any persuasion of mine. She was quite right. She is ten years older than you are. She is perfectly unfitted to be your wife, and knows it. Look at that handwriting, and ask yourself, is such a woman fitted to be the companion of your mother?"
"I will know from herself if it is true," Arthur said, crumpling up the paper.
"Won't you take my word of honor? Her letters were written by a confidante of hers, who writes better than she can—look here. Here's one from the lady to your friend, Mr. Foker. You have seen her with Miss Costigan, as whose amanuensis she acted"—the major said, with ever so little of a sneer, and laid down a certain billet which Mr. Foker had given to him.
"It's not that," said Pen, burning with shame and rage. "I suppose what you say is true, sir, but I'll hear it from herself."
"Arthur!" appealed his mother.
"Iwillsee her," said Arthur. "I'll ask her to marry me, once more. I will. No one shall prevent me."
"What, a woman who spells affection with one f? Nonsense, sir. Be a man, and remember that your mother is a lady. She was never made to associate with that tipsy old swindler or his daughter. Be a man, and forget her, as she does you."
"Be a man and comfort your mother, my Arthur," Helen said, going and embracing him: and seeing that the pair were greatly moved, Major Pendennis went out of the room and shut the door upon them, wisely judging that they were best alone.
He had won a complete victory. He actually had brought away Pen's letters in his portmanteau from Chatteries: having complimented Mr. Costigan, when he returned them, by giving him the little promissory note which had disquieted himself and Mr. Garbetts; and for which the major settled with Mr. Tatham.
Pen rushed wildly off to Chatteries that day, but in vain attempted to see Miss Fotheringay, for whom he left a letter, inclosed to her father. The inclosure was returned by Mr. Costigan, who begged that all correspondence might end; and after one or two further attempts of the lad's, the indignant general desired that their acquaintance might cease. He cut Pen in the street. As Arthur and Foker were pacing the Castle walk, one day, they came upon Emily on her father's arm. She passed without any nod of recognition. Foker felt poor Pen trembling on his arm.
His uncle wanted him to travel, to quit the country for a while, and his mother urged him, too: for he was growing very ill, and suffered severely. But he refused, and said point blank he would not go. He would not obey in this instance: and his mother was too fond and his uncle too wise to force him. Whenever Miss Fotheringay acted he rode over to the Chatteries Theater and saw her. One night there were so few people in the house that the manager returned the money. Pen came home and went to bed at eight o'clock, and had a fever. If this continues, his mother will be going over and fetching the girl, the major thought, in despair. As for Pen, he thought he should die. We are not going to describe his feelings, or give a dreary journal of his despair and passion. Have not other gentlemen been balked in love besides Mr. Pen? Yes, indeed: but few die of the malady.