Chapter 18
"How do you know?" said Pen, very fiercely.
"I saw her write it," the uncle answered, as the boy started up; and his mother, coming forward, took his hand. He put her away.
"How came you to see her? How came you between me and her? What have I ever done to you that you should.--Oh, it's not true, it's not true!"--Pen broke out with a wild execration. "She can't have done it of her own accord. She can't mean it. She's pledged to me. Who has told her lies to break her from me?"
"Lies are not told in the family, Arthur," Major Pendennis replied.
"I told her the truth, which was, that you had no money to maintain her, for her foolish father had represented you to be rich. And when she knew how poor you were, she withdrew at once, and without any persuasion of mine. She was quite right. She is ten years older than you are.
She is perfectly unfitted to be your wife, and knows it. Look at that handwriting, and ask yourself, is such a woman fitted to be the companion of your mother?"
"I will know from herself if it is true," Arthur said, crumpling up the paper.
"Won't you take my word of honor? Her letters were written by a confidante of hers, who writes better than she can--look here. Here's one from the lady to your friend, Mr. Foker. You have seen her with Miss Costigan, as whose amanuensis she acted"--the major said, with ever so little of a sneer, and laid down a certain billet which Mr. Foker had given to him.
"It's not that," said Pen, burning with shame and rage. "I suppose what you say is true, sir, but I'll hear it from herself."
"Arthur!" appealed his mother.
"I _will_ see her," said Arthur. "I'll ask her to marry me, once more.
I will. No one shall prevent me."
"What, a woman who spells affection with one f? Nonsense, sir. Be a man, and remember that your mother is a lady. She was never made to a.s.sociate 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion. Have not other gentlemen been balked in love besides Mr. Pen? Yes, indeed: but few die of the malady.
CHAPTER XIV.
IN WHICH MISS FOTHERINGAY MAKES A NEW ENGAGEMENT.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
Within a short period of the events above narrated, Mr. Manager Bingley was performing his famous character of "Rolla," in "Pizarro," to a house so exceedingly thin, that it would appear as if the part of Rolla was by no means such a favorite with the people of Chatteries as it was with the accomplished actor himself. Scarce any body was in the theater. Poor Pen had the boxes almost all to himself, and sate there lonely, with blood-shot eyes, leaning over the ledge, and gazing haggardly toward the scene, when Cora came in. When she was not on the stage he saw nothing.
Spaniards and Peruvians, processions and battles, priests and virgins of the sun, went in and out, and had their talk, but Arthur took no note of any one of them; and only saw Cora whom his soul longed after. He said afterward that he wondered he had not taken a pistol to shoot her, so mad was he with love, and rage, and despair; and had it not been for his mother at home, to whom he did not speak about his luckless condition, but whose silent sympathy and watchfulness greatly comforted the simple half heart-broken fellow, who knows but he might have done something desperate, and have ended his days prematurely in front of Chatteries jail? There he sate then, miserable, and gazing at her. And she took no more notice of him than he did of the rest of the house.
The Fotheringay was uncommonly handsome, in a white raiment and leopard skin, with a sun upon her breast, and fine tawdry bracelets on her beautiful glancing arms. She spouted to admiration the few words of her part, and looked it still better. The eyes, which had overthrown Pen's soul, rolled and gleamed as l.u.s.trous as ever; but it was not to him that they were directed that night. He did not know to whom, or remark a couple of gentlemen, in the box next to him, upon whom Miss Fotheringay's glances were perpetually s.h.i.+ning.
Nor had Pen noticed the extraordinary
How came it that all of a sudden Mrs. Bingley began to raise her voice and bellow like a bull of Bashan? Whence was it that Bingley, flinging off his apathy, darted about the stage and yelled like Kean? Why did Garbetts and Rowkins and Miss Rouncy try, each of them the force of their charms or graces, and act and swagger and scowl and spout their very loudest at the two gentlemen in box No. 3?
One was a quiet little man in black, with a gray head and a jolly shrewd face--the other was in all respects a splendid and remarkable individual. He was a tall and portly gentleman with a hooked nose and a profusion of curling brown hair and whiskers; his coat was covered with the richest frogs-braiding and velvet. He had under-waistcoats many splendid rings, jeweled pins and neck-chains. When he took out his yellow pocket-hankerchief with his hand that was cased in white kids, a delightful odor of musk and bergamot was shaken through the house.
He was evidently a personage of rank, and it was at him that the little Chatteries company was acting.
He was, in a word, no other than Mr. Dolphin, the great manager from London, accompanied by his faithful friend and secretary Mr. William Minns: without whom he never traveled. He had not been ten minutes in the theater before his august presence there was perceived by Bingley and the rest: and they all began to act their best and try to engage his attention. Even Miss Fotheringay's dull heart, which was disturbed at nothing, felt perhaps a flutter, when she came in presence of the famous London Impresario. She had not much to do in her part, but to look handsome, and stand in picturesque att.i.tudes encircling her child: and she did this work to admiration. In vain the various actors tried to win the favor of the great stage sultan. Pizaro never got a hand from him.
Bingley yelled, and Mrs. Bingley bellowed, and the manager only took snuff out of his great gold box. It was only in the last scene, when Rolla comes in staggering with the infant (Bingley is not so strong as he was, and his fourth son Master Talma Bingley is a monstrous large child for his age)--when Rolla comes staggering with the child to Cora, who rushes forward with a shriek, and says--"O G.o.d, there's blood upon him!"--that the London manager clapped his hands, and broke out with an enthusiastic bravo.
Then having concluded his applause, Mr. Dolphin gave his secretary a slap on the shoulder, and said "By Jove, Billy, she'll do!"
"Who taught her that dodge?" said old Billy, who was a sardonic old gentleman--"I remember her at the Olympic, and hang me if she could say Bo to a goose."
It was little Mr. Bows in the orchestra who had taught her the 'dodge'
in question. All the company heard the applause, and, as the curtain went down, came round her, and congratulated and hated Miss Fotheringay.
Now Mr. Dolphin's appearance in the remote little Chatteries theater may be accounted for in this manner. In spite of all his exertions, and the perpetual blazes of triumph, coruscations of talent, victories of good old English comedy, which his play bills advertised, his theater (which, if you please, and to injure no present susceptibilities and vested interests, we shall call the Museum Theater) by no means prospered, and the famous Impresario found himself on the verge of ruin. The great Hubbard had acted legitimate drama for twenty nights, and failed to remunerate any body but himself: the celebrated Mr. and Mrs. Cawdor had come out in Mr. Rawhead's tragedy, and in their favorite round of pieces, and had not attracted the public. Herr Garbage's lions and tigers had drawn for a little time, until one of the animals had bitten a piece out of the Herr's shoulder; when the Lord Chamberlain interfered, and put a stop to this species of performance: and the grand Lyrical Drama, though brought out with unexampled splendor and success, with Monsieur Poumons as first tenor, and an enormous orchestra, had almost crushed poor Dolphin in its triumphant progress: so that great as his genius and resources were, they seemed to be at an end. He was dragging on his season wretchedly with half salaries, small operas, feeble old comedies, and his ballet company; and every body was looking out for the day when he should appear in the Gazette.
One of the ill.u.s.trious patrons of the Museum Theater, and occupant of the great proscenium-box, was a gentleman whose name has been mentioned in a previous history; that refined patron of the arts, and enlightened lover of music and the drama, the Most n.o.ble the Marquis of Steyne. His lords.h.i.+p's avocations as a statesman prevented him from attending the playhouse very often, or coming very early. But he occasionally appeared at the theater in time for the ballet, and was always received with the greatest respect by the manager, from whom he sometimes condescended to receive a visit in his box. It communicated with the stage, and when any thing occurred there which particularly pleased him, when a new face made its appearance among the coryphees, or a fair dancer executed a _pas_ with especial grace or agility, Mr. Wenham, Mr. Wagg, or some other aid-de-camp of the n.o.ble marquis, would be commissioned to go behind the scenes, and express the great man's approbation, or make the inquiries which were prompted by his lords.h.i.+p's curiosity, or his interest in the dramatic art. He could not be seen by the audience, for Lord Steyne sate modestly behind a curtain, and looked only toward the stage--but you could know he was in the house, by the glances which all the corps-de-ballet, and all the princ.i.p.al dancers, cast toward his box.
I have seen many scores of pairs of eyes (as in the Palm Dance in the ballet of Cook at Otaheite, where no less than a hundred-and-twenty lovely female savages in palm leaves and feather ap.r.o.ns, were made to dance round Floridor as Captain Cook), ogling that box as they performed before it, and have often wondered to remark the presence of mind of Mademoiselle Sautarelle, or Mademoiselle de Bondi (known as la pet.i.te Caoutchouc), who, when actually up in the air quivering like so many shuttlec.o.c.ks, always kept their lovely eyes winking at that box in which the great Steyne sate. Now and then you would hear a harsh voice from behind the curtain, cry, "Brava, Brava," or a pair of white gloves wave from it, and begin to applaud. Bondi, or Sauterelle, when they came down to earth, courtesied and smiled, especially to those hands, before they walked up the stage again, panting and happy.
One night this great prince surrounded by a few choice friends was in his box at the Museum, and they were making such a noise and laughter that the pit was scandalized, and many indignant voices were bawling out silence so loudly, that Wagg wondered the police did not interfere to take the rascals out. Wenham was amusing the party in the box with extracts from a private letter which he had received from Major Pendennis, whose absence in the country at the full London season had been remarked, and of course deplored, by his friends.
"The secret is out," said Mr. Wenham, "There's a woman in the case."
"Why d---- it, Wenham, he's your age," said the gentleman behind the curtain.
"Pour les ames bien nees, l'amour ne compte pas le nombre des annees,"
said Mr. Wenham, with a gallant air. "For my part I hope to be a victim till I die, and to break my heart every year of my life." The meaning of which sentence was, "My lord, you need not talk; I'm three years younger than you, and twice as well conserve."
"Wenham, you affect me," said the great man, with one of his usual oaths. "By ---- you do. I like to see a fellow preserving all the illusions of youth up to our time of life--and keeping his heart warm as yours is. Hang it, sir--it's a comfort to meet with such a generous, candid creature.--Who's that gal in the second row, with blue ribbons, third from the stage?--fine gal. Yes, you and I are sentimentalists.
Wagg I don't think so much cares--it's the stomach rather more than the heart with you, eh, Wagg, my boy?"
"I like every thing that's good," said Mr. Wagg, generously. "Beauty and Burgundy, Venus and Venison. I don't say that Venus's turtles are to be despised, because they don't cook them at the London Tavern: but--but tell us about old Pendennis, Mr. Wenham," he abruptly concluded--for his joke flagged just then, as he saw that his patron was not listening. In fact, Steyne's gla.s.ses were up, and he was examining some object on the stage.
"Yes, I've heard that joke about Venus's turtles and the London Tavern before--you begin to fail, my poor Wagg. If you don't mind I shall be obliged to have a new Jester," Lord Steyne said, laying down his gla.s.s.
"Go on, Wenham, about old Pendennis."
"'Dear Wenham,'--he begins," Mr. Wenham read,--"'as you have had my character in your hands for the last three weeks, and no doubt have torn me to shreds, according to your custom, I think you can afford to be good-humored by way of variety, and to do me a service. It is a delicate matter, _entre nous, une affaire de coeur_. There is a young friend of mine who is gone wild about a certain Miss Fotheringay, an actress at the theater here, and I must own to you, as handsome a woman, and, as it appears to me, as good an actress as ever put on rouge. She does Ophelia, Lady Teazle, Mrs. Haller--that sort of thing. Upon my word, she is as splendid as Georges in her best days, and as far as I know, utterly superior to any thing we have on our scene. _I want a London engagement for her._ Can't you get your friend Dolphin to come and see her--to engage her--to take her out of this place? A word from a n.o.ble friend of ours (you understand) would be invaluable, and if you could get the Gaunt House interest for me--I will promise _any thing_ I can in return for your service--which I shall consider as one of the greatest _that can be done to me_. Do, do this now as a good fellow, which _I always said you were_: and, in return, command yours truly, A. Pendennis.'"
"It's a clear case," said Mr. Wenham, having read this letter; "old Pendennis is in love."
"And wants to get the woman up to London--evidently," continued Mr.
Wagg.
"I should like to see Pendennis on his knees, with the rheumatism," said Mr. Wenham.