Chapter 23
"Mean?" said Arthur. "I mean what I say. My tutor, I say, _my tutor_, has no right to ask a lady of my mother's rank of life to marry him.
It's a breach of confidence. I say it's a liberty you take, Smirke--it's a liberty. Mean, indeed!"
"Oh Arthur!" the curate began to cry, with clasped hands, and a scared face, but Arthur gave another stamp with his foot, and began to pull at the bell. "Don't let's have any more of this. We'll have some coffee, if you please," he said, with a majestic air: and the old butler entering at the summons, Arthur bade him to serve that refreshment.
John said he had just carried coffee into the drawing-room, where his uncle was asking for Master Arthur, and the old man gave a glance of wonder at the three empty claret-bottles. Smirke said he thought he'd--he'd rather not go into the drawing-room, on which Arthur haughtily said, "As you please," and called for Mr. Smirke's horse to be brought round. The poor fellow said he knew the way to the stable and would get his pony himself, and he went into the hall and sadly put on his coat and hat.
Pen followed him out uncovered. Helen was still walking up and down the soft lawn as the sun was setting, and the curate took off his hat and bowed by way of farewell, and pa.s.sed on to the door leading to the stable-court by which the pair disappeared. Smirke knew the way to the stables, as he said, well enough. He fumbled at the girths of the saddle which Pen fastened for him, and put on the bridle and led the pony into the yard. The boy was touched by the grief which appeared in the other's face as he mounted. Pen held out his hand, and Smirke wrung it silently.
"I say, Smirke," he said, in an agitated voice, "forgive me if I have said any thing harsh--for you have always been very, very kind to me.
But it can't be, old fellow, it can't be. Be a man. G.o.d bless you."
Smirke nodded his head silently, and rode out of the lodge gate; and Pen looked after him for a couple of minutes, until he disappeared down the road, and the clatter of the pony's hoofs died away. Helen was still lingering in the lawn waiting until the boy came back--she put his hair off his forehead and kissed it fondly. She was afraid he had been drinking too much wine. Why had Mr. Smirke gone away without any tea?
He looked at her with a kind humor beaming in his eyes; "Smirke is unwell," he said, with a laugh. For a long while Helen had not seen the boy looking so cheerful. He put his arm round her waist, and walked her up and down the walk in front of the house. Laura began to drub on the drawing-room window and nod and laugh from it. "Come along you two people," cried out Major Pendennis, "your coffee is getting quite cold."
When Laura was gone to bed, Pen, who was big with his secret, burst out with it, and described the dismal but ludicrous scene which had occurred. Helen heard of it with many blushes, which became her pale face very well, and a perplexity which Arthur roguishly enjoyed.
"Confound the fellow's impudence," Major Pendennis said, as he took his candle, "where will the a.s.surance of these people stop?" Pen and his mother had a long talk that night, full of love, confidence, and laughter, and the boy somehow slept more soundly and woke up more easily than he had done for many months before.
Before the great Mr. Dolphin quitted Chatteries, he not only made an advantageous engagement with Miss Fotheringay, but he liberally left with her a sum of money to pay off any debts which the little family might have contracted during their stay in the place, and which, mainly through the lady's own economy and management, were not considerable.
The small account with the spirit merchant, which Major Pendennis had settled, was the chief of Captain Costigan's debts, and though the captain at one time talked about repaying every farthing of the money, it never appears that he executed his menace, nor did the laws of honor in the least call upon him to accomplish that threat.
When Miss Costigan had seen all the outstanding bills paid to the uttermost s.h.i.+lling, she handed over the balance to her father, who broke out into hospitalities to all his friends, gave the little Creeds more apples and gingerbread, than he had ever bestowed upon them, so that the widow Creed ever after held the memory of her lodger in veneration, and the young ones wept bitterly when he went away; and in a word, managed the money so cleverly that it was entirely expended before many days, and that he was compelled to draw upon Mr. Dolphin for a sum to pay for traveling expenses when the time of their departure arrived.
There was held at an inn in that county town a weekly meeting of a festive, almost a riotous character, of a society of gentlemen who called themselves the Buccaneers. Some of the choice spirits of Chatteries belonged to this cheerful club. Graves, the apothecary (than whom a better fellow never put a pipe in his mouth and smoked it), Smart, the talented and humorous portrait-painter of High-street, Croker, an excellent auctioneer, and the uncompromising Hicks, the able editor for twenty-three years of the County Chronicle and Chatteries Champion, were among the crew of the Buccaneers, whom also Bingley the manager liked to join of a Sat.u.r.day evening, whenever he received permission from his lady.
Costigan had been also an occasional Buccaneer. But a want of punctuality of payments had of late somewhat excluded him from the society, where he was subject to disagreeable remarks from the landlord, who said that a Buccaneer who didn't pay his shot was utterly unworthy to be a Marine Bandit. But when it became known to the 'Ears, as the clubbists called themselves familiarly, that Miss Fotheringay had made a splendid engagement, a great revolution of feeling took place in the club regarding Captain Costigan. Solly, mine host of the Grapes, (and I need not say as worthy a fellow as ever stood behind a bar), told the gents in the Buccaneers' room one night how n.o.ble the captain had beayved: having been round and paid off all his ticks in Chatteries, including his score of three pound fourteen here, and p.r.o.nounced that Cos was a good feller, a gentleman at bottom, and he, Solly, had always said so, and finally worked upon the feelings of the Buccaneers to give the captain a dinner.
The banquet took place on the last night of Costigan's stay in Chatteries, and was served in Solly's accustomed manner. As good a plain dinner of old English fare as ever smoked on a table was prepared by Mrs. Solly; and about eighteen gentlemen sate down to the festive board. Mr. Jubber (the eminent draper of High-street) was in the chair, having this distinguished guest of the club on his right. The able and consistent Hicks, officiated as croupier on the occasion; most of the gentlemen of the club were present, and H. Foker, Esq., and ---- Spavin, Esq., friends of Captain Costigan, were also partic.i.p.ators in the entertainment. The cloth having been drawn, the chairman said, "Costigan, there is wine, if you like," but the captain preferring punch, that liquor was voted by acclamation: and "Non n.o.bis," having been sung in admirable style by Messrs. Bingley, Hicks, and Bullby (of the cathedral choir, than whom a more jovial spirit ne'er tossed off a b.u.mper or emptied a bowl), the chairman gave the health of the "King!"
which was drunk with the loyalty of Chatteries men, and then without further circ.u.mlocution proposed their friend "Captain Costigan."
After the enthusiastic cheering which rang through old Chatteries had subsided, Captain Costigan rose in reply, and made a speech of twenty minutes, in which he was repeatedly overcome by his emotions.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
The gallant captain said he must be pardoned for incoherence, if his heart was too full to speak. He was quitting a city celebrated for its antiquitee, its hospitalitee, the beautee of its women, the manly fidelitee, generositee, and jovialitee of its men. (Cheers). He was going from that ancient and venerable city, of which while mimoree held her sayt, he should never think without the fondest emotion, to a methrawpolis where the talents of his daughther were about to have full play, and where he would watch over her like a guardian angel. He should never forget that it was at Chatteries she had acquired the skill which she was about to exercise in another sphere, and in her name and his own, Jack Costigan thanked and blessed them. The gallant officer's speech was received with tremendous cheers.
Mr. Hicks, Croupier, in a brilliant and energetic manner, proposed Miss Fotheringay's health.
Captain Costigan returned thanks in a speech full of feeling and eloquence.
Mr. Jubber proposed the Drama and the Chatteries Theater, and Mr.
Bingley was about to rise, but was prevented by Captain Costigan, who, as long connected with the Chatteries Theater, and on behalf of his daughter, thanked the company. He informed them that he had been in garrison, at Gibraltar, and at Malta, and had been at the taking of Flus.h.i.+ng. The Duke of York was a patron of the Drama; he had the honor of dining with His Royal Highness and the Duke of Kent many times; and the former had justly been named
The army was then proposed, and Captain Costigan returned thanks. In the course of the night he sang his well known songs, "The Deserter,"
"The Shan Van Voght," "The Little Pig under the Bed," and "The Vale of Avoca." The evening was a great triumph for him--it ended. All triumphs and all evenings end. And the next day, Miss Costigan having taken leave of all her friends, and having been reconciled to Miss Rouncy, to whom she left a necklace and a white satin gown--the next day he and Miss Costigan had places in the Compet.i.tor coach rolling by the gates of Fairoaks Lodge--and Pendennis never saw them.
Tom Smith, the coachman, pointed out Fairoaks to Mr. Costigan, who sate on the box smelling of rum-and-water--and the captain said it was a poor place--and added, "Ye should see Castle Costigan, County Mayo, me boy,"--which Tom said he should like very much to see.
They were gone and Pen had never seen them! He only knew of their departure by its announcement in the county paper the next day and straight galloped over to Chatteries to hear the truth of this news.
They were gone indeed. A card of "Lodgings to let" was placed in the dear little familiar window. He rushed up into the room and viewed it over. He sate ever so long in the old window-seat looking into the dean's garden: whence he and Emily had so often looked out together. He walked, with a sort of terror, into her little empty bed-room. It was swept out and prepared for new comers. The gla.s.s which had reflected her fair face was s.h.i.+ning ready for her successor. The curtains lay square folded on the little bed: he flung himself down and buried his head on the vacant pillow.
Laura had netted a purse into which his mother had put some sovereigns, and Pen had found it on his dressing-table that very morning. He gave one to the little servant who had been used to wait upon the Costigans, and another to the children, because they said they were very fond of her. It was but a few months back, yet what years ago it seemed since he had first entered that room! He felt that it was all done. The very missing her at the coach had something fatal in it. Blank, weary, utterly wretched and lonely the poor lad felt.
His mother saw she was gone by his look when he came home. He was eager to fly too now, as were other folks round about Chatteries. Poor Smirke wanted to go away from the sight of the syren widow. Foker began to think he had had enough of Baymouth, and that a few supper parties at Saint Boniface would not be unpleasant. And Major Pendennis longed to be off, and have a little pheasant-shooting at Stillbrook, and get rid of all annoyances and _traca.s.series_ of the village. The widow and Laura nervously set about the preparation for Pen's kit, and filled trunks with his books and linen. Helen wrote cards with the name of Arthur Pendennis, Esq., which were duly nailed on the boxes; and at which both she and Laura looked with tearful, wistful eyes. It was not until long, long after he was gone, that Pen remembered how constant and tender the affection of these women had been, and how selfish his own conduct was.
A night soon comes, when the mail, with echoing horn and blazing lamps, stops at the lodge-gate of Fairoaks, and Pen's trunks and his uncle's are placed on the roof of the carriage, into which the pair presently afterward enter. Helen and Laura are standing by the evergreens of the shrubbery, their figures lighted up by the coach lamps; the guard cries, All right: in another instant the carriage whirls onward; the lights disappear, and Helen's heart and prayers go with them. Her sainted benedictions follow the departing boy. He has left the home-nest in which he has been chafing, and whither, after his very first flight, he returned bleeding and wounded; he is eager to go forth again, and try his restless wings.
How lonely the house looks without him! The corded trunks and book-boxes are there in his empty study. Laura asks leave to come and sleep in Helen's room: and when she has cried herself to sleep there, the mother goes softly into Pen's vacant chamber, and kneels down by the bed, on which the moon is s.h.i.+ning, and there prays for her boy, as mothers only know how to plead. He knows that her pure blessings are following him, as he is carried miles away.
CHAPTER XVIII.
ALMA MATER.
[Ill.u.s.tration]
Every man, however brief or inglorious may have been his academical career, must remember with kindness and tenderness the old university comrades and days. The young man's life is just beginning: the boy's leading-strings are cut, and he has all the novel delights and dignities of freedom. He has no idea of cares yet, or of bad health, or of roguery, or poverty, or to-morrow's disappointment. The play has not been acted so often as to make him tired. Though the after-drink, as we mechanically go on repeating it, is stale and bitter, how pure and brilliant was that first sparkling draught of pleasure!--How the boy rushes at the cup, and with what a wild eagerness he drains it! But old epicures who are cut off from the delights of the table, and are restricted to a poached egg and a gla.s.s of water, like to see people with good appet.i.tes; and, as the next best thing to being amused at a pantomime one's self is to see one's children enjoy it, I hope there may be no degree of age or experience to which mortal may attain, when he shall become such a glum philosopher, as not to be pleased by the sight of happy youth. Coming back a few weeks since from a brief visit to the old University of Oxbridge, where my friend Mr. Arthur Pendennis pa.s.sed some period of his life, I made the journey in the railroad by the side of a young fellow at present a student of Saint Boniface. He had got an _excat_ somehow, and was bent on a day's lark in London: he never stopped rattling and talking from the commencement of the journey until its close (which was a great deal too soon for me, for I never was tired of listening to the honest young fellow's jokes and cheery laughter); and when we arrived at the terminus nothing would satisfy him but a Hansom cab, so that he might get into town the quicker, and plunge into the pleasures awaiting him there. Away the young lad went whirling, with joy lighting up his honest face; and as for the reader's humble servant, having but a small carpet-bag, I got up on the outside of the omnibus, and sate there very contentedly between a Jew-pedlar smoking bad cigars, and a gentleman's servant taking care of a poodle-dog, until we got our fated complement of pa.s.sengers and boxes, when the coachman drove leisurely away. _We_ weren't in a hurry to get to town. Neither one of us was particularly eager about rus.h.i.+ng into that near smoking Babylon, or thought of dining at the club that night, or dancing at the Casino.
Yet a few years more, and my young friend of the railroad will be not a whit more eager.
There were no railroads made when Arthur Pendennis went to the famous University of Oxbridge; but he drove thither in a well appointed coach, filled inside and out with dons, gownsmen, young freshmen about to enter, and their guardians, who were conducting them to the University.
A fat old gentleman, in gray stockings, from the City, who sate by Major Pendennis inside the coach, having his pale-faced son opposite, was frightened beyond measure, when he heard that the coach had been driven for a couple of stages by young Mr. Foker, of Saint Boniface College, who was the friend of all men, including coachmen, and could drive as well as Tom Hicks himself. Pen sate on the roof, examining coach, pa.s.sengers, and country, with great delight and curiosity. His heart jumped with pleasure as the famous University came in view, and the magnificent prospect of venerable towers and pinnacles, tall elms and s.h.i.+ning river, spread before him.
Pen had pa.s.sed a few days with his uncle at the major's lodgings, in Bury-street, before they set out for Oxbridge. Major Pendennis thought that the lad's wardrobe wanted renewal; and Arthur was by no means averse to any plan which was to bring him new coats and waistcoats. There was no end to the sacrifices which the self-denying uncle made in the youth's behalf. London was awfully lonely. The Pall Mall pavement was deserted; the very red jackets had gone out of town.
There was scarce a face to be seen in the bow windows of the clubs.
The major conducted his nephew into one or two of those desert mansions, and wrote down the lad's name on the candidate-list of one of them; and Arthur's pleasure at this compliment on his guardian's part was excessive. He read in the parchment volume his name and t.i.tles, as "Arthur Pendennis, Esquire, of Fairoaks Lodge, --s.h.i.+re, and Saint Boniface College, Oxbridge; proposed by Major Pendennis, and seconded by Viscount Colchic.u.m," with a thrill of intense gratification. "You will come in for ballot in about three years, by which time you will have taken your degree," the guardian said. Pen longed for the three years to be over, and surveyed the stucco-halls, and vast libraries, and drawing rooms, as already his own property. The major laughed slily to see the pompous airs of the simple young fellow, as he strutted out of the building. He and Foker drove down in the latter's cab one day to the Gray Friars, and renewed acquaintance with some of their old comrades there. The boys came crowding up to the cab as it stood by the Gray Friars gates, where they were entering, and admired the chestnut horse, and the tights and livery and gravity of Stoopid, the tiger. The bell for afternoon-school rang as they were swaggering about the play ground talking to their old cronies. The awful doctor pa.s.sed into school with his grammar in his hand. Foker slunk away uneasily at his presence, but Pen went up blus.h.i.+ng, and shook the dignitary by the hand. He laughed as he thought that well-remembered Latin Grammar had boxed his ears many a time. He was generous, good-natured, and, in a word, perfectly conceited and satisfied with himself.
Then they drove to the parental brew-house. Foker's Entire is composed in an enormous pile of buildings, not far from the Gray Friars, and the name of that well known firm is gilded upon innumerable public-house signs, tenanted by its va.s.sals in the neighborhood; and the venerable junior partner and manager did honor to the young lord of the vats, and his friend, and served them with silver flagons of brown stout, so strong, that you would have thought, not only the young men, but the very horse Mr. Harry Foker drove, was affected by the potency of the drink, for he rushed home to the west-end of the town at a rapid pace, which endangered the pie-stalls and the women on the crossings, and brought the cab-steps into collision with the posts at the street corners, and caused Stoopid to swing fearfully on his board behind.
The major was quite pleased when Pen was with his young acquaintance; listened to Mr. Foker's artless stories with the greatest interest, gave the two boys a fine dinner at a Covent Garden Coffee-house, whence they proceeded to the play; but was above all happy when Mr. and Lady Agnes Foker, who happened to be in London, requested the pleasure of Major Pendennis and Mr. Arthur Pendennis's company at dinner in Grosvenor-street. "Having obtained the _entree_ into Lady Agnes Foker's house," he said to Pen with an affectionate solemnity which befitted the importance of the occasion, "it behoves you, my dear boy, to keep it.
You must mind and _never_ neglect to call in Grosvenor-street when you come to London. I recommend you to read up carefully, in Debrett, the alliances and genealogy of the Earls of Rosherville, and if you can, to make some trifling allusions to the family, something historical, neat, and complimentary, and that sort of thing, which you, who have a poetic fancy, can do pretty well. Mr. Foker himself is a worthy man, though not of high extraction or indeed much education. He always makes a point of having some of the family porter served round after dinner, which you will on no account refuse, and which I shall drink myself, though all beer disagrees with me confoundedly." And the heroic martyr did actually sacrifice himself, as he said he would, on the day when the dinner took place, and old Mr. Foker at the head of his table, made his usual joke about Foker's Entire. We should all of us, I am sure, have liked to see the major's grin, when the worthy old gentleman made his time-honored joke.
Lady Agnes, who, wrapped up in Harry, was the fondest of mothers, and one of the most good-natured though not the wisest of women, received her son's friend with great cordiality: and astonished Pen by accounts of the severe course of studies which her darling boy was pursuing, and which she feared might injure his dear health. Foker the elder burst into a horse-laugh at some of these speeches, and the heir of the house winked his eye very knowingly at his friend. And Lady Agnes then going through her son's history from the earliest time, and recounting his miraculous sufferings in the measles and whooping-cough, his escape from drowning, the shocking tyrannies practiced upon him at that horrid school, whither Mr. Foker would send him because he had been brought up there himself, and she never would forgive that disagreeable doctor, no never--Lady Agnes, we say, having prattled away for an hour incessantly about her son, voted the two Messieurs Pendennis most agreeable men; and when the pheasants came with the second course, which the major praised as the very finest birds he ever saw, her ladys.h.i.+p said they came from Logwood (as the major knew perfectly well) and hoped that they would both pay her a visit there--at Christmas, or when dear Harry was at home for the vacations.
"G.o.d bless you, my dear boy," Pendennis said to Arthur, as they were lighting their candles in Bury-street afterward to go to bed. "You made that little allusion to Agincourt, where one of the Roshervilles distinguished himself, very neatly and well, although Lady Agnes did not quite understand it; but it was exceedingly well for a beginner--though you oughtn't to blush so, by the way--and I beseech you, my dear Arthur, to remember through life, that with an _entree_--with a good _entree_, mind--it is just as easy for you to have good society as bad, and that it costs a man, when properly introduced, no more trouble or _soins_ to keep a good footing in the best houses in London than to dine with a lawyer in Bedford-square. Mind this when you are at Oxbridge pursuing your studies, and for Heaven's sake be _very_ particular in the acquaintances which you make. The _premier pas_ in life is the most important of all--did you write to your mother to-day?--No?--well, do, before you go, and call and ask Mr. Foker for a frank.--They like it.--Good night. G.o.d bless you."
Pen wrote a droll account of his doings in London, and the play, and the visit to the old Friars, and the brewery, and the party at Mr. Foker's, to his dearest mother, who was saying her prayers at home in the lonely house at Fairoaks, her heart full of love and tenderness unutterable for the boy: and she and Laura read that letter and those which followed, many, many times, and brooded over them as women do. It was the first step in life that Pen was making--Ah! what a dangerous journey it is, and how the bravest may stumble and the strongest fail. Brother wayfarer! may you have a kind arm to support you on the path, and a friendly hand to succor those who fall beside you. May truth guide, mercy forgive at the end, and love accompany always. Without that lamp how blind the traveler would be, and how black and cheerless the journey!
So the coach drove up to that ancient and comfortable inn the Trencher, which stands in Main-street Oxbridge, and Pen with delight and eagerness remarked, for the first time, gownsmen going about, chapel bells clinking (bells in Oxbridge are ringing from morning-tide till even-song)--towers and pinnacles rising calm and stately over the gables and antique house-roofs of the homely, busy city. Previous communications had taken place between Dr. Portman on Pen's part, and Mr. Buck, Tutor of Boniface, on whose side Pen was entered; and as soon as Major Pendennis had arranged his personal appearance, so that it should make a satisfactory impression upon Pen's tutor, the pair walked down Main-street, and pa.s.sed the great gate and belfry-tower of Saint George's College, and so came, as they were directed, to Saint Boniface: where again Pen's heart began to beat as they entered at the wicket of the venerable ivy-mantled gate of the college. It is surmounted with an ancient dome almost covered with creepers, and adorned with the effigy of the saint from whom the house takes its name, and many coats-of-arms of its royal and n.o.ble benefactors.