 8. In which Pen is kept waiting at the door while the reader is informed who Little Laura was. Once upon a time there was a young gentleman of Cambridge University who came to pass the long vacation at the village where young Helen Thistlewood was living with her mother, the widow of the Lieutenant Slane at Copenhagen. This gentleman, whose name was the Reverend Francis Bell, was nephew of Mrs. Thistlewood, and by consequence own cousin to Miss Helen, so that it was very right that he should take lodgings in his aunt's house, who lived in a very small way, and there he passed the long vacation, reading with three or four pupils, who accompanied him to the village. Mr. Bell was fellow of a college and famous in the university for his learning and skill as a tutor. His two kids' women understood pretty early that the Reverend gentleman was engaged to be married, and was only waiting for a college living to enable him to fulfil his engagement. His intended bride was the daughter of another parson, who had acted as Mr. Bell's own private tutor in Bell's early life, and it was whilst under Mr. Cocher's roof indeed, and when only a boy of seventeen or eighteen years of age, that the impetuous young Bell had flung himself at the feet of Miss Martha Cocher, whom he was helping to pick peas in the garden. On his knees before those peas and her he pledged himself to an endless affection. Miss Cocher was by many years the young fellow's senior, and her own heart had been lacerated by many previous disappointments in the matrimonial line. No less than three pupils of her father had trifled with those young affections. The Apocca III of the village had despicably jilted her, the Dragoon officer, with whom she had danced so many, many times during that happy season, which she passed at Bath with her gouty grandmama. One day Gailey shook his bridal reign, and galloped away, never to return. Wounded by the shafts of repeated ingratitude, can it be wondered at that the heart of Martha Cocher should pant to find rest somewhere? She listened to the proposals of the gawky gallant honest boy, with great kindness and good humour. At the end of his speech she said, Lord Bell, I am sure you are too young to think of such things, but intimated that she too would revolve them in her own virgin bosom. She could not refer Mr. Bell to her mama, for Mr. Cocher was a widower, and being immersed in his books was, of course, unable to take the direction of so frail and wondrous an article as a lady's heart, which Miss Martha had to manage for herself. A lock of her hair tied up in a piece of blue ribbon conveyed to the happy Bell the result of the Vestal's conference with herself. Thrice before she had snipped off one of her urban ringlets and given them away. The possessors were faithless, but the hair had grown again. Then Martha had indeed occasioned to say that men were deceivers when she handed over this token of love to the simple boy. Number six, however, was an exception to former passions. Frances Bell was the most faithful of lovers. When his time arrived to go to college and it became necessary to acquaint Mr. Cocher with the arrangements that had been made, the latter cried, God bless my soul! I hadn't the least idea what was going on, as was indeed very likely, for he had been taken in three times before in precisely a similar manner, and Frances went to the university Resolve to conquer honours so as to be able to lay them at the feet of his beloved Martha. This prize in view made him labour prodigiously. News came term after term of the honours he won. He sent the prize books for his college essays to Old Cocher and his silver declamation cup to Miss Martha. In due season he was high among the wranglers and fell of his college, and during all the time of these transactions a constant tender correspondence was kept up with Miss Cocher, to whose influence, and perhaps with justice, he attributed the successes which he had won. By the time, however, when the Reverend Frances Bell M. A. and fellow Intudor of his college was twenty-six years of age, it happened that Miss Cocher was thirty-four. Nor had her charms, her manners, or her temper improve since that sunny day in the springtime of life when he found her picking peas in the garden. Having achieved his honours he relaxed the ardour of his studies, and his judgment and tastes also perhaps became cooler. The sunshine of the pea garden faded away from Miss Martha, and poor Bell found himself engaged, and his hand pledged to that bond in a thousand letters, to a coarse, ill-tempered, ill-favoured, ill-mannered middle-aged woman. It was in consequence of one of many altercations in which Martha's eloquence shone, and in which, therefore, she was frequently pleased to indulge, that Frances refused to take his pupil to Bear Leaders Green, where Miss Cocher's living was, and where Bell was in the habit of spending the summer, and he bethought him that he would pass the vacation at his aunt's village, which he had not seen for many years. Not since little Helen was a girl and used to sit on his knee. Down then he came and lived with them. Helen was grown a beautiful young woman now. The cousins were nearly four months together, from June to October. They walked in the summer evenings. They met in the early morn. They read out of the same book when the old lady dozed at night over the candles. What little Helen knew Frank taught her. She sang to him. She gave her artless heart to him. She was aware of all his story. Had he made any secret, had he not shown the picture of the woman to whom he was engaged, and with blush, her letters, hard, eager, and cruel? The days went on and on, happier and closer, with more kindness, more confidence, and more pity. At last one morning in October came, when Frances went back to college, and the poor girl felt that her tender heart was gone with him. Frank, too, wakened up from the delightful midsummer dream to the horrible reality of his own pain. He gnashed and tore at the chain which bound him. He was frantic to break it and be free. Should he confess, give his savings to the woman to whom he was bound and beg his release? There was time yet, he temporised. No living might fall in for years to come. The cousins went on corresponding sadly and fondly. The perturbed woman, hard, jealous, and dissatisfied, complaining bitterly and with reason of her Frances's altered tone. At last things came to a crisis and the new attachment was discovered. Frances owned it, cared not to disguise it, rebuked Martha for her violent temper, and angry imperiousness, and worst of all with her inferiority and her age. Her reply was that if he did not keep his promise she would carry his letters into every court in the kingdom, letters in which his love was pledged to her ten thousand times, and after exposing him to the world as the perjurer and traitor he was she would kill herself. Frank had one more interview with Helen, whose mother was dead then, and who was living companion with old Lady Pontypaw. One more interview where it was resolved that he was to do his duty, that is to redeem his vow, that is to pay a debt cosened from him by a sharper, that is to make two honest people miserable, so the two judged their duty to be, and they parted. The living fell in only too soon, but yet Frank Bell was quite a grey and worn-out man when he was inducted into it. Helen wrote him a letter on his marriage beginning, my dear cousin, and ending, always truly yours. She sent him back the other letters and the lock of his hair, all but a small piece. She had it in her desk when she was talking to the major. Bell lived for three or four years in his living, at the end of which time the chaplain ship of Coventry Island falling vacant, Frank applied for it privately and, having procured it, announced the appointment to his wife. She objected as she did to everything. He told her bitterly that he did not want her to come, so she went. Bell went out in Governor Crawley's time and was very intimate with that gentleman in his later years. And it was in Coventry Island, years after his own marriage, and five years after he had heard of the birth of Helen's boy, that his own daughter was born. She was not the daughter of the first Mrs. Bell, who died of island fever very soon after Helen Pendennis and her husband, to whom Helen had told everything, wrote to inform Bell of the birth of their child. I was old, was I? said Mrs. Bell the first. I was old and her inferior was I. But I married you, Mr. Bell, and kept you from marrying her, and hereupon she died. Bell married a colonial lady, whom he loved fondly, but he was not doomed to prosper in love, and this lady dying of childbirth Bell gave up too, sending his little girl home to Helen Pendennis and her husband, with a parting prayer that they would befriend her. The little thing came to Fair Oaks from Bristol, which is not very far off, dressed in black and in company of a soldier's wife, her nurse, at parting from whom she wept bitterly. But she soon dried up her grief under Helen's motherly care. Round her neck she had a locket with hair, which Helen had given. Ah, how many years ago, to poor Francis, had he buried? This child was all that was left of him, and she cherished, as so tender a creature would, the legacy which he had bequeathed to her. The girl's name, as his dying letter stated, was Helen Laura. But John Pendennis, though he accepted the trust, was always rather jealous of the orphan, and gloomily ordered that she should be called by her own mother's name, and not by that first one which her father had given her. She was afraid of Mr. Pendennis, to the last moment of his life, and it was only when her husband was gone that Helen dared openly to indulge in the tenderness which she felt for the little girl. Thus it was that Laura Bell became Mrs. Pendennis's daughter. Neither her husband nor that gentleman's brother the major viewed her with very favourable eyes. She reminded the first of circumstances in his wife's life which he was forced to accept, but would have forgotten much more willingly, and as for the second how could he regard her? She was neither related to his own family of Pendennis, nor to any nobleman in this empire, and she had but a couple of thousand pounds for her fortune. And now let Mr. Pend come in, who has been waiting all this while. Having strung up his nerves and prepared himself without at the door for the meeting, he came to it determined to face the awful uncle. He had settled in his mind that the encounter was to be a fierce one, and was resolved on burying it through with all the courage and dignity of the famous family which he represented. And he flung open the door and entered with the most severe and warlike expression, armed capipai as it were, with lance couched and plumes displayed, and glancing at his adversary as if to say, Come on, I'm ready. The old man of the world, as he surveyed the boy's demeanour, could hardly help a grin at his admirable pompous simplicity. Pendennis, too, had examined his ground, and finding that the widow was already half-won over to the enemy, and having a shrewd notion that threats and tragic exhortations would have no effect upon the boy, who was inclined to be perfectly stubborn and awfully serious, the major laid aside the authoritative manner at once, and with the most good-humoured natural smile in the world, held out his hands to pen, shook the lad's passive fingers gaily, and said, Well, pen, my boy, tell us all about it. One was delighted with the generosity of the major's good-humour. On the contrary, it quite took her back and disappointed poor pen, whose nerves were strung up for a tragedy, and who felt that his grand entree was altogether bald and ludicrous. He blushed and winced with mortified vanity and bewilderment. He felt immensely inclined to begin to cry. I—I—I didn't know that you were come till just now, he said. Is—is town very full, I suppose? If pen could hardly gulp his tears down, it was all the major could do to keep from laughter. He turned around and shot a comical glance at Mrs. Pendennis, who too felt that the scene was at once ridiculous and sentimental. And so, having nothing to say, she went up and kissed Mr. Pen. As he thought of her tenderness and soft obedience to his wishes, it is very possible, too, the boy was melted. What a couple of fools they are, thought the old guardian. If I hadn't come down, she would have driven over it and stayed to pay a visit and give her blessings to the young lady's family. Come, come, said he, still grinning at the couple, let us have as little sentiment as possible. And pen, my good fellow, tell us the whole story. Pen got back at once to his tragic and heroic air. The story is, sir, said he, as I have written it to you before. I have made the acquaintances of a most beautiful and most virtuous lady of a high family, although in reduced circumstances, I have found the woman in whom I know that the happiness of my life is centered. I feel that I never, never can think about any woman but her. I am aware of the difference of our ages and other difficulties in my way, but my affection was so great that I felt I could surmount all these, that we both could. And she has consented to unite her lot with mine, and to accept my heart and my fortune. How much is that, my boy? said the major. Has anybody left you some money? I don't know that you are worth a shilling in this world. You know what I have is his, cried out Mrs. Pendennis. Good heavens, madam, hold your tongue, was what the Guardian was disposed to say. But he kept his temper, not without a struggle. No doubt, no doubt, he said, you would sacrifice anything for him. Everybody knows that. But it is, after all, then, your fortune which Penn is offering to the young lady, and of which he wishes to take possession at eighteen. I know my mother will give me anything, Penn said, looking rather disturbed. Yes, my good fellow, but there is reason in all things. If your mother keeps the house, it is but fair that she should select her company. When you give her house over her head, and transfer her banker's account to yourself for the benefit of Miss, what you call them, Miss Costigan, don't you think you should at least have consulted my sister as one of the principal parties in the transaction? I am speaking to you, you see, without the least anger or assumption of authority, such as the law and your fathers will give me over you for three years to come. But as one man of the world to another, and I ask you, if you think that, because you can do what you like with your mother, therefore you have a right to do so? As you are her dependent, would it not have been more generous to wait before you took this step, and at least to have paid her the courtesy to ask her leave? Penn held down his head and began dimly to perceive that the action on which he had prided himself as a most romantic, generous instant of disinterested affection was perhaps a very selfish and headstrong piece of folly. I did it in a moment of passion, said Penn, floundering. I was not aware what I was going to say or to do, and in this he spoke with perfect sincerity. But now it is said, and I stand to it. No, I neither can nor will recall it. I'll die rather than do so. And I—I don't want to burden my mother, he continued. I'll work for myself. I'll go on the stage and act with her. She—she says I should do well there. But will she take you on those terms, the major interposed? Mind, I do not say that Miss Costigan is not the most disinterested of women, but don't you suppose now fairly that your position as a young gentleman of ancient birth and decent expectations forms a part of the cause why she finds your address as welcome? I'll die, I say, rather than forfeit my pledge to her. Said Penn, doubling his fists and turning red, who asks you, my dear friend? Answered the imperturbable guardian. No gentleman breaks his word, of course, when it has been given freely. But after all, you can wait. You owe something to your mother, something to your family, something to me as your father's representative. Oh, of course, Penn said, feeling rather relieved. Well, as you have pledged your word to her, give us another, will you, Arthur? What is it, Arthur asked, that you will make no private marriage, that you won't be taking a trip to Scotland, you understand? That would be a falsehood. Penn never told his mother falsehood, Helen said. Penn hung down his head again, and his eyes filled with tears of shame. Had not this whole intrigue been a falsehood to that tender and confiding creature who was ready to give up all for his sake? He gave his uncle his hand. No, sir, on my word of honour, as a gentleman, he said, I will never marry without my mother's consent, and giving Helen a bright parting look of confidence and affection unchangeable, the boy went out of the drawing-room into his own study. He's an angel. He's an angel. The mother cried out in one of her usual raptures. He comes of good stock, ma'am, said her brother-in-law, of a good stock on both sides. The major was greatly pleased with the result of his diplomacy. So much so that he once more saluted the tips of Mrs. Pendennis's glove, and dropping the curt, manly, and straightforward tone in which he had conducted the conversation with the lad, assumed a certain drawl which he always adopted when he was most conceited and fine. My dear creature, said he, in that his most politest tone, I think it certainly is well that I came down, and I flatter myself that last bot was a successful one. I tell you how I came to think of it. Three years ago my kind friend Lady Ferrybridge sent for me in the greatest state of alarm about her son Gretna, who's a fair you remember, and implored me to use my influence with the young gentleman, who was engaged in an affair decor with a Scotch clergyman's daughter, Miss Mc Toddy. I implored, I entreated gentle measures, but Lord Ferrybridge was furious, and tried the high hand. Gretna was sulky and silent, and his parents thought they had conquered. But what was the fact, my dear creature? The young people had been married for three months before Lord Ferrybridge knew anything about it. And that was why I extracted the promise from Master Penn. Gretna would never have done so, Mrs. Penn Dennis said. He hasn't, that is one comfort, answered the brother-in-law. Like a wary and patient man of the world, Major Penn Dennis did not press poor Penn, any father for the moment, but hoped the best from time, and that the young fellow's eyes would be opened before long to see the absurdity of which he was guilty. And having found out how keen the boy's point of honour was, he worked kindly upon that kindly feeling with great skill, kissing him over their wine after dinner, and pointing out to Penn the necessity of a perfect uprightness and openness in all his dealings, and entreating that his communications with his interesting young friend, as the Major pro-lightly called Miss Fothering Kay, should be carried on with the knowledge, if not approbation, of Mrs. Penn Dennis. After all, Penn, the Major said, with a convenient frankness that did not displease the boy, whilst it advanced the interests of the negotiator, you must bear in mind that you are throwing yourself away. Your mother may submit to your marriage as she would to anything else you desired, if you did but cry long enough for it, but be sure of this, that it can never please her. You take a young woman off the boards of a country theatre and prefer her, for such is the case, to one of the finest ladies in England, and your mother will submit to your choice, but you can't suppose that she will be happy under it. I have often fancied entre new that my sister had it in her eye to make a marriage between you and that little ward of hers, Flora, Laura, what's her name? And I always determined to do my small endeavour to prevent any such match. The child has but two thousand pounds, I am given to understand. It is only with the utmost economy and care that my sister can provide for the decent maintenance of her house, and for your appearance in education as a gentleman, and I don't care to own to you that I had other and much higher views for you. With your name and birth, sir, with your talents, which I suppose are respectable, with the friends whom I have the honour to possess, I could have placed you in an excellent position, a remarkable position for a young man of such exceeding small means, and had hoped to see you, at least, try to restore the honours of our name. Your mother's softness stopped one prospect, or you might have been a general like our gallant ancestor who fought at Ramleys in Malplaquet. I had another plan in view. My excellent and kind friend, Lord Bagwick, who is very well disposed towards me, would, I have little doubt, have attached you to his mission at Pumpernickel, and you might have advanced in the diplomatic service. But pardon me for recurring to the subject. How is a man to serve a young gentleman of eighteen who proposes to marry a lady of thirty whom he has selected from a booth in a fair—well, not a fair—a barn? That profession at once is close to you. The public service is close to you. Society is close to you. You see, my good friend, to watch you bring yourself, you may get on at the bar, to be sure, which I am given to understand that gentlemen of merit occasionally marry out of their kitchens, but in no other profession, or you may come and live down here—down here, Mondeur, for ever, said the major with a dreary shrug, as he thought with the inexpressible fondness of Paul Maul, where your mother will receive the Mrs Arthur that is to be with perfect kindness, where the good people of the county won't visit you, and whereby get, sir, I shall be shy of visiting you myself, for I am a plain-spoken man, and I own to you that I like to live with gentlemen from my companions, where you will have to live with rum and water drinking, gentlemen, farmers, and drag through your life the husband of an old woman, who, if she doesn't quarrel with your mother, will at least cost the lady her position in society, and drag her down into that dubious caste into which you must inevitably fall. It is no affair of mine, my good sir. I am not angry. Your downfall will not hurt me, father, than that it will extinguish the hopes I had of seeing my family once more taking its place in the world. It is only your mother and yourself that will be ruined, and I pity you both from my soul. Past the claret, it is some I sent to your poor father. I remember I bought it at poor Lord Levant's sale, but, of course, added the major, smacking the wine, having engaged yourself, you will do what becomes you as a man of honour, however fatal your promise may be. However, promise us, on our side, my boy, what I set out by entreating you to grant, that there shall be nothing clandestine, that you will pursue your studies, that you will only visit your interesting friend at proper intervals. Do you write to her much? Penn blushed and said, why, yes, he had written. I suppose verses, eh? As well as prose. I was adept at verses myself. I recollect when I first joined I used to write verses for the fellows in the regiment, and did some pretty things in that way. I was talking to my old friend General Hobbler about some lines I dashed off for him in the year 1806, when we were at the Cape. And, Gad, he remembered every line of them still, for he used them so often, the old rogue, and had actually tried them on Mrs. Hobbler, sir, who brought him sixty thousand pounds. I suppose you've tried verses, eh, Penn? Penn blushed again, and said, why, yes, he had written verses. And does the fair one respond in poetry or prose, asked the major, eyeing his nephew with the queerest expression, as much as to say, oh, Moses and green spectacles, what a fool the boy is. Penn blushed again. She had written, but not in verse. The young lover owned, and he gave his breast-pocket the benefit of a squeeze with its left arm, which the major remarked according to his want. You have got the letters there, I see, said the old campaigner, nodding at Penn and pointing to his own chest, which was manfully wadded with cotton by Mr. Staltz. You know you have. I would give two pens to see them. Why, said Penn, twiddling the stalks of the strawberries, I—I— But this sentence never finished, for Penn's face was so comical and embarrassed, as the major watched it, that the elder could contain his gravity no longer and burst into a fit of laughter, in which chorus Penn himself was obliged to join after a minute, when he broke out fairly into a guffaw. It sent them with great good humour into Mrs. Penn Dennis's drawing-room. She was pleased to hear them laughing in the hall as they crossed it. You sly rascal, said the major, putting his arm gaily on Penn's shoulder, and giving a playful push at the boy's breast pocket. He felt the papers crackling there, sure enough. The young fellow was delighted, conceited, triumphant, and in a word, a spoony. The pair came to the tea-table in the highest spirits. The major's politeness was beyond expression. He had never tasted such good tea, and such bread was only to be had in the country. He asked Mrs. Penn Dennis for one of her charming songs. He then made Penn sing, and was delighted and astonished at the beauty of the boy's voice. He made his nephew fetch his maps and drawings, and praised them as really remarkable works of talent in a young fellow. He complimented him on his French pronunciation. He flattered the simple boy as adroitly as ever, lover flattered a mistress, and when bedtime came, mother and son went to their several rooms perfectly enchanted with the kind major. Then they had reached those apartments I suppose Helen took to her knees as usual, and Penn read over his letters before going to bed, just as if he didn't know every word of them by heart already. In truth there were but three of those documents, and to learn their contents required no great effort of memory. In number one Miss Fathering Gay presents grateful compliments to Mr. Penn Dennis, and her papa's name and her own begs to thank him for his most beautiful presence. They will always be kept carefully, and Miss F and Captain C will never forget the delightful evening which they had passed on Tuesday last. Number two said, Dear Sir, we shall have a small quiet party of social friends at our humble board, next Tuesday evening at an early tea when I shall wear the beautiful scarf which, with its accompanying delightful verses, I shall ever, ever cherish, and papa bids me say how happy he will be if you will join the feast of reason and the flow of soul in our festive little party, as I am sure will be your truly grateful Emily Fathering Gay. Number three was somewhat more confidential, and showed that matters had proceeded rather far. You were odious yesterday night, the letter said. Why did you not come to the stage door? Papa could not escort me on account of his eye. He had an accident and fell down over a loose carpet on the stair on Sunday night. I saw you looking at Miss Stigl all night, and you were so enchanted with Lidia language you scarcely once looked at Julia. I could have crushed Bingley, I was so angry. I play Ella Rosenberg on Friday. Will you come then, Miss Stigl performs, ever your E.F. These three letters Mr. Penn used to read at intervals during the day and night, and embrace with that delight and fervour which such beautiful compositions surely warranted. A thousand times at least he had kissed fondly the musky satin paper, made sacred to him by the hand of Emily Fathering Gay. This was all he had in return for his passion and flames, his vows and protests, his rhymes and similes, his wakeful nights and endless thoughts, his fondness, fears, and folly. The young wiseacre had pledged away his all for this, signed his name to endless promissory notes, conferring his heart upon the bearer, bound himself for life, and got back two pints as an equivalent. For Miss Costigan was a young lady of such perfect good conduct and self-command that she never would have thought of giving more, and reserved the treasures of her affection until she could transfer them lawfully at church. How bearded, Mr. Penn was content with what tokens of regard he had got, and mumbled over his three letters in a rapture of high spirits, and went to sleep delighted with his kind old uncle from London who must evidently yield to his wishes in time, and, in a word, in a preposterous state of contentment with himself and all the world. CHAPTER IX Let those who have a real and heartfelt relish for London society and the privilege of an entree into its most select circles, admit that Major Penn Dennis was a man of no ordinary generosity and affection in the sacrifice which he now made. He gave up London in May, 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 Entertainment, and his name in the morning post of the succeeding day, his choir to 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 morkish 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 Penn 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 Penn Dennis' rich memory was stored with thousands of these delightful tales, and he poured them into Penn's willing ear with unfailing eloquence. He knew the name and pedigree of everybody in the peerage and everybody's relations. My dear boy, he would say, with a mournful earnestness and veracity, you cannot begin your genealogical studies too early. I wish to heavens you would read in Debra 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 hallowed hobben-obs, 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 sat 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 Hobbenob's hobben-obs, those of every well-bred man, as the wretched intro was so exposing himself. He will never die again in South Street, I promise you that. 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 sat 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 neighbourhood. He mourned that Lord Erie 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 Treehawk, 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 Penn'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. Penn's new guide, philosopher and friend, disgusts 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. They 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 honour in a word, and had his eyes what he called open. He took pity on this young green horn 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, Penn, he said, for there the women go and the men are not missed. But when a gentleman is Sir Ceterre, 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 St. David's, whom I have the honour of knowing, always sings in the country, and let me tell you it has a deucid fine effect from the family pew. And you are somebody down here. As long as the cleverings 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 Penn Dennis changed the subject once, he recurred to it a score of times in a day. And the moral of his discourse always was that Penn was throwing himself away. Now, it does not require much coaxing or weedling to make a simple boy believe that he is a very fine fellow. Penn took his uncle's councils 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 wreaking 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 Penn confessed that he had but those three of which we have made mention, and that they were but trivial invitations or answers. She is cautious enough. The Major said dryly, she is older than you, my poor boy. And then he apologised with the utmost frankness and humility and flung himself upon Penn's goods feelings, begging the lad to excuse a fond old uncle, who had only his family's honour and 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 Fatheringay in the amiable family at Chatteras, with whom he still continued to spend some portion of his time. Miss Emily was alarmed when she heard of the arrival of Penn's Guardian, and rightly conceived that the Major came down with hostile intentions to herself. I suppose you intend to leave me now your grand relation has come down from town. He'll carry you off, and you'll forget your poor Emily, Mr Arthur. In her presence, in that of Miss Rouncy, the Columbine and Millie's confidential friend of the company, in the presence of the Captain himself, Penn swore he never could think of any other woman but his beloved Miss Fatheringay. And the Captain, looking up at his foils, which were hung as a trophy on the wall of the room where Penn and he used to fence, grimly said he would not advise any man to meddle rashly with the affections of his darling child, and would never believe his gallant young Arthur, whom he treated as a son, whom he called a son, would ever be guilty of conduct so revolting to every idea of honor and humanity. He went on and embraced Penn after speaking. He cried and wiped his eye with one large dirty hand as he clasped Penn 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, and closing to him a sovereign, the loan of which the worthy gentleman had need, and saying that one day he hoped to sign himself his affectionate son, Arthur Penn Dennis. He was glad to get away from Chatteris that day, from Miss Rouncy, the confidant, from the old toping father-in-law, from the divine Emily herself. Oh, Emily, Emily! He cried inwardly as he rattled homewards 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. Penn never rode over to Chatteris upon a certain errand, but the major found out on what errand the boy had been. Faithful to his plan, Major Penn Dennis gave his nephew no let or hindrance. But somehow the constant feeling that the senior's eyes 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 Penn go less frequently to sigh away his soul at the feet of his charmer than he had been want to do previous to his uncle's arrival. There was no use trying to deceive him. There was no pretext of dining with smirk or reading Greek plays with foca. Penn felt when he returned from one of his flying visits that everybody knew whence he came, and appeared quite guilty before his mother-in-guarion over their books or their game at Piquet. Once having walked out a half-mile to the Fair Oaks Inn beyond the Lodge Gates to be in readiness for the competitor coach, which changed horses there to take a run for Chatteris, 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 Penn 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, in that there were eyes upon him even in the presence of his dulcinea. In fact Penn'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 Chatteris 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 Oslars, 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 colour 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 toothpick, and looked over the paper, and if any friend asked him to dinner he stayed. Morgan heard at the George of Penn's acquaintance with Mr. Fokker, 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, travelled in charge of the dressing-case. From the servants at the offices 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 one of the inferior actors at the theatre, and pumped them over their cigars in punch, and all agreed that Costigan was poor, shabby, and given to dead him to drink. But there was not a breath upon the reputation of misfothering gay. Her father's courage was reported to have displayed itself on more than one occasion towards persons disposed to treat his daughter with freedom. She never came to the theatre 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 act, and was uncommon delighted with the performance, besides thinking her a most splendid woman. Mrs. Creed, the pew-opener, confirmed these statements to Dr. Portman, who examined her personally, and threatened her with the terrors of the church one day after afternoon service. Mrs. Creed had nothing unfavourable to her lodger to divulge. She saw nobody, only one or two ladies of the theatre. The captain did intoxicate himself sometimes, and did not always pay his rent regularly, but he did when he had money, or rather, Miss Fothering gay 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 downstairs 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 believed the divine himself was ill-pleased at not being able to jack a hole in poor Miss Fothering gay's reputation. Even about Penn himself, Mrs. Creed's reports were desperately favourable. Whenever he come, Mrs. Creed said, she always have me or one of the children with her, and Mrs. Creed, Mom, she says, if you please, Mom, 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 or teaching of her her lesson, or one of the young ladies of the theatre. It was all true. Whatever encouragements might have been given him before he avowed his passion, the prudence of Miss Emily was prodigious after Penn had declared himself, and the poor fellow chafed against her hopeless reserve, which maintained his ardour 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 sew his wild oats, and that sort of thing. But a virtuous attachment is a deuce. It comes of the romantic notions boys get from being brought up by women. Tell 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 Penn than a virtuous attachment for a 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 tomorrow. We have got time from him. That is all. And we must do our best with that. I see, major, said the doctor, at the end of the conversation in which the above subject was discussed. I am not, of course, a playgoing man. But suppose I say we go and see her. The major laughed. He had been a fortnight at Fair Oaks, and strange to say, had not thought of that. Well, he said, why not? After all, it is not my niece, but Miss Fothering gave 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 Penn was to dine at home and pass the evening with his mother, the two elderly gentlemen drove over to Chatteris in the doctor's chase, 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 Chatteris, and a young gentleman whom the doctor thought he had somewhere seen. They left them at their meal, however, and hastened to the theatre. It was hamlet over again. Shakespeare was article forty of stout old Doctor 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 Fothering gave performance 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 Penn was charmed with her. Guard said the major between his teeth, as he surveyed her when she was called forward as usual, and swept her curtsies 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 glasses 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 theatre. The doctor returning to Mrs. Portman, who was on a visit at the Deenery, and the major walking home full of thought towards the George, where he had bespoke in a bed. Facing the Enemy Recording by Mike Moffitt Sauntering slowly homewards, 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, you would like to 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. Folker, sir. Lady Agnes Folker'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 perhaps you might like to get into conversation with him, the valet said, opening the Coffee Room door. The Major entered, and there indeed was Mr. Folker, the only occupant of the place. He was rubbing his eyes and sat before a table, raided 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 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. Folker, who was always communicative and naffable, and he took up the globe from his table and offered it to the newcomer. 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 Folker, Lady Agnes Folker's son, to have the happiness to name her ladyship among my acquaintances, and you bear, sir, a rusherville face. Hello, I beg your pardon, Mr. Folker 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 was 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. Folker, 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. Folker. I'm glad you think so. And clever, too, I was always a stupid chap I was. But you see, sir, I know him when they are clever, and I like him of that sort. You show your taste in 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. Folker 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's what we call 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, Folker answered, winking at him. He would have winked at the Duke of Wellington, with just as little scruple, for he was in a 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's not the first of us, my dear Harry, answered the Major. I've heard something of this, but pray tell me more. Why, sir, you see, it's partly my fault. He went to the play one night, for you see, I'm down here reading for my little go in the long. Only I come over from Beymouth pretty often in my drag. Well, sir, we went to the play, and Penn was struck all of a heap with Miss Fatheringay. Costigan's a real name, 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, and such a boy for the whiskey 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, Fawker 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 die, and many more too. We were talking about it at mess yesterday, and chaping Derby Oaks until he was mad as a hatter. Know, sir Derby Oaks, we dined together, and he went to the play. We were standing at the door smoking, I remember, when you passed into dinner. I remember Sir Thomas Oaks, his father, before he was a baronette 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. Fawker said. And is, sir Derby Oaks, the Major said, with great delight and anxiety, another superient? Another whacked, inquired Mr. Fawker. Another admirer of Miss Fatheringay. Lord bless you, we call him Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and Penn 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. Fawker, Pendennis said, laughing. Pretty well, thank you, sir, how are you? Fawker replied, imperturbably. I'm not clever, perhaps, but I'm rather 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 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. Fawker, connection not eligible, too much beer drunk on the premises, no Irish need apply, take I that to be your meaning? The Major said it was exactly, though in truth he did not quite understand what Mr. Fawker'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. Fawker, 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 bull, 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 anything but what's honorable. Penn's intentions 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 around Miss Fatheringay ever since his regiment has been down here. Penn's 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 Fatheringay would jump at. I thought as much, the Major said. You give me a great deal of pleasure, Mr. Fawker. 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 Fatheringay and Miss Rouncy had the row about the ostrich feathers, when Miss R told me everything. Miss Rouncy, I gather, was the confident of the other? Confident? I believe you. Why, she's twice as clever a girl as Fatheringay, and literary and that, while Miss Fawth can't do much more than read. She could write, said the Major, remembering Penn's breast pocket. Fawker broke out into a sardonic, Rouncy writes her letters, he said, every one of them, 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 writing and spelling when bows ain't by. Rouncy's been set in her copies lately. She writes a beautiful hand, Rouncy does. I suppose you know it pretty well, said the Major, Archly, which Mr. Fawker winked at him again. I would give a great deal to have a specimen of her handwriting, continued Major Pendennis. I daresay you could give me one. No, no, that would be too bad, Fawker replied. Perhaps I oughtn't to have said as much as I have. Miss F's writing ain't so very bad, I daresay, only she's 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 never will be reconciled, the Major said with great sincerity, and I can't tell you how delighted I am to have had the good fortune in making your acquaintance. You must feel, my dear sir, as a man of the world, how fatal to my nephew's prospects in life this step which he contemplates, and how eager we must all be to free him from this absurd engagement. He has come out uncommon strong, said Mr. Fawker. I have seen his verses, Rouncy copied them, and I said to myself when I saw him, catch me writing 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 the father and daughter seem to be. Love on the lady's side is out of the question. Love indeed, Fawker said. If Penn hadn't two thousand a year when he came of age, if Penn hadn't what, 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 it 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, Fawker asked. Upon my honor he has no more than what I say, and you ain't gonna leave him anything. The major had sunk every shilling he could, scraped together on an annuity, and of course was going to lead Penn nothing. But he did not tell Fawker 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 you have made me the happiest man in the world. Sir, to you, said Mr. Fawker politely, and when they parted for the night they shook hands with the greatest cordiality. The younger gentleman promising the elder not to leave Chadris without a further conversation in the morning, and as the major went up to his room and Mr. Fawker smoked his cigar against the pillars of the Georgian, Penn, very likely ten miles off, was lying in bed kissing the letter from his Emily. The next morning before Mr. Fawker 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 Penn Dennis went to call upon Dr. Portman at the Deenery, 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 Penn 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 Oak's constant visits to her lodgers, and threatening to excommunicate her out of the cathedral. The wary major thought that all things were for the best, and, having taken counsel with himself overnight, felt himself quite strong enough to go and face Captain Costigan. I'm going to fight the dragon, he said with a laugh to Dr. Portman, And I shrive you, sir, and bid good fortune go with you, answered the doctor. Perhaps he and Mrs. Portman, and Miss Myra, as they sat with their friend, the Dean's Lady, in their drawing room, looked up more than once at the enemy's window to see if they could perceive any signs of combat. The Major walked round, according to the directions given him, and soon found Mrs. Creed's little door. He passed it, 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 Oak's 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 in 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 mine. I'm delighted to see you. 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 Cost's sitting-room were, perhaps, a little flurried at Pendennis's apparition. Miss Fathering Gay'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 theatre music in the copying of which he had been engaged, looked up eagerly towards the newcomer, as the Major of the Well-Blacked Boots entered the apartment, distributing the most graceful bows to everybody present. Me daughter, me friend Mr. Bowes, me gallant young people 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, Major, 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 hairbrush, 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 the newcomer, and the usual remarks about the weather had been interchanged before Costigan re-entered in his new chute, as he called it. I needn't apologise to you, Major," he said, in his richest and most courteous manner, for receiving ye in Miss Shirt's leaves. 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, you'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 cannot say. But Major Pendennis was a person of honour and undoubted veracity, and said that he perfectly well recollected meeting Mr. Costigan, and hearing him sing at Sir Richard Stratchin's table at Walshawren. 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 Fatheringay 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 take au pied de la lette, 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. Sidden. Faith I always said so, Costigan said, winking at his daughter. Major, take a chair. Millie 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 curtsies. 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 were two Mars in Crow Street, remarked Miss Emily. Fanny was well enough, but Biddy was no great things. Sure, the Major means the God of War Millie, my dear, in to pose the parent. It is not that Mars I meant, though Venus, I suppose, may be pardoned for thinking about him. The Major applied with a smile directed in 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 that seemed to ask, what the deuce does this man hear? Major Pendennis was not in the least annoyed by the gentleman's ill humour. On the contrary, it delighted him. So, thought he, arrival 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 Chatteris is very short, and I was anxious to make myself known to my old fellow campaigner, Captain Cossigan, and to see a Lady Nero who had charmed me so much from the stage. I was not the only man a pre-last 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 flinging 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 mantelpiece 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-humoured. Upon my life I don't know. Very likely it is. I ate 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 honour 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 towards 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. Casts, bye-bye. 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 sabre was heard as he strode down the creaking stair, and the angry tones of his voice as he cursed little Tom Creed, who was desporting in the passage, and whose peg-top Sir Derby kicked away with an oath into the street. The Major did not smile in the list, though he had every reason to be amused. Monsters, 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 refined manners, polite affability, and princely fortune. His table is sumptuous, he's adored 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 Millie, but he's no conversation. He's best on horseback, Mr. Burrs said, on which Millie replied that the baronet had ridden third in the steeple-chase on his horse, Terraways, 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 is no more hungry than you are after 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 need to grow well disposed towards you, as they give you their hospitality. Some of the old Madara Millie 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 gave him a piece of money, ordered him to go buy a pint of Madara wine at the grapes, and six penny-worth of sorted biscuits at the bakers, and to return in a hurry, when he might have two biscuits for himself. Whilst Tommy Creed was gone on this errand, Miss Costigan sat 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 you may say that, sir, and lucky is the man who gets her. Ask me, friend Bob Burrs, here, whether Miss Father Inge's mind is not even chuparia to her person, and whether she does not possess a cultivated intellect, a refined understanding, and an emiable disposition. Oh, of course, said Mr. Burrs rather dryly. Here comes Hebe blushing from the cellar. Don't you think it is time to go to rehearsal, Miss Hebe? Will you be fine 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-humoured, and smiling, and Burrs 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 Father Inge? Before you leave us, permit an old fellow to shake you by the hand, and believe that I am proud to have had the honour of making your acquaintance, and am most sincerely anxious to be your friend. Miss Father Inge made a low curtsy 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. Burrs was puzzled with this exhibition of cordiality. The lads' relatives can't be really wanting to marry him to her, he thought, and so they departed. Now for it, thought Major Penn Dennis, and as for 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 Stein's particular, and not Public House Cape, he could not have appeared to relish it more. Capital Madeira, Captain Costigan, he said, Where did 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 manor. I am sure she is as intellectual as she is beautiful, and I have no doubt she is as good as she is clever. A good girl, sir, a good girl, said the delighted father, and I pledge a toast to her with all my heart. Shall I send to the cellar for another pint? It's handy-by. No, well indeed, sir, you may say she is a good girl in the pride and glory of her father, honest old Jack Costigan. The man who gets her will have a duel to a wife, sir, and I drink his health, sir, and you 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 weren't an old fellow and a poor one. And no better man, Major, I'm sure, cried Jack and Ratched. Your friendship, sir, delights me. Your admiration for my girl brings tears to my eyes. Tears, sir, manly 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 bloodshot eyes were suffused with water, as he addressed the Major. Your sentiments do you honour, 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 are speaking about our splendid mansion, my sister's house, I mean. I mean the park and mansion of Arthur Penn Dennis, a squire of Fair Oaks Park, whom I hope to see a member of parliament for his native town of Clevering, when he is of age to take that responsible station, cried the captain with much dignity. The Major smiled as he recognised the shaft of his own bow. It was he who had set pen upon the idea of sitting in Parliament for the neighbourhood borough. And the poor lad had evidently been bragging on the subject to Costigan and the lady of his affections. Fair Oaks Park, my dear sir, he said, Do you know our history? We are of excessively ancient family, certainly, but I began life with scarcely enough money to purchase my commission, and my eldest brother was a country apocryptery, 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 means what it was. I have known very honest men apocrypteries, sir, and there's some in Dublin that has had the honour of dining at the Lord Lieutenant's table. You're 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 Faroq's Park, and I don't know what besides, funded property I've no doubt, Major, and something handsome eventually from yourself. My good sir, I tell you the boy is the son of a country apocryptery, 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 his heir to two thousand pounds a year. Two thousand fiddle-sticks! I beg your pardon, my dear sir, but has the boy been humbugging you? It is not his habit. Upon my word and honour, 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 economy a handsome sum of money, too, sir, the captain answered. Faith, I've known a man drink his clariton, drive his coach in four and five hundred a year in strict economy, 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 you joking with me, Major Pendennis? cried Jack Costigan. Are you thrifling with the feelings of a father and a gentleman? I'm telling you the honest truth, said Major Pendennis. Every shilling my brother left, 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 enable him 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 fostered and cherished as the son of my own bosom, is an imposter, who has been trifling with the affections of my 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 induce him to break off an engagement? And with it, me adored Emily's heart. Have a care, sir, how you thrifles, the honour 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 honour, and will, sir, said the other. Look at that chest of drawers. It contains heaps of letters that that viper has addressed to that innocent child. There's promises there, sir, enough to fill a bank-box with, and when I have dragged the scoundrel before the courts of law, and shown up his perjury and his dishonour, I have another remedy in yonder mahogany case, sir, which shall set me right, sir, with any individual. You mark me words, Major Pendinus. With any individual who has counselled your nephew to insult a soldier and a gentleman. What? Me daughter, to be jilted, and me grey hairs dishonoured by an apocrys 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 afterwards to do me the honour of calling me out, the Major said, still with perfect coolness. You have described my intentions with perfect accuracy, Major Pendinus, 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 can 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 on 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, Mrs. 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 atrociously deceived by someone, 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 learnt it as yet. Try and consider whether you have not deceived yourself, or adopted extravagant reports from hearsay. As for me, sir, you are at liberty to understand that I am not afraid of all the Costigans in Ireland, and know 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 cannot 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 honourable 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 you shall hear more from me, Mr. Costigan said, with a look of tremendous severity. Zdeath, sir, what do you mean? The Major asked, turning round on the threshold of the door, and looking the intrepid Costigan in the face. You said in the course of conversation that you were at the George Hotel, I think, Mr. Costigan said in a stately manner. A friend shall wait upon you there, before you 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. The History of Pendennis by William MacPiece Thackeray Chapter 12 In Which A Shooting Match Is Proposed Early mention has been made in this history of Mr. Garbott's, principal tragedyan, a promising and athletic young actor, of jovial habits and irregular inclinations, between 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. Garbott seldom called it Costigan's house, being disliked by Miss Fatheringay, of whom in her turn Mrs. Garbott's was considerably jealous. The truth is that Garbott had paid his court to Miss Fatheringay 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. Garbott's was called in by Captain Costigan immediately, after his daughter and Mr. Bowes 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. Garbott's from his lodgings over the tripe-shop. You know, and tell him to send two glasses of whiskey and water, hot from the grapes. So Tommy went his way, and presently Mr. Garbott's and the whiskey 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, misfothering gay, 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 honour. And should Major Pendennis be disinclined to this alternative, the captain hinted that he would force him to accept by the use of a horse whip, which he should employ upon the Major's person. The precise terms of this letter we cannot 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. Garbott's was dispatched then with this message and letter, and bidding heaven bless him, the general squeezed his ambassador'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 Penn's letters and poems which he kept there, and which he always read before he permitted his Emily to enjoy their provusal. In a score of minutes, Garbott's came back with an anxious and crestfallen countenance. You've seen him, the captain said. Why yes, said Garbott's. And when is it for, asked Costigan, trying the lock of one of the ancient pistols, and bringing it to a level with his eye, as he called that bloodshot orb. When is it for, asked Mr. Garbott's. The meeting, my dear fellow. You don't mean to say, you mean mortal combat, Captain. Garbott's said aghast. What the devil else do I mean, Garbott's? I want to shoot that man that has reduced me honour, or me self-dropped victim on the sod. Damned if I carry challenges. Mr. Garbott's 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 his great sprawling superscription and blotched seal. You don't mean to say you saw him and didn't give him the letter, cried out the Captain in a fury. I saw him, but I could not have speech with him, Captain. Said Mr. Garbott's. And why the devil not? asked the other. There was one there I cared not to meet, nor would you. The Tragedyon answered in a separable voice. The Minion Tatham was there, Captain. The cowardly scoundrel roared Costigan. He's frightened and already going to swear the peace against me. I'll have nothing to do with the fighting. Mark that, the Tragedyon doggedly said. And I wish I'd not seen Tatham neither. Nor that bit of. Hold your tongue, Bob Acres. It's my belief you're no better than a coward, said Captain Costigan, quoting Seleucia Sotriger, which character he had performed with credit, both often on the stage, and after some parlay between the couple they separated in not very good humour. 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. Bose, 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 in 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 friends. As Emily entered, he seized her arm and it is, and cried, Prepare yourself, my child, my blessed child, in a voice of agony and with eyes brimful of tears. Your tipsy again, papa, Miss Fatheringay said, pushing back her sire, You promised me you wouldn't take spirits before dinner. It's to forget me sorrows, my 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 journey, Captain, dear, said Bose, mimicking his friend's accent. What has happened? Has that soft-spoken gentleman in the wig been vexing you? The oily miscreant, I'll have his blood, roared Kos. Miss Millie, 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? Oh, Bose, he has overwhelmed me, the captain said. There's a hellish conspiracy on foot against me, poor girl, and it's me opinion that both them Pendennis's nephew and uncle is too infernal traitors and scoundrels, who should be consumed off the face of the earth. What is it? What has happened? said Mr. Bose, growing rather excited. Kostigan then told him the major statement that the young Pendennis had not two thousand, nor two hundred pounds a year, and expressed his fear that he should have permitted such an imposter to coax and weedle 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 Kostigan, and as for his uncle, I'll have such a revenge on that old man, as shall make him rue the day he ever insulted a Kostigan. What do you mean, General? said Bose. I mean to have his life, Bose. His villainous, skulking life, my boy, and he wrapped upon the battered old pistol-case in an ominous and savage manner. Bose 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. Bose therefore rather disregarded the pistols in the present instance. At this juncture, Miss Fatheringay 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 breadcrumb, 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 afterwards, coming back to the table, seated herself there commodiously with the shoes, and then asked her father, in her honest Irish brogue, what have you got them letters and poetry and stuff of Mr. Arthur's out-for-par? Sure you don't want to be reading over that nonsense. Oh, Emily, that boy whom I loved as the boy of me bosom is only a scoundrel, and a deceiver, me poor girl, and he looked in the most tragical way at Beau's opposite, who in his turn gazed somewhat anxiously at Miss Costigan. He, poo, sure the poor lads as simple as a schoolboy, she said, all them children write verses in nonsense. He's been acting the part of a viper to this fireside, and a traitor in this family, cried the captain. I tell you, he's no better than an imposter. What has the poor fellow done, Papa? asked Emily. Done? He has deceived us in the most atrocious manner, Miss Emily's Papa said. He has trifled with your affections, and outraged my own fine feelings. He has represented himself as a man of property, and it turns out that he is no better than a beggar. Haven't I often told you he had two thousand a year? He's a pauper, I tell you, Miss Costigan, a dependent upon the bounty of his mother, a good woman who may marry again, who's likely to live forever, and who has but five hundred a year. How dare he ask ye to marry into a family which has not the means of providing for you? You've been grossly deceived and put upon, Millie, and it's my belief his old roughy and 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 Millie that when she was gone, Major Pendennis told him in his double-faced, pole-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 scoundrels had 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. Millie 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 property? asked Costigan. The poor fellow always said he was poor, answered the girl, to as 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, Millie, answered the father. A young fellow who rides a blood mare and makes presents of shoals and bracelets, is an impostor if he has no money, and as for his uncle, but dad I'll pull off his wig whenever I see him. 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'll tweak him on the nose in front of his hotel, or in the gravel walks of Faroaks Park before all the county bid dad. Bid dad, you may send somebody else with the message, said Bows, laughing. I'm a fiddler, not a fighting man, Captain. Poo, you've no spirit, sir, grod 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 them 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 Poe three in 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 Faroaks 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 like me as well, Bows, that has no money and that's old enough, Miss Millie said sententiously. Yes, dammit, said Bows, with a bitter curse, that are old enough and poor enough and fools enough for anything. There's old fools and young fools too. You've often said so, you silly man, the imperious beat he said, with a conscious glance at the old gentleman. If Penn Dennis 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 Swotheringay, placidly, rubbing the second shoe. If he had had half of the 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 dinnertime, and Suki 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 Penn Dennis of Faroog's 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 craces. As Croesus, said Mr. Bowes, well call him what you 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 Pole duty of Oistertown 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 Costa-Gonette last. So poor little Arthur has no money. Stop and take dinner, Bowes. We've a beautiful beef steak pudding. I wonder whether she is on with Sir Debbie Oakes, thought Bowes, whose eyes and thoughts were always watching her. The dodges of women beat all comprehension, and I am sure she wouldn't let that lad off so easily, if she had not some other scheme on hand. It will have been perceived that Miss Fatheringay, though silent in general, and by no means brilliant as a conversationist, where poetry, literature, or the fine arts were concerned, could talk freely and with good sense, too, in her own family circle. She cannot justly be called a romantic person, nor were her literary acquirements great. She never opened a Shakespeare 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 needlework, 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, Costa-Gonette tried to convince himself and the company that the major statement regarding Penn's finances was unworthy of credit, and a mere ruse upon the old hypocrite's part so as to induce them on their side to break off the match, Miss Millie 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 Penn 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. Bowes, who had a remarkable regard and contempt for this woman, during and after which her past, the party devised upon the best means of bringing this love matter to a close. As for Costa-Gonette, his idea of tweaking the major's nose banished with a supply of after-dinner whiskey 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 Penn 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 Bowes. Ask a woman to tell you. And Miss Father Engage 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 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'll enclose a parting line in which you say you will always regard him as a brother, said Mr. Bowes, eyeing her in his scornful way. Of course, and so I shall, answered Miss Father Engage. He's the most worthy young man, I'm sure. I'll thank he hand me the salt. Then Philbits is beautiful. And there will be no noses pulled, cost my boy. I'm sorry, you're balked, said Mr. Bowes. Dad, I suppose not, said, cost rubbing his own. What'll ye do about them letters and verses and poems, Millie darling? He must send them back. Wigsby would give a hundred pound for them, Bowes said with a sneer. Deed, then he would, said Captain Costigan, who was easily led. Papa, said Miss Millie, he wouldn't be for not sending the poor boy his letters back. Them letters and poems is mine. They were very long and full of all sorts of nonsense in Latin and things I couldn't understand the half of. Indeed, I've not read them all. But we'll send them back to him when the proper time comes. And going to a drawer Miss Father Engage took out from it a number of the county chronicle and chatterous champion, in which Penn had written a copy of Flaming verses celebrating 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 Penn'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 sat down and made tea afterwards with a perfectly placid and contented heart, while Penn was yearning after her ten miles off and hugging her image to his soul.