But George said no, he couldn’t go. He must stop at home and take Pen’s place. The other remarked that that was needless, for Shandon was now come back to London, and Arthur was entitled to a holiday.
“Don’t press me,” Warrington said, “I can’t go. I’ve particular engagements. I’m best at home. I’ve not got the money to travel, that’s the long and short of it—for travelling costs money, you know.”
This little obstacle seemed fatal to Pen. He mentioned it to his mother: Mrs. Pendennis was very sorry; Mr. Warrington had been exceedingly kind; but she supposed he knew best about his affairs. And then, no doubt, she reproached herself, for selfishness in wishing to carry the boy off and have him to herself altogether.
“What is this I hear from Pen, my dear Mr. Warrington?” the Major asked one day, when the pair were alone and after Warrington’s objection had been stated to him. “Not go with us? We can’t hear of such a thing—Pen won’t get well without you. I promise you, I’m not going to be his nurse. He must have somebody with him that’s stronger and gayer and better able to amuse him than a rheumatic old fogy like me. I shall go to Carlsbad very likely, when I’ve seen you people settle down. Travelling costs nothing nowadays—or so little! And—and, pray, Warrington, remember that I was your father’s very old friend, and if you and your brother are not on such terms as to—to enable you to—to anticipate your younger brother’s allowance, I beg you to make me your banker, for hasn’t Pen been getting into your debt these three weeks past, during which you have been doing what he informs me is his work, with such exemplary talent and genius, begad?”
Still, in spite of this kind offer and unheard-of generosity on the part of the Major, George Warrington refused, and said he would stay at home. But it was with a faltering voice and an irresolute accent which showed how much he would like to go, though his tongue persisted in saying nay.
But the Major’s persevering benevolence was not to be baulked in this way. At the tea-table that evening, Helen happening to be absent from the room for the moment, looking for Pen who had gone to roost, old Pendennis returned to the charge and rated Warrington for refusing to join in their excursion. “Isn’t it ungallant, Miss Bell?” he said, turning to that young lady. “Isn’t it unfriendly? Here we have been the happiest party in the world, and this odious selfish creature breaks it up!”
Miss Bell’s long eyelashes looked down towards her teacup: and Warrington blushed hugely but did not speak. Neither did Miss Bell speak: but when he blushed she blushed too.
“You ask him to come, my dear,” said the benevolent old gentleman, “and then perhaps he will listen to you——”
“Why should Mr. Warrington listen to me?” asked the young lady, putting the query to her teaspoon seemingly and not to the Major.
“Ask him; you have not asked him,” said Pen’s artless uncle.