“Why, I think you have some means of persuasion over Clavering, uncle, or why should he give me that seat in Parlament?”
“Clavering thinks he ain’t fit for Parliament,” the Major answered. “No more he is. What’s to prevent him from putting you or anybody else into his place if he likes? Do you think that Government or the Opposition would make any bones about accepting the seat if he offered it to them! Why should you be more squeamish than the first men, and the most honourable men, and men of the highest birth and position in the country, begad?” The Major had an answer of this kind to most of Pen’s objections, and Pen accepted his uncle’s replies, not so much because he believed them, but because he wished to believe them. We do a thing—which of us has not?—not because “everybody does it,” but because we like it; and our acquiescence, alas! proves not that everybody is right, but that we and the rest of the world are poor creatures alike.
At his next visit to Tunbridge, Mr. Pen did not forget to amuse Miss Blanche with the history which he had learned at Richmond of the Chevalier’s imprisonment, and of Altamont’s gallant rescue. And after he had told his tale in his usual satirical way, he mentioned with praise and emotion little Fanny’s generous behaviour to the Chevalier, and Altamont’s enthusiasm in her behalf.
Miss Blanche was somewhat jealous, and a good deal piqued and curious about Fanny. Among the many confidential little communications which Arthur made to Miss Amory in the course of their delightful rural drives and their sweet evening walks, it may be supposed that our hero would not forget a story so interesting to himself and so likely to be interesting to her, as that of the passion and cure of the poor little Ariadne of Shepherd’s Inn. His own part in that drama he described, to do him justice, with becoming modesty; the moral which he wished to draw from the tale being one in accordance with his usual satirical mood, viz., that women get over their first loves quite as easily as men do (for the fair Blanche, in their intimes conversations, did not cease to twit Mr. Pen about his notorious failure in his own virgin attachment to the Fotheringay), and, number one being withdrawn, transfer themselves to number two without much difficulty. And poor little Fanny was offered up in sacrifice as an instance to prove this theory. What griefs she had endured and surmounted, what bitter pangs of hopeless attachment she had gone through, what time it had taken to heal those wounds of the tender little bleeding heart, Mr. Pen did not know, or perhaps did not choose to know; for he was at once modest and doubtful about his capabilities as a conqueror of hearts, and averse to believe that he had executed any dangerous ravages on that particular one, though his own instance and argument told against himself in this case; for if, as he said, Miss Fanny was by this time in love with her surgical adorer, who had neither good looks, nor good manners, nor wit, nor anything but ardour and fidelity to recommend him, must she not in her first sickness of the love-complaint have had a serious attack, and suffered keenly for a man who had certainly a number of the showy qualities which Mr. Huxter wanted?
“You wicked odious creature,” Miss Blanche said, “I believe that you are enraged with Fanny for being so impudent as to forget you, and that you are actually jealous of Mr. Huxter.” Perhaps Miss Amory was right, as the blush which came in spite of himself and tingled upon Pendennis’s cheek (one of those blows with which a man’s vanity is constantly slapping his face) proved to Pen that he was angry to think he had been superseded by such a rival. By such a fellow as that! without any conceivable good quality! O Mr. Pendennis! (although this remark does not apply to such a smart fellow as you) if Nature had not made that provision for each sex in the credulity of the other, which sees good qualities where none exist, good looks in donkeys’ ears, wit in their numskulls, and music in their bray, there would not have been near so much marrying and giving in marriage as now obtains, and as is necessary for the due propagation and continuance of the noble race to which we belong.
“Jealous or not,” Pen said, “and, Blanche, I don’t say no, I should have liked Fanny to have come to a better end than that. I don’t like histories that end in that cynical way; and when we arrive at the conclusion of the story of a pretty girl’s passion, to find such a figure as Huxter’s at the last page of the tale. Is a life a compromise, my lady fair, and the end of the battle of love an ignoble surrender? Is the search for the Cupid which my poor little Psyche pursued in the darkness—the god of her soul’s longing—the god of the blooming cheek and rainbow pinions,—to result in Huxter smelling of tobacco and gallypots? I wish, though I don’t see it in life, that people could be like Jenny and Jessamy, or my Lord and Lady Clementina in the story-books and fashionable novels, and at once under the ceremony, and, as it were, at the parson’s benediction, become perfectly handsome and good and happy ever after.”
“And don’t you intend to be good and happy, pray, Monsieur le Misanthrope—and are you very discontented with your lot—and will your marriage be a compromise”—(asked the author of ‘Mes Larmes,’ with a charming moue)—“and is your Psyche an odious vulgar wretch? You wicked satirical creature, I can’t abide you! You take the hearts of young things, play with them, and fling them away with scorn. You ask for love and trample on it. You—you make me cry, that you do, Arthur, and—and don’t—and I won’t be consoled in that way—and I think Fanny was quite right in leaving such a heartless creature.”
“Again, I don’t say no,” said Pen, looking very gloomily at Blanche, and not offering by any means to repeat the attempt at consolation, which had elicited that sweet monosyllable “don’t” from the young lady. “I don’t think I have much of what people call heart; but I don’t profess it. I made my venture when I was eighteen, and lighted my lamp and went in search of Cupid. And what was my discovery of love?—a vulgar dancing-woman! I failed, as everybody does, almost everybody; only it is luckier to fail before marriage than after.”
“Merci du choix, Monsieur,” said the Sylphide, making a curtsey.
“Look, my little Blanche,” said Pen, taking her hand, and with his voice of sad good-humour; “at least I stoop to no flatteries.”