In which Colonel Altamont appears and disappears
On the day appointed, Major Pendennis, who had formed no better
engagement, and Arthur who desired none, arrived together to dine with
Sir Francis Clavering. The only tenants of the drawing-room when Pen
and his uncle reached it, were Sir Francis and his wife, and our friend
Captain Strong, whom Arthur was very glad to see, though the Major
looked very sulkily at Strong, being by no means well pleased to sit
down to dinner with Clavering’s d—— house-steward, as he irreverently
called Strong. But Mr. Welbore Welbore, Clavering’s country neighbour
and brother member of Parliament, speedily arriving, Pendennis the
elder was somewhat appeased, for Welbore, though perfectly dull, and
taking no more part in the conversation at dinner than the footman
behind his chair, was a respectable country gentleman of ancient family
and seven thousand a year: and the Major felt always at ease in such
society. To these were added other persons of note: the Dowager Lady
Rockminster, who had her reasons for being well with the Clavering
family, and the Lady Agnes Foker, with her son Mr. Harry, our old
acquaintance. Mr. Pynsent could not come, his parliamentary duties
keeping him at the House, duties which sate upon the two other senators
very lightly. Miss Blanche Amory was the last of the company who made
her appearance. She was dressed in a killing white silk dress which
displayed her pearly shoulders to the utmost advantage. Foker whisped
to Pen, who regarded her with eyes of evident admiration, that he
considered her “a stunner.” She chose to be very gracious to Arthur
upon this day, and held out her hand most cordially, and talked about
dear Fairoaks, and asked for dear Laura and his mother, and said she
was longing to go back to the country, and in fact was entirely simple,
affectionate, and artless.
Harry Foker thought he had never seen anybody so amiable and
delightful, Not accustomed much to the society of ladies, and
ordinarily being dumb to their presence, he found that he could speak
before Miss Amory, and became uncommonly lively and talkative, even
before the dinner was announced and the party descended to the lower
rooms. He would have longed to give his arm to the fair Blanche, and
conduct her down the broad carpeted stair; but she fell to the lot of
Pen upon this occasion, Mr. Foker being appointed to escort Mrs.
Welbore Welbore, in consequence of his superior rank as an earl’s
grandson.
But though he was separated from the object of his desire during the
passage downstairs, the delighted Foker found himself by Miss Amory’s
side at the dinner-table, and flattered himself that he had manoeuvred
very well in securing that happy place. It may be that the move was not
his, but that it was made by another person. Blanche had thus the two
young men, one on each side of her, and each tried to render himself
gallant and agreeable.
Foker’s mamma, from her place, surveying her darling boy, was surprised
at his vivacity. Harry talked constantly to his fair neighbour about
the topics of the day.
“Seen Taglioni in the Sylphide, Miss Amory? Bring me that souprame of
Volile again if you please (this was addressed to the attendant near
him), very good: can’t think where the souprames come from; what
becomes of the legs of the fowls, I wonder? She’s clipping in the
Sylphide, ain’t she?” and he began very kindly to hum the pretty air
which pervades that prettiest of all ballets, now faded into the past
with that most beautiful and gracious of all dancers. Will the young
folks ever see anything so charming, anything so classic, anything like
Taglioni?
“Miss Amory is a sylph herself,” said Mr. Pen.
“What a delightful tenor voice you have, Mr. Foker,” said the young
lady. “I am sure you have been well taught. I sing a little myself. I
should like to sing with you.”
Pen remembered that words very similar had been addressed to himself by
the young lady, and that she had liked to sing with him in former days.
And sneering within himself, he wondered with how many other gentlemen
she had sung duets since his time? But he did not think fit to put this
awkward question aloud: and only said, with the very tenderest air
which he could assume, “I should like to hear you sing again, Miss
Blanche. I never heard a voice I liked so well as yours, I think.”
“I thought you liked Laura’s,” said Miss Blanche.
“Laura’s is a contralto: and that voice is very often out, you know,”
Pen said, bitterly. “I have heard a great deal of music, in London,” he
continued. “I’m tired of those professional people—they sing too
loud—or I have grown too old or too blase. One grows old very soon, in
London, Miss Amory. And like all old fellows, I only care for the songs
I heard in my youth.”
“I like English music best. I don’t care for foreign songs much. Get me
some saddle of mutton,” said Mr. Foker.
“I adore English ballads, of all things,” said Miss Amory.
“Sing me one of the old songs after dinner, will you?” said Pen, with
an imploring voice.
“Shall I sing you an English song, after dinner?” asked the Sylphide,
turning to Mr. Foker. “I will, if you will promise to come up soon:”
and she gave him a perfect broadside of her eyes.
“I’ll come up after dinner, fast enough,” he said, simply. “I don’t
care about much wine afterwards—I take my whack at dinner—I mean my
share, you know; and when I have had as much as I want I toddle up to
tea. I’m a domestic character, Miss Amory—my habits are simple—and when
I’m pleased I’m generally in a good-humour, ain’t I, Pen?—that jelly,
if you please—not that one, the other with the cherries inside. How the
doose do they get those cherries inside the jellies?” In this way the
artless youth prattled on: and Miss Amory listened to him with
inexhaustible good-humour. When the ladies took their departure for the
upper regions, Blanche made the two young men promise faithfully to
quit the table soon, and departed with kind glances to each. She
dropped her gloves on Foker’s side of the table and her handkerchief on
Pen’s. Each had had some little attention paid to him: her politeness
to Mr. Foker was perhaps a little more encouraging than her kindness to
Arthur: but the benevolent little creature did her best to make both
the gentlemen happy. Foker caught her last glance as she rushed out of
the door; that bright look passed over Mr. Strong’s broad white
waistcoat and shot straight at Harry Foker’s. The door closed on the
charmer: he sate down with a sigh, and swallowed a bumper of claret.
As the dinner at which Pen and his uncle took their places was not one
of our grand parties, it had been served at a considerably earlier hour
than those ceremonial banquets of the London season, which custom has
ordained shall scarcely take place before nine o’clock; and, the
company being small, and Miss Blanche anxious to betake herself to her
piano in the drawing-room, giving constant hints to her mother to
retreat,—Lady Clavering made that signal very speedily, so that it was
quite daylight yet when the ladies reached the upper apartments, from
the flower-embroidered balconies of which they could command a view of
the two Parks, of the poor couples and children still sauntering in the
one, and of the equipages of ladies and the horses of dandies passing
through the arch of the other. The sun, in a word had not set behind
the elms of Kensington Gardens, and was still gilding the statue
erected by the ladies of England in honour of his Grace the Duke of
Wellington, when Lady Clavering and her female friends left the
gentlemen drinking wine.
The windows of the dining-room were opened to let in the fresh air, and
afforded to the passers-by in the street a pleasant, or perhaps,
tantalising view of six gentlemen in white waistcoats with a quantity
of decanters and a variety of fruits before them—little boys, as they
passed and jumped up at the area-railings and took a peep, said to one
another, “Hi hi, Jim, shouldn’t you like to be there and have a cut of
that there pineapple?”—the horses and carriages of the nobility and
gentry passed by conveying them to Belgravian toilets: the policeman,
with clamping feet patrolled up and down before the mansion: the shades
of evening began to fall: the gasman came and lighted the lamps before
Sir Francis’s door: the butler entered the dining-room, and illuminated
the antique gothic chandelier over the antique carved oak dining-table:
so that from outside the house you looked inwards upon a night-scene of
feasting and wax-candles; and from within you beheld a vision of a calm
summer evening, and the wall of Saint James’s Park, and the sky above,
in which a star or two was just beginning to twinkle.
Jeames, with folded legs, leaning against the door-pillar of his
master’s abode, looked forth musingly upon the latter tranquil sight:
whilst a spectator clinging to the railings examined the former scene.
Policeman X passing, gave his attention to neither, but fixed it upon
the individual holding by the railings, and gazing into Sir Francis
Clavering’s dining-room, where Strong was laughing and talking away,
making the conversation for the party.
The man at the railing was very gorgeously attired with chains,
jewellery, and waistcoats, which the illumination from the house
lighted up to great advantage; his boots were shiny; he had brass
buttons to his coat, and large white wristbands over his knuckles; and
indeed looked so grand, that X imagined he beheld a member of
parliament, or a person of consideration before him. Whatever his rank,
however, the M.P., or person of consideration, was considerably excited
by wine; for he lurched and reeled somewhat in his gait, and his hat
was cocked over his wild and bloodshot eyes in a manner which no sober
hat ever could assume. His copious black hair was evidently
surreptitious, and his whiskers of the Tyrian purple.
As Strong’s laughter, following after one of his own gros mots, came
ringing out of window, this gentleman without laughed and sniggered in
the queerest way likewise, and he slapped his thigh and winked at
Jeames pensive in the portico, as much as to say, “Plush, my boy, isn’t
that a good story?”
Jeames’s attention had been gradually drawn from the moon in the
heavens to this sublunary scene; and he was puzzled and alarmed by the
appearance of the man in shiny boots. “A holtercation,” he remarked
afterwards, in the servants’-hall—a “holtercation with a feller in the
streets is never no good; and indeed he was not hired for any such
purpose.” So, having surveyed the man for some time, who went on
laughing, reeling, nodding his head with tipsy knowingness, Jeames
looked out of the portico, and softly called “Pleaceman,” and beckoned
to that officer.
X marched up resolute, with one Berlin glove stuck in his belt-side,
and Jeames simply pointed with his index finger to the individual who
was laughing against the railings. Not one single word more than
“Pleaceman” did he say, but stood there in the calm summer evening,
pointing calmly: a grand sight.
X advanced to the individual and said, “Now, sir, will you have the
kindness to move hon?”
The individual, who was in perfect good-humour, did not appear to hear
one word which Policeman X uttered, but nodded and waggled his grinning
head at Strong, until his hat almost fell from his head over the area
railings.
“Now, sir, move on, do you hear?” cries X, in a much more peremptory
tone, and he touched the stranger gently with one of the fingers
enclosed in the gauntlets of the Berlin woof.
He of the many rings instantly started, or rather staggered back, into
what is called an attitude of self-defence, and in that position began
the operation which is entitled ‘squaring’ at Policeman X, and showed
himself brave and warlike, if unsteady. “Hullo! keep your hands off a
gentleman,” he said, with an oath which need not be repeated.
“Move on out of this,” said X, “and don’t be a blocking up the
pavement, staring into gentlemen’s dining-rooms.”
“Not stare—ho, ho,—not stare—that is a good one,” replied the other
with a satiric laugh and sneer—“Who’s to prevent me from staring,
looking at my friends, if I like? not you, old highlows.”
“Friends! I dessay. Move on,” answered X.
“If you touch me, I’ll pitch into you, I will,” roared the other. “I
tell you I know ’em all—That’s Sir Francis Clavering, Baronet, M.P.—I
know him, and he knows me—and that’s Strong, and that’s the young chap
that made the row at the ball. I say, Strong, Strong!”
“It’s that d—— Altamont,” cried Sir Francis within, with a start and a
guilty look; and Strong also, with a look of annoyance, got up from the
table, and ran out to the intruder.
A gentleman in a white waistcoat, running out from a dining-room
bareheaded, a policeman, and an individual decently attired, engaged in
almost fisticuffs on the pavement, were enough to make a crowd, even in
that quiet neighbourhood, at half-past eight o’clock in the evening,
and a small mob began to assemble before Sir Francis Clavering’s door.
“For God’s sake, come in,” Strong said, seizing his acquaintance’s arm.
“Send for a cab, James, if you please,” he added in an under voice to
that domestic; and carrying the excited gentleman out of the street,
the outer door was closed upon him, and the small crowd began to move
away.
Mr. Strong had intended to convey the stranger into Sir Francis’s
private sitting-room, where the hats of the male guests were awaiting
them, and having there soothed his friend by bland conversation, to
have carried him off as soon as the cab arrived—but the new-comer was
in a great state of wrath at the indignity which had been put upon him;
and when Strong would have led him into the second door, said in a
tipsy voice, “That ain’t the door—that’s the dining-room door—where the
drink’s going on—and I’ll go and have some, by Jove; I’ll go and have
some.” At this audacity the butler stood aghast in the hall, and placed
himself before the door: but it opened behind him, and the master of
the house made his appearance, with anxious looks.
“I will have some,—by —— I will,” the intruder was roaring out, as Sir
Francis came forward. “Hullo! Clavering, I say I’m come to have some
wine with you; hay! old boy—hay, old corkscrew? Get us a bottle of the
yellow seal, you old thief—the very best—a hundred rupees a dozen, and
no mistake.”
The host reflected a moment over his company. There is only Welbore,
Pendennis, and those two lads, he thought—and with a forced laugh and a
piteous look, he said,—“Well, Altamont, come in. I am very glad to see
you, I’m sure.”
Colonel Altamont, for the intelligent reader has doubtless long ere
this discovered in the stranger His Excellency the Ambassador of the
Nawaub of Lucknow, reeled into the dining-room, with a triumphant look
towards Jeames, the footman, which seemed to say, “There, sir, what do
you think of that? Now, am I a gentleman or no?” and sank down into the
first vacant chair. Sir Francis Clavering timidly stammered out the
Colonel’s name to his guest Mr. Welbore Welbore, and his Excellency
began drinking wine forthwith and gazing round upon the company, now
with the most wonderful frowns, and anon with the blandest smiles, and
hiccupped remarks encomiastic of the drink which he was imbibing.
“Very singular man. Has resided long in a native court in India,”
Strong said, with great gravity, the Chevalier’s presence of mind never
deserting him—“in those Indian courts they get very singular habits.”
“Very,” said Major Pendennis, drily, and wondering what in goodness’
name was the company into which he had got.
Mr. Foker was pleased with the new-comer. “It’s the man who would sing
the Malay song at the Back Kitchen,” he whispered to Pen. “Try this
pine, sir,” he then said to Colonel Altamont, “it’s uncommonly fine.”
“Pines—I’ve seen ’em feed pigs on pines,” said the Colonel.
“All the Nawaub of Lucknow’s pigs are fed on pines,” Strong whispered
to Major Pendennis.
“Oh, of course,” the Major answered. Sir Francis Clavering was, in the
meanwhile, endeavouring to make an excuse to his brother-guest for the
new-comer’s condition, and muttered something regarding Altamont, that
he was an extraordinary character, very eccentric, very—had Indian
habits—didn’t understand the rules of English society—to which old
Welbore, a shrewd old gentleman, who drank his wine with great
regularity, said, “that seemed pretty clear.”
Then the Colonel, seeing Pen’s honest face, regarded it for a while
with as much steadiness as became his condition; and said, “I know you,
too, young fellow. I remember you. Baymouth ball, by Jingo. Wanted to
fight the Frenchman. I remember you;” and he laughed, and he squared
with his fists, and seemed hugely amused in the drunken depths of his
mind, as these recollections passed, or, rather, reeled across it.
“Mr. Pendennis, you remember Colonel Altamont, at Baymouth?” Strong
said: upon which Pen, bowing rather stiffly, said, “he had the pleasure
of remembering that circumstance perfectly.”
“What’s his name?” cried the Colonel. Strong named Mr. Pendennis again.
“Pendennis!—Pendennis be hanged!” Altamont roared out to the surprise
of every one, and thumping with his fist on the table.
“My name is also Pendennis, sir,” said the Major, whose dignity was
exceedingly mortified by the evening’s events—that he, Major Pendennis,
should have been asked to such a party, and that a drunken man should
have been introduced to it. “My name is Pendennis, and I will be
obliged to you not to curse it too loudly.”
The tipsy man turned round to look at him, and as he looked, it
appeared as if Colonel Altamont suddenly grew sober. He put his hand
across his forehead, and in doing so, displaced somewhat the black wig
which he wore; and his eyes stared fiercely at the Major, who, in his
turn, like a resolute old warrior as he was, looked at his opponent
very keenly and steadily. At the end of the mutual inspection, Altamont
began to button up his brass-buttoned coat, and rising up from his
chair, suddenly, and to the company’s astonishment, reeled towards the
door, and issued from it, followed by Strong: all that the latter heard
him utter was—“Captain Beak! Captain Beak, by jingo!”
There had not passed above a quarter of an hour from his strange
appearance to his equally sudden departure. The two young men and the
baronet’s other guest wondered at the scene, and could find no
explanation for it. Clavering seemed exceedingly pale and agitated, and
turned with looks of almost terror towards Major Pendennis. The latter
had been eyeing his host keenly for a moment or two. “Do you know him?”
asked Sir Francis of the Major.
“I am sure I have seen the fellow,” the Major replied, looking as if
he, too, was puzzled. “Yes, I have it. He was a deserter from the Horse
Artillery who got into the Nawaub’s service. I remember his face quite
well.”
“Oh!” said Clavering, with a sigh which indicated immense relief of
mind, and the Major looked at him with a twinkle of his sharp old eyes.
The cab which Strong had desired to be called, drove away with the
Chevalier and Colonel Altamont; coffee was brought to the remaining
gentlemen, and they went upstairs to the ladies in the drawing-room,
Foker declaring confidentially to Pen that “this was the rummest go he
ever saw,” which decision Pen said, laughing, “Showed great
discrimination on Mr. Foker’s part.”
Then, according to her promise, Miss Amory made music for the young
men. Foker was enraptured with her performance, and kindly joined in
the airs which she sang, when he happened to be acquainted with them.
Pen affected to talk aside with others of the party, but Blanche
brought him quickly to the piano, by singing some of his own words,
those which we have given in a previous number, indeed, and which the
Sylphide had herself, she said, set to music. I don’t know whether the
air was hers, or how much of it was arranged for her by Signor
Twankidillo, from whom she took lessons: but good or bad, original or
otherwise, it delighted Mr. Pen, who remained by her side, and turned
the leaves now for her most assiduously—“Gad! how I wish I could write
verses like you, Pen,” Foker sighed afterwards to his companion. “If I
could do ’em, wouldn’t I, that’s all? But I never was a dab at writing,
you see, and I’m sorry I was so idle when I was at school.”
No mention was made before the ladies of the curious little scene which
had been transacted below-stairs; although Pen was just on the point of
describing it to Miss Amory, when that young lady inquired for Captain
Strong, who she wished should join her in a duet. But chancing to look
up towards Sir Francis Clavering, Arthur saw a peculiar expression of
alarm in the baronet’s ordinarily vacuous face, and discreetly held his
tongue. It was rather a dull evening. Welbore went to sleep as he
always did at music and after dinner: nor did Major Pendennis entertain
the ladies with copious anecdotes and endless little scandalous
stories, as his wont was, but sate silent for the most part, and
appeared to be listening to the music, and watching the fair young
performer.
The hour of departure having arrived the Major rose, regretting that so
delightful an evening should have passed away so quickly, and addressed
a particularly fine compliment to Miss Amory upon her splendid talents
as a singer. “Your daughter, Lady Clavering,” he said to that lady, “is
a perfect nightingale—a perfect nightingale, begad! I have scarcely
ever heard anything equal to her, and her pronunciation of every
language—begad, of every language—seems to me to be perfect; and the
best houses in London must open before a young lady who has such
talents, and, allow an old fellow to say, Miss Amory, such a face.”
Blanche was as much astonished by these compliments as Pen was, to whom
his uncle, a little time since, had been speaking in very disparaging
terms of the Sylph. The Major and the two young men walked home
together, after Mr. Foker had placed his mother in her carriage, and
procured a light for an enormous cigar.
The young gentleman’s company or his tobacco did not appear to be
agreeable to Major Pendennis, who eyed him askance several times, and
with a look which plainly indicated that he wished Mr. Foker would take
his leave; but Foker hung on resolutely to the uncle and nephew, even
until they came to the former’s door in Bury Street, where the Major
wished the lads good night.
“And I say, Pen,” he said in a confidential whisper, calling his nephew
back, “mind you make a point of calling in Grosvenor Place to-morrow.
They’ve been uncommonly civil; mons’ously civil and kind.”
Pen promised and wondered, and the Major’s door having been closed upon
him by Morgan, Foker took Pen’s arm, and walked with him for some time
silently puffing his cigar. At last, when they had reached Charing
Cross on Arthur’s way home to the Temple, Harry Foker relieved himself,
and broke out with that eulogium upon poetry, and those regrets
regarding a misspent youth which have just been mentioned. And all the
way along the Strand, and up to the door of Pen’s very staircase, in
Lamb Court, Temple, young Harry Foker did not cease to speak about
singing and Blanche Amory.