Monseigneur s’amuse
The exertions of that last night at Gaunt House had proved almost too
much for Major Pendennis; and as soon as he could move his weary old
body with safety, he transported himself groaning to Buxton, and sought
relief in the healing waters of that place. Parliament broke up. Sir
Francis Clavering and family left town, and the affairs which we have
just mentioned to the reader were not advanced, in the brief interval
of a few days or weeks which have occurred between this and the last
chapter. The town was, however, emptied since then.
The season was now come to a conclusion: Pen’s neighbours, the lawyers,
were gone upon circuit: and his more fashionable friends had taken
their passports for the Continent, or had fled for health or excitement
to the Scotch moors. Scarce a man was to be seen in the bow-windows of
the Clubs, or on the solitary Pall Mall pavement. The red jackets had
disappeared from before the Palace-gate: the tradesmen of St. James’s
were abroad taking their pleasure: the tailors had grown mustachios and
were gone up the Rhine: the bootmakers were at Ems or Baden, blushing
when they met their customers at those places of recreation, or punting
beside their creditors at the gambling-tables: the clergymen of St.
James’s only preached to half a congregation, in which there was not a
single sinner of distinction: the band in Kensington Gardens had shut
up their instruments of brass and trumpets of silver: only two or three
old flies and chaises crawled by the banks of the Serpentine; and
Clarence Bulbul, who was retained in town by his arduous duties as a
Treasury clerk, when he took his afternoon ride in Rotten Row, compared
its loneliness to the vastness of the Arabian desert and himself to a
Bedouin wending his way through that dusty solitude. Warrington stowed
away a quantity of Cavendish tobacco in his carpet-bag, and betook
himself, as his custom was in the vacation, to his brother’s house in
Norfolk. Pen was left alone in chambers for a while, for this man of
fashion could not quit the metropolis when he chose always: and was at
present detained by the affairs of his newspaper, the Pall Mall
Gazette, of, which he acted as the editor and charge d’affaires during
the temporary absence of the chief, Captain Shandon, who was with his
family at the salutary watering-place of Boulogne-sur-Mer.
Although, as we have seen, Mr. Pen had pronounced himself for years
past to be a man perfectly blase and wearied of life, yet the truth is
that he was an exceedingly healthy young fellow still: with a fine
appetite, which he satisfied with the greatest relish and satisfaction
at least once a day; and a constant desire for society, which showed
him to be anything but misanthropical. If he could not get a good
dinner he sate down to a bad one with perfect contentment; if he could
not procure the company of witty or great or beautiful persons, he put
up with any society that came to hand; and was perfectly satisfied in a
tavern-parlour or on board a Greenwich steamboat, or in a jaunt to
Hampstead with Mr. Finucane, his colleague at the Pall Mall Gazette; or
in a visit to the summer theatres across the river; or to the Royal
Gardens of Vauxhall, where he was on terms of friendship with the great
Simpson, and where he shook the principal comic singer of the lovely
equestrian of the arena by the hand. And while he could watch the
grimaces or the graces of these with a satiric humour that was not
deprived of sympathy, he could look on with an eye of kindness at the
lookers-on too; at the roystering youth bent upon enjoyment, and here
taking it: at the honest parents, with their delighted children
laughing and clapping their hands at the show: at the poor outcasts,
whose laughter was less innocent though perhaps louder, and who brought
their shame and their youth here, to dance and be merry till the dawn
at least; and to get bread and drown care. Of this sympathy with all
conditions of men Arthur often boasted: said he was pleased to possess
it: and that he hoped thus to the last he should retain it. As another
man has an ardour for art or music, or natural science, Mr. Pen said
that anthropology was his favourite pursuit; and had his eyes always
eagerly open to its infinite varieties and beauties: contemplating with
an unfailing delight all specimens of it in all places to which he
resorted, whether it was the coquetting of a wrinkled dowager in a
ballroom, or a high-bred young beauty blushing in her prime there;
whether it was a hulking guardsman coaxing a servant-girl in the
Park—or innocent little Tommy that was feeding the ducks whilst the
nurse listened. And indeed a man whose heart is pretty clean, can
indulge in this pursuit with an enjoyment that never ceases, and is
only perhaps the more keen because it is secret and has a touch of
sadness in it: because he is of his mood and humour lonely, and apart
although not alone.
Yes, Pen used to brag and talk in his impetuous way to Warrington. “I
was in love so fiercely in my youth, that I have burned out that flame
for ever, I think, and if ever I marry, it will be a marriage of reason
that I will make, with a well-bred, good-tempered, good-looking person
who has a little money, and so forth, that will cushion our carriage in
its course through life. As for romance, it is all done; I have spent
that out, and am old before my time—I’m proud of it.”
“Stuff!” growled the other, “you fancied you were getting bald the
other day, and bragged about it as you do about everything. But you
began to use the bear’s-grease pot directly the hairdresser told you;
and are scented like a barber ever since.”
“You are Diogenes,” the other answered, “and you want every man to live
in a tub like yourself. Violets smell better than stale tobacco, you
grizzly old cynic.” But Mr. Pen was blushing whilst he made this reply
to his unromantical friend, and indeed cared a great deal more about
himself still than such a philosopher perhaps should have done. Indeed,
considering that he was careless about the world, Mr. Pen ornamented
his person with no small pains in order to make himself agreeable to
it, and for a weary pilgrim as he was, wore very tight boots and bright
varnish.
It was in this dull season of the year, then, of a shining Friday night
in autumn, that Mr. Pendennis, having completed at his newspaper office
a brilliant leading article—such as Captain Shandon himself might have
written, had the Captain been in good-humour, and inclined to work,
which he never would do except under compulsion—that Mr. Arthur
Pendennis having written his article, and reviewed it approvingly as it
lay before him in its wet proof-sheet at the office of the paper,
bethought him that he would cross the water, and regale himself with
the fireworks and other amusements of Vauxhall. So he affably put in
his pocket the order which admitted “Editor of Pall Mall Gazette and
friend” to that place of recreation, and paid with the coin of the
realm a sufficient sum to enable him to cross Waterloo Bridge. The walk
thence to the Gardens was pleasant, the stars were shining in the skies
above, looking down upon the royal property, whence the rockets and
Roman candles had not yet ascended to outshine the stars.
Before you enter the enchanted ground, where twenty thousand additional
lamps are burned every night as usual, most of us have passed through
the black and dreary passage and wickets which hide the splendours of
Vauxhall from uninitiated men. In the walls of this passage are two
holes strongly illuminated, in the midst of which you see two gentlemen
at desks, where they will take either your money as a private
individual, or your order of admission if you are provided with that
passport to the Gardens. Pen went to exhibit his ticket at the
last-named orifice, where, however, a gentleman and two ladies were
already in parley before him.
The gentleman, whose hat was very much on one side, and who wore a
short and shabby cloak in an excessively smart manner, was crying out
in a voice which Pen at once recognised.
“Bedad, sir, if ye doubt me honour, will ye obleege me by stipping out
of that box, and——”
“Lor, Capting!” cried the elder lady.
“Don’t bother me,” said the man in the box.
“And ask Mr. Hodgen himself, who’s in the gyardens, to let these
leedies pass. Don’t be froightened, me dear madam, I’m not going to
quarl with this gintleman, at anyreet before leedies. Will ye go, sir,
and desoire Mr. Hodgen (whose orther I keem in with, and he’s me most
intemate friend, and I know he’s goan to sing the ‘Body Snatcher’ here
to-noight), with Captain Costigan’s compliments, to stip out and let in
the leedies—for meself, sir, I’ve seen Vauxhall, and I scawrun any
interfayrance on moi account: but for these leedies, one of them has
never been there, and of should think ye’d harly take advantage of me
misfartune in losing the ticket, to deproive her of her pleasure.”
“It ain’t no use, Captain. I can’t go about your business,” the
check-taker said; on which the Captain swore an oath, and the elder
lady said, “Lor, ow provokin!”
As for the young one, she looked up at the Captain and said, “Never
mind, Captain Costigan, I’m sure I don’t want to go at all. Come away,
mamma.” And with this, although she did not want to go at all, her
feelings overcame her, and she began to cry.
“Me poor child!” the Captain said. “Can ye see that, sir, and will ye
not let this innocent creature in?”
“It ain’t my business,” cried the doorkeeper, peevishly, out of the
illuminated box. And at this minute Arthur came up, and recognising
Costigan, said, “Don’t you know me, Captain? Pendennis!” And he took
off his hat and made a bow to the two ladies. “Me dear boy! Me dear
friend!” cried the Captain, extending towards Pendennis the grasp of
friendship; and he rapidly explained to the other what he called “a
most unluckee conthratong.” He had an order for Vauxhall, admitting
two, from Mr. Hodgen, then within the Gardens, and singing (as he did
at the Back Kitchen and the nobility’s concerts, the ‘Body Snatcher,’
the ‘Death of General Wolfe,’ the ‘Banner of Blood,’ and other
favourite melodies); and, having this order for the admission of two
persons, he thought that it would admit three, and had come accordingly
to the Gardens with his friends. But, on his way, Captain Costigan had
lost the paper of admission—it was not forthcoming at all; and the
leedies must go back again, to the great disappointment of one of them,
as Pendennis saw.
Arthur had a great deal of good-nature for everybody, and sympathised
with the misfortunes of all sorts of people: how could he refuse his
sympathy in such a case as this? He had seen the innocent face as it
looked up to the Captain, the appealing look of the girl, the piteous
quiver of the mouth, and the final outburst of tears. If it had been
his last guinea in the world, he must have paid it to have given the
poor little thing pleasure. She turned the sad imploring eyes away
directly they lighted upon a stranger, and began to wipe them with her
handkerchief. Arthur looked very handsome and kind as he stood before
the women, with his hat off, blushing, bowing, generous, a gentleman.
“Who are they?” he asked of himself. He thought he had seen the elder
lady before.
“If I can be of any service to you, Captain Costigan,” the young man
said, “I hope you will command me; is there any difficulty about taking
these ladies into the garden? Will you kindly make use of my purse?
And—and I have a ticket myself which will admit two—I hope, ma’am, you
will permit me?”
The first impulse of the Prince of Fairoaks was to pay for the whole
party, and to make away with his newspaper order as poor Costigan had
done with his own ticket. But his instinct, and the appearance of the
two women, told him that they would be better pleased if he did not
give himself the airs of a grand seigneur, and he handed his purse to
Costigan, and laughingly pulled out his ticket with one hand, as he
offered the other to the elder of the ladies—ladies was not the
word—they had bonnets and shawls, and collars and ribbons, and the
youngest showed a pretty little foot and boot under her modest grey
gown, but his Highness of Fairoaks was courteous to every person who
wore a petticoat whatever its texture was, and the humbler the wearer,
only the more stately and polite in his demeanour.
“Fanny, take the gentleman’s arm,” the elder said; “Since you will be
so very kind—I’ve seen you often come in at our gate, sir, and go in to
Captain Strong’s at No. 3.”
Fanny made a little curtsey, and put her hand under Arthur’s arm. It
had on a shabby little glove, but it was pretty and small. She was not
a child, but she was scarcely a woman as yet; her tears had dried up,
and her cheek mantled with youthful blushes, and her eyes glistened
with pleasure and gratitude, as she looked up into Arthur’s kind face.
Arthur, in a protecting way, put his other hand upon the little one
resting on his arm. “Fanny’s a very pretty little name,” he said, “and
so you know me, do you?”
“We keep the lodge, sir, at Shepherd’s Inn,” Fanny said with a curtsey;
“and I’ve never been at Vauxhall, sir, and Papa didn’t like me to
go—and—and—O—O—law, how beautiful!” She shrank back as she spoke,
starting with wonder and delight as she saw the Royal Gardens blaze
before her with a hundred million of lamps, with a splendour such as
the finest fairy tale, the finest pantomime she had ever witnessed at
the theatre, had never realised. Pen was pleased with her pleasure, and
pressed to his side the little hand which clung so kindly to him. “What
would I not give for a little of this pleasure?” said the blase young
man.
“Your purse, Pendennis, me dear boy,” said the Captain’s voice behind
him. “Will ye count it? it’s all roight—no—ye thrust in old Jack
Costigan (he thrusts me, ye see, madam). Ye’ve been me preserver, Pen
(I’ve known um since choildhood, Mrs. Bolton; he’s the proproietor of
Fairoaks Castle, and many’s the cooper of clart I’ve dthrunk there with
the first nobilitee of his neetive countee),—Mr. Pendennis, ye’ve been
me preserver, and of thank ye; me daughtther will thank ye;—Mr.
Simpson, your humble servant sir.”
If Pen was magnificent in his courtesy to the ladies, what was his
splendour in comparison to Captain Costigan’s bowing here and there,
and crying bravo to the singers?
A man, descended like Costigan, from a long line of Hibernian kings,
chieftains, and other magnates and sheriffs of the county, had of
course too much dignity and self-respect to walk arrum-in-arrum (as the
Captain phrased it) with a lady who occasionally swept his room out,
and cooked his mutton-chops. In the course of their journey from
Shepherd’s Inn to Vauxhall Gardens, Captain Costigan had walked by the
side of the two ladies, in a patronising and affable manner pointing
out to them the edifices worthy of note, and discoorsing, according to
his wont, about other cities and countries which he had visited, and
the people of rank and fashion with whom he had the honour of an
acquaintance. Nor could it be expected, nor, indeed, did Mrs. Bolton
expect, that, arrived in the Royal property, and strongly illuminated
by the flare of the twenty thousand additional lamps, the Captain could
relax from his dignity, and give an arm to a lady who was, in fact,
little better than a housekeeper or charwoman.
But Pen, on his part, had no such scruples. Miss Fanny Bolton did not
make his bed nor sweep his chambers; and he did not choose to let go
his pretty little partner. As for Fanny, her colour heightened, and her
bright eyes shone the brighter with pleasure, as she leaned for
protection on the arm of such a fine gentleman as Mr. Pen. And she
looked at numbers of other ladies in the place, and at scores of other
gentlemen under whose protection they were walking here and there; and
she thought that her gentleman was handsomer and grander-looking than
any other gent in the place. Of course there were votaries of pleasure
of all ranks there—rakish young surgeons, fast young clerks and
commercialists, occasional dandies of the Guard regiments, and the
rest. Old Lord Colchicum was there in attendance upon Mademoiselle
Caracoline, who had been riding in the ring; and who talked her native
French very loud, and used idiomatic expressions of exceeding strength
as she walked about, leaning on the arm of his lordship.
Colchicum was in attendance upon Mademoiselle Carandine, little Tom
Tufthunt was in attendance upon Lord Colchicum; and rather pleased,
too, with his position. When Don Juan scalles the wall, there’s never a
want of a Leporello to hold the ladder. Tom Tufthunt was quite happy to
act as friend to the elderly viscount, and to carve the fowl, and to
make the salad at supper. When Pen and his young lady met the
Viscount’s party, that noble poor only gave Arthur a passing leer of
recognition as his lordship’s eyes passed from Pen’s face under the
bonnet of Pen’s companion. But Tom Tufthunt wagged his head very
good-naturedly at Mr. Arthur, and said, “How are you, old boy?” and
looked extremely knowing at the godfather of this history.
“That is the great rider at Astley’s; I have seen her there,” Miss
Bolton said, looking after Mademoiselle Caracoline; “and who is that
old man? is it not the gentleman in the ring!”
“That is Lord Viscount Colchicum, Miss Fanny,” said Pen with an air of
protection. He meant no harm; he was pleased to patronise the young
girl, and he was not displeased that she should be so pretty, and that
she should be hanging upon his arm, and that yonder elderly Don Juan
should have seen her there.
Fanny was very pretty; her eyes were dark and brilliant, her teeth were
like little pearls; her mouth was almost as red as Mademoiselle
Caracoline’s when the latter had put on her vermilion. And what a
difference there was between the one’s voice and the other’s, between
the girl’s laugh and the woman’s! It was only very lately, indeed, that
Fanny, when looking in the little glass over the Bows-Costigan
mantelpiece as she was dusting it had begun to suspect that she was a
beauty. But a year ago, she was a clumsy, gawky girl, at whom her
father sneered, and of whom the girls at the day-school (Miss
Minifer’s, Newcastle Street, Strand; Miss M., the younger sister, took
the leading business at the Norwich circuit in 182—; and she herself
had played for two seasons with some credit T. R. E. O., T. R. S. W.,
until she fell down a trap-door and broke her leg); the girls at
Fanny’s school, we say, took no account of her, and thought her a dowdy
little creature as long as she remained under Miss Minifer’s
instruction. And it was unremarked and almost unseen in the porter’s
dark lodge of Shepherd’s Inn, that this little flower bloomed into
beauty.
So this young person hung upon Mr. Pen’s arm, and they paced the
gardens together. Empty as London was, there were still some two
millions of people left lingering about it, and amongst them, one or
two of the acquaintances of Mr. Arthur Pendennis.
Amongst them, silent and alone, pale, with his hands in his pockets,
and a rueful nod of the head to Arthur as they met, passed Henry Foker,
Esq. Young Henry was trying to ease his mind by moving from place to
place, and from excitement to excitement. But he thought about Blanche
as he sauntered in the dark walks; he thought about Blanche as he
looked at the devices of the lamps. He consulted the fortune-teller
about her, and was disappointed when that gipsy told him that he was in
love with a dark lady who would make him happy; and at the concert,
though Mr. Momus sang his most stunning comic songs, and asked his most
astonishing riddles, never did a kind smile come to visit Foker’s lips.
In fact, he never heard Mr. Momus at all.
Pen and Miss Bolton were hard by listening to the same concert, and the
latter remarked, and Pen laughed at Mr. Foker’s woebegone face.
Fanny asked what it was that made that odd-looking little man so
dismal? “I think he is crossed in love!” Pen, said. “Isn’t that enough
to make any man dismal, Fanny?” And he looked down at her, splendidly
protecting her, like Egmont at Clara in Goethe’s play, or Leicester at
Amy in Scott’s novel.
“Crossed in love is he? poor gentleman,” said Fanny with a sigh, and
her eyes turned round towards him with no little kindness and pity—but
Harry did not see the beautiful dark eyes.
“How dy do, Mr. Pendennis!”—a voice broke in here—it was that of a
young man in a large white coat with a red neckcloth, over which a
dingy shirt-collar was turned so as to exhibit a dubious neck—with a
large pin of bullion or other metal, and an imaginative waistcoat with
exceedingly fanciful glass buttons, and trousers that cried with a loud
voice, “Come look at me and see how cheap and tawdry I am; my master,
what a dirty buck!” and a little stick in one pocket of his coat, and a
lady in pink satin on the other arm—“How dy do—Forget me, I dare say?
Huxter,—Clavering.”
“How do you do, Mr. Huxter,” the Prince of Fairoaks said in his most
princely manner—“I hope you are very well.”
“Pretty bobbish, thanky.”—And Mr. Huxter wagged his head. “I say,
Pendennis, you’ve been coming it uncommon strong since we had the row
at Wapshot’s, don’t you remember. Great author, hay? Go about with the
swells. Saw your name in the Morning Post. I suppose you’re too much of
a swell to come and have a bit of supper with an old
friend?—Charterhouse Lane to-morrow night,—some devilish good fellows
from Bartholomew’s, and some stunning gin-punch. Here’s my card.” And
with this Mr. Huxter released his hand from the pocket where his cane
was, and pulling off the top of his card-case with his teeth produced
thence a visiting ticket, which he handed to Pen.
“You are exceedingly kind, I am sure,” said Pen: “but I regret that I
have an engagement which will take me out of town to-morrow night.” And
the Marquis of Fairoaks, wondering that such a creature as this could
have the audacity to give him a card, put Mr. Huxter’s card into his
waistcoat pocket with a lofty courtesy. Possibly Mr. Samuel Huxter was
not aware that there was any great social difference between Mr. Arthur
Pendennis and himself. Mr. Huxter’s father was a surgeon and apothecary
at Clavering just as Mr. Pendennis’s papa had been a surgeon and
apothecary at Bath. But the impudence of some men is beyond all
calculation.
“Well, old fellow, never mind,” said Mr. Huxter, who, always frank and
familiar, was from vinous excitement even more affable than usual. “If
ever you are passing, look up our place, I’m mostly at home Saturdays;
and there’s generally a cheese cupboard. Ta, ta.—There’s the bell for
the fireworks ringing. Come along, Mary.” And he set off running with
the rest of the crowd in the direction of the fireworks.
So did Pen presently, when this agreeable youth was out of sight, begin
to run with his little companion; Mrs. Bolton following after them,
with Captain Costigan at her side. But the Captain was too majestic and
dignified in his movements to run for friend or enemy, and he pursued
his course with the usual jaunty swagger which distinguished his steps,
so that he and his companion were speedily distanced by Pen and Miss
Fanny.
Perhaps Arthur forgot, or perhaps he did not choose to remember, that
the elder couple had no money in their pockets, as had been proved by
their adventure at the entrance of the Gardens; howbeit, Pen paid a
couple of shillings for himself and his partner, and with her hanging
close on his arm, scaled the staircase which leads to the firework
gallery. The Captain and mamma might have followed them if they liked,
but Arthur and Fanny were too busy to look back. People were pushing
and squeezing there beside and behind them. One eager individual rushed
by Fanny, and elbowed her so, that she fell back with a little cry,
upon which, of course, Arthur caught her adroitly in his arms, and,
just for protection, kept her so defended, until they mounted the
stair, and took their places.
Poor Foker sate alone on one of the highest benches, his face
illuminated by the fireworks, or in their absence by the moon. Arthur
saw him, and laughed, but did not occupy himself about his friend much.
He was engaged with Fanny. How she wondered! how happy she was! how she
cried O, O, O, as the rockets soared into the air, and showered down in
azure, and emerald, and vermilion! As these wonders blazed and
disappeared before her, the little girl thrilled and trembled with
delight at Arthur’s side—her hand was under his arm still, he felt it
pressing him as she looked up delighted.
“How beautiful they are, sir!” she cried.
“Don’t call me sir, Fanny,” Arthur said.
A quick blush rushed up into the girl’s face. “What shall I call you?”
she said, in a low voice, sweet and tremulous. “What would you wish me
to say, sir?”
“Again, Fanny! Well, I forgot; it is best so, my dear,” Pendennis said,
very kindly and gently. “I may call you Fanny?”
“Oh yes!” she said, and the little hand pressed his arm once more very
eagerly, and the girl clung to him so that he could feel her heart
beating on his shoulder.
“I may call you Fanny, because you are a young girl, and a good girl,
Fanny, and I am an old gentleman. But you mustn’t call me anything but
sir, or Mr. Pendennis, if you like; for we live in very different
stations, Fanny; and don’t think I speak unkindly; and—and why do you
take your hand away, Fanny? Are you afraid of me? Do you think I would
hurt you? Not for all the world, my dear little girl. And—and look how
beautiful the moon and stars are, and how calmly they shine when the
rockets have gone out, and the noisy wheels have done hissing and
blazing. When I came here to-night I did not think I should have had
such a pretty little companion to sit by my side, and see these fine
fireworks. You must know I live by myself, and work very hard. I write
in books and newspapers, Fanny; and I quite tired out, and was expected
to sit alone all night; and—don’t cry, my dear, dear, little girl.”
Here Pen broke out, rapidly putting an end to the calm oration which he
had begun to deliver; for the sight of a woman’s tears always put his
nerves in a quiver, and he began forthwith to coax her and soothe her,
and to utter a hundred and twenty little ejaculations of pity and
sympathy, which need not be repeated here, because they would be absurd
in print. So would a mother’s talk to a child be absurd in print; so
would a lover’s to his bride. That sweet artless poetry bears no
translation; and is too subtle for grammarians’ clumsy definitions. You
have but the same four letters to describe the salute which you perform
on your grandmother’s forehead, and that which you bestow on the sacred
cheek of your mistress; but the same four letters, and not one of them
a labial. Do we mean to hint that r. Arthur Pendennis made any use of
the monosyllable in question? Not so. In the first place, it was dark:
the fireworks were over, and nobody could see him; secondly, he was not
a man to have this kind of secret, and tell it; thirdly and lastly, let
the honest fellow who has kissed a pretty girl, say what would have
been his own conduct in such a delicate juncture?
Well, the truth is, that however you may suspect him, and whatever you
would have done under the circumstances, or Mr. Pen would have liked to
do, he behaved honestly, and like a man. “I will not play with this
little girl’s heart,” he said within himself, “and forget my own or her
honour. She seems to have a great deal of dangerous and rather
contagious sensibility, and I am very glad the fireworks are over, and
that I can take her back to her mother. Come along, Fanny; mind the
steps, and lean on me. Don’t stumble, you heedless little thing; this
is the way, and there is your mamma at the door.”
And there, indeed, Mrs. Bolton was, unquiet in spirit, and grasping her
umbrella. She seized Fanny with maternal fierceness and eagerness, and
uttered some rapid abuse to the girl in an undertone. The expression in
Captain Costigan’s eye—standing behind the matron and winking at
Pendennis from under his hat—was, I am bound to say, indefinably
humorous.
It was so much so, that Pen could not refrain from bursting into a
laugh. “You should have taken my arm, Mrs. Bolton,” he said, offering
it. “I am very glad to bring Miss Fanny back quite safe to you. We
thought you would have followed us up into the gallery. We enjoyed the
fireworks, didn’t we?”
“Oh yes!” said Miss Fanny, with rather a demure look.
“And the bouquet was magnificent,” said Pen. “And it is ten hours since
I had anything to eat, ladies; and I wish you would permit me to invite
you to supper.”
“Dad,” said Costigan, “I’d loike a snack to; only I forgawt me purse,
or I should have invoited these leedies to a collection.”
Mrs. Bolton with considerable asperity said, She ad an eadache, and
would much rather go ome.
“A lobster salad is the best thing in the world for a headache,” Pen
said gallantly, “and a glass of wine I’m sure will do you good. Come,
Mrs. Bolton, be kind to me and oblige me. I shan’t have the heart to
sup without you, and upon my word I have had no dinner. Give me your
arm: give me the umbrella. Costigan, I’m sure you’ll take care of Miss
Fanny; and I shall think Mrs. Bolton angry with me, unless she will
favour me with her society. And we will all sup quietly, and go back in
a cab together.”
The cab, the lobster salad, the frank and good-humoured look of
Pendennis, as he smilingly invited the worthy matron, subdued her
suspicions and her anger. Since he would be so obliging, she thought
she could take a little bit of lobster, and so they all marched away to
a box; and Costigan called for a waither with such a loud and
belligerent voice, as caused one of those officials instantly to run to
him.
The carte was examined on the wall, and Fanny was asked to choose her
favourite dish; upon which the young creature said she was fond of
lobster, too, but also owned to a partiality for raspberry tart. This
delicacy was provided by Pen, and a bottle of the most frisky champagne
was moreover ordered for the delight of the ladies. Little Fanny drank
this;—what other sweet intoxication had she not drunk in the course of
the night?
When the supper, which was very brisk and gay, was over, and Captain
Costigan and Mrs. Bolton had partaken of some of the rack-punch that is
so fragrant at Vauxhall, the bill was called and discharged by Pen with
great generosity,—“loike a foin young English gentleman of th’ olden
toime, be Jove,” Costigan enthusiastically remarked. And as, when they
went out of the box, he stepped forward and gave Mrs. Bolton his arm,
Fanny fell to Pen’s lot, and the young people walked away in high
good-humour together, in the wake of their seniors.
The champagne and the rack-punch, though taken in moderation by all
persons, except perhaps poor Cos, who lurched ever so little in his
gait, had set them in high spirits and good-humour, so that Fanny began
to skip and move her brisk little feet in time to the band, which was
playing waltzes and galops for the dancers. As they came up to the
dancing, the music and Fanny’s feet seemed to go quicker together—she
seemed to spring, as if naturally, from the ground, and as if she
required repression to keep her there.
“Shouldn’t you like a turn?” said the Prince of Fairoaks. “What fun it
would be! Mrs. Bolton, ma’am, do let me take her once round.” Upon
which Mr. Costigan said, “Off wid you!” and Mrs. Bolton not refusing
(indeed, she was an old war-horse, and would have liked, at the
trumpet’s sound, to have entered the arena herself), Fanny’s shawl was
off her back in a minute, and she and Arthur were whirling round in a
waltz in the midst of a great deal of queer, but exceedingly joyful
company.
Pen had no mishap this time with little Fanny, as he had with Miss
Blanche in old days,—at least, there was no mishap of his making. The
pair danced away with great agility and contentment,—first a waltz,
then a galop, then a waltz again, until, in the second waltz, they were
bumped by another couple who had joined the Terpsichorean choir. This
was Mr. Huxter and his pink satin young friend, of whom we have already
had a glimpse.
Mr. Huxter very probably had been also partaking of supper, for he was
even more excited now than at the time when he had previously claimed
Pen’s acquaintance; and, having run against Arthur and his partner, and
nearly knocked them down, this amiable gentleman of course began to
abuse the people whom he had injured, and broke out into a volley of
slang against the unoffending couple. “Now then, stoopid! Don’t keep
the ground if you can’t dance, old Slow Coach!” the young surgeon
roared out (using, at the same time, other expressions far more
emphatic), and was joined in his abuse by the shrill language and
laughter of his partner; to the interruption of the ball, the terror of
poor little Fanny, and the immense indignation of Pen.
Arthur was furious; and not so angry at the quarrel as at the shame
attending it. A battle with a fellow like that! A row in a public
garden, and with a porter’s daughter on his arm! What a position for
Arthur Pendennis! He drew poor little Fanny hastily away from the
dancers to her mother, and wished that lady, and Costigan, and poor
Fanny underground, rather than there, in his companionship, and under
his protection.
When Huxter commenced his attack, that free-spoken young gentleman had
not seen who was his opponent; and directly he was aware that it was
Arthur whom he had insulted, he began to make apologies. “Hold your
stoopid tongue, Mary,” he said to his partner. “It’s an old friend and
crony at home. I beg pardon, Pendennis; wasn’t aware it was you, old
boy.” Mr. Huxter had been one of the boys of the Clavering School, who
had been present at a combat which has been mentioned in the early part
of this story, when young Pen knocked down the biggest champion of the
academy, and Huxter knew that it was dangerous to quarrel with Arthur.
His apologies were as odious to the other as his abuse had been. Pen
stopped his tipsy remonstrance, by telling him to hold his tongue, and
desiring him not to use his (Pendennis’s) name in that place or any
other; and he walked out of the gardens with a titter behind him from
the crowd, every one of whom he would have liked to massacre for having
been witness to the degrading broil. He walked out of the gardens,
quite forgetting poor little Fanny, who came trembling behind him with
her mother and the stately Costigan.
He was brought back to himself by a word from the Captain, who touched
him on the shoulder just as they were passing the inner gate.
“There’s no ray-admittance except ye pay again,” the Captain said.
“Hadn’t I better go back and take the fellow your message?”
Pen burst out laughing. “Take him a message! Do you think I would fight
with such a fellow as that?” he asked.
“No, no! Don’t, don’t?” cried out little Fanny. “How can you be so
wicked, Captain Costigan?” The Captain muttered something about honour,
and winked knowingly at Pen, but Arthur said gallantly, “No, Fanny,
don’t be frightened. It was my fault to have danced in such a place,—I
beg your padon to have asked you to dance there.” And he gave her his
arm once more, and called a cab, and put his three friends into it.
He was about to pay the driver, and to take another carriage for
himself, when little Fanny, still alarmed, put her little hand out, and
caught him by the coat, and implored him and besought him to come in.
“Will nothing satisfy you,” said Pen, in great good-humour, “that I am
not going back to fight him? Well, I will come home with you. Drive to
Shepherd’s Inn, cab.” The cab drove to its destination. Arthur was
immensely pleased by the girl’s solicitude about him: her tender
terrors quite made him forget his previous annoyance.
Pen put the ladies into their lodge, having shaken hands kindly with
both of them; and the Captain again whispered to him that he would see
um in the morning if he was inclined, and take his message to that
“scounthrel.” But the Captain was in his usual condition when he made
the proposal; and Pen was perfectly sure that neither he nor Mr.
Huxter, when they awoke, would remember anything about the dispute.