A Visit of Politeness
Costigan never roused Pen from his slumbers; there was no hostile
message from Mr. Huxter to disturb him; and when Pen woke, it was with
a brisker and more lively feeling than ordinarily attends that moment
in the day of the tired and blase London man. A City man wakes up to
care and consols, and the thoughts of ’Change and the counting-house
take possession of him as soon as sleep flies from under his night-cap;
a lawyer rouses himself with the early morning to think of the case
that will take him all his day to work upon, and the inevitable
attorney to whom he has promised his papers ere night. Which of us has
not his anxiety instantly present when his eyes are opened, to it and
to the world, after his night’s sleep? Kind strengthener that enables
us to face the day’s task with renewed heart! Beautiful ordinance of
Providence that creates rest as it awards labour!
Mr. Pendennis’s labour, or rather his disposition, was of that sort
that his daily occupations did not much interest him, for the
excitement of literary composition pretty soon subsides with the hired
labourer, and the delight of seeing one’s-self in print only extends to
the first two or three appearances in the magazine or newspaper page.
Pegasus put into harness, and obliged to run a stage every day, is as
prosaic as any other hack, and won’t work without his whip or his feed
of corn. So, indeed, Mr. Arthur performed his work at the Pall Mall
Gazette (and since his success as a novelist with an increased salary),
but without the least enthusiasm, doing his best or pretty nearly, and
sometimes writing ill and sometimes well. He was a literary hack,
naturally fast in pace, and brilliant in action.
Neither did society, or that portion which he saw, excite or amuse him
over much. In spite of his brag and boast to the contrary, he was too
young as yet for women’s society, which probably can only be had in
perfection when a man has ceased to think about his own person, and has
given up all designs of being a conqueror of ladies; he was too young
to be admitted as an equal amongst men who had made their mark in the
world, and of whose conversation he could scarcely as yet expect to be
more than a listener. And he was too old for the men of pleasure of his
own age; too much a man of pleasure for the men of business; destinied
in a word to be a good deal alone. Fate awards this lot of solitude to
many a man; and many like it from taste, as many without difficulty
bear it. Pendennis, in reality, suffered it very equanimously; but in
words, and according to his wont, grumbled over it not a little.
“What a nice little artless creature that was,” Mr. Pen thought at the
very instant of waking after the Vauxhall affair; “what a pretty
natural manner she has; how much pleasanter than the minauderies of the
young ladies in the ballrooms” (and here he recalled to himself some
instances of what he could not help seeing was the artful simplicity of
Miss Blanche, and some of the stupid graces of other young ladies in
the polite world); “who could have thought that such a pretty rose
could grow in a porter’s lodge, or bloom in that dismal old flower-pot
of a Shepherd’s Inn? So she learns to sing from old Bows? If her
singing voice is as sweet as her speaking voice, it must be pretty. I
like those low voilees voices. ‘What would you like me to call you?’
indeed, poor little Fanny! It went to my heart to adopt the grand air
with her and tell her to call me, ‘Sir.’ But we’ll have no nonsense of
that sort—no Faust and Margaret business for me. That old Bows! So he
teaches her to sing, does he? He’s a dear old fellow, old Bows: a
gentleman in those old clothes: a philosopher, and with a kind heart,
too. How good he was to me in the Fotheringay business. He, too, has
had his griefs and his sorrows. I must cultivate old Bows. A man ought
to see people of all sorts. I am getting tired of genteel society.
Besides, there’s nobody in town. Yes, I’ll go and see Bows, and
Costigan too; what a rich character! begad, I’ll study him, and put him
into a book.” In this way our young anthropologist talked with himself,
and as Saturday was the holiday of the week, the Pall Mall Gazette
making its appearance upon that day, and the contributors to that
journal having no further calls upon their brains or ink-bottles, Mr.
Pendennis determined he would take advantage of his leisure, and pay a
visit to Shepherd’s Inn—of course to see old Bows.
The truth is, that if Arthur had been the most determined roue and
artful Lovelace who ever set about deceiving a young girl, he could
hardly have adopted better means for fascinating and overcoming poor
little Fanny Bolton than those which he had employed on the previous
night. His dandified protecting air, his conceit, generosity, and
good-humour, the very sense of good and honesty which had enabled him
to check the tremulous advances of the young creature, and not to take
advantage of that little fluttering sensibility,—his faults and his
virtues at once contributed to make her admire him; and if we could
peep into Fanny’s bed (which she shared in a cupboard, along with those
two little sisters to whom we have seen Mr. Costigan administering
gingerbread and apples), we should find the poor little maid tossing
upon her mattress, to the great disturbance of its other two occupants,
and thinking over all the delights and events of that delightful,
eventful night, and all the words, looks, and actions of Arthur, its
splendid hero. Many novels had Fanny read, in secret and at home, in
three volumes and in numbers. Periodical literature had not reached the
height which it has attained subsequently, and the girls of Fanny’s
generation were not enabled to purchase sixteen pages of excitement for
a penny, rich with histories of crime, murder, oppressed virtue, and
the heartless seductions of the aristocracy; but she had had the
benefit of the circulating library which, in conjunction with her
school and a small brandy-ball and millinery business, Miss Minifer
kept,—and Arthur appeared to her at once as the type and realisation of
all the heroes of all those darling greasy volumes which the young girl
had devoured. Mr. Pen, we have seen, was rather a dandy about shirts
and haberdashery in general. Fanny had looked with delight at the
fineness of his linen, at the brilliancy of his shirt-studs, at his
elegant cambric pocket-handkerchief and white gloves, and at the jetty
brightness of his charming boots. The Prince had appeared and
subjugated the poor little handmaid. His image traversed constantly her
restless slumbers; the tone of his voice, the blue light of his eyes,
the generous look, half love, half pity,—the manly protecting smile,
the frank, winning laughter,—all these were repeated in the girl’s fond
memory. She felt still his arm encircling her, and saw him smiling so
grand as he filled up that delicious glass of champagne. And then she
thought of the girls, her friends, who used to sneer at her—of Emma
Baker, who was so proud, forsooth, because she was engaged to a
cheesemonger, in a white apron, near Clare Market; and of Betsy
Rodgers, who make such a to-do about her young man—an attorney’s clerk,
indeed, that went about with a bag!
So that, at about two o’clock in the afternoon—the Bolton family having
concluded their dinner (and Mr. B., who besides his place of porter of
the Inn, was in the employ of Messrs. Tressler, the eminent undertakers
of the Strand, being absent in the country with the Countess of
Estrich’s hearse), when a gentleman in a white hat and white trousers
made his appearance under the Inn archway, and stopped at the porter’s
wicket, Fanny was not in the least surprised, only delightful, only
happy, and blushing beyond all measure. She knew it could be no other
than He. She knew He’d come. There he was; there was His Royal Highness
beaming upon her from the gate. She called to her mother, who was busy
in the upper apartment, “Mamma, mamma,” and ran to the wicket at once,
and opened it, pushing aside the other children. How she blushed as she
gave her hand to him! How affably he took off his white hat as he came
in; the children staring up at him! He asked Mrs. Bolton if she had
slept well, after the fatigues of the night, and hoped she had no
headache; and he said that as he was going that way, he could not pass
the door without asking news of his little partner.
Mrs. Bolton was perhaps rather shy and suspicious about these advances;
but Mr. Pen’s good-humour was inexhaustible, he could not see that he
was unwelcome. He looked about the premises for a seat, and none being
disengaged, for a dish-cover was on one, a workbox on the other, and so
forth, he took one of the children’s chairs, and perched himself upon
that uncomfortable eminence. At this, the children began laughing, the
child Fanny louder than all—at least, she was more amused than any of
them, and amazed at His Royal Highness’s condescension. He to sit down
in that chair—that little child’s chair!—Many and many a time after,
she regarded it: haven’t we almost all, such furniture in our rooms,
that our fancy peoples with dear figures, that our memory fills with
sweet smiling faces, which may never look on us more?
So Pen sate down and talked away with great volubility to Mrs. Bolton.
He asked about the undertaking business, and how many mutes went down
with Lady Estrich’s remains; and about the Inn, and who lived there. He
seemed very much interested about Mr. Campion’s cab and horse, and had
met that gentleman in society. He thought he should like shares in the
Polwheedle and Tredyddlum; did Mrs. Bolton do for those chambers? Were
there any chambers to let in the Inn? It was better than the Temple: he
should like to come to live in Shepherd’s Inn. As for Captain Strong,
and—Colonel Altamont—was his name? he was deeply interested in them
too. The Captain was an old friend at home. He had dined with him at
chambers here, before the Colonel came to live with him. What sort of
man was the Colonel? Wasn’t he a stout man, with a large quantity of
jewellery, and a wig and large black whiskers—very black (here Pen was
immensely waggish, and caused hysteric giggles of delight from the
ladies)—very black indeed; in fact, blue black; that is to say, a rich
greenish purple? That was the man; he had met him, too, at Sir Fr—— in
Society.
“Oh, we know,” said the ladies, “Sir F—— is Sir F. Clavering he’s often
here: two or three times a week with the Captain. My little boy has
been out for bill-stamps for him. O Lor! I beg pardon, I shouldn’t have
mentioned no secrets,” Mrs. Bolton blurted out, being talked perfectly
into good-nature by this time. “But we know you to be a gentleman, Mr.
Pendennis, for I’m sure you have shown that you can beayve as such.
Hasn’t Mr. Pendennis, Fanny?”
Fanny loved her mother for that speech. She cast up her dark eyes to
the low ceiling and said, “Oh, that he has, I’m sure, Ma,” with a voice
full of feeling.
Pen was rather curious about the bill-stamps, and concerning the
transactions in Strong’s chambers. And he asked, when Altamont came and
joined the Chevalier, whether he too was out for bill-stamps, who he
was, whether he saw many people, and so forth. These questions, put
with considerable adroitness by Pen who was interested about Sir
Francis Clavering’s doings from private motives of his own, were
artlessly answered by Mrs. Bolton, and to the utmost of her knowledge
and ability, which, in truth, were not very great.
These questions answered, and Pen being at a loss for more, luckily
recollected his privilege as a member of the Press, and asked the
ladies whether they would like any orders for the play? The play was
their delight, as it is almost always the delight of every theatrical
person. When Bolton was away professionally (it appeared that of late
the porter of Shepherd’s Inn had taken a serious turn, drank a good
deal, and otherwise made himself unpleasant to the ladies of his
family), they would like of all things to slip out and go to the
theatre—little Barney, their son, keeping the lodge; and Mr.
Pendennis’s most generous and most genteel compliment of orders was
received with boundless gratitude by both mother and daughter.
Fanny clapped her hands with pleasure: her faced beamed with it. She
looked and nodded, and laughed at her mamma, who nodded and laughed in
her turn. Mrs. Bolton was not superannuated for pleasure yet, or by any
means too old for admiration, she thought. And very likely Mr.
Pendennis, in his conversation with her, had insinuated some
compliments, or shaped his talk so as to please her. At first against
Pen, and suspicious of him, she was his partisan now, and almost as
enthusiastic about him as her daughter. When two women get together to
like a man, they help each other on—each pushes the other forward—and
the second, out of sheer sympathy, becomes as eager as the
principal:—at least, so it is said by philosophers who have examined
this science.
So the offer of the play-tickets, and other pleasantries; put all
parties into perfect good-humour, except for one brief moment, when one
of the younger children, hearing the name of ‘Astley’s’ pronounced,
came forward and stated that she should like very much to go, too; on
which, Fanny said, “Don’t bother!” rather sharply; and Mamma said,
“Git-long, Betsy-Jane, do now, and play in the court:” so that the two
little ones, namely, Betsy-Jane and Ameliar-Ann, went away in their
little innocent pinafores, and disported in the courtyard on the smooth
gravel, round about the statue of Shepherd the Great.
And here, as they were playing, they very possibly communicated with an
old friend of theirs and dweller in the Inn; for while Pen was making
himself agreeable to the ladies at the lodge, who were laughing
delighted at his sallies, an old gentleman passed under the archway
from the Inn-square, and came and looked in at the door of the lodge.
He made a very blank and rueful face when he saw Mr. Arthur seated upon
a table, like Macheath in the play, in easy discourse with Mrs. Bolton
and her daughter.
“What! Mr. Bows? How d’you do, Bows?” cried out Pen, in a cheery, loud
voice. “I was coming to see you, and was asking your address of these
ladies.”
“You were coming to see me, were you, sir?” Bows said, and came in with
a sad face, and shook hands with Arthur. “Plague on that old man!”
somebody thought in the room: and so, perhaps, some one else besides
her.