Which had very nearly been the last of the Story
Doctor Portman’s letter was sent off to its destination in London, and
the worthy clergyman endeavoured to soothe down Mrs. Pendennis into
some state of composure until an answer should arrive, which the Doctor
tried to think, or at any rate persisted in saying, would be
satisfactory as regarded the morality of Mr. Pen. At least Helen’s
wisdom of moving upon London and appearing in person to warn her son of
his wickedness, was impracticable for a day or two. The apothecary
forbade her moving even so far as Fairoaks for the first day, and it
was not until the subsequent morning that she found herself again back
on her sofa at home, with the faithful, though silent, Laura nursing at
her side.
Unluckily for himself and all parties, Pen never read that homily which
Doctor Portman addressed to him, until many weeks after the epistle had
been composed; and day after day the widow waited for her son’s reply
to the charges against him; her own illness increasing with every day’s
delay. It was a hard task for Laura to bear the anxiety; to witness her
dearest friend’s suffering; worst of all, to support Helen’s
estrangement, and the pain caused to her by that averted affection. But
it was the custom of this young lady to the utmost of her power, and by
means of that gracious assistance which Heaven awarded to her pure and
constant prayers, to do her duty. And; as that duty was performed quite
noiselessly,—while the supplications, which endowed her with the
requisite strength for fulfilling it, also took place in her own
chamber, away from all mortal sight,—we, too, must be perforce silent
about these virtues of hers, which no more bear public talking about,
than a flower will bear to bloom in a ballroom. This only we will
say—that a good woman is the loveliest flower that blooms under heaven;
and that we look with love and wonder upon its silent grace, its pure
fragrance, its delicate bloom of beauty. Sweet and beautiful!—the
fairest and the most spotless!—is it not pity to see them bowed down or
devoured by Grief or Death inexorable—wasting in disease—pining with
long pain—or cut off by sudden fate in their prime? We may deserve
grief—but why should these be unhappy?—except that we know that Heaven
chastens those whom it loves best; being pleased, by repeated trials,
to make these pure spirits more pure.
So Pen never got the letter, although it was duly posted and faithfully
discharged by the postman into his letter-box in Lamb Court, and thence
carried by the laundress to his writing-table with the rest of his
lordship’s correspondence; into which room, have we not seen a picture
of him, entering from his little bedroom adjoining, as Mrs. Flanagan,
his laundress, was in the act of drinking his gin?
Those kind readers who have watched Mr. Arthur’s career hitherto, and
have made, as they naturally would do, observations upon the moral
character and peculiarities of their acquaintance, have probably
discovered by this time what was the prevailing fault in Mr. Pen’s
disposition, and who was that greatest enemy, artfully indicated in the
title-page, with whom he had to contend. Not a few of us, my beloved
public, have the very same rascal to contend with: a scoundrel who
takes every opportunity of bringing us into mischief, of plunging us
into quarrels, of leading us into idleness and unprofitable company,
and what not. In a word, Pen’s greatest enemy was himself: and as he
had been pampering, and coaxing, and indulging that individual all his
life, the rogue grew insolent, as all spoiled servants will be; and at
the slightest attempt to coerce him, or make him do that which was
unpleasant to him, became frantically rude and unruly. A person who is
used to making sacrifices—Laura, for instance, who had got such a habit
of giving up her own pleasure for others—can do the business quite
easily; but Pen, unaccustomed as he was to any sort of self-denial,
suffered woundily when called on to pay his share, and savagely
grumbled at being obliged to forgo anything he liked.
He had resolved in his mighty mind then that he would not see Fanny;
and he wouldn’t. He tried to drive the thoughts of that fascinating
little person out of his head, by constant occupation, by exercise, by
dissipation and society. He worked then too much; he walked and rode
too much; he ate, drank, and smoked too much: nor could all the cigars
and the punch of which he partook drive little Fanny’s image out of his
inflamed brain, and at the end of a week of this discipline and
self-denial our young gentleman was in bed with a fever. Let the reader
who has never had a fever in chambers pity the wretch who is bound to
undergo that calamity.
A committee of marriageable ladies, or of any Christian persons
interested in the propagation of the domestic virtues, should employ a
Cruikshank or a Leech, or some other kindly expositor of the follies of
the day, to make a series of designs representing the horrors of a
bachelor’s life in chambers, and leading the beholder to think of
better things, and a more wholesome condition. What can be more
uncomfortable than the bachelor’s lonely breakfast?—with the black
kettle in the dreary fire in midsummer; or, worse still, with the fire
gone out at Christmas, half an hour after the laundress has quitted the
sitting-room? Into this solitude the owner enters shivering, and has to
commence his day by hunting for coals and wood; and before he begins
the work of a student, has to discharge the duties of a housemaid, vice
Mrs. Flanagan, who is absent without leave. Or, again, what can form a
finer subject for the classical designer than the bachelor’s shirt—that
garment which he wants to assume just at dinner-time, and which he
finds without any buttons to fasten it? Then there is the bachelor’s
return to chambers, after a merry Christmas holiday, spent in a cosy
country-house, full of pretty faces, and kind welcomes and regrets. He
leaves his portmanteau at the barber’s in the Court: he lights his
dismal old candle at the sputtering little lamp on the stair: he enters
the blank familiar room, where the only tokens to greet him, that show
any interest in his personal welfare, are the Christmas bills, which
are lying in wait for him, amiably spread out on his reading-table. Add
to these scenes an appalling picture of bachelor’s illness, and the
rents in the Temple will begin to fall from the day of the publication
of the dismal diorama. To be well in chambers is melancholy, and lonely
and selfish enough; but to be ill in chambers—to pass long nights of
pain and watchfulness—to long for the morning and the laundress—to
serve yourself your own medicine by your own watch—to have no other
companion for long hours but your own sickening fancies and fevered
thoughts: no kind hand to give you drink if you are thirsty, or to
smooth the hot pillow that crumples under you,—this, indeed, is a fate
so dismal and tragic, that we shall not enlarge upon its horrors, and
shall only heartily pity those bachelors in the Temple, who brave it
every day.
This lot befell Arthur Pendennis after the various excesses which we
have mentioned, and to which he had subjected his unfortunate brains.
One night he went to bed ill, and the next day awoke worse. His only
visitor that day, besides the laundress, was the Printer’s Devil, from
the Pall Mall Gazette office, whom the writer endeavoured, as best he
could, to satisfy. His exertions to complete his work rendered his
fever the greater: he could only furnish a part of the quantity of
“copy” usually supplied by him; and Shandon being absent, and
Warrington not in London to give a help, the political and editorial
columns of the Gazette looked very blank indeed; nor did the sub-editor
know how to fill them.
Mr. Finucane rushed up to Pen’s chambers, and found that gentleman so
exceedingly unwell, that the good-natured Irishman set to work to
supply his place, if possible, and produced a series of political and
critical compositions, such as no doubt greatly edified the readers of
the periodical in which he and Pen were concerned. Allusions to the
greatness of Ireland, and the genius and virtue of the inhabitants of
that injured country, flowed magnificently from Finucane’s pen; and
Shandon, the Chief of the paper, who was enjoying himself placidly at
Boulogne-sur-Mer, looking over the columns of the journal, which was
forwarded to him, instantly recognised the hand of the great
Sub-editor, and said, laughing, as he flung over the paper to his wife,
“Look here, Mary, my dear, here is Jack at work again.” Indeed, Jack
was a warm friend, and a gallant partisan, and when he had the pen in
hand, seldom let slip an opportunity of letting the world know that
Rafferty was the greatest painter in Europe, and wondering at the petty
jealousy of the Academy, which refused to make him an R.A.: of stating
that it was generally reported at the West End, that Mr. Rooney, M.P.,
was appointed Governor of Barataria; or of introducing into the subject
in hand, whatever it might be, a compliment to the Round Towers, or the
Giant’s Causeway. And besides doing Pen’s work for him, to the best of
his ability, his kind-hearted comrade offered to forgo his Saturday’s
and Sunday’s holiday, and pass those days of holiday and rest as
nurse-tender to Arthur, who, however, insisted, that the other should
not forgo his pleasure, and thankfully assured him that he could bear
best his malady alone.
Taking his supper at the Back Kitchen on the Friday night, after having
achieved the work of the paper, Finucane informed Captain Costigan of
the illness of their young friend in the Temple; and remembering the
fact two days afterwards, the Captain went to Lamb Court and paid a
visit to the invalid on Sunday afternoon.
He found Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, in tears in the sitting-room,
and got a bad report of the poor dear young gentleman within. Pen’s
condition had so much alarmed her, that she was obliged to have
recourse to the stimulus of brandy to enable her to support the grief
which his illness occasioned. As she hung about his bed, and
endeavoured to minister to him, her attentions became intolerable to
the invalid, and he begged her peevishly not to come near him. Hence
the laundress’s tears and redoubled grief, and renewed application to
the bottle, which she was accustomed to use as an anodyne. The Captain
rated the woman soundly for her intemperance, and pointed out to her
the fatal consequences which must ensue if she persisted in her
imprudent courses.
Pen, who was by this time in a very fevered state, yet was greatly
pleased to receive Costigan’s visit. He heard the well-known voice in
his sitting-room, as he lay in the bedroom within, and called the
Captain eagerly to him, and thanked him for coming, and begged him to
take a chair and talk to him. The Captain felt the young man’s pulse
with great gravity—(his own tremulous and clammy hand growing steady
for the instant while his finger pressed Arthur’s throbbing vein)—the
pulse was beating very fiercely—Pen’s face was haggard and hot—his eyes
were bloodshot and gloomy; his “bird,” as the Captain pronounced the
word, afterwards giving a description of his condition, had not been
shaved for nearly a week. Pen made his visitor sit down, and, tossing
and turning in his comfortless bed, began to try and talk to the
Captain in a lively manner, about the Back Kitchen, about Vauxhall and
when they should go again, and about Fanny—how was little Fanny?
Indeed how was she? We know how she went home very sadly on the
previous Sunday evening, after she had seen Arthur light his lamp in
his chambers, whilst he was having his interview with Bows. Bows came
back to his own rooms presently, passing by the lodge door, and looking
into Mrs. Bolton’s, according to his wont, as he passed, but with a
very melancholy face. She had another weary night that night. Her
restlessness wakened her little bedfellows more than once. She daren’t
read more of ‘Walter Lorraine:’ Father was at home, and would suffer no
light. She kept the book under her pillow, and felt for it in the
night. She had only just got to sleep, when the children began to stir
with the morning, almost as early as the birds. Though she was very
angry with Bows, she went to his room at her accustomed hour in the
day, and there the good-hearted musician began to talk to her.
“I saw Mr. Pendennis last night, Fanny,” he said.
“Did you? I thought you did,” Fanny answered, looking fiercely at the
melancholy old gentleman.
“I’ve been fond of you ever since we came to live in this place,” he
continued. “You were a child when I came; and you used to like me,
Fanny, until three or four days ago: until you saw this gentleman.”
“And now, I suppose, you are going to say ill of him,” said Fanny. “Do,
Mr. Bows—that will make me like you better.”
“Indeed I shall do no such thing,” Bows answered; “I think he is a very
good and honest young man.”
“Indeed! you know that if you said a word against him, I would never
speak a word to you again—never!” cried Miss Fanny; and clenched her
little hand, and paced up and down the room. Bows noted, watched, and
followed the ardent little creature with admiration and gloomy
sympathy. Her cheeks flushed, her frame trembled; her eyes beamed love,
anger, defiance. “You would like to speak ill of him,” she said; “but
you daren’t—you know you daren’t!”
“I knew him many years since,” Bows continued, “when he was almost as
young as you are, and he had a romantic attachment for our friend the
Captain’s daughter—Lady Mirabel that is now.”
Fanny laughed. “I suppose there was other people, too, that had
romantic attachments for Miss Costigan,” she said: “I don’t want to
hear about ’em.”
“He wanted to marry her; but their ages were quite disproportionate:
and their rank in life. She would not have him because he had no money.
She acted very wisely in refusing him; for the two would have been very
unhappy, and she wasn’t a fit person to go and live with his family, or
to make his home comfortable. Mr. Pendennis has his way to make in the
world, and must marry a lady of his own rank. A woman who loves a man
will not ruin his prospects, cause him to quarrel with his family, and
lead him into poverty and misery for her gratification. An honest girl
won’t do that, for her own sake, or for the man’s.”
Fanny’s emotion, which but now had been that of defiance and anger,
here turned to dismay and supplication. “What do I know about marrying,
Bows?” she said. “When was there any talk of it? What has there been
between this young gentleman and me that’s to make people speak so
cruel? It was not my doing; nor Arthur’s—Mr. Pendennis’s—that I met him
at Vauxhall. It was the Captain took me and Ma there. We never thought
of nothing wrong, I’m sure. He came and rescued us, and he was so very
kind. Then he came to call and ask after us: and very, very good it was
of a such grand gentleman to be so polite to humble folks like us! And
yesterday Ma and me just went to walk in the Temple Gardens,
and—and”—here she broke out with that usual, unanswerable female
argument of tears—and cried, “Oh! I wish I was dead! I wish I was laid
in my grave; and had never, never seen him!”
“He said as much himself, Fanny,” Bows said; and Fanny asked through
her sobs, Why, why should he wish he had never seen her? Had she ever
done him any harm? Oh, she would perish rather than do him any harm.
Whereupon the musician informed her of the conversation of the day
previous, showed her that Pen could not and must not think of her as a
wife fitting for him, and that she, as she valued her honest
reputation, must strive too to forget him. And Fanny, leaving the
musician, convinced, but still of the same mind, and promising that she
would avoid the danger which menaced her, went back to the porter’s
lodge, and told her mother all. She talked of her love for Arthur, and
bewailed, in her artless manner, the inequality of their condition,
that set barriers between them. “There’s the ‘Lady of Lyons,’” Fanny
said; “Oh, Ma! how I did love Mr. Macready when I saw him do it; and
Pauline, for being faithful to poor Claude, and always thinking of him;
and he coming back to her, an officer, through all his dangers! And if
everybody admires Pauline—and I’m sure everybody does, for being so
true to a poor man—why should a gentleman be ashamed of loving a poor
girl? Not that Mr. Arthur loves me—Oh no, no! I ain’t worthy of him;
only a princess is worthy of such a gentleman as him. Such a
poet!—writing so beautifully, and looking so grand! I am sure he’s a
nobleman, and of ancient family, and kep’ out of his estate. Perhaps
his uncle has it. Ah, if I might, oh, how I’d serve him, and work for
him, and slave for him, that I would. I wouldn’t ask for more than
that, Ma, just to be allowed to see him of a morning; and sometimes
he’d say ‘How d’you, Fanny?’ or ‘God bless you, Fanny!’ as he said on
Sunday. And I’d work, and work; and I’d sit up all night, and read, and
learn, and make myself worthy of him. The Captain says his mother lives
in the country, and is a grand lady there. Oh, how I wish I might go
and be her servant, Ma! I can do plenty of things, and work very neat;
and—and sometimes he’d come home, and I should see him!”
The girl’s head fell on her mother’s shoulder, as she spoke, and she
gave way to a plentiful outpouring of girlish tears, to which the
matron, of course, joined her own. “You mustn’t think no more of him,
Fanny,” she said. “If he don’t come to you, he’s a horrid, wicked man.”
“Don’t call him so, Mother,” Fanny replied. “He’s the best of men, the
best and the kindest. Bows says he thinks he is unhappy at leaving poor
little Fanny. It wasn’t his fault, was it, that we met?—and it ain’t
his that I mustn’t see him again. He says I mustn’t—and I mustn’t,
Mother. He’ll forget me, but I shall never forget him. No! I’ll pray
for him, and love him always—until I die—and I shall die, I know I
shall—and then my spirit will always go and be with him.”
“You forget your poor mother, Fanny, and you’ll break my heart by goin
on so,” Mrs. Bolton said. “Perhaps you will see him. I’m sure you’ll
see him. I’m sure he’ll come to-day. If ever I saw a man in love, that
man is him. When Emily Budd’s young man first came about her, he was
sent away by old Budd, a most respectable man, and violoncello in the
orchestra at the Wells; and his own family wouldn’t hear of it neither.
But he came back. We all knew he would. Emily always said so; and he
married her; and this one will come back too; and you mark a mother’s
words, and see if he don’t, dear.”
At this point of the conversation Mr. Bolton entered the lodge for his
evening meal. At the father’s appearance, the talk between mother and
daughter ceased instantly. Mrs. Bolton caressed and cajoled the surly
undertaker’s aide-de-camp, and said, “Lor, Mr. B. who’d have thought to
see you away from the Club of a Saturday night. Fanny, dear, get your
pa some supper. What will you have, B.? The poor gurl’s got a gathering
in her eye, or somethink in it—I was lookin at it just now as you came
in.” And she squeezed her daughter’s hand as a signal of prudence and
secrecy; and Fanny’s tears were dried up likewise; and by that wondrous
hypocrisy and power of disguise which women practise, and with which
weapons of defence nature endows them, the traces of her emotion
disappeared; and she went and took her work, and sate in the corner so
demure and quiet, that the careless male parent never suspected that
anything ailed her.
Thus, as if fate seemed determined to inflame and increase the poor
child’s malady and passion, all circumstances and all parties round
about her urged it on. Her mother encouraged and applauded it; and the
very words which Bows used in endeavouring to repress her flame only
augmented this unlucky fever. Pen was not wicked and a seducer: Pen was
high-minded in wishing to avoid her. Pen loved her: the good and the
great, the magnificent youth, with the chains of gold and the scented
auburn hair! And so he did: or so he would have loved her five years
back perhaps, before the world had hardened the ardent and reckless
boy—before he was ashamed of a foolish and imprudent passion, and
strangled it as poor women do their illicit children, not on account of
the crime, but of the shame, and from dread that the finger of the
world should point to them.
What respectable person in the world will not say he was quite right to
avoid a marriage with an ill-educated person of low degree, whose
relations a gentleman could not well acknowledge, and whose manners
would not become her new station?—and what philosopher would not tell
him that the best thing to do with these little passions if they spring
up, is to get rid of them, and let them pass over and cure them: that
no man dies about a woman or vice versa: and that one or the other
having found the impossibility of gratifying his or her desire in the
particular instance, must make the best of matters, forget each other,
look out elsewhere, and choose again? And yet, perhaps, there may be
something said on the other side. Perhaps Bows was right in admiring
that passion of Pen’s, blind and unreasoning as it was, that made him
ready to stake his all for his love; perhaps if self-sacrifice is a
laudable virtue, mere worldly self-sacrifice is not very much to be
praised;—in fine, let this be a reserved point to be settled by the
individual moralist who chooses to debate it.
So much is certain, that with the experience of the world which Mr. Pen
now had, he would have laughed at and scouted the idea of marrying a
penniless girl out of a kitchen. And this point being fixed in his
mind, he was but doing his duty as an honest man, in crushing any
unlucky fondness which he might feel towards poor little Fanny.
So she waited and waited in hopes that Arthur would come. She waited
for a whole week, and it was at the end of that time that the poor
little creature heard from Costigan of the illness under which Arthur
was suffering.
It chanced on that very evening after Costigan had visited Pen, that
Arthur’s uncle the excellent Major arrived in town from Buxton, where
his health had been mended, and sent his valet Morgan to make inquiries
for Arthur, and to request that gentleman to breakfast with the Major
the next morning. The Major was merely passing through London on his
way to the Marquis of Steyne’s house of Stillbrook, where he was
engaged to shoot partridges.
Morgan came back to his master with a very long face. He had seen Mr.
Arthur; Mr. Arthur was very bad indeed; Mr. Arthur was in bed with a
fever. A doctor ought to be sent to him; and Morgan thought his case
most alarming.
Gracious goodness! this was sad news indeed. He had hoped that Arthur
could come down to Stillbrook: he had arranged that he should go, and
procured an invitation for his nephew from Lord Steyne. He must go
himself; he couldn’t throw Lord Steyne over: the fever might be
catching: it might be measles: he had never himself had the measles;
they were dangerous when contracted at his age. Was anybody with Mr.
Arthur?
Morgan said there was somebody a-nussing of Mr. Arthur.
The Major then asked, had his nephew taken any advice? Morgan said he
had asked that question, and had been told that Mr. Pendennis had had
no doctor.
Morgan’s master was sincerely vexed at hearing of Arthur’s calamity. He
would have gone to him, but what good could it do Arthur that he, the
Major, should catch a fever? His own ailments rendered it absolutely
impossible that he should attend to anybody but himself. But the young
man must have advice—the best advice; and Morgan was straightway
despatched with a note from Major Pendennis to his friend Doctor
Goodenough, who by good luck happened to be in London and at home, and
who quitted his dinner instantly, and whose carriage was in half an
hour in Upper Temple Lane, near Pen’s chambers.
The Major had asked the kind-hearted physician to bring him news of his
nephew at the Club where he himself was dining, and in the course of
the night the Doctor made his appearance. The affair was very serious:
the patient was in a high fever: he had had Pen bled instantly: and
would see him the first thing in the morning. The Major went
disconsolate to bed with this unfortunate news. When Goodenough came to
see him according to his promise the next day, the Doctor had to listen
for a quarter of an hour to an account of the Major’s own maladies,
before the latter had leisure to hear about Arthur.
He had had a very bad night—his—his nurse said: at one hour he had been
delirious. It might end badly: his mother had better be sent for
immediately. The Major wrote the letter to Mrs. Pendennis with the
greatest alacrity, and at the same time with the most polite
precautions. As for going himself to the lad, in his state it was
impossible. “Could I be of any use to him, my dear Doctor?” he asked.
The Doctor, with a peculiar laugh, said, No: he didn’t think the Major
could be of any use: that his own precious health required the most
delicate treatment, and that he had best go into the country and stay:
that he himself would take care to see the patient twice a day, and do
all in his power for him.
The Major declared upon his honour, that if he could be of any use he
would rush to Pen’s chambers. As it was, Morgan should go and see that
everything was right. The Doctor must write to him by every post to
Stillbrook: it was but forty miles distant from London, and if anything
happened he would come up at any sacrifice.
Major Pendennis transacted his benevolence by deputy and by post. “What
else could he do,” as he said? “Gad, you know, in these cases, it’s
best not disturbing a fellow. If a poor fellow goes to the bad, why,
Gad, you know he’s disposed of. But in order to get well (and in this,
my dear Doctor, I’m sure that you will agree with me), the best way is
to keep him quiet—perfectly quiet.”
Thus it was the old gentleman tried to satisfy his conscience and he
went his way that day to Stillbrook by railway (for railways have
sprung up in the course of this narrative, though they have not quite
penetrated into Pen’s country yet), and made his appearance in his
usual trim order and curly wig, at the dinner-table of the Marquis of
Steyne. But we must do the Major the justice to say, that he was very
unhappy and gloomy in demeanour. Wagg and Wenham rallied him about his
low spirits; asked whether he was crossed in love? and otherwise
diverted themselves at his expense. He lost his money at whist after
dinner, and actually trumped his partner’s highest spade. And the
thoughts of the suffering boy, of whom he was proud, and whom he loved
after his manner, kept the old fellow awake half through the night, and
made him feverish and uneasy.
On the morrow he received a note in a handwriting which he did not
know: it was that of Mr. Bows, indeed, saying that Mr. Arthur Pendennis
had had a tolerable night; and that as Dr. Goodenough had stated that
the Major desired to be informed of his nephew’s health, he, R. B., had
sent him the news per rail.
The next day he was going out shooting, about noon, with some of the
gentlemen staying at Lord Steyne’s house; and the company, waiting for
the carriages, were assembled on the terrace in front of the house,
when a fly drove up from the neighbouring station, and a grey-headed,
rather shabby old gentleman jumped out, and asked for Major Pendennis.
It was Mr. Bows. He took the Major aside and spoke to him; most of the
gentlemen round about saw that something serious had happened, from the
alarmed look of the Major’s face.
Wagg said, “It’s a bailiff come down to nab the Major,” but nobody
laughed at the pleasantry.
“Hullo! What’s the matter, Pendennis?” cried Lord Steyne, with his
strident voice;—“anything wrong?”
“It’s—it’s—my boy that’s dead,” said the Major, and burst into a
sob—the old man was quite overcome.
“Not dead, my Lord; but very ill when I left London,” Mr. Bows said, in
a low voice.
A britzka came up at this moment as the three men were speaking. The
Peer looked at his watch. “You’ve twenty minutes to catch the
mail-train. Jump in, Pendennis; and drive like h——, sir, do you hear?”
The carriage drove off swiftly with Pendennis and his companions, and
let us trust that the oath will be pardoned to the Marquis of Steyne.
The Major drove rapidly from the station to the Temple, and found a
travelling carriage already before him, and blocking up the narrow
Temple Lane. Two ladies got out of it, and were asking their way of the
porters; the Major looked by chance at the panel of the carriage, and
saw the worn-out crest of the Eagle looking at the Sun, and the motto,
“Nec tenui penna,” painted beneath. It was his brother’s old carriage,
built many, many years ago. It was Helen and Laura that were asking
their way to Pen’s room.
He ran up to them; hastily clasped his sister’s arm and kissed her
hand; and the three entered into Lamb Court, and mounted the long
gloomy stair.
They knocked very gently at the door, on which Arthur’s name was
written, and it was opened by Fanny Bolton.