MORE STORMS IN THE PUDDLE.
[Illustration]
Pen's conduct in this business of course was soon made public and
angered his friend Doctor Portman, not a little: while it only amused
Major Pendennis. As for the good Mrs. Pendennis, she was almost
distracted when she heard of the squabble, and of Pen's unchristian
behavior. All sorts of wretchedness, discomfort, crime, annoyance,
seemed to come out of this transaction in which the luckless boy had
engaged; and she longed more than ever to see him out of Chatteries for
a while--any where removed from the woman who had brought him into so
much trouble.
Pen, when remonstrated with by this fond parent, and angrily rebuked by
the doctor for his violence and ferocious intentions, took the matter
_au grand serieux_, with the happy conceit and gravity of youth: said
that he himself was very sorry for the affair, that the insult had come
upon him without the slightest provocation on his part; that he would
permit no man to insult him upon this head without vindicating his own
honor, and appealing with great dignity to his uncle, asked whether he
could have acted otherwise as a gentleman, than as he did in resenting
the outrage offered to him, and in offering satisfaction to the person
chastised?
"_Vous allez trop vite_, my good sir," said the uncle, rather
puzzled, for he had been indoctrinating his nephew with some of his
own notions upon the point of honor--old-world notions savoring of
the camp and pistol a great deal more than our soberer opinions of the
present day--"between men of the world I don't say; but between two
school-boys, this sort of thing is ridiculous, my dear boy--perfectly
ridiculous."
"It is extremely wicked, and unlike my son," said Mrs. Pendennis, with
tears in her eyes; and bewildered with the obstinacy of the boy.
Pen kissed her, and said with great pomposity, "Women, dear mother,
don't understand these matters--I put myself into Foker's hands--I had
no other course to pursue."
Major Pendennis grinned and shrugged his shoulders. The young ones were
certainly making great progress, he thought. Mrs. Pendennis declared
that that Foker was a wicked horrid little wretch, and was sure that he
would lead her dear boy into mischief, if Pen went to the same college
with him. "I have a great mind not to let him go at all," she said: and
only that she remembered that the lad's father had always destined him
for the college in which he had had his own brief education, very likely
the fond mother would have put a veto upon his going to the University.
That he was to go, and at the next October term, had been arranged
between all the authorities who presided over the lad's welfare. Foker
had promised to introduce him to the right set; and Major Pendennis laid
great store upon Pen's introduction into college life and society by
this admirable young gentleman. "Mr. Foker knows the very best young men
now at the University," the major said, "and Pen will form acquaintances
there who will be of the greatest advantage through life to him. The
young Marquis of Plinlimmon is there, eldest son of the Duke of Saint
David's--Lord Magnus Charters is there, Lord Runnymede's son; and a
first cousin of Mr. Foker (Lady Runnymede, my dear, was Lady Agatha
Milton, you of course remember), Lady Agnes will certainly invite him to
Logwood; and far from being alarmed at his intimacy with her son, who is
a singular and humorous, but most prudent and amiable young man, to
whom, I am sure, we are under every obligation for his admirable conduct
in the affair of the Fotheringay marriage, I look upon it as one of the
very luckiest things which could have happened to Pen, that he should
have formed an intimacy with this most amusing young gentleman."
Helen sighed, she supposed the major knew best. Mr. Foker had been
very kind in the wretched business with Miss Costigan, certainly, and
she was grateful to him. But she could not feel otherwise than a dim
presentiment of evil; and all these quarrels, and riots, and worldliness,
scared her about the fate of her boy.
Doctor Portman was decidedly of opinion that Pen should go to college.
He hoped the lad would read, and have a moderate indulgence of the best
society too. He was of opinion that Pen would distinguish himself:
Smirke spoke very highly of his proficiency: the doctor himself had
heard him construe, and thought he acquitted himself remarkably well.
That he should go out of Chatteries was a great point, at any rate, and
Pen, who was distracted from his private grief by the various rows and
troubles which had risen round about him, gloomily said he would obey.
There were assizes, races, and the entertainments, and the flux of
company consequent upon them, at Chatteries, during a part of the
months of August and September, and Miss Fotheringay still continued to
act, and take farewell of the audiences at the Chatteries Theater during
that time. Nobody seemed to be particularly affected by her presence, or
her announced departure, except those persons whom we have named; nor
could the polite county folks who had houses in London, and very likely
admired the Fotheringay prodigiously in the capital, when they had been
taught to do so by the fashion which set in in her favor find any thing
remarkable in the actress performing on the little Chatteries boards.
Many a genius and many a quack, for that matter, has met with a similar
fate before and since Miss Costigan's time. This honest woman meanwhile
bore up against the public neglect, and any other crosses or vexations
which she might have in life, with her usual equanimity; and ate, drank,
acted, slept, with that regularity and comfort which belongs to people
of her temperament. What a deal of grief, care, and other harmful
excitement, does a healthy dullness and cheerful insensibility avoid!
Nor do I mean to say that Virtue is not Virtue because it is never
tempted to go astray; only that dullness is a much finer gift than we
give it credit for being, and that some people are very lucky whom
Nature has endowed with a good store of that great anodyne.
Pen used to go drearily in and out from the play at Chatteries during
this season, and pretty much according to his fancy. His proceedings
tortured his mother not a little, and her anxiety would have led her
often to interfere, had not the major constantly checked, and at the
same time encouraged her; for the wily man of the world fancied he saw
that a favorable turn had occurred in Pen's malady. It was the violent
efflux of versification, among other symptoms, which gave Pen's guardian
and physician satisfaction. He might be heard spouting verses in the
shrubbery walks, or muttering them between his teeth as he sat with
the home party of evenings. One day prowling about the house in Pen's
absence, the major found a great book full of verses in the lad's study.
They were in English, and in Latin; quotations from the classic authors
were given in the scholastic manner in the foot-notes. He can't be very
bad, wisely thought the Pall Mall Philosopher: and he made Pen's mother
remark (not, perhaps, without a secret feeling of disappointment, for
she loved romance like other soft women), that the young gentleman
during the last fortnight came home quite hungry to dinner at night,
and also showed a very decent appetite at the breakfast table in the
morning. "Gad, I wish I could," said the major, thinking ruefully of his
dinner pills. "The boy begins to sleep well, depend upon that." It was
cruel, but it was true.
Having no other soul to confide in--for he could not speak to his mother
of his loves and disappointments--his uncle treated them in a scornful
and worldly tone, which, though carefully guarded and polite, yet jarred
greatly on the feelings of Mr. Pen--and Foker was much too coarse to
appreciate those refined sentimental secrets--the lad's friendship for
the curate redoubled, or rather, he was never tired of having Smirke for
a listener on that one subject. What is a lover without a confidant?
Pen employed Mr. Smirke, as Corydon does the elm-tree, to cut out his
mistress's name upon. He made him echo with the name of the beautiful
Amaryllis. When men have left off playing the tune, they do not care
much for the pipe: but Pen thought he had a great friendship for Smirke,
because he could sigh out his loves and griefs into his tutor's ears;
and Smirke had his own reasons for always being ready at the lad's call.
Pen's affection gushed out in a multitude of sonnets to the friend
of his heart, as he styled the curate, which the other received with
great sympathy. He plied Smirke with Latin Sapphics and Alcaics. The
love-songs multiplied under his fluent pen; and Smirke declared and
believed that they were beautiful. On the other hand, Pen expressed
a boundless gratitude to think that Heaven should have sent him
such a friend at such a moment. He presented his tutor with his best
bound books, and his gold guard chain, and wanted him to take his
double-barreled gun. He went into Chatteries and got a gold pencil-case
on credit (for he had no money, and indeed was still in debt to Smirke
for some of the Fotheringay presents), which he presented to Smirke,
with an inscription indicative of his unalterable and eternal regard
for the curate; who of course was pleased with every mark of the boy's
attachment.
* * * * *
The poor curate was naturally very much dismayed at the contemplated
departure of his pupil. When Arthur should go, Smirke's occupation and
delight would go too. What pretext could he find for a daily visit to
Fairoaks, and that kind word or glance from the lady there, which was as
necessary to the curate as the frugal dinner which Madam Fribsby served
him? Arthur gone, he would only be allowed to make visits like any other
acquaintance: little Laura could not accommodate him by learning the
catechism more than once a week: he had curled himself like ivy round
Fairoaks: he pined at the thought that he must lose his hold of the
place. Should he speak his mind and go down on his knees to the widow?
He thought over any indications in her behavior which flattered his
hopes. She had praised his sermon three weeks before; she had thanked
him exceedingly for his present of a melon, for a small dinner party
which Mrs. Pendennis gave: she said she should always be grateful to
him for his kindness to Arthur, and when he declared that there were no
bounds to his love and affection for that dear boy, she had certainly
replied in a romantic manner, indicating her own strong gratitude and
regard to all her son's friends. Should he speak out?--or should he
delay? If he spoke and she refused him, it was awful to think that the
gate of Fairoaks might be shut upon him forever--and within that door
lay all the world for Mr. Smirke.
Thus, oh friendly readers, we see how every man in the world, has his
own private griefs and business, by which he is more cast down or
occupied than by the affairs or sorrows of any other person. While Mrs.
Pendennis is disquieting herself about losing her son and that anxious
hold she has had of him, as long as he has remained in the mother's
nest, whence he is about to take flight into the great world
beyond--while the major's great soul chafes and frets, inwardly vexed as
he thinks what great parties are going on in London, and that he might
be sunning himself in the glances of dukes and duchesses, but for those
cursed affairs which keep him in a wretched little country hole--while
Pen is tossing between his passion and a more agreeable sensation,
unacknowledged yet, but swaying him considerably, namely, his longing to
see the world--Mr. Smirke has a private care watching at his bed side,
and sitting behind him on his pony; and is no more satisfied than the
rest of us. How lonely we are in the world; how selfish and secret,
every body! You and your wife have pressed the same pillow for forty
years and fancy yourselves united.--Pshaw, does she cry out when you
have the gout, or do you lie awake when she has the tooth-ache? Your
artless daughter, seemingly all innocence, and devoted to her mamma and
her piano lesson, is thinking of neither, but of the young lieutenant
with whom she danced at the last ball--the honest frank boy just
returned from school is secretly speculating upon the money you will
give him, and the debts he owes the tart man. The old grandmother
crooning in the corner and bound to another world within a few months,
has some business or cares which are quite private and her own--very
likely she is thinking of fifty years back, and that night when she made
such an impression, and danced a cotillion with the captain, before your
father proposed for her; or, what a silly little over-rated creature
your wife is, and how absurdly you are infatuated about her--and, as for
your wife--O philosophic reader, answer and say--Do you tell her all?
Ah, sir--a distinct universe walks about under your hat and under
mine--all things in nature are different to each--the woman we look
at has not the same features, the dish we eat from has not the same
taste to the one and the other--you and I are but a pair of infinite
isolations, with some fellow-islands a little more or less near to us.
Let us return, however, to the solitary Smirke.
* * * * *
Smirke had one confidante for his passion--that most injudicious woman,
Madame Fribsby. How she became Madame Fribsby, nobody knows; she had
left Clavering to go to a milliner's in London as Miss Fribsby--she
pretended that she had got the rank in Paris during her residence in
that city. But how could the French king, were he ever so much disposed,
give her any such title? We shall not inquire into this mystery,
however. Suffice to say, she went away from home a bouncing young lass;
she returned a rather elderly character, with a Madonna front and a
melancholy countenance--bought the late Mrs. Harbottle's business for
a song--took her elderly mother to live with her; was very good to the
poor, was constant at church, and had the best of characters. But there
was no one in all Clavering, not Mrs. Portman herself, who read so many
novels as Madame Fribsby. She had plenty of time for this amusement,
for, in truth, very few people besides the folks at the Rectory and
Fairoaks employed her; and by a perpetual perusal of such works (which
were by no means so moral or edifying in the days of which we write, as
they are at present), she had got to be so absurdly sentimental, that in
her eyes life was nothing but an immense love-match; and she never could
see two people together, but she fancied they were dying for one
another.
On the day after Mrs. Pendennis's visit to the curate, which we have
recorded many pages back, Madame Fribsby settled in her mind that Mr.
Smirke must be in love with the widow, and did every thing in her power
to encourage this passion on both sides. Mrs. Pendennis she very seldom
saw, indeed, except in public, and in her pew at church. That lady had
very little need of millinery, or made most of her own dresses and caps;
but on the rare occasions when Madame Fribsby received visits from
Mrs. Pendennis, or paid her respects at Fairoaks, she never failed to
entertain the widow with praises of the curate, pointing out what an
angelical man he was, how gentle, how studious, how lonely; and she
would wonder that no lady would take pity upon him.
Helen laughed at these sentimental remarks, and wondered that madame
herself did not compassionate her lodger, and console him. Madame
Fribsby shook her Madonna front, "_Mong cure a boco souffare_," she
said, laying her hand on the part she designated as her cure. "_Il est
more en Espang, Madame_," she said with a sigh. She was proud of her
intimacy with the French language, and spoke it with more volubility
than correctness. Mrs. Pendennis did not care to penetrate the secrets
of this wounded heart: except to her few intimates she was a reserved
and it may be a very proud woman; she looked upon her son's tutor merely
as an attendant on that young prince, to be treated with respect as
a clergyman, certainly, but with proper dignity as a dependent on the
house of Pendennis. Nor were madame's constant allusions to the curate
particularly agreeable to her. It required a very ingenious sentimental
turn indeed to find out that the widow had a secret regard for Mr.
Smirke, to which pernicious error, however, Madame Fribsby persisted
in holding.
Her lodger was very much more willing to talk on this subject with his
soft-hearted landlady. Every time after that she praised the curate to
Mrs. Pendennis, she came away from the latter with the notion that the
widow herself had been praising him. "_Etre soul au monde est bien
ouneeyong_," she would say, glancing up at a print of a French carbineer
in a green coat and brass cuirass which decorated her apartment--"Depend
upon it when Master Pendennis goes to college, his ma will find herself
very lonely. She is quite young yet.--You wouldn't suppose her to be
five-and-twenty. _Monsieur le Cury, song cure est touchy--j'ong suis
sure--Je conny cela biang--Ally, Monsieur Smirke._"
He softly blushed; he sighed; he hoped; he feared; he doubted; he
sometimes yielded to the delightful idea--his pleasure was to sit
in Madame Fribsby's apartment, and talk upon the subject, where, as
the greater part of the conversation was carried on in French by the
milliner, and her old mother was deaf, that retired old individual
(who had once been a housekeeper, wife and widow of a butler in the
Clavering family), could understand scarce one syllable of their talk.
Thus it was, that when Major Pendennis announced to his nephew's tutor
that the young fellow would go to college in October, and that Mr.
Smirke's valuable services would no longer be needful to his pupil, for
which services the major, who spoke as grandly as a lord, professed
himself exceedingly grateful, and besought Mr. Smirke to command his
interest in any way--thus it was, that the curate felt that the critical
moment was come for him, and was racked and tortured by those severe
pangs which the occasion warranted.
Madame Fribsby had, of course, taken the strongest interest in the
progress of Mr. Pen's love affair with Miss Fotheringay. She had been
over to Chatteries, and having seen that actress perform, had pronounced
that she was old and overrated: and had talked over Master Pen's passion
in her shop many and many a time to the half-dozen old maids, and old
women in male clothes, who are to be found in little country towns,
and who formed the genteel population of Clavering. Captain Glanders,
H.P., had pronounced that Pen was going to be a devil of a fellow,
and had begun early; Mrs. Glanders had told him to check his horrid
observations, and to respect his own wife, if he pleased. She said it
would be a lesson to Helen for her pride and absurd infatuation about
that boy. Mrs. Pybus said many people were proud of very small things,
and for her part, she didn't know why an apothecary's wife should give
herself such airs. Mrs. Wapshot called her daughters away from that
side of the street, one day when Pen, on Rebecca, was stopping at the
saddler's, to get a new lash to his whip--one and all of these people
had made visits of curiosity to Fairoaks, and had tried to condole with
the widow, or bring the subject of the Fotheringay affair on the tapis,
and had been severally checked by the haughty reserve of Mrs. Pendennis,
supported by the frigid politeness of the major her brother.
These rebuffs, however, did not put an end to the gossip, and slander
went on increasing about the unlucky Fairoaks family. Glanders (H.P.),
a retired cavalry officer, whose half-pay and large family compelled
him to fuddle himself with brandy-and-water instead of claret, after
he quitted the dragoons, had the occasional _entree_ at Fairoaks, and
kept his friend the major there informed of all the stories which were
current at Clavering. Mrs. Pybus had taken an inside place by the coach
to Chatteries, and gone to the George on purpose to get the particulars.
Mrs. Speers's man had treated Mr. Foker's servant to drink at Baymouth
for a similar purpose. It was said that Pen had hanged himself for
despair in the orchard, and that his uncle had cut him down; that, on
the contrary, it was Miss Costigan who was jilted, and not young Arthur;
and that the affair had only been hushed up by the payment of a large
sum of money, the exact amount of which there were several people in
Clavering could testify--the sum of course varying according to the
calculation of the individual narrator of the story.
Pen shook his mane and raged like a furious lion when these scandals,
affecting Miss Costigan's honor and his own, came to his ears. Why was
not Pybus a man (she had whiskers enough), that he might call her out
and shoot her? Seeing Simcoe pass by, Pen glared at him so from his
saddle on Rebecca, and clutched his whip in a manner so menacing, that
that clergyman went home and wrote a sermon, or thought over a sermon
(for he delivered oral testimony at great length), in which he spoke
of Jezebel, theatrical entertainments (a double cut this--for Doctor
Portman, the rector of the old church, was known to frequent such), and
of youth going to perdition, in a manner which made it clear to every
capacity that Pen was the individual meant, and on the road alluded to.
What stories more were there not against young Pendennis, while he sate
sulking, Achilles-like in his tent, for the loss of his ravished
Briseis?
After the affair with Hobnell, Pen was pronounced to be a murderer as
well as a profligate, and his name became a name of terror and a byword
in Clavering. But this was not all; he was not the only one of the
family about whom the village began to chatter, and his unlucky mother
was the next to become a victim to their gossip.
"It is all settled," said Mrs. Pybus to Mrs. Speers, "the boy is to go
to college, and then the widow is to console herself."
"He's been there every day, in the most open manner, my dear," continued
Mrs. Speers.
"Enough to make poor Mr. Pendennis turn in his grave," said Mrs.
Wapshot.
"She never liked him, that we know," says No. 1.
"Married him for his money. Every body knows that; was a penniless
hanger-on of Lady Pontypool's," says No. 2.
"It's rather too open, though, to encourage a lover under pretense of
having a tutor for your son," cried No. 3.
"Hush! here comes Mrs. Portman," some one said; as the good rector's
wife entered Madame Fribsby's shop, to inspect her monthly book of
fashions just arrived from London. And the fact is, that Madame Fribsby
had been able to hold out no longer; and one day, after she and her
lodger had been talking of Pen's approaching departure, and the curate
had gone off to give one of his last lessons to that gentleman, Madame
Fribsby had communicated to Mrs. Pybus, who happened to step in with
Mrs. Speers, her strong suspicion, her certainty almost, that there was
an attachment between a certain clerical gentleman and a certain lady,
whose naughty son was growing quite unmanageable, and that a certain
marriage would take place pretty soon.
Mrs. Portman saw it all, of course, when the matter was mentioned. What
a sly fox that curate was! He was low-church, and she never liked him.
And to think of Mrs. Pendennis taking a fancy to him after she had been
married to such a man as Mr. Pendennis! She could hardly stay five
minutes at Madame Fribsby's, so eager was she to run to the Rectory and
give Doctor Portman the news.
When Doctor Portman heard this piece of intelligence, he was in such
a rage with his curate, that his first movement was to break with
Mr. Smirke, and to beg him to transfer his services to some other
parish. "That milksop of a creature pretend to be worthy of such a woman
as Mrs. Pendennis," broke out the doctor: "where will impudence stop
next?"
"She is much too old for Mr. Smirke," Mrs. Portman remarked: "why, poor
dear Mrs. Pendennis might be his mother almost."
"You always choose the most charitable reason, Betsy," cried the rector.
"A matron with a son grown up--she would never think of marrying again."
"You only think _men_ should marry again, Doctor Portman," answered his
lady, bridling up.
"You stupid old woman," said the doctor, "when I am gone, you shall
marry whomsoever you like. I will leave orders in my will, my dear, to
that effect: and I'll bequeath a ring to my successor, and my ghost
shall come and dance at your wedding."
"It is cruel for a clergyman to talk so," the lady answered, with a
ready whimper: but these little breezes used to pass very rapidly over
the surface of the doctor's domestic bliss; and were followed by a great
calm and sunshine. The doctor adopted a plan for soothing Mrs. Portman's
ruffled countenance, which has a great effect when it is tried between a
worthy couple who are sincerely fond of one another; and which I think
becomes "John Anderson" at three-score, just as much as it used to do
when he was a black haired young Jo of five-and-twenty.
"Hadn't you better speak to Mr. Smirke, John?" Mrs. Portman asked.
"When Pen goes to college, _cadit quaestio_," replied the rector,
"Smirke's visits at Fairoaks will cease of themselves, and there will be
no need to bother the widow. She has trouble enough on her hands, with
the affairs of that silly young scapegrace, without being pestered by
the tittle-tattle of this place. It is all an invention, of that fool,
Fribsby."
"Against whom I always warned you--you know I did, my dear John,"
interposed Mrs. Portman.
"That you did; you very often do, my love," the doctor answered, with a
laugh. "It is not from want of warning on your part, I am sure, that I
have formed my opinion of most women with whom we are acquainted. Madam
Fribsby is a fool, and fond of gossip, and so are some other folks. But
she is good to the poor: she takes care of her mother, and she comes to
church twice every Sunday. And as for Smirke, my dear--" here the
doctor's face assumed for one moment a comical expression, which Mrs.
Portman did not perceive (for she was looking out of the drawing-room
window, and wondering what Mrs. Pybus could want, cheapening fowls again
in the market, when she had had poultry from Livermore's two days
before)--"and as for Mr. Smirke, my dear Betsy, will you promise me that
you will never breathe to any mortal what I am going to tell you as a
profound secret?"
"What is it, my dear John?--of course I won't," answered the rector's
lady.
"Well then--I can not say it is a fact, mind--but if you find that
Smirke is at this moment--ay, and has been for years--engaged to a young
lady, a Miss--a Miss Thompson, if you will have the name, who lives
on Clapham Common--yes, on Clapham Common, not far from Mrs. Smirke's
house, what becomes of your story then about Smirke and Mrs. Pendennis?"
"Why did you not tell me this before?" asked the doctor's wife.--"How
long have you known it?--How we all of us have been deceived in that
man!"
"Why should I meddle in other folks' business, my dear?" the doctor
answered. "I know how to keep a secret--and perhaps this is only an
invention like that other absurd story; at least, Madam Portman, I
should never have told you this but for the other, which I beg you to
contradict whenever you hear it." And so saying the doctor went away to
his study, and Mrs. Portman, seeing that the day was a remarkably fine
one, thought she would take advantage of the weather and pay a few
visits.
The doctor looking out of his study window saw the wife of his
bosom presently issue forth, attired in her best. She crossed the
market-place, saluting the market-women right and left, and giving a
glance at the grocery and general emporium at the corner: then entering
London-street (formerly Hog Lane), she stopped for a minute at Madame
Fribsby's window, and looking at the fashions which hung up there,
seemed hesitating whether she should enter; but she passed on, and never
stopped again until she came to Mrs. Pybus's little green gate and
garden, through which she went to that lady's cottage.
There, of course, her husband lost sight of Mrs. Portman. "Oh, what a
long bow I have pulled," he said inwardly--"Goodness forgive me! and
shot my own flesh and blood. There must be no more tattling and scandal
about that house. I must stop it, and speak to Smirke. I'll ask him to
dinner this very day."
Having a sermon to compose, the doctor sat down to that work, and was so
engaged in the composition, that he had not concluded it until near five
o'clock in the afternoon: when he stepped over to Mr. Smirke's lodgings,
to put his hospitable intentions, regarding that gentleman, into effect.
He reached Madame Fribsby's door, just as the curate issued from it.
Mr. Smirke was magnificently dressed, and as he turned out his toes he
showed a pair of elegant open-worked silk stockings and glossy pumps.
His white cravat was arranged in a splendid stiff tie, and his gold
shirt studs shone on his spotless linen. His hair was curled round his
fair temples. Had he borrowed Madame Fribsby's irons to give that curly
grace? His white cambric pocket handkerchief was scented with the most
delicious Eau-de-Cologne.
"_O gracilis puer_,"--cried the doctor.--"Whither are you bound? I
wanted you to come home to dinner."
[Illustration]
"I am engaged to dine at--at Fairoaks," said Mr. Smirke, blushing
faintly and whisking the scented pocket-handkerchief, and his pony being
in waiting, he mounted and rode away simpering down the street. No
accident befell him that day, and he arrived with his tie in the very
best order at Mrs. Pendennis's house.