MONSEIGNEUR S'AMUSE.
[Illustration]
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 neighbors, 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
bay-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 mustaches, 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 chargé 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 _blasé_ 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 any thing but misanthropical. If he could not get a good
dinner he sat 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-parlor or on board a Greenwich steam-boat, or in a jaunt
to Hampstead with Mr. Finucane, his colleague at the Pall Mall
Gazette; or in a visit to the summer theaters 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
or the lovely equestrian of the arena by the hand. And while he could
watch the grimaces or the graces of these with a satiric humor 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: he was
pleased to possess it: and said that he hoped thus to the last he
should retain it. As another man has an ardor for art or music, or
natural science, Mr. Pen said that anthropology was his favorite
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
coqueting of a wrinkled dowager in a ball-room, 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 while 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 humor 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
forever, 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 every thing. But you
began to use the bear's-grease pot directly the hair-dresser 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 while 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 humor, 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 fire-works 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
splendors 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 recognized, "Bedad, sir, if ye doubt me
honor, 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 any reet 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, oi've seen Vauxhall, and I
scawrun any interfayrance on moi account: but for these leedies, one
of them has never been there, and oi should think ye'd harly take
advantage of me misfartune in losing the tickut, to deproive her of
her pleasure."
"It ain't no use, captain. I can't go about your business," the
checktaker 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 door-keeper, peevishly, out of the
illuminated box. And at this minute Arthur came up, and recognizing
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 toward 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
favorite 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 sympathized
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--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 gray
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 demeanor.
"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. 4."
Fanny made a little courtesy, 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
courtesy; "and I've never been at Vauxhall, sir, and Pa 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 splendor such
as the finest fairy tale, the finest pantomime she had ever witnessed
at the theater, had never realized. 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
_blasé_ 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 native countee)--Mr. Pendennis,
ye've been me preserver, and oi 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
splendor 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 patronizing and affable manner pointing
out to them the edifices worthy of note, and discoursing, 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 honor 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
would 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 color 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 Caracoline, little Tom
Tufthunt was in attendance upon Lord Colchicum; and rather pleased,
too, with his position. When Don Juan scales 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 peer 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 god-father 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 patronize 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
mantle-piece 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 dark
porter's 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 among them, one or two
of the acquaintances of Mr. Arthur Pendennis.
Among 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 woe-begone 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 toward him with no little kindness and pity--but
Harry did not see the beautiful dark eyes.
[Illustration]
"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 short 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 trowsers 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 at our place--I'm mostly at home
Saturdays; and there's generally a cheese in the cupboard. Ta, Ta.
There's the bell for the fire-works 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 fire-work
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 fire-works, 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.
[Illustration]
"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?"
"O 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 any thing
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
fire-works. You must know I live by myself, and work very hard. I
write in books and newspapers, Fanny; and I was quite tired out, and
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 grammarian's 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 Mr.
Arthur Pendennis made any use of the monosyllable in question? Not so.
In the first place it was dark: the fire-works 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 honor. She seems to have a great deal of dangerous and rather
contagious sensibility, and I am very glad the fire-works 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 under tone. 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
fire-works, 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 any thing to eat, ladies, and I wish you would permit me
to invite you to supper."
"Dad," said Costigan, "I'd loike a snack, tu; only I forgawt me purse,
or I should have invoited these leedies to a colleetion."
Mrs. Bolton, with considerable asperity, said, she ad an eadache, and
would much rather go home.
"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
favor 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-humored 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 favorite 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, "like 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-humor 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 humor, 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 remonstrances 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 honor,
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 pardon, 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-humor, "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 any thing about the dispute.