Street of a night, wondering that it was already so late, and
that the evening had passed away so qxiletly. He made his
appearance at the Temple pretty constantly In the afternoon,
and tugged up the long black staircase with quite a benevolent
activity and perseverance. And he made interest with the
chef at Bays's (that renowned cook, the superlntendance of
whose work upon Gastronomy compelled the gifted author to
stay in the metropolis,) to prepare little jellies, delicate clear
soups , aspics , and other trifles good for invalids , which Mor-
gan the valet constantly brought down to the little Lamb Court
colony. And the permission to drink a glass or two of pure
sherry being accorded to Pen by Doctor Goodenough, the
Major told with almost tears in his eyes how his noble friend
the Marquis of Steyne, passing through London on his way
to the Continent, had ordered any quantity of his precious,
his priceless Amontillado , that had been a present from King
Ferdinand to the noble Marquis , to be placed at the disposal
of Mr. Arthur Pendennls. The widow and Laura tasted it with
respect (though they didn't In the least like the bitter flavour),
but the Invalid was greatly invigorated by it, and Warrington
pronounced it superlatively good, and proposed the Major's
117
health in a mock speech after dinner on the first day when the
wine was served, and that of Lord Steyne and the aristocracy
in general.
Major Pendennis returned thanks with the utmost gravity
and in a speech in which he used the words "the present oc-
casion," at least the proper number of times. Pen cheered
with his feeble voice from his arm-chair. Warrington taught
Miss Laura to cry "Hear! hear!" and tapped the table with
his knuckles, Pidgeon the attendant grinned, and honest
Doctor Goodenough found the party so merrily engaged,
when he came in to pay his faithful gratuitous visit.
Warrington knew Sibwright, who lived below, and that
gallant gentleman, in reply to a letter informing him of the
use to which his apartments had been put, wrote bagk the
most polite and flowery letter of acquiescence. He placed his
chambers at the service of their fair occupants, his bed at their
disposal, his carpets at their feet. Everybody was kindly
disposed towards the sick man and his family. His heart (and
his mother's too, as we may fancy) melted within him at the
thought of so much good feeling and good nature. Let Pen's
biographer be pardonned for alluding to a time not far distant
when a somewhat similar mishap brought him a providential
friend, a kind physician, and a thousand proofs of a most
touching and surprising kindness and sympathy.
There was a piano in Mr. Sibwrrght's chamber, (indeed
this gentleman, a lover of all the arts, performed himself —
and exceedingly ill too — upon the instrument; and had had
a song dedicated to him (the words by himself, the air by his
devoted friend Leopold© Twankidillo), and at this music-box,
as Mr. Warrington called it, Laura, at first with a great deal
of tremor and blushing (which became her very much), played
and sang, sometimes of an evening, simple airs, and old songs
of home. Her voice was a rich contralto, and Warrington,
118
"who scarcely knew one tune from another, and who had but
one tune or bray in his repertoire, — a most discordant imita-
tion of God save the King, — sat rapt in deh'ght listening to
these songs. He could follow their rhythm if not their har-
mony ; and he could watch, with a constant and daily growing
enthusiasm, the pure and tender and generous creature who
made the music.
I wonder how that poor pale little girl in the black bonnet,
who used to stand at the lamp-post in Lamb Court sometimes
of an evening, looking up to the open windows from which the
music came, liked to hear it? When Pen's bed-time came
the songs were hushed. Lights appeared in the upper room :
his room, whither the widow used to conduct him; and then
the IVJajor and Mr. Warrington, and sometimes Miss Laura,
would have a game at ecarte or backgammon ; or she would sit
by working a pair of slippers in worsted — a pair of gentle-
man's slippers — they might have been for Arthur or for
George or for Major Pendennis: one of those three would
have given anything for the slippers.
Whilst such business as this was going on within, a rather
shabby old gentleman would come and lead away the pale girl
in the black bonnet: who had no right to be abroad in the
night air, and the Temple porters, the few laundresses, and
other amateurs who had been listening to the concert, would
also disappear.
Just before ten o'clock there was another musical perfor-
mance, namely that of the chimes of St. Clement's clock in
the Strand, which played the clear cheerful notes of a psalm,
before it proceeded to ring its ten fatal strokes. As they were
ringing, Laura began to fold up the slippers; Martha from
Fairoaks appeared with a bed- candle, and a constant smile on
her face; the Major said, " God bless my soul, is it so late?"
Warrington and he left their unfinished game, and got up and
119
shook hands with Miss Bell. Martha from Fairoaks lighted
them out of the passage and down the stair, and, as they de-
scended, they could hear her bolting and locking "the sporting
door" after them, upon her young mistress and herself. If
there had been any danger, grinning Martha said she would
have got down "that thar hooky soord which hung up in gan-
tleman's room,'* — meaning the Damascus scimetar with the
names of the Prophet engraved on the blade and the red-velvet
scabbard, which Percy Sibwright, Esquire, brought back
from his tour in the Levant, along with an Albanian dress,
and which he wore with such elegant effect atLadyMuUinger's
fancy ball, Gloucester Square, Hyde Park. It entangled itself
in Miss Kewsey's train, who appeared in the dress in which
she, with her mamma, had been presented to their sovereign
(the latter by the L — d Ch-nc-U-r's lady), and led to events
which have nothing to do with this history. Is not Miss Kew-
sey now Mrs. Sibwright? Has Sibwright not got a county
court? — Good night, Laura and Fairoaks Martha. Sleep
well and wake happy, pure and gentle lady.
Sometimes after these evenings Warrington would walk a
little way with Major Pendennis — just a little way — just as
far as the Temple gate — as the Strand — as Charing Cross —
as the Club — he was not going into the Club? Well, as far
as Bury Street where he would laughingly shake hands on the
Major*s own door-step. They had been talking about Laura
all the way. It was wonderful how enthusiastic the Major,
who, as we know, used to dislike her, had grown to be regard-
ing the young lady. — "Dev'lish fine girl, begad. Dev'lish
well-mannered girl — my sister-in-law has the manners of a
duchess and would bring up any girl well. Miss Bell 's a little
countryfied. But the smell of the hawthorn is pleasant,
demmy. How she blushes I Your London girls would give
many a guinea for a bouquet like that — natural flowers,
120
begad! And she 's a little money too — nothing to speak
of — but a pooty little bit of money." In all which opinions no
doubt Mr. Warrington agreed; and though he laughed as he
shook hands with the Major, his face fell as he left his veteran
companion; and he strode back to chambers, and smoked pipe
after pipe long into the night, and wrote article upon article,
more and more savage, in lieu of friend Pen disabled.
Well, it was a happy time for almost all parties concerned.
Pen mended daily. Sleeping and eating were his constant
occupations. His appetite was something frightful. He was
ashamed of exhibiting it before Laura, and almost before his
mother who laughed and applauded him. As the roast chicken
of his dinner went away he eyed the departing friend with sad
longing, and began to long for jelly, or tea, or what not. He
was lilce an ogre in devouring. The Doctor cried stop, but
Pen would not. Nature called out to him more loudly than
the Doctor, and that kind and friendly physician handed him
over with a very good grace to the other healer.
And here let us speak very tenderly andin the strictest con-
fidence of an event which befel him, and to which he never liked
an allusion. During his delirium the ruthless Goodenough
ordered ice to be put to his head, and all his lovely hair to be
cut. It was done in the time of — of the other nurse, who left
every single hair of course in a paper for the widow to count
and treasure up. She never believed but that the girl had
taken away some of it, but then women are so suspicious upon
these matters.
When this direful loss was made visible to Major Penden-
nis , as of course it was the first time the elder saw the poor
young man's shorn pate, and when Pen was quite out of
danger, and gaining daily vigour, the Major, with something
like blushes and a queer wink of his eyes, said he knew of
a — a person — a coiffeur, in fact — a good man. whom he
121
would send down to the Temple, and who would — a —
apply — a — a temporary remedy to that misfortune.
Laura looked at Warrington with the archest sparkle In
her eyes — ^ Warrington fairly burst out into a boohoo of
laughter : even the widow was obliged to laugh : and the Major
erubescent confounded the impudence of the young folks,
and said when he had his hair cut he would keep a lock of it
for Miss Laura.
Warrington voted that Pen should wear a barrister's wig.
There was Sibwrlght's down below, which would become him
hugely. Pen said "Stuff," and seemed as confused as his
uncle; and the end was that a gentleman from Burlington
Arcade waited next day upon Mr. Pendennis, and had a pri-
vate interview with him in his bed-room; and a week after-
wards the same individual appeared with a box under his arm,
and an ineffable grin of politeness on his face, and announced
that he had brought 'ome Mr. Pendennis's 'ead of 'air.
It must have been a grand but melancholy sight to see Pen
in the recesses of his apartment, sadly contemplanting his
ravaged beauty, and the artificial means of hiding its ruin.
He appeared at length in the 'ead of 'air; but Warrington
laughed so that Pen grew sulky, and went back for his velvet
cap, a neat turban which the fondest of mammas had worked
for him. Then Mr. Warrington and Miss Bell got some flowers
off the ladies' bonnets and made a wreath, with which they
decorated the wig and brought it out in procession, and did
homage before it. In fact they indulged in a hundred sports,
jocularities, waggeries and petits j'eux innocents: so that the
second and third floors of number 6, Lamb Court, Temple,
rang with more cheerfulness and laughter than had been
known in those precincts for many a long day.
At last, after about ten days of this life, one evening when
the little spy of the court came out to take her usual post of
122
observation at the lamp, there was no music from the second
floor window, there were no lights In the third story chambers,
the windows of each were open, and the occupants were gone.
Mrs. Flanagan, the laundress, told Fanny what had happened.
The ladies and all the party had gone to Richmond for change
of air. The antique travelling chariot was brought out again
and cushioned with many pillows for Pen and his mother; and
Miss Laura went in the most affable manner in the omnibus un-
der the guardianship of Mr. George Warrington. He came
back and took possession of his old bed that night In the va-
cant and cheerless chambers , and to his old books and his old
pipes, but not perhaps to his old sleep.
The widow had left a jar full of flowers upon his table,
prettily arranged, and when he entered they filled the solitary
room with odour. They were memorials of the kind, gentle
souls who had gone away, and who had decorated for a little
while that lonely, cheerless place. He had had the happiest
days of his whole life, George felt — he knew it now they were
just gone: he went and took up the flowers and put his face to
them, smelt them — perhaps kissed them. As he put them
down, he rubbed his rough hand across his eyes with a bitter
word and laugh. He would have given his whole life and soul
to win that prize which Arthur rejected. Did she want fame?
he would have won it for her : — devotion ? — a great heart full
of pent-up tenderness and manly love and gentleness was there
for her, if she might take it. But it might not be. Fate had
ruled otherwise, " Even if I could, she would not have me,"
George thought. "What has an ugly, rough old fellow like
me, to make any woman like him ? I 'm getting old, and I 've
made no mark in life. I 've neither good looks, nor youth, nor
money, nor reputation. A man must be able to do" something
besides stare at her and offer on his knees his uncouth de-
votion, to make a woman like him. What can I do? Lots of
123
young fellows have passed me in the race — what they call the
prizes of life didn't seem to me worth the trouble of the
struggle. But for her. If she had been mine and liked a
diamond — ah ! shouldn't she have worn it! Psha, what a fool
I am to brag of what I would have done I We are the slaves
of destiny. Our lots are shaped for us, and mine is ordained
long ago. Come, let us have a pipe, and put the smell of these
flowers out of court. Poor little silent flowers! you '11 be
dead to-morrow. What business had you to show your red
cheeks in this dingy place?"
By his bed-side George found a new Bible which the widow
had placed there, with a note inside saying that she had not
seen the book amongst his collection in a room where she had
spent a number of hours, and where God had vouchsafed
to her prayers the life of her son, and that she gave to Arthur's
friend the best thing she could, and besought him to read in
the volume sometimes, and to keep it as a token of a grateful
mother's regard and afl'ection. Poor George mournfully
kissed the book as he had done the flowers; and the morning
found him still reading in its awful pages , in which so many
stricken hearts, in which so many tender and faithful souls,
have found comfort under calamity, and refuge and hope in
affliction,
CHAPTER X.
Fanny's occupation's gone.
Good Helen, ever since her son's illness, had taken, as we
have seen, entire possession of the young man, of his drawers
and closets and all which they contained : whether shirts that
wanted buttons, or stockings that required mending, or, must
it be owned ? letters that lay amongst those articles of raiment,
and which of course it was necessary that somebody should
124
answer during Arthur's weakened and incapable condition.
Perhaps Mrs. Pendennis was laudably desirous to have some
explanations about the dreadful Fanny Bolton mystery, re-
garding which she had never breathed a word to her son,
though it was present in her mind always, and occasioned her
inexpressible anxiety and disquiet. She had caused the brass
knocker to be screwed off the inner door of the chambers,
whereupon the postman's startling double rap would, as she
justly argued, disturb the rest of her patient, and she did not
allow him to see any letter which arrived, whether from boot-
makers who importuned him, or hatters who had a heavy ac-
count to make up against next Saturday, and would be very
much obliged if Mr. Arthur Pendennis would have the kind-
ness to settle, &c. Of these documents, Pen, who was always
free-handed and careless, of course had his share, and though
no great one, one quite enough to alarm his scrupulous and
conscientious mother. She had some savings; Pen's magni-
ficent self-denial, and her own economy amounting from her
great simplicity and avoidance of show to parsimony almost,
had enabled her to put by a little sum of money, a part of which
she delightedly consecrated to the paying off the young gentle-
man's obligations. At this price, many a worthy youth and
respected reader would hand over his correspondence to his
parents; and perhaps there is no greater test of a man's re-
gularity and easiness of conscience , than his readiness to face
the postman. Blessed is he who is made happy by the sound
of the rat-tat 1 The good are eager for it: but the naughty
tremble at the sound thereof. So it was very kind of Mrs.
Pendennis doubly to spare Pen the trouble of hearing or an-
swering letters during his illness.
There could have been nothing in the young man's chests of
drawers and wardrobes which could be considered as incul-
pating him in any way, nor any satisfactory documents re-
125
garding the Fanny Bolton affair found there, for the widow
had to ask her brother-in-law if he knew anything about the
odious transaction, and the dreadful intrigue about which her
son was engaged. When they were at Richmond one day, and
Pen with Warrington had taken a seat on a bench on the ter-
race, the widow kept MajorPendennis in consultation, and laid
her terrors and perplexities before him, such of them at least
(for as is the wont of men and women, she did not make quite
a clean confession, and I suppose no spendthrift asked for a
schedule of his debts, no lady of fashion asked by her husband
for her dress-maker's bills ever sent in the whole of them yet)
— such, we say, of her perplexities, at least, as she chose to
confide to her Director for the time being.
When, then, she asked the Major what course she ought to
pursue, about this dreadful — this horrid affair, and whether
he knew anything regarding it? the old gentleman puckered
up his face , so that you could not tell whether he was smiling
or not ; gave the widow one queer look with his little eyes ; cast
them down to the carpet a^ain, and said, "My dear, good crea-
ture, I don't know anything about it; and I don't wish to know
anything about it ; and, as you ask me my opinion , I think you
had best know nothing about it too. Young men will be young
men; and, begad, my good Ma'am, if you think our boy is a
Jo — «
"Pray, spare me this," Helen broke in, looking very stately.
"My dear creature, I did not commence the conversation,
permit me to say," the Major said, bowing very blandly.
"I can't bear to hear such a sin — such a dreadful sin —
spoken of in such a way," the widow said, with tears of an-
noyance starting from her eyes. "1 can't bear to think that
my boy should commit such a crime. I wish he had died, al-
most, before he had done it. I don't know how I survive it
myself; for it is breaking my heart, Major Pendennis, to think
126
that his father's son — my child — whom I remember so good
— oh, so good, and full of honour I — should be fallen so
dreadfully low, as to — as to — "
"As to flirt with a little grisette? my dear creature," said
the Major. "Egad, if all the mothers in England were to
break their hearts because — Nay, nay; upon my word and
honour, now, don't agitate yourself — don't cry. I can't bear
to see a woman's tears — I never could — never. But how do
we know that anything serious has happened? Has Arthur
said anything?"
"His silence confirms it," sobbed Mrs. Pendennis, behind
her pocket-handkerchief.
"Not at all. There are subjects, my dear, about which a
young fellow cannot surely talk to his mamma," insinuated the
brother-in-law.
"She has written to him ," cried the lady, behind the cam-
bric.
"What, before he was ill? Nothing more likely."
"No, since;" the mourner with the batiste mask gasped
out; "not before; that is, I don't think so — that is, I — "
"Only since; and you have — yes, I understand. I sup-
pose when he was too ill to read his own correspondence , you
took charge of it, did you? "
"I am the most unhappy mother in the world," cried out
the unfortunate Helen.
" The most unhappy mother in the world, because your son
is a man and not a hermit I Have a care , my dear sister. If
you have suppressed any letters to him, you may have done
yourself a great injury; and, if I know anything of Arthur's spi-
rit, may cause a difference between him and you, which you '11
rue all your life — a difference that 's a dev'lish deal more
important, my good Madam, than the little — little — trumpery
cause which originated it."
127
"There was only one letter," broke out Helen, — "only a
very little one — only a few words. Here it is — O — how can
you, how can you speak so? *'
When the good soul said only "a very little one," the Ma-
jor could not speak at all, so inclined was he to laugh, in spite
of the agonies of the poor soul before him, and for whom he
had a hearty pity and liking too. But each was looking at the
matter with his or her peculiar eyes and view of morals, and
the Major's morals, as the reader knows, were not those of an
ascetic.
" I recommend you," he gravely continued, "if you can, to
seal it up — those letters ain't unfrequently sealed with wafers
— and to put it amongst Pen's other letters , and let him have
them when he calls for them. Or if we can't seal it, we
mistook it for a bill.'*
"I can't tell my son a lie," said the widow. It had been
put silently into the letter-box two days previous to their de-
parture from the Temple, and had been brought to Mrs. Pen-
dennis by Martha. She had never seen Fanny's hand-writing,
of course ; but when the letter was put into her hands , she
knew the author at once. She had been on the watch for that
letter every day since Pen had been ill. She had opened some
of his other letters because she wanted to get at that one.
She had the horrid paper poisoning her bag at that moment.
She took it out and offered it to her brother-in-law.
^'â– ArtherPendennis, Esq.,'''' he read in a timid little sprawling
hand- writing, and with a sneer on his face. "No, my dear, I
won't read any more. But you, who have read it, may tell me
what the letter contains — only prayers for his health in bad
spelling, you say — and a desire to see him? Well — there 's
no harm in that. And as you ask me" — here the Major began
to look a little queer for his own part, and put on his demure
look — "as you ask me, my dear, for information , why, I don't
128
mind telling you that — ah — that — Morgan , my man , has
made some enquiries regarding this affair, and that — my
friend Doctor Goodenough also looked into it — and it appears
that this person was greatly smitten with Arthur; that he paid
for her and took her to Vauxhall Gardens, as Morgan heard
from an old acquaintance of Pen's and ours, an Irish gentle-
man, who was very nearly once having the honour of being the
— from an Irishman, in fact; — that the girl's father, a violent
man of intoxicated habits, has beaten her mother, who persists
in declaring her daughter's entire innocence to her husband
on the one hand, while on the other she told Goodenough that
Arthur had acted like a brute to her child. And so you see
the story remains in a mystery. Will you have it cleared up?
I have but to ask Pen , and he will tell me at once — he is as
honourable a man as ever lived."
"Honourable!" said the widow, with bitter scorn. "O,
brother, what is this you call honour? If my boy has been
guilty, he must marry her. I would go down on my knees and
pray him to do so."
" Good God ! are you mad? " screamed out the Major; and
remembering former passages in Arthur's history and Helen's,
the truth came across his mind that, were Helen to make this
prayer to her son, he would marry the girl: he was wild enough
and obstinate enough to commit any folly when a woman he
loved was in the case. "My dear sister, have you lost your
senses?" he continued (after an agitated pause, during which
the above dreary reflection crossed him), and in a softened
tone. What right have we to suppose that anything has passed
between this girl and him? Let 's see the letter. Her heart
is breaking; pray, pray, write to me — home unhappy — unkind
father — your nurse — poor little Fanny — spelt, as you say,
in a manner to outrage all sense of decorum. But, good
heavens! my dear, what is there in this? only that the little
129
devil Is making love to him still. Why she didn't come into
his chambers until he was so delirious that he didn't know her.
Whatd'youcallem, Flanagan, the laundress , told Morgan, my
man, so. She came in company of an old fellow, an old Mr.
Bows, who came most kindly down to Stillbrook and brought
me away — by the way, I left him in the cab , and never paid
the fare ; and dev'lish kind it was of him. No, there 's nothing
in the story."
"Do you think so? Thank Heaven — thank God ! " Helen