CHAPTER XI
IN OR NEAR THE TEMPLE GARDEN.
Fashion has long deserted the green and pretty Temple Garden, in whichShakspeare makes York and Lancaster to pluck the innocent white andred roses which became the badges of their bloody wars; and thelearned and pleasant writer of the Handbook of London tells us that"the commonest and hardiest kind of rose has long ceased to put fortha bud" in that smoky air. Not many of the present occupiers of thebuildings round about the quarter know, or care, very likely, whetheror not roses grow there, or pass the old gate, except on their way tochambers. The attorneys' clerks don't carry flowers in their bags, orposies under their arms, as they run to the counsel's chambers; thefew lawyers who take constitutional walks think very little about Yorkand Lancaster, especially since the railroad business is over. Onlyantiquarians and literary amateurs care to look at the gardens withmuch interest, and fancy good Sir Roger de Coverley and Mr. Spectatorwith his short face pacing up and down the road; or dear OliverGoldsmith in the summer-house, perhaps meditating about the next"Citizen of the World," or the new suit that Mr. Filby, the tailor, isfashioning for him, or the dunning letter that Mr. Newberry has sent.Treading heavily on the gravel, and rolling majestically along in asnuff-colored suit, and a wig that sadly wants the barber's powder andirons, one sees the Great Doctor step up to him, (his Scotch lackeyfollowing at the lexicographer's heels, a little the worse for Portwine that they have been taking at the Miter), and Mr. Johnson asksMr. Goldsmith to come home and take a dish of tea with Miss Williams.Kind faith of Fancy! Sir Hoger and Mr. Spectator are as real to us nowas the two doctors and the boozy and faithful Scotchman. The poeticalfigures live in our memory just as much as the real personages--and asMr. Arthur Pendennis was of a romantic and literary turn, by no meansaddicted to the legal pursuits common in the neighborhood of theplace, we may presume that he was cherishing some such poeticalreflections as these, when, upon the evening after the events recordedin the last chapter the young gentleman chose the Temple Gardens as aplace for exercise and meditation.
On the Sunday evening the Temple is commonly calm. The chambers arefor the most part vacant; the great lawyers are giving grand dinnerparties at their houses in the Belgravian or Tyburnian districts: theagreeable young barristers are absent, attending those parties, andpaying their respects to Mr. Kewsy's excellent claret, or Mr. JusticeErmine's accomplished daughters; the uninvited are partaking of theeconomic joint, and the modest half-pint of wine at the Club,entertaining themselves and the rest of the company in the Club-room,with Circuit jokes and points of wit and law. Nobody is in chambers atall, except poor Mr. Cockle, who is ill, and whose laundress is makinghim gruel; or Mr. Toodle, who is an amateur of the flute, and whom youmay hear piping solitary from his chambers in the second floor: oryoung Tiger, the student, from whose open windows come a great gush ofcigar smoke, and at whose door are a quantity of dishes and covers,bearing the insignia of Dicks' or the Cock. But stop! Whither doesFancy lead us? It is vacation time; and with the exception ofPendennis, nobody is in chambers at all.
Perhaps it was solitude, then, which drove Pen into the Garden; foralthough he had never before passed the gate, and had looked rathercarelessly at the pretty flower-beds, and the groups of pleasedcitizens sauntering over the trim lawn and the broad gravel-walks bythe river, on this evening it happened, as we have said, that theyoung gentleman, who had dined alone at a tavern in the neighborhoodof the Temple, took a fancy, as he was returning home to his chambers,to take a little walk in the gardens, and enjoy the fresh evening air,and the sight of the shining Thames. After walking for a brief space,and looking at the many peaceful and happy groups round about him, hegrew tired of the exercise, and betook himself to one of thesummer-houses which flank either end of the main walk, and theremodestly seated himself. What were his cogitations? The evening wasdelightfully bright and calm; the sky was cloudless; the chimneys onthe opposite bank were not smoking; the wharves and warehouses lookedrosy in the sunshine, and as clear as if they too, had washed for theholiday. The steamers rushed rapidly up and down the stream, ladenwith holiday passengers. The bells of the multitudinous city churcheswere ringing to evening prayers--such peaceful Sabbath evenings asthis Pen may have remembered in his early days, as he paced, with hisarm round his mother's waist, on the terrace before the lawn athome. The sun was lighting up the little Brawl, too, as well as thebroad Thames, and sinking downward majestically behind the Claveringelms, and the tower of the familiar village church. Was it thoughts ofthese, or the sunset merely, that caused the blush in the young man'sface? He beat time on the bench, to the chorus of the bells without;flicked the dust off his shining boots with his pocket-handkerchief,and starting up, stamped with his foot and said, "No, by Jove, I'll gohome." And with this resolution, which indicated that some struggle asto the propriety of remaining where he was, or of quitting the garden,had been going on in his mind, he stepped out of the summer-house.
He nearly knocked down two little children, who did not indeed reachmuch higher than his knee, and were trotting along the gravel-walk,with their long blue shadows slanting toward the east.
One cried out, "Oh!" the other began to laugh; and with a knowinglittle infantine chuckle, said, "Missa Pendennis!" And Arthur lookingdown, saw his two little friends of the day before, MesdemoisellesAmeliar-Ann and Betsy-Jane. He blushed more than ever at seeing them,and seizing the one whom he had nearly upset, jumped her up into theair, and kissed her; at which sudden assault Ameliar-Ann began to cryin great alarm.
This cry brought up instantly two ladies in clean collars and newribbons, and grand shawls, namely, Mrs. Bolton in a rich scarletCaledonian Cashmere, and a black silk dress, and Miss F. Bolton with ayellow scarf and a sweet sprigged muslin, and a parasol--quite thelady. Fanny did not say one single word: though her eyes flashed awelcome, and shone as bright--as bright as the most blazing windows inPaper Buildings. But Mrs. Bolton, after admonishing Betsy-Jane, said,"Lor, sir, how _very_ odd that we should meet _you_ year? I ope youave your ealth well, sir. Ain't it odd, Fanny, that we should meet Mr.Pendennis?" What do you mean by sniggering, mesdames? When youngCroesus has been staying at a country-house, have you never, by anysingular coincidence, been walking with your Fanny in the shrubberies?Have you and your Fanny never happened to be listening to the band ofthe Heavies at Brighton, when young De Boots and Captain Padmore cameclinking down the Pier? Have you and your darling Frances neverchanced to be visiting old widow Wheezy at the cottage on the common,when the young curate has stepped in with a tract adapted to therheumatism? Do you suppose that, if singular coincidences occur at theHall, they don't also happen at the Lodge?
It _was_ a coincidence, no doubt: that was all. In the course of theconversation on the day previous, Mr. Pendennis had merely said, inthe simplest way imaginable, and in reply to a question of MissBolton, that although some of the courts were gloomy, parts of theTemple were very cheerful and agreeable, especially the chamberslooking on the river and around the gardens, and that the gardens werea very pleasant walk on Sunday evenings, and frequented by a greatnumber of people--and here, by the merest chance, all ouracquaintances met together, just like so many people in genteellife. What could be more artless, good-natured, or natural?
Pen looked very grave, pompous, and dandified. He was unusually smartand brilliant in his costume. His white duck trowsers and white hat,his neckcloth of many colors, his light waistcoat, gold chains, andshirt studs, gave him the air of a prince of the blood at least. Howhis splendor became his figure! Was any body ever like him? some onethought. He blushed--how his blushes became him! the same individual,said to herself. The children, on seeing him the day before, hadbeen so struck with him, that after he had gone away they had beenplaying at him. And Ameliar-Ann, sticking her little chubby fingersinto the arm-holes of her pinafore, as Pen was won't to do with hiswaistcoat, had said, "Now, Bessy-Jane, I'll be Missa Pendennis."Fanny had laughed till she cried, and smothered her sister with kissesfor that feat. How happy, too, she was
to see Arthur embracingthe child!
If Arthur was red, Fanny, on the contrary, was very worn and pale.Arthur remarked it, and asked kindly why she looked so fatigued.
"I was awake all night," said Fanny, and began to blush a little.
"I put out her candle, and _hordered_ her to go to sleep and leave offreadin," interposed the fond mother.
"You were reading! And what was it that interested you so?" asked Pen,amused.
"Oh, it's so beautiful!" said Fanny.
"What?"
"Walter Lorraine," Fanny sighed out. "How I do _hate_ that Neara--Neara--I don't know the pronunciation. And how I love Leonora, andWalter, oh, how dear he is!"
How had Fanny discovered the novel of Walter Lorraine, and that Penwas the author? This little person remembered every single word whichMr. Pendennis had spoken on the night previous, and how he wrote inbooks and newspapers. What books? She was so eager to know, that shehad almost a mind to be civil to old Bows, who was suffering under herdispleasure since yesterday, but she determined first to makeapplication to Costigan. She began by coaxing the captain and smilingupon him in her most winning way, as she helped to arrange his dinnerand set his humble apartment in order. She was sure his linen wantedmending (and indeed the captain's linen-closet contained some curiousspecimens of manufactured flax and cotton). She would mend hisshirts--_all_ his shirts. What horrid holes--what funny holes! She puther little face through one of them, and laughed at the old warrior inthe most winning manner. She would have made a funny little picturelooking through the holes. Then she daintily removed Costigan's dinnerthings, tripping about the room as she had seen the dancers do at theplay; and she danced to the captain's cupboard, and produced hiswhisky bottle, and mixed him a tumbler, and must taste a drop of it--alittle drop; and the captain must sing her one of his songs, his dearsongs, and teach it to her. And when he had sung an Irish melody inhis rich quavering voice, fancying it was he who was fascinating thelittle siren, she put her little question about Arthur Pendennis andhis novel, and having got an answer, cared for nothing more, but leftthe captain at the piano about to sing her another song, and thedinner tray on the passage, and the shirts on the chair, and ran downstairs quickening her pace as she sped.
Captain Costigan, as he said, was not a litherary cyarkter, nor had heas yet found time to peruse his young friend's ellygant perfaurumance,though he intended to teak an early opporchunitee of purchasing acawpee of his work. But he knew the name of Pen's novel from the factthat Messrs. Finucane, Bludyer, and other frequenters of theBack-Kitchen, spoke of Mr. Pendennis (and not all of them with greatfriendship; for Bludyer called him a confounded coxcomb, and Hoolanwondered that Doolan did not kick him, &c.) by the sobriquet of WalterLorraine--and was hence enabled to give Fanny the information whichshe required.
"And she went and ast for it at the libery," Mrs. Bolton said--"several liberies--and some ad it and it was hout, and some adn't it.And one of the liberies as ad it wouldn't let er ave it without asovering: and she adn't one, and she came back a-cryin to me--didn'tyou, Fanny?--and I gave her a sovering."
"And, oh, I was in such a fright lest any one should have come to thelibery and took it while I was away," Fanny said, her cheeks and eyesglowing. "And, oh, I do like it so!"
Arthur was touched by this artless sympathy, immensely flattered andmoved by it. "Do you like it?" he said. "If you will come up to mychambers I will--No, I will bring you one--no, I will send you one.Good night. Thank you, Fanny. God bless you. I mustn't stay with you.Good-by, good-by." And, pressing her hand once, and nodding to hermother and the other children, he strode out of the gardens.
He quickened his pace as he went from them, and ran out of the gatetalking to himself. "Dear, dear little thing," he said, "darlinglittle Fanny! You are worth them all. I wish to heaven Shandon wasback, I'd go home to my mother. I mustn't see her. I won't. I won't sohelp me--"
As he was talking thus, and running, the passers by turning to look athim, he ran against a little old man, and perceived it was Mr. Bows.
"Your very umble servant, sir," said Mr. Bows, making a sarcastic bow,and lifting his old hat from his forehead.
"I wish you a good day," Arthur answered sulkily. "Don't let me detainyou, or give you the trouble to follow me again. I am in a hurry, sir.Good evening."
Bows thought Pen had some reason for hurrying to his rooms. "Where arethey?" exclaimed the old gentleman. "You know whom I mean. They're notin your rooms, sir, are they? They told Bolton they were going tochurch at the Temple: they weren't there. They are in your chambers:they mustn't stay in your chambers, Mr. Pendennis."
"Damn it, sir!" cried out Pendennis, fiercely. "Come and see if theyare in my chambers: here's the court and the door--come in and see."And Bows, taking off his hat and bowing first, followed the young man.
They were not in Pen's chambers, as we know. But when the gardens wereclosed, the two women, who had had but a melancholy evening'samusement, walked away sadly with the children, and they entered intoLamb-court, and stood under the lamp-post which cheerfully ornamentsthe center of that quadrangle, and looked up to the third floor of thehouse where Pendennis's chambers were, and where they saw a lightpresently kindled. Then this couple of fools went away, the childrendragging wearily after them, and returned to Mr. Bolton, who wasimmersed in rum-and-water at his lodge in Shepherd's Inn.
Mr. Bows looked round the blank room which the young man occupied, andwhich had received but very few ornaments or additions since the lasttime we saw them. Warrington's old book-case and battered library,Pen's writing-table with its litter of papers presented an aspectcheerless enough. "Will you like to look in the bedrooms, Mr. Bows,and see if my victims are there?" he said bitterly; "or whether I havemade away with the little girls, and hid them in the coal-hole?"
"Your word is sufficient, Mr. Pendennis," the other said, in his sadtone. "You say they are not here, and I know they are not. And I hopethey never have been here, and never will come."
"Upon my word, sir, you are very good, to choose my acquaintances forme," Arthur said, in a haughty tone; "and to suppose that any bodywould be the worse for my society. I remember you, and owe youkindness from old times, Mr. Bows; or I should speak more angrily thanI do, about a very intolerable sort of persecution to which you seeminclined to subject me. You followed me out of your inn yesterday, asif you wanted to watch that I shouldn't steal something." Here Penstammered and turned red, directly he had said the words; he felt hehad given the other an opening, which Bows instantly took.
"I do think you came to steal something, as you say the words, sir,"Bows said. "Do you mean to say that you came to pay a visit to poorold Bows, the fiddler; or to Mrs. Bolton at the porter's lodge? O fie!Such a fine gentleman as Arthur Pendennis, Esquire, doesn't condescendto walk up to my garret, or to sit in a laundress's kitchen, but forreasons of his own. And my belief is that you came to steal a prettygirl's heart away, and to ruin it, and to spurn it afterward, Mr.Arthur Pendennis. That's what the world makes of you young dandies,you gentlemen of fashion, you high and mighty aristocrats that trampleupon the people. It's sport to you, but what is it, to the poor, thinkyou the toys of your pleasures, whom you play with and whom you flinginto the streets when you are tired? I know your order, sir. I knowyour selfishness, and your arrogance, and your pride. What does itmatter to my lord, that the poor man's daughter is made miserable, andher family brought to shame? You must have your pleasures, and thepeople of course must pay for them. What are we made for, but forthat? It's the way with you all--the way with you all, sir."
Bows was speaking beside the question, and Pen had his advantage here,which he was not sorry to take--not sorry to put off the debate fromthe point upon which his adversary had first engaged it. Arthur brokeout with a sort of laugh, for which he asked Bows's pardon. "Yes, I aman aristocrat," he said, "in a palace up three pair of stairs, with acarpet nearly as handsome as yours, Mr. Bows. My life is passed ingrinding the people, is it?--in ruining virgins and robbing the poo
r?My good sir, this is very well in a comedy, where Job Thornberryslaps his breast, and asks my lord how dare he trample on an honestman and poke out an Englishman's fire-side; but in real life, Mr.Bows, to a man who has to work for his bread as much as you do--howcan you talk about aristocrats tyrannizing over the people? Have Iever done you a wrong? or assumed airs of superiority over you? Didyou not have an early regard for me--in days when we were both of usromantic young fellows, Mr. Bows? Come, don't be angry with me now,and let us be as good friends as we were before."
"Those days were very different," Mr. Bows answered; "and Mr. ArthurPendennis was an honest, impetuous young fellow then; rather selfishand conceited, perhaps, but honest. And I liked you then, because youwere ready to ruin yourself for a woman."
"And now, sir?" Arthur asked.
"And now times are changed, and you want a woman to ruin herself foryou," Bows answered. "I know this child, sir. I've always said thislot was hanging over her. She has heated her little brain with novelsuntil her whole thoughts are about love and lovers, and she scarcelysees that she treads on a kitchen floor. I have taught the littlething. She is full of many talents and winning ways, I grant you. I amfond of the girl, sir. I'm a lonely old man; I lead a life that Idon't like, among boon companions, who make me melancholy. I have butthis child that I care for. Have pity upon me, and don't take her awayfrom me, Mr. Pendennis--don't take her away."
The old man's voice broke as he spoke, its accents touched Pen, muchmore than the menacing or sarcastic tone which Bows had commencedby adopting.
"Indeed," said he, kindly; "you do me a wrong if you fancy I intendone to poor little Fanny. I never saw her till Friday night. It wasthe merest chance that our friend Costigan threw her into my way. Ihave no intentions regarding her--that is--"
"That is, you know very well that she is a foolish girl, and hermother a foolish woman--that is, you meet her in the Temple Gardens,and of course, without previous concert, that is, that when I foundher yesterday, reading the book you've wrote, she scorned me," Bowssaid. "What am I good for but to be laughed at? a deformed old fellowlike me; an old fiddler, that wears a thread-bare coat, and gets hisbread by playing tunes at an alehouse? You are a fine gentleman, youare. You wear scent in your handkerchief, and a ring on your finger.You go to dine with great people. Who ever gives a crust to old Bows?And yet I might have been as good a man as the best of you. I mighthave been a man of genius, if I had had the chance; ay, and have livedwith the master-spirits of the land. But every thing has failed withme. I'd ambition once, and wrote plays, poems, music--nobody wouldgive me a hearing. I never loved a woman, but she laughed at me; andhere I am in my old age alone--alone! Don't take this girl from me,Mr. Pendennis, I say again. Leave her with me a little longer. She waslike a child to me till yesterday. Why did you step in and make hermock my deformity and old age?"