CHAPTER L. Or near the Temple Garden
Fashion has long deserted the green and pretty Temple Garden, which inShakespeare makes York and Lancaster to pluck the innocent white and redroses which became the badges of their bloody wars; and the learned andpleasant writer of the Handbook of London tells us that "the commonestand hardiest kind of rose has long ceased to put forth a bud" in thatsmoky air. Not many of the present occupiers of the buildings roundabout the quarter know or care, very likely, whether or not rosesgrow there, or pass the old gate, except on their way to chambers. Theattorneys' clerks don't carry flowers in their bags, or posies undertheir arms, as they run to the counsel's chambers--the few lawyers whotake constitutional walks think very little about York and Lancaster,especially since the railroad business is over. Only antiquarians andliterary amateurs care to look at the gardens with much interest, andfancy good Sir Roger de Coverley and Mr. Spectator with his shortface pacing up and down the road; or dear Oliver Goldsmith in thesummer-house, perhaps meditating about the next 'Citizen of the World,'or the new suit that Mr. Filby, the tailor, is fashioning for him, orthe dunning letter that Mr. Newbery has sent. Treading heavily on thegravel, and rolling majestically along in a snuff-coloured suit, and awig that sadly wants the barber's powder and irons, one sees theGreat Doctor step up to him (his Scotch lackey following at thelexicographer's heels, a little the worse for port wine that they havebeen taking at the Mitre), and Mr. Johnson asks Mr. Goldsmith to comehome and take a dish of tea with Miss Williams. Kind faith of Fancy! SirRoger and Mr. Spectator are as real to us now as the two doctors and theboozy and faithful Scotchman. The poetical figures live in our memoryjust as much as the real personages,--and as Mr. Arthur Pendennis was ofa romantic and literary turn, by no means addicted to the legal pursuitscommon in the neighbourhood of the place, we may presume that he wascherishing some such poetical reflections as these, when, upon theevening after the events recorded in the last chapter, the younggentleman chose the Temple Gardens as a place for exercise andmeditation.
On the Sunday evening the Temple is commonly calm. The chambers are forthe most part vacant: the great lawyers are giving grand dinner-partiesat their houses in the Belgravian or Tyburnian districts; the agreeableyoung barristers are absent, attending those parties, and paying theirrespects to Mr. Kewsy's excellent claret, or Mr. Justice Ermine'saccomplished daughters the uninvited are partaking of the economic jointand the modest half-pint of wine at the Club, entertaining themselves,and the rest of the company in the Club-room, with Circuit jokes andpoints of wit and law. Nobody is in chambers at all, except poor Mr.Cockle, who is ill, and whose laundress is making him gruel; or Mr.Toodle, who is an amateur of the flute, and whom you may hear pipingsolitary from his chambers in the second floor; or young Tiger, thestudent, from whose open windows comes a great gush of cigar smoke, andat whose door are a quantity of dishes and covers, bearing the insigniaof Dicks' or the Cock. But stop! Whither does Fancy lead us? It isvacation time; and with the exception of Pendennis, nobody is inChambers 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 pleased citizenssauntering over the trim lawn and the broad gravel-walks by the river,on this evening it happened, as we have said, that the young gentleman,who had dined alone at a tavern in the neighbourhood of the Temple, tooka fancy, as he was returning home to his chambers, to take a little walkin the gardens, and enjoy the fresh evening air, and the sight of theshining Thames. After walking for a brief space, and looking at themany peaceful and happy groups round about him, he grew tired of theexercise, and betook himself to one of the summer-houses which flankeither end of the main walk, and there modestly seated himself. Whatwere his cogitations? The evening was delightfully bright and calm; thesky was cloudless; the chimneys on the opposite bank were not smoking;the wharfs warehouses looked rosy in the sunshine, and as clear as ifthey, too, had washed for the holiday. The steamers rushed rapidly upand down the stream, laden with holiday passengers. The bells of themultitudinous city churches were ringing to evening prayers--suchpeaceful Sabbath evenings as this Pen may have remembered in his earlydays, as he paced, with his arm round his mother's waist, on the terracebefore the lawn at home. The sun was lighting up the little Brawl, too,as well as the broad Thames, and sinking downwards majestically behindthe Clavering elms, and the tower of the familiar village church. Wasit thoughts of these, or the sunset merely, that caused the blush in theyoung man's face? He beat time on the bench, to the chorus of thebells without; flicked the dust off his shining boots with hispocket-handkerchief, and starting up, stamped with his foot and said,"No, by Jove, I'll go home." And with this resolution, which indicatedthat some struggle as to the propriety of remaining where he was, or ofquitting the garden, had been going on in his mind, he stepped out ofthe 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, withtheir long blue shadows slanting towards the east.
One cried out "Oh!" the other began to laugh; and with a knowing littleinfantile chuckle, said, "Missa Pendennis!" And Arthur, looking down,saw his two little friends of the day before, Mesdemoiselles Ameliar-Annand Betsy-Jane. He blushed more than ever at seeing them, and seizingthe one whom he had nearly upset, jumped her up into the air, and kissedher: at which sudden assault Ameliar-Ann began to cry in 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 the lady.Fanny did not say one single word: though; her eyes flashed a welcome,and shone as bright--as bright as the most blazing windows in PaperBuildings. But Mrs. Bolton, after admonishing Betsy-Jane, said, "Lorsir--how very odd that we should meet you year! I ope you ave your ealthwell, sir.--Ain't it odd, Fanny, that we should meet Mr. Pendennis?"What do you mean by sniggering, Mesdames? When young Croesus has beenstaying at a country-house, have you never, by any singular coincidence,been walking with your Fanny in the shrubberies? Have you and your Fannynever happened to be listening to the band of the Heavies at Brighton,when young De Boots and Captain Padmore came clinking down the Pier?Have you and your darling Frances never chanced to be visiting old widowWheezy at the cottage on the common, when the young curate has steppedin with a tract adapted to the rheumatism? Do you suppose that, ifsingular coincidences occur at the Hall, they don't also happen at theLodge?
It was a coincidence, no doubt: that was all. In the course of theconversation on the day previous, Mr. Pendennis had merely said, in thesimplest way imaginable, and in reply to a question of Miss Bolton, thatalthough some of the courts were gloomy, parts of the Temple were verycheerful and agreeable, especially the chambers looking on the river andaround the gardens, and that the gardens were a very pleasant walk onSunday evenings and frequented by a great number of people--and here, bythe merest chance, all our acquaintances met together, just like so manypeople in genteel life. What could be more artless, good-natured, ornatural?
Pen looked very grave, pompous, and dandified. He was unusually smartand brilliant in his costume. His white duck trousers and white hat,his neckcloth of many colours, his light waistcoat, gold chains, andshirt-studs, gave him the air of a prince of the blood at least. Howhis splendour became his figure! Was anybody ever like him? some onethought. He blushed--how his blushes became him! the same individualsaid to herself. The children, on seeing him the day before, had beenso struck with him, that after he had gone away they had been playingat him. And Ameliar-Ann, sticking her little chubby fingers into thearm-holes of her pinafore, as Pen was wont to do with his waistcoat, hadsaid, "Now, Bessy-Jane, I'll be Missa Pendennis." Fanny had laughedtill she cried, and smothered her sister with kisses for that feat. Howhappy, too, she was to see Arthur embracing the
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 thatNeaera--Neaera--I don't know the pronunciation. And 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 underher displeasure 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 put herlittle face through one of them, and laughed at the old warrior in themost winning manner. She would have made a funny little picture lookingthrough the holes. Then she daintily removed Costigan's dinner things,tripping about the room as she had seen the dancers do at the play; andshe danced to the Captain's cupboard, and produced his whisky-bottle,and mixed him a tumbler, and must taste a drop of it--a little drop; andthe Captain must sing her one of his songs, his dear songs, and teachit to her. And when he had sung an Irish melody in his rich quaveringvoice, fancying it was he who was fascinating the little siren, she puther little question about Arthur Pendennis and his novel, and havinggot an answer, cared for nothing more, but left the Captain at the pianoabout to sing her another song, and the dinner-tray on the passage, andthe shirts on the chair, and ran downstairs quickening her pace as shesped.
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 a cawpeeof his work. But he knew the name of Pen's novel from the fact thatMessrs. Finucane, Bludyer, and other frequenters of the Back Kitchen,spoke of Mr. Pendennis (and not all of them with great friendship; forBludyer called him a confounded coxcomb, and Hoolan wondered that Doolandid not kick him etc.) by the sobriquet of Walter Lorraine,--and washence enabled to give Fanny the information which she required.
"And she went and ast for it at the libery," Mrs. Bolton said, "--severalliberies--and some ad it and it was bout, and some adn't it. And one ofthe liberies as ad it wouldn't let er ave it without a sovering: and sheadn't one, and she came back a-cryin to me--didn't you, Fanny?--and Igave 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-bye, good-bye." 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,--"darling littleFanny! You are worth them all. I wish to heaven Shandon was back. I'd gohome to my mother. I mustn't see her. I won't. I won't, so help 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 to churchat the Temple, they weren't there. They are in your chambers: theymustn'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." AndBows, taking off his hat and bowing first, followed the young man.
They were not in Pen's chambers, as we know. But when the gardenswere closed, 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 ornaments thecentre of that quadrangle, and looked up to the third floor of the housewhere Pendennis's chambers were, and where they saw a light presentlykindled. Then this couple of fools went away, the children draggingwearily after them, and returned to Mr. Bolton, who was immersed inrum-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 bookcase and battered library, Pen'swriting-table with its litter of papers, presented an aspect cheerlessenough. "Will you like to look in the bedrooms, Mr. Bows, and see if myvictims are there?" he said bitterly; "or whether I have made away withthe 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 anybody wouldbe the worse for my society. I remember you, and owe you kindness fromold times, Mr. Bows; or I should speak more angrily than I do, abouta very intolerable sort of persecution to which you seem inclined tosubject me. You followed me out of your Inn yesterday, as if you wantedto watch that I shouldn't steal something." Here Pen stammered andturned red, directly he had said the words; he felt he had given theother 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 poor oldBows, the fiddler; or to Mrs. Bolton, at the porter's lodge? O fie! Sucha 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 afterwards, Mr.Arthur Pendennis. That's what the world makes of you young dandies, yougentlemen of fashion, you high and mighty aristocrats that trample uponthe people. It's sport to you, but what is it to the poor, think you;the toys of your pleasures, whom you play with and whom you fling intothe streets when you are tired? I know your order, sir. I know yourselfishness, and your arrogance, and your pride. What does it matter tomy lord, that the poor man's daughter is made miserable, and her familybrought to shame? You must have your pleasures, and the people of coursemust pay for them. What are we made for, but for that? It's the way withyou 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 from thepoint upon which his adversary had first engaged it. Arthur broke outwith 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, witha carpet nearly as handsome as yours, Mr. Bows. My life is passed ingrinding the people, is it?--in ruining virgins and robbing the poor? Mygood sir, this is
very well in a comedy, where Job Thornberry slaps hisbreast, and asks my Lord how dare he trample on an honest man and pokeout an Englishman's fireside; but in real life, Mr. Bows, to a man whohas to work for his bread as much as you do--how can you talk aboutaristocrats tyrannising over the people? Have I ever done you a wrong?or assumed airs of superiority over you? Did you not have an earlyregard for me--in days when we were both of us romantic young fellows,Mr. Bows? Come, don't be angry with me now, and let us be as goodfriends 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. He liked you then, because you wereready 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 this lotwas hanging over her. She has heated her little brain with novels, untilher whole thoughts are about love and lovers, and she scarcely sees thatshe treads on a kitchen floor. I have taught the little thing. She isfull of many talents and winning ways, I grant you. I am fond of thegirl, sir. I'm a lonely old man; I lead a life that I don't like, amongboon companions, who make me melancholy. I have but this child thatI care for. Have pity upon me, and don't take her away from 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 commenced byadopting.
"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 was themerest chance that our friend Costigan threw her into my way. I have nointentions regarding her--that is----"
"That is, you know very well that she is a foolish girl, and her mothera foolish woman,--that is, you meet her in the Temple Gardens, andof course without previous concert,--that is, that when I found heryesterday reading the book you've wrote, she scorned me," Bows said."What am I good for but to be laughed at? a deformed old fellow likeme; an old fiddler, that wears a threadbare coat, and gets his bread byplaying tunes at an ale-house? You are a fine gentleman, you are. Youwear scent in your handkerchief, and a ring on your finger. You go todine with great people. Who ever gives a crust to old Bows? And yet Imight have been as good a man as the best of you. I might have beena man of genius, if I had had the chance; ay, and have lived with themaster-spirits of the land. But everything had failed with me. I'dambition once, and wrote plays, poems, music--nobody would give me ahearing. I never loved a woman, but she laughed at me; and here I am inmy old age alone--alone! Don't take this girl from me, Mr. Pendennis, Isay again. Leave her with me a little longer. She was like a child to metill yesterday. Why did you step in, and made her to mock my deformityand old age?"
"I am guiltless of that, at least," Arthur said, with something of asigh. "Upon my word of honour, I wish I had never seen the girl. Mycalling is not seduction, Mr. Bows. I did not imagine that I had madean impression on poor Fanny, until--until to-night. And then, sir, I wassorry, and was flying from my temptation, as you came upon me. And," headded, with a glow upon his cheek, which, in the gathering darkness, hiscompanion could not see, and with an audible tremor in his voice, "I donot mind telling you, sir, that on this Sabbath evening, as the churchbells were ringing, I thought of my own home, and of women angelicallypure and good, who dwell there; and I was running hither as I met you,that I might avoid the danger which beset me, and ask strength of GodAlmighty to do my duty."
After these words from Arthur a silence ensued, and when theconversation was resumed by his guest, the latter spoke in a tone whichwas much more gentle and friendly. And on taking farewell of Pen,Bows asked leave to shake hands with him, and with a very warm andaffectionate greeting on both sides, apologised to Arthur for havingmistaken him, and paid him some compliments which caused the young manto squeeze his old friend's hand heartily again. And as they parted atPen's door, Arthur said he had given a promise, and he hoped and trustedthat Mr. Bows might rely on it?
"Amen to that prayer," said Mr. Bows, and went slowly down the stair.