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Back Kitchen. Pen felt that his story was a failure; his voice sank and dwindled away dismally at the end of it—flickered, and went out; and it was all dark again. You could hear the ticket-porter, who lolls about Shepherd's Inn, as he passed on the flags under the archway: the clink of his boot-heels was noted by everybody. “You were coming to see me, sir,” Mr. Bows said. “Won't you have the kindness to walk up to my chambers with me? You do them a great honor, I am sure. They are rather high up; but—” “Oh! I live in a garret myself, and Shepherd's Inn is twice as cheerful as Lamb Court,” Mr. Pendennis broke in. “I knew that you had third-floor apartments,” Mr. Bows said; “and was going to say—you will please not take my remark as discourteous—that the air up three pair of stairs is wholesomer for gentlemen than the air of a porter's lodge.” “Sir l’” said Pen, whose candle flamed up again in his wrath, and who was disposed to be as quarrelsome as men are when they are in the wrong. “Will you permit me to choose my society without —” “You were so polite as to say that you were about to honor my 'umble domicile with a visit,” Mr. Bows said with his sad voice. “Shall I show you the way? Mr. Pendennis and I are old friends, Mrs. Bolton — very old acquaintances; and at the earliest dawn of his life we crossed each other.” The old man pointed towards the door with a trembling finger, and a hat in the other hand, and in an attitude slightly theatrical; so were his words when he spoke somewhat artificial, and chosen from the vocabulary which he had heard all his life from the painted lips of the orators before the stage-lamps. But he was not acting or masquerading, as Pen knew very well, though he was disposed to pooh-pooh the old fellow's melodramatic airs. “Come along, sir.” he said, “as you are so very pressing. Mrs. Bolton, I wish you a good day. Good-by, Miss Fanny; I shall always think of our night at Vauxhall with pleasure; and be sure I will remember the theatre-tickets.” And he took her hand, pressed it, was pressed by it, and was gone. “What a nice young man, to be sure!” cried Mrs. Bolton. “D'you think so, Ma?” said Fanny. “I was a-thinkin’ who he was like. When I was at the Wells with Mrs. Serle,” Mrs. Bolton continued, looking through the window-curtain after Pen, as he went up the court with Bows, “there was a young gentleman from the City, that used to come in a tilbry, in a white 'at, the very image of him, only his whiskers was black, and Mr. P.'s is red.” “Law, Mal they are a most beautiful hawburn,” Fanny said. “He used to come for Emly Budd, who danced Columbine in ‘Arleykin Ornpipe, or the Battle of Navarino,” when Miss De la Bosky was took ill—a pretty dancer, and a fine stage figure of a woman — and he was a great sugar-baker in the City, with a country'ouse at Omerton; and he used to drive her in the tilbry down Goswell Street Road; and one day they drove and was married at St. Bartholomew's Church, Smithfield, where they 'ad their bands read quite private; and she now keeps her carriage, and I sor her name in the paper as patroness of the Manshing House Ball for the Washy women's Asylum. And look at Lady Mirabel — Capting Costigan's daughter—she was profeshnl, as all very well know.” Thus, and more to this purpose, Mrs. Bolton spoke, now peeping through the windowcurtain, now cleaning the mugs and plates, and consigning them to their place in the corner cupboard; and finishing her speech as she and Fanny shook out and folded up the dinner-cloth between them, and restored it to its drawer in the table. Although Costigan had once before been made pretty accurately to understand what Pen's pecuniary means and expectations were, I suppose Cos had forgotten the information acquired at Chatteris years ago, or had been induced by his natural enthusiasm to exaggerate his friend's income. He had described Fairoaks Park in the most glowing terms to Mrs. Bolton, on the preceding evening, as he was walking about with her during Pen's little escapade with Fanny, had dilated upon the enormous wealth of Pen's famous uncle, the Major, and shown an intimate acquaintance with Arthur's funded and landed property. Very likely Mrs. Bolton, in her wisdom, had speculated upon these matters during the night; and had had visions of Fanny driving in her carriage, like Mrs. Bolton's old comrade, the dancer of Sadler's Wells. In the last operation of table-cloth folding, these two foolish women, of necessity, came close together; and as Fanny took the cloth and gave it the last fold, her mother put her finger under the young girl's chin, and kissed her. Again the red signal flew out, and fluttered on Fanny's cheek. What did it mean? It was not alarm this time. It was pleasure which caused the poor little Fanny to blush so. Poor little Fanny' What! is love sin, that it is so pleasant at the beginning and so bitter at the end ? After the embrace, Mrs. Bolton thought proper to say that she was a-going out upon business, and that Fanny must keep the lodge; which Fanny, after a very faint objection indeed, consented to do. So Mrs. Bolton took her bonnet and market-basket, and departed; and the instant she was gone, Fanny went and sat by the window which commanded Bows's door, and never once took her eyes away from that quarter of Shepherd's Inn. Betsy-Jane and Ameliar-Ann were buzzing in one corner of the place, and making believe to read out of a picture-book, which one of them held topsy-turvy. It was a grave and dreadful tract, of Mr. Bolton's collection. Fanny did not hear her sisters prattling over it. She noticed nothing but Bows's door. At last she gave a little shake, and her eyes lighted up. He had come out. He would pass the door again. But her poor little countenance fell in an instant more. Pendennis, indeed, came out; but Bows followed after him. They passed under the archway together. He only took off his hat, and bowed as he looked in. He did not stop to speak. In three or four minutes—Fanny did not know how long, but she looked furiously at him when he came into the lodge–Bows returned alone, and entered into the porter's room. “Where's your ma, dear?” he said to Fanny. “I don't know,” Fanny said, with an angry toss. “I don't follow ma's steps wherever she goes, I suppose, Mr. Bows.” “Am I my mother's keeper ?” Bows said, with his usual melancholy bitterness. “Come here, Betsy-Jane and Ameliar-Ann; I’ve brought a cake for the one who can read her letters best, and a cake for the other who can read them the next best.” When the young ladies had undergone the examination through which Bows put them, they were rewarded with their gingerbread medals, and went off to

vol. x. — 23

discuss them in the court. Meanwhile Fanny took out
some work, and pretended to busy herself with it, her
mind being in great excitement and anger as she plied
her needle. Bows sat so that he could command the
entrance from the lodge to the street. But the person
whom, perhaps, he expected to see, never made his ap-
pearance again. And Mrs. Bolton came in from mar-
ket, and found Mr. Bows in place of the person whom
she had expected to see. The reader perhaps can guess
what was his name 2
The interview between Bows and his guest, when
those two mounted to the apartment occupied by the
former in common with the descendant of the Milesian
kings, was not particularly satisfactory to either party.
Pen was sulky. If Bows had anything on his mind,
he did not care to deliver himself of his thoughts in
the presence of Captain Costigan, who remained in
the apartment during the whole of Pen's visit; having
quitted his bed-chamber, indeed, but a very few min-
utes before the arrival of that gentleman. We have
witnessed the déshabillé of Major Pendennis: will
any man wish to be valet-de-chambre to our other
hero, Costigan ” It would seem that the Captain, be-
fore issuing from his bedroom, scented himself with
otto of whiskey. A rich odor of that delicious per-
fume breathed from out him, as he held out the grasp
of cordiality to his visitor. The hand which per-
formed that grasp shook wofully: it was a wonder
how it could hold the razor with which the poor gen-
tleman daily operated on his chin.
Bows's room was as neat, on the other hand, as his
comrade's was disorderly. His humble wardrobe hung
behind a curtain. His books and manuscript music
were trimly arranged upon shelves. A lithographed
portrait of Miss Fotheringay, as Mrs. Haller, with
the actress's sprawling signature at the corner, hung

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