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 firework 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 fireworks, 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.
“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?”
“Oh 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 anything 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 fireworks. You must know I live by myself, and work very hard. I write in books and newspapers, Fanny; and I quite tired out, and was 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 grammarians’ 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 r. Arthur Pendennis made any use of the monosyllable in question? Not so. In the first place, it was dark: the fireworks 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 honour. She seems to have a great deal of dangerous and rather contagious sensibility, and I am very glad the fireworks 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 undertone. 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.