Pen, who was by this time in a very fevered state, yet was greatly pleased to receive Costigan’s visit. He heard the well-known voice in his sitting-room, as he lay in the bedroom within, and called the Captain eagerly to him, and thanked him for coming, and begged him to take a chair and talk to him. The Captain felt the young man’s pulse with great gravity—(his own tremulous and clammy hand growing steady for the instant while his finger pressed Arthur’s throbbing vein)—the pulse was beating very fiercely—Pen’s face was haggard and hot—his eyes were bloodshot and gloomy; his “bird,” as the Captain pronounced the word, afterwards giving a description of his condition, had not been shaved for nearly a week. Pen made his visitor sit down, and, tossing and turning in his comfortless bed, began to try and talk to the Captain in a lively manner, about the Back Kitchen, about Vauxhall and when they should go again, and about Fanny—how was little Fanny?
Indeed how was she? We know how she went home very sadly on the previous Sunday evening, after she had seen Arthur light his lamp in his chambers, whilst he was having his interview with Bows. Bows came back to his own rooms presently, passing by the lodge door, and looking into Mrs. Bolton’s, according to his wont, as he passed, but with a very melancholy face. She had another weary night that night. Her restlessness wakened her little bedfellows more than once. She daren’t read more of ‘Walter Lorraine:’ Father was at home, and would suffer no light. She kept the book under her pillow, and felt for it in the night. She had only just got to sleep, when the children began to stir with the morning, almost as early as the birds. Though she was very angry with Bows, she went to his room at her accustomed hour in the day, and there the good-hearted musician began to talk to her.
“I saw Mr. Pendennis last night, Fanny,” he said.
“Did you? I thought you did,” Fanny answered, looking fiercely at the melancholy old gentleman.
“I’ve been fond of you ever since we came to live in this place,” he continued. “You were a child when I came; and you used to like me, Fanny, until three or four days ago: until you saw this gentleman.”
“And now, I suppose, you are going to say ill of him,” said Fanny. “Do, Mr. Bows—that will make me like you better.”
“Indeed I shall do no such thing,” Bows answered; “I think he is a very good and honest young man.”
“Indeed! you know that if you said a word against him, I would never speak a word to you again—never!” cried Miss Fanny; and clenched her little hand, and paced up and down the room. Bows noted, watched, and followed the ardent little creature with admiration and gloomy sympathy. Her cheeks flushed, her frame trembled; her eyes beamed love, anger, defiance. “You would like to speak ill of him,” she said; “but you daren’t—you know you daren’t!”
“I knew him many years since,” Bows continued, “when he was almost as young as you are, and he had a romantic attachment for our friend the Captain’s daughter—Lady Mirabel that is now.”
Fanny laughed. “I suppose there was other people, too, that had romantic attachments for Miss Costigan,” she said: “I don’t want to hear about ’em.”