“Dear Wenham,”—he begins, Mr. Wenham read,—“as you have had my character in your hands for the last three weeks, and no doubt have torn me to shreds, according to your custom, I think you can afford to be good-humoured by way of variety, and to do me a service. It is a delicate matter, entre nous, une affaire de coeur. There is a young friend of mine who is gone wild about a certain Miss Fotheringay, an actress at the theatre here, and I must own to you, as handsome a woman, and, as it appears to me, as good an actress as ever put on rouge. She does Ophelia, Lady Teazle, Mrs. Haller—that sort of thing. Upon my word, she is as splendid as Georges in her best days, and as far as I know, utterly superior to anything we have on our scene. I want a London engagement for her. Can’t you get your friend Dolphin to come and see her—to engage her—to take her out of this place? A word from a noble friend of ours (you understand) would be invaluable, and if you could get the Gaunt House interest for me—I will promise anything I can in return for your service—which I shall consider one of the greatest that can be done to me. Do, do this now as a good fellow, which I always said you were: and in return, command yours truly, A. Pendennis.”
“It’s a clear case,” said Mr. Wenham, having read this letter; “old Pendennis is in love.”
“And wants to get the woman up to London—evidently,” continued Mr. Wagg.
“I should like to see Pendennis on his knees, with the rheumatism,” said Mr. Wenham.
“Or accommodating the beloved object with a lock of his hair,” said Wagg.
“Stuff.” said the great man. “He has relations in the country, hasn’t he? He said something about a nephew, whose interest could return a member. It is the nephew’s affair, depend on it. The young one is in a scrape. I was myself—when I was in the fifth form at Eton—a market-gardener’s daughter—and swore I’d marry her. I was mad about her—poor Polly!”—here he made a pause, and perhaps the past rose up to Lord Steyne, and George Gaunt was a boy again not altogether lost.—“But I say, she must be a fine woman from Pendennis’s account. Have in Dolphin, and let us hear if he knows anything of her.”
At this Wenham sprang out of the box, passed the servitor who waited at the door communicating with the stage, and who saluted Mr. Wenham with profound respect; and the latter emissary, pushing on and familiar with the place, had no difficulty in finding out the manager, who was employed, as he not unfrequently was, in swearing and cursing the ladies of the corps-de-ballet for not doing their duty.
The oaths died away on Mr. Dolphin’s lips, as soon as he saw Mr. Wenham; and he drew off the hand which was clenched in the face of one of the offending coryphees, to grasp that of the new-comer. “How do, Mr. Wenham? How’s his lordship to-night? Looks uncommonly well,” said the manager smiling, as if he had never been out of temper in his life; and he was only too delighted to follow Lord Steyne’s ambassador, and pay his personal respects to that great man.
The visit to Chatteris was the result of their conversation: and Mr. Dolphin wrote to his lordship from that place, and did himself the honour to inform the Marquess of Steyne, that he had seen the lady about whom his lordship had spoken, that he was as much struck by her talents as he was by her personal appearance, and that he had made an engagement with Miss Fotheringay, who would soon have the honour of appearing before a London audience, and his noble and enlightened patron the Marquess of Steyne.
Pen read the announcement of Miss Fotheringay’s engagement in the Chatteris paper, where he had so often praised her charms. The Editor made very handsome mention of her talent and beauty, and prophesied her success in the metropolis. Bingley, the manager, began to advertise “The last night of Miss Fotheringay’s engagement.” Poor Pen and Sir Derby Oaks were very constant at the play: Sir Derby in the stage-box, throwing bouquets and getting glances.—Pen in the almost deserted boxes, haggard, wretched and lonely. Nobody cared whether Miss Fotheringay was going or staying except those two—and perhaps one more, which was Mr. Bows of the orchestra.