They seldom occurred in his presence. However frisky they were before,
mother and child were hushed and quiet when Mr. Pendennis walked into the
drawing-room, his newspaper under his arm. And here, while little Pen,
buried in a great chair, read all the books on which he could lay hold,
the Squire perused his own articles in the Gardener's Gazette, or took a
solemn hand at piquet with Mrs. Pendennis, or an occasional friend from
the village.
As for Mrs. Pendennis, she was conspicuous for her tranquil beauty, her
natural sweetness and kindness, and that simplicity and dignity which
purity and innocence are sure to bestow upon a handsome woman, and
during her son's childhood and youth the boy thought of her as little
less than an angel, a supernatural being, all wisdom, love and beauty.
But Mrs. Pendennis had one weakness,--pride of family. She spoke of Mr.
Pendennis as if he had been the Pope of Rome on his throne, and she a
cardinal kneeling at his feet, and giving him incense. Mr. Pendennis's
brother, the Major, she held to be a sort of Bayard among Majors, and
as for her son Arthur, she worshipped that youth with an ardour which
the young scapegrace accepted almost as coolly as the statue of the
saint in St. Peter's receives the rapturous kisses which the faithful
deliver on his toe.
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