h must be told, it was Mrs. Portman herself who was the
chief narrator of the story of Pen's loves. Whatever tales this candid
woman heard, she was sure to impart them to her neighbours; and after
she had been put into possession of Pen's secret by the little scandal
at Chatteris, poor Doctor Portman knew that it would next day be about
the parish of which he was the Rector. And so indeed it was; the whole
society there had the legend--at the news-room, at the milliner's, at
the shoe-shop, and the general warehouse at the corner of the market; at
Mrs. Pybus's, at the Glanders's, at the Honourable Mrs. Simcoe's soiree,
at the Factory; nay, through the mill itself the tale was current in a
few hours, and young Arthur Pendennis's madness was in every mouth.

All Dr. Portman's acquaintances barked out upon him when he walked the
street the next day. The poor divine knew that his Betsy was the author
of the rumour, and groaned in spirit. Well, well,--it must have come
in a day or two, and it was as well that the town should have the real
story. What the Clavering folks thought of Mrs. Pendennis for spoiling
her son, and of that precocious young rascal of an Arthur for daring
to propose to a play-actress, need not be told here. If pride exists
amongst any folks in our country, and assuredly we have enough of it,
there is no pride more deep-seated than that of twopenny old gentlewomen
in small towns. "Gracious goodness," the cry was, "how infatuated the
mother is about that pert and headstrong boy who gives himself the
airs of a lord on his blood-horse, and for whom our society is not good
enough, and who would marry an odious painted actress off a booth, where
very likely he wants to rant himself. If dear good Mr. Pendennis had
been alive this scandal would never have happened."

No more it would, very likely, nor should we have been occupied in
narrating Pen's history. It was true that he gave himself airs to the
Clavering folks. Naturally haughty and frank, their cackle and small
talk and small dignities bored him, and he showed a contempt which he
could not conceal. The Doctor and the Curate were the only people Pen
cared for in the place--even Mrs. Portman shared in the general distrust
of him, and of his mother, the widow, who kept herself aloof from the
village society, and was sneered at accordingly, because she tried,
forsooth, to keep her head up with the great County families. She,
indeed! Mrs. Barker at the Factory