Miss Amory’s Partners
The noble Henry Foker, of whom we have lost sight for a few pages, has
been in the meanwhile occupied, as we might suppose a man of his
constancy would be, in the pursuit and indulgence of his all-absorbing
passion of love.
I wish that a few of my youthful readers who are inclined to that
amusement would take the trouble to calculate the time which is spent
in the pursuit, when they would find it to be one of the most costly
occupations in which a man can possibly indulge. What don’t you
sacrifice to it, indeed, young gentlemen and young ladies of
ill-regulated minds? Many hours of your precious sleep in the first
place, in which you lie tossing and thinking about the adored object,
whence you come down late to breakfast, when noon is advancing and all
the family is long since away to its daily occupations. Then when you
at length get to these occupations you pay no attention to them, and
engage in them with no ardour—all your thoughts and powers of mind
being fixed elsewhere. Then the day’s work being slurred over, you
neglect your friends and relatives, your natural companions and usual
associates in life, that you may go and have a glance at the dear
personage, or a look up at her windows, or a peep at her carriage in
the Park. Then at night the artless blandishments of home bore you;
mamma’s conversation palls upon you; the dishes which that good soul
prepares for the dinner of her favourite are sent away untasted,—the
whole meal of life, indeed, except one particular plat, has no relish.
Life, business, family ties, home, all things useful and dear once,
become intolerable, and you are never easy except when you are in
pursuit of your flame.
Such I believe to be not unfrequently the state of mind amongst
ill-regulated young gentlemen, and such indeed was Mr. H. Foker’s
condition, who, having been bred up to indulge in every propensity
towards which he was inclined, abandoned himself to this one with his
usual selfish enthusiasm. Nor because he had given his friend Arthur
Pendennis a great deal of good advice on a former occasion, need men of
the world wonder that Mr. Foker became passion’s slave in his turn. Who
among us has not given a plenty of the very best advice to his friends?
Who has not preached, and who has practised? To be sure, you, madam,
are perhaps a perfect being, and never had a wrong thought in the whole
course of your frigid and irreproachable existence: or sir, you are a
great deal too strong-minded to allow any foolish passion to interfere
with your equanimity in chambers or your attendance on ’Change; you are
so strong that you don’t want any sympathy. We don’t give you any,
then; we keep ours for the humble and weak, that struggle and stumble
and get up again, and so march with the rest of mortals. What need have
you of a hand who never fall? Your serene virtue is never shaded by
passion, or ruffled by temptation, or darkened by remorse; compassion
would be impertinence for such an angel: but then with such a one
companionship becomes intolerable; you are, from the elevation of your
very virtue and high attributes, of necessity lonely; we can’t reach up
and talk familiarly with such potentatess good-bye, then; our way lies
with humble folks, and not with serene highnesses like you; and we give
notice that there are no perfect characters in this history, except,
perhaps, one little one, and that one is not perfect either, for she
never knows to this day that she is perfect, and with a deplorable
misapprehension and perverseness of humility, believes herself to be as
great a sinner as need be.
This young person does not happen to be in London at the present period
of our story, and it is by no means for the like of her that Mr. Henry
Foker’s mind is agitated. But what matters a few failings? Need we be
angels, male or female, in order to be worshipped as such? Let us
admire the diversity of the tastes of mankind; and the oldest, the
ugliest, the stupidest and most pompous, the silliest and most vapid,
the greatest criminal, tyrant booby, Bluebeard, Catherine Hayes, George
Barnwell, amongst us, we need never despair. I have read of the passion
of a transported pickpocket for a female convict (each of them advanced
in age, being repulsive in person, ignorant, quarrelsome, and given to
drink), that was as magnificent as the loves of Cleopatra and Antony,
or Lancelot and Guinever. The passion which Count Borulawski, the
Polish dwarf, inspired in the bosom of the most beautiful Baroness at
the Court of Dresden, is a matter with which we are all of us
acquainted: the flame which burned in the heart of young Cornet Tozer
but the other day, and caused him to run off and espouse Mrs.
Battersby, who was old enough to be his mamma,—all these instances are
told in the page of history or the newspaper column. Are we to be
ashamed or pleased to think that our hearts are formed so that the
biggest and highest-placed Ajax among us may some day find himself
prostrate before the pattens of his kitchen-maid; as that there is no
poverty or shame or crime, which will not be supported, hugged even
with delight, and cherished more closely than virtue would be, by the
perverse fidelity and admirable constant folly of a woman?
So then Henry Foker, Esquire, longed after his love, and cursed the
fate which separated him from her. When Lord Gravesend’s family retired
to the country (his lordship leaving his proxy with the venerable Lord
Bagwig), Harry still remained lingering on in London, certainly not
much to the sorrow of Lady Ann, to whom he was affianced, and who did
not in the least miss him. Wherever Miss Clavering went, this
infatuated young fellow continued to follow her; and being aware that
his engagement to his cousin was known in the world, he was forced to
make a mystery of his passion, and confine it to his own breast, so
that it was so pent in there and pressed down, that it is a wonder he
did not explode some day with the stormy secret, and perish collapsed
after the outburst.
There had been a grand entertainment at Gaunt House on one beautiful
evening in June, and the next day’s journals contained almost two
columns of the names of the most closely printed nobility and gentry
who had been honoured with invitations to the ball. Among the guests
were Sir Francis and Lady Clavering and Miss Amory, for whom the
indefatigable Major Pendennis had procured an invitation, and our two
young friends Arthur and Harry. Each exerted himself, and danced a
great deal with Miss Blanche. As for the worthy Major, he assumed the
charge of Lady Clavering, and took care to introduce her to that
department of the mansion where her ladyship specially distinguished
herself, namely, the refreshment-room, where, amongst pictures of
Titian and Giorgione, and regal portraits of Vandyke and Reynolds, and
enormous salvers of gold and silver, and pyramids of large flowers, and
constellations of wax candles—in a manner perfectly regardless of
expense, in a word—a supper was going on all night. Of how many creams,
jellies, salads, peaches, white soups, grapes, pates, galantines, cups
of tea, champagne, and so forth, Lady Clavering partook, it does not
become us to say. How much the Major suffered as he followed the honest
woman about, calling to the solemn male attendants and lovely
servant-maids, and administering to Lady Clavering’s various wants with
admirable patience, nobody knows;—he never confessed. He never allowed
his agony to appear on his countenance in the least; but with a
constant kindness brought plate after plate to the Begum.
Mr. Wagg counted up all the dishes of which Lady Clavering partook as
long as he could count (but as he partook very freely himself of
champagne during the evening, his powers of calculation were not to be
trusted at the close of the entertainment), and he recommended Mr.
Honeyman, Lady Steyne’s medical man, to look carefully after the Begum,
and to call and get news of her ladyship the next day.
Sir Francis Clavering made his appearance, and skulked for a while
about the magnificent rooms; but the company and the splendour which he
met there were not to the Baronet’s taste, and after tossing off a
tumbler of wine or two at the buffet, he quitted Gaunt House for the
neighbourhood of Jermyn Street, where his friends Loder, Punter, little
Moss Abramns, and Captain Skewball were assembled at the familiar green
table. In the rattle of the box, and of their agreeable conversation,
Sir Francis’s spirits rose to their accustomed point of feeble
hilarity.
Mr. Pynsent, who had asked Miss Amory to dance, came up on one occasion
to claim her hand, but scowls of recognition having already passed
between him and Mr. Arthur Pendennis in the dancing-room, Arthur
suddenly rose up and claimed Miss Amory as his partner for the present
dance, on which Mr. Pynsent, biting his lips and scowling yet more
savagely, withdrew with a profound bow, saying that he gave up his
claim. There are some men who are always falling in one’s way in life.
Pynsent and Pen had this view of each other; and each regarded other
accordingly.
“What a confounded conceited provincial fool that is!” thought the one.
“Because he has written a twopenny novel, his absurd head is turned,
and a kicking would take his conceit out of him.”
“What an impertinent idiot that man is!” remarked the other to his
partner. “His soul is in Downing Street; his neckcloth is foolscap; his
hair is sand; his legs are rulers; his vitals are tape and sealing-wax;
he was a prig in his cradle; and never laughed since he was born,
except three times at the same joke of his chief. I have the same
liking for that man, Miss Amory, I have for that cold boiled veal.”
Upon which Blanche of course remarked, that Mr. Pendennis was wicked,
mechant, perfectly abominable, and wondered what he would say when her
back was turned.
“Say!—Say that you have the most beautiful figure, and the slimmest
waist in the world, Blanche—Miss Amory, I mean. I beg your pardon.
Another turn; this music would make an alderman dance.”
“And you have left off tumbling when you waltz now?” Blanche asked,
archly looking up at her partner’s face.
“One falls and one gets up again in life, Blanche; you know I used to
call you so in old times, and it is the prettiest name in the world.
Besides, I have practised since then.”
“And with a great number of partners, I’m afraid,” Blanche said, with a
little sham sigh, and a shrug of the shoulders. And so in truth Mr. Pen
had practised a good deal in this life; and had undoubtedly arrived at
being able to dance better.
If Pendennis was impertinent in his talk, Foker, on the other hand, so
bland and communicative on most occasions, was entirely mum and
melancholy when he danced with Miss Amory. To clasp her slender waist
was a rapture, to whirl round the room with her was a delirium; but to
speak to her, what could he say that was worthy of her? What pearl of
conversation could he bring that was fit for the acceptance of such a
Queen of love and wit as Blanche? It was she who made the talk when she
was in the company of this love-stricken partner. It was she who asked
him how that dear little pony was, and looked at him and thanked him
with such a tender kindness and regret, and refused the dear little
pony with such a delicate sigh when he offered it. “I have nobody to
ride with in London,” she said. “Mamma is timid, and her figure is not
pretty on horseback. Sir Francis never goes out with me. He loves me
like—like a stepdaughter. Oh, how delightful it must be to have a
father—a father, Mr. Foker!”
“Oh, uncommon,” said Mr. Harry, who enjoyed that blessing very calmly,
upon which, and forgetting the sentimental air which she had just
before assumed, Blanche’s grey eyes gazed at Foker with such an arch
twinkle that both of them burst out laughing, and Harry enraptured and
at his ease began to entertain her with a variety of innocent
prattle—good kind simple Foker talk, flavoured with many expressions by
no means to be discovered in dictionaries, and relating to the personal
history of himself or horses, or other things dear and important to
him, or to persons in the ballroom then passing before them, and about
whose appearance or character Mr. Harry spoke with artless freedom, and
a considerable dash of humour.
And it was Blanche who, when the conversation flagged, and the youth’s
modesty came rushing back and overpowering him, knew how to reanimate
her companion: asked him questions about Logwood, and whether it was a
pretty place? Whether he was a hunting man, and whether he liked women
to hunt? (in which case she was prepared to say that she adored
hunting)—but Mr. Foker expressing his opinion against sporting females,
and pointing out Lady Bullfinch, who happened to pass by, as a
horse-godmother, whom he had seen at cover with a cigar in her face,
Blanche too expressed her detestation of the sports of the field, and
said it would make her shudder to think of a dear sweet little fox
being killed, on which Foker laughed and waltzed with renewed vigour
and grace.
And at the end of the waltz,—the last waltz they had on that
night,—Blanche asked him about Drummington, and whether it was a fine
house. His cousins, she had heard, were very accomplished: Lord Erith
she had met, and which of his cousins was his favourite? Was it not
Lady Ann? Yes, she was sure it was she; sure by his looks and his
blushes. She was tired of dancing; it was getting very late; she must
go to mamma;—and, without another word, she sprang away from Harry
Foker’s arm, and seized upon Pen’s, who was swaggering about the
dancing-room, and again said, “Mamma, mamma!—take me to mamma, dear,
Mr. Pendennis!” transfixing Harry with a Parthian shot, as she fled
from him.
My Lord Steyne, with garter and ribbon, with a bald head and shining
eyes, and a collar of red whiskers round his face, always looked grand
upon an occasion of state; and made a great effect upon Lady Clavering,
when he introduced himself to her at the request of the obsequious
Major Pendennis. With his own white and royal hand, he handed to her
ladyship a glass of wine, said he had heard of her charming daughter,
and begged to be presented to her; and, at this very juncture, Mr.
Arthur Pendennis came up with the young lady on his arm.
The peer made a profound bow, and Blanche the deepest curtesy that ever
was seen. His lordship gave Mr. Arthur Pendennis his hand to shake;
said he had read his book, which was very wicked and clever; asked Miss
Blanche if she had read it,—at which Pen blushed and winced. Why,
Blanche was one of the heroines of the novel. Blanche, in black
ringlets and a little altered, was the Neaera of ‘Walter Lorraine.’
Blanche had read it: the language of the eyes expressed her admiration
and rapture at the performance. This little play being achieved, the
Marquis of Steyne made other two profound bows to Lady Clavering and
her daughter, and passed on to some other of his guests at the splendid
entertainment.
Mamma and daughter were loud in their expressions of admiration of the
noble Marquis so soon as his broad back was turned upon them. “He said
they make a very nice couple,” whispered major Pendennis to Lady
Clavering. Did he now, really? Mamma thought they would; Mamma was so
flustered with the honour which had just been shown to her, and with
other intoxicating events of the evening, that her good-humour knew no
bounds. She laughed, she winked, and nodded knowingly at Pen; she
tapped him on the arm with her fan; she tapped Blanche; she tapped the
Major;—her contentment was boundless, and her method of showing her joy
equally expansive.
As the party went down the great staircase of Gaunt House, the morning
had risen stark and clear over the black trees of the square; the skies
were tinged with pink; and the cheeks of some of the people at the
ball,—ah, how ghastly they looked! That admirable and devoted Major
above all,—who had been for hours by Lady Clavering’s side, ministering
to her and feeding her body with everything that was nice, and her ear
with everything that was sweet and flattering,—oh! what an object he
was! The rings round his eyes were of the colour of bistre; those orbs
themselves were like the plovers’ eggs whereof Lady Clavering and
Blanche had each tasted; the wrinkles in his old face were furrowed in
deep gashes; and a silver stubble, like an elderly morning dew was
glittering on his chin, and alongside the dyed whiskers now limp and
out of curl.
There he stood, with admirable patience, enduring, uncomplainingly, a
silent agony; knowing that people could see the state of his face (for
could he not himself perceive the condition of others, males and
females, of his own age?)—longing to go to rest for hours past; aware
that suppers disagreed with him, and yet having eaten a little so as to
keep his friend, Lady Clavering, in good-humour; with twinges of
rheumatism in the back and knees; with weary feet burning in his
varnished boots,—so tired, oh, so tired and longing for bed! If a man,
struggling with hardship and bravely overcoming it, is an object of
admiration for the gods, that Power in whose chapels the old Major was
a faithful worshipper must have looked upwards approvingly upon the
constancy of Pendennis’s martyrdom. There are sufferers in that cause
as in the other: the negroes in the service of Mumbo Jumbo tattoo and
drill themselves with burning skewers with great fortitude; and we read
that the priests in the service of Baal gashed themselves and bled
freely. You who can smash the idols, do so with a good courage; but do
not be too fierce with the idolaters,—they worship the best thing they
know.
The Pendennises, the elder and the younger, waited with Lady Clavering
and her daughter until her ladyship’s carriage was announced, when the
elder’s martyrdom may be said to have come to an end, for the
good-natured Begum insisted upon leaving him at his door in Bury
Street; so he took the back seat of the carriage after a feeble bow or
two, and speech of thanks, polite to the last, and resolute in doing
his duty. The Begum waved her dumpy little hand by way of farewell to
Arthur and Foker, and Blanche smiled languidly out upon the young men,
thinking whether she looked very wan and green under her rose-coloured
hood, and whether it was the mirrors at Gaunt House, or the fatigue and
fever of her own eyes, which made her fancy herself so pale.
Arthur, perhaps, saw quite well how yellow Blanche looked, but did not
attribute that peculiarity of her complexion to the effect of the
looking-glasses, or to any error in his sight or her own. Our young man
of the world could use his eyes very keenly, and could see Blanche’s
face pretty much as nature had made it. But for poor Foker it had a
radiance which dazzled and blinded him: he could see no more faults in
it than in the sun, which was now flaring over the house-tops.
Amongst other wicked London habits which Pen had acquired, the moralist
will remark that he had got to keep very bad hours; and often was going
to bed at the time when sober country-people were thinking of leaving
it. Men get used to one hour as to another. Editors of newspapers,
Covent Garden market-people, night cabmen and coffee-sellers,
chimney-sweeps, and gentlemen and ladies of fashion who frequent balls,
are often quite lively at three or four o’clock of a morning, when
ordinary mortals are snoring. We have shown in the last chapter how Pen
was in a brisk condition of mind at this period, inclined to smoke his
cigar at ease, and to speak freely.
Foker and Pen walked away from Gaunt House, then, indulging in both the
above amusements: or rather Pen talked, and Foker looked as if he
wanted to say something. Pen was sarcastic and dandified when he had
been in the company of great folks; he could not help imitating some of
their airs and tones, and having a most lively imagination, mistook
himself for a person of importance very easily. He rattled away, and
attacked this person and that; sneered at Lady John Turnbull’s bad
French, which her ladyship will introduce into all conversations in
spite of the sneers of everybody; at Mrs. Slack Roper’s extraordinary
costume and sham jewels; at the old dandies and the young ones;—at whom
didn’t he sneer and laugh?
“You fire at everybody, Pen—you’re grown awful, that you are,” Foker
said. “Now you’ve pulled about Blondel’s yellow wig, and Colchicum’s
black one, why don’t you have a shy at a brown one, hay? you know whose
I mean. It got into Lady Clavering’s carriage.”
“Under my uncle’s hat? My uncle is a martyr, Foker, my boy. My uncle
has been doing excruciating duties all night. He likes to go to bed
rather early. He has a dreadful headache if he sits up and touches
supper. He always has the gout if he walks or stands much at a ball. He
has been sitting up, and standing up, and supping. He has gone home to
the gout and the headache, and for my sake. Shall I make fun of the old
boy? no, not for Venice!”
“How do you mean that he has been doing it for your sake?” Foker asked,
looking rather alarmed.
“Boy! canst thou keep a secret if I impart it to thee?” Pen cried out,
in high spirits. “Art thou of good counsel? Wilt thou swear? Wilt thou
be mum, or wilt thou preach? Wilt thou be silent and hear, or wilt thou
speak and die?” And as he spoke, flinging himself into an absurd
theatrical attitude, the men in the cabstand in Piccadilly wondered and
grinned at the antics of the two young swells.
“What the doose are you driving at?” Foker asked, looking very much
agitated.
Pen, however, did not remark this agitation much, but continued in the
same bantering and excited vein. “Henry, friend of my youth,” he said,
“and witness of my early follies, though dull at thy books, yet thou
art not altogether deprived of sense,—nay, blush not, Henrico, thou
hast a good portion of that, and of courage and kindness too, at the
service of thy friends. Were I in a strait of poverty, I would come to
my Foker’s purse. Were I in grief, I would discharge my grief upon his
sympathising bosom——”
“Gammon, Pen—go on,” Foker said.
“I would, Henrico, upon thy studs, and upon thy cambric worked by the
hands of beauty, to adorn the breast of valour! Know then, friend of my
boyhood’s days, that Arthur Pendennis of the Upper Temple,
student-at-law, feels that he is growing lonely and old Care is
furrowing his temples, and Baldness is busy with his crown. Shall we
stop and have a drop of coffee at this stall, it looks very hot and
nice? Look how that cabman is blowing at his saucer. No, you won’t?
Aristocrat! I resume my tale. I am getting on in life. I have got
devilish little money. I want some. I am thinking of getting some, and
settling in life. I’m thinking of settling. I’m thinking of marrying,
old boy. I’m thinking of becoming a moral man; a steady port and sherry
character: with a good reputation in my quartier, and a moderate
establishment of two maids and a man—with an occasional brougham to
drive out Mrs. Pendennis, and a house near the Parks for the
accommodation of the children. Ha! what sayest thou? Answer thy friend,
thou worthy child of beer. Speak, I adjure thee by all thy vats.
“But you ain’t got any money, Pen,” said the other, still looking
alarmed.
“I ain’t? No, but she ave. I tell thee there is gold in store for
me—not what you call money, nursed in the lap of luxury, and cradled on
grains, and drinking in wealth from a thousand mash-tubs. What do you
know about money? What is poverty to you, is splendour to the hardy son
of the humble apothecary. You can’t live without an establishment, and
your houses in town and country. A snug little house somewhere off
Belgravia, a brougham for my wife, a decent cook, and a fair bottle of
wine for my friends at home sometimes; these simple necessaries suffice
for me, my Foker.” And here Pendennis began to look more serious.
Without bantering further, Pen continued, “I’ve rather serious thoughts
of settling and marrying. No man can get on in the world without some
money at his back. You must have a certain stake to begin with, before
you can go in and play the great game. Who knows that I’m not going to
try, old fellow? Worse men than I have won at it. And as I have not got
enough capital from my fathers, I must get some by my wife—that’s all.”
They were walking down Grosvenor Street, as they talked, or rather as
Pen talked, in the selfish fulness of his heart; and Mr. Pen must have
been too much occupied with his own affairs to remark the concern and
agitation of his neighbour, for he continued: “We are no longer
children, you know, you and I, Harry. Bah! the time of our romance has
passed away. We don’t marry for passion, but for prudence and for
establishment. What do you take your cousin for? Because she is a nice
girl, and an Earl’s daughter, and the old folks wish it, and that sort
of thing.”
“And you, Pendennis,” asked Foker, “you ain’t very fond of the
girl—you’re going to marry?”
Pen shrugged his shoulders. “Comme ca,” said he; “I like her well
enough. She’s pretty enough; she’s clever enough. I think she’ll do
very well. And she has got money enough—that’s the great point. Psha!
you know who she is, don’t you? I thought you were sweet on her
yourself one night when we dined with her mamma. It’s little Amory.”
“I—I thought so,” Foker said; “and has she accepted you!”
“Not quite,” Arthur replied, with a confident smile, which seemed to
say, I have but to ask, and she comes to me that instant.
“Oh, not quite,” said Foker; and he broke out with such a dreadful
laugh, that Pen, for the first time, turned his thoughts from himself
towards his companion, and was struck by the other’s ghastly pale face.
“My dear fellow, Fo! what’s the matter? You’re ill,” Pen said, in a
tone of real concern.
“You think it was the champagne at Gaunt House, don’t you? It ain’t
that. Come in; let me talk to you for a minute. I’ll tell you what it
is. D——it, let me tell somebody,” Foker said.
They were at Mr. Foker’s door by this time, and, opening it, Harry
walked with his friend into his apartments, which were situated in the
back part of the house, and behind the family dining-room where the
elder Foker received his guests, surrounded by pictures of himself, his
wife, his infant son on a donkey, and the late Earl of Gravesend in his
robes as a Peer. Foker and Pen passed by this chamber, now closed with
death-like shutters, and entered into the young man’s own quarters.
Dusky streams of sunbeams were playing into that room, and lighting up
poor Harry’s gallery of dancing-girls and opera nymphs with flickering
illuminations.
“Look here! I can’t help telling you, Pen,” he said. “Ever since the
night we dined there, I’m so fond of that girl, that I think I shall
die if I don’t get her. I feel as if I should go mad sometimes. I can’t
stand it, Pen. I couldn’t bear to hear you talking about her, just now,
about marrying her only because she’s money. Ah, Pen! that ain’t the
question in marrying. I’d bet anything it ain’t. Talking about money
and such a girl as that, it’s—it’s—what-d’ye-call-’em—you know what I
mean—I ain’t good at talking—sacrilege, then. If she’d have me, I’d
take and sweep a crossing, that I would!”
“Poor Fo! I don’t think that would tempt her,” Pen said, eyeing his
friend with a great deal of real good-nature and pity. “She is not a
girl for love and a cottage.”
“She ought to be a duchess, I know that very well, and I know she
wouldn’t take me unless I could make her a great place in the world—for
I ain’t good for anything myself much—I ain’t clever and that sort of
thing,” Foker said sadly. “If I had all the diamonds that all the
duchesses and marchionesses had on to-night, wouldn’t I put ’em in her
lap? But what’s the use of talking? I’m booked for another race. It’s
that kills me, Pen. I can’t get out of it; though I die, I can’t get
out of it. And though my cousin’s a nice girl, and I like her very
well, and that, yet I hadn’t seen this one when our Governors settled
that matter between us. And when you talked, just now, about her doing
very well, and about her having money enough for both of you, I thought
to myself it isn’t money or mere liking a girl, that ought to be enough
to make a fellow marry. He may marry, and find he likes somebody else
better. All the money in the world won’t make you happy then. Look at
me; I’ve plenty of money, or shall have out of the mash-tubs, as you
call ’em. My Governor thought he’d made it all right for me in settling
my marriage with my cousin. I tell you it won’t do; and when Lady Ann
has got her husband, it won’t be happy for either of us, and she’ll
have the most miserable beggar in town.”
“Poor old fellow!” Pen said, with rather a cheap magnanimity, “I wish I
could help you. I had no idea of this, and that you were so wild about
the girl. Do you think she would have you without your money? No. Do
you think your father would agree to break off your engagement with
your cousin? You know him very well, and that he would cast you off
rather than do so.”
The unhappy Foker only groaned a reply, flinging himself prostrate on a
sofa, face forwards, his head in his hands.
“As for my affair,” Pen went on, “my dear fellow, if I had thought
matters were so critical with you, at least I would not have pained you
by choosing you as my confidant. And my business is not serious, at
least not as yet. I have not spoken a word about it to Miss Amory. Very
likely she would not have me if I asked her. Only I have had a great
deal of talk about it with my uncle, who says that the match might be
an eligible one for me. I’m ambitious and I’m poor. And it appears Lady
Clavering will give her a good deal of money, and Sir Francis might be
got to never mind the rest. Nothing is settled, Harry. They are going
out of town directly. I promise you I won’t ask her before she goes.
There’s no hurry: there’s time for everybody. But, suppose you got her,
Foker. Remember what you said about marriages just now, and the misery
of a man who doesn’t care for his wife; and what sort of a wife would
you have who didn’t care for her husband?”
“But she would care for me,” said Foker, from his sofa—“that is, I
think she would. Last night only, as we were dancing, she said——”
“What did she say?” Pen cried, starting up in great wrath. But he saw
his own meaning more clearly than Foker, and broke off with a
laugh—“Well, never mind what she said, Harry. Miss Amory is a clever
girl, and says numbers of civil things—to you—to me, perhaps—and who
the deuce knows to whom besides? Nothing’s settled, old boy. At least,
my heart won’t break if I don’t get her. Win her if you can, and I wish
you joy of her. Good-bye! Don’t think about what I said to you. I was
excited, and confoundedly thirsty in those hot rooms, and didn’t, I
suppose, put enough Seltzer-water into the champagne. Good night! I’ll
keep your counsel too. ‘Mum’ is the word between us; and ‘let there be
a fair fight, and let the best man win,’ as Peter Crawley says.”
So saying, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, giving a very queer and rather
dangerous look at his companion, shook him by the hand, with something
of that sort of cordiality which befitted his just repeated simile of
the boxing-match, and which Mr. Bendigo displays when he shakes hands
with Mr. Gaunt before they fight each other for the champion’s belt and
two hundred pounds a side. Foker returned his friend’s salute with an
imploring look, and a piteous squeeze of the hand, sank back on his
cushions again, and Pen, putting on his hat, strode forth into the air,
and almost over the body of the matutinal housemaid, who was rubbing
the steps at the door.
“And so he wants her too, does be?” thought Pen as he marched along—and
noted within himself with a fatal keenness of perception and almost an
infernal mischief, that the very pains and tortures which that honest
heart of Foker’s was suffering gave a zest and an impetus to his own
pursuit of Blanche: if pursuit might be called which had been no
pursuit as yet, but mere sport and idle dallying. “She said something
to him, did she? perhaps she gave him the fellow flower to this;” and
he took out of his coat and twiddled in his thumb and finger a poor
little shrivelled crumpled bud that had faded and blackened with the
heat and flare of the night—“I wonder to how many more she has given
her artless tokens of affection—the little flirt”—and he flung his into
the gutter, where the water may have refreshed it, and where any
amateur of rosebuds may have picked it up. And then bethinking him that
the day was quite bright, and that the passers-by by might be staring
at his beard and white neckcloth, our modest young gentleman took a cab
and drove to the Temple.
Ah! is this the boy that prayed at his mother’s knee but a few years
since, and for whom very likely at this hour of morning she is praying?
Is this jaded and selfish worldling the lad who, a short while back,
was ready to fling away his worldly all, his hope, his ambition, his
chance of life, for his love? This is the man you are proud of, old
Pendennis. You boast of having formed him: and of having reasoned him
out of his absurd romance and folly—and groaning in your bed over your
pains and rheumatisms, satisfy yourself still by thinking, that, at
last, that lad will do something to better himself in life, and that
the Pendennises will take a good place in the world. And is he the only
one, who in his progress through this dark life goes wilfully or
fatally astray, whilst the natural truth and love which should illumine
him grow dim in the poisoned air, and suffice to light him no more?
When Pen was gone away, poor Harry Foker got up from the sofa, and
taking out from his waistcoat—the splendidly buttoned, but the
gorgeously embroidered, the work of his mamma—a little white rosebud,
he drew from his dressing-case, also the maternal present, a pair of
scissors, with which he nipped carefully the stalk of the flower, and
placing it in a glass of water opposite his bed, he sought refuge there
from care and bitter remembrances.
It is to be presumed that Miss Blanche Amory had more than one rose in
her bouquet, and why should not the kind young creature give out of her
superfluity, and make as many partners as possible happy?