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ter's door, till Foker on his pony, and the red jacket who accompanied him, were almost tired of dodging.
Then at last she made her way into the Park, and the rapid Foker made his dash forward. What to do? Just to get a nod of recognition from Miss Amory and her mother; to cross them a halfdozen times in the drive; to watch and ogle them from the other side of the ditch, where the horsemen assemble when the band plays in Kensington Gardens. What is the use of looking at a woman in a pink bonnet across a ditch? What is the earthly good to be got out of a nod of the head? Strange that men will be contented with such pleasures, or if not contented, at least that they will be so eager in seeking them. Not one word did Harry, he so fluent of conversation ordinarily, change with his charmer on that day. Mutely he beheld her return to her carriage, and drive away among rather ironical salutes from the young men in the Park. One said that the Indian widow was making the paternal rupees spin rapidly; another said that she ought to have burned herself alive, and left the money to her daughter. This one asked who Clavering was?and old Tom Eales, who knew everybody, and never missed a day in the Park on his gray cob, kindly said that Clavering had come into an estate over head and heels in mortgage: that there were dev'lish ugly stories about him when he was a young man, and that it was reported of him that he had a share in a gambling house, and had certainly shown the white feather in his regiment. "He plays still; he is in a hell every night almost," Mr. Eales added.
I should think so, since his marriage," said a wag.
He gives devilish good dinners," said Foker, striking up for the honour of his host of yesterday.
"I daresay, and I daresay he doesn't ask Eales, the wag said. "I say, Eales, do you dine at Clavering's-at the Begum's?"
I dine there?" said Mr. Eales, who would have dined with Beelzebub if sure of a good cook, and when he came away, would have painted his host blacker than fate had made him.
"I never heard a mermaid sing," Mr. Poyntz the wag replied. "Who ever heard a mermaid? Eales, you are an old fellow, did you?"
"Don't make a lark of me, hang it, Poyntz," said Foker, turning, red, and with tears almost in his eyes, (6 you know what I mean: it's those what'shis-names-in Homer, you know. I never said I was a good scholar."
"And nobody ever said it of you, my boy," Mr. Poyntz remarked; and Foker striking spurs into his pony, cantered away down Rotten Row, his mind agitated with various emotions, ambitions, mortifications. He was sorry that he had not been good at his books in early life-that he might have cut out all those chaps who were about her, and who talked the languages, and wrote poetry, and painted pictures in her album, and and that-"What am I," thought little Foker, compared to her? She's all soul, she is, and can write poetry or compose music, as easy as I could drink a glass of beer. Beer?-damme, that's all I'm fit for, is beer. I am a poor, ignorant little beggar, good for nothing but Foker's Entire. I misspent my youth, and used to get the chaps to do my exercises. And what's the consequences now? O, Harry Foker, what a confounded little fool you have been !"
As he made this dreary soliloquy, he had cantered out of Rotten Row into the Park, and there was on the point of riding down a large old roomy family carriage, of which he took no heed, when a cheery voice cried out. Harry, Harry!" and looking up, he beheld his aunt, the Lady Rosherville, and two of her daughters, of whom the one who
spoke was Harry's betrothed, the Lady Ann.
He started back with a pale, scared look, as a truth, about which he had not thought during the whole day, came across him. There was his fate, there, in the back seat of that carriage.
"What is the matter, Harry? why are you so pale? You have been raking and smoking too much, you wicked boy,' said Lady Ann.
Foker said, "How do, aunt?" "How do, Ann?" in a perturbed manner-muttered something about a pressing engagement,-indeed he saw by the Park clock that he must have been keeping his party in the drag waiting for nearly an hour-and waved a good-bye. The little man and the little poney were out of sight in an instant-the great carriage rolled away. Nobody inside was very much interested about his coming or going; the Countess being occupied with her spaniel, the Lady Lucy's thoughts and eyes being turned upon a volume of sermons, and those of Lady Ann upon a new novel, which the sisters had just procured from the library.
CARRIES THE READER BOTH TO RICHMOND AND GREENWICH.
"Twopence halfpenny for your thoughts, Fokey!" cried out Miss Rougemont, taking her cigar from her truly vermilion lips, as she beheld the young fellow lost in thought, seated at the head of his table, amidst melting ices, and cut pine-apples, and bottles full and empty, and cigar-ashes scattered on fruit, and the ruins of a dessert which had no pleasure for him.
"Does Foker ever think?" drawled out Mr. Poyntz. "Foker, here is a considerable sum of money offered by a fair capitalist at this end of the table for the present emanations of your valuable and acute intellect, old boy!"
"What the deuce is that Poyntz a talking about?" Mrs. Pinckney asked of her neighbour. "I hate him. He's a drawlin' sneerin' beast."
POOR Foker found the dinner at Richmond to be the most dreary entertainment upon which ever mortal man wasted his guineas. "I wonder how the deuce I could ever have liked these ple," he thought in his own mind.
Why, I can see the crow's-feet under Rougemont's eyes, and the paint on her cheeks is laid on as thick as Clown's in a pantomime! The way in which that Pinckney talks slang, is quite disgusting. I hate chaff in a woman. And old Colchicum! that old Col, coming down here in his Brougham, with his coronet on it, and sitting bodkin between Mademoiselle Coralie and her mother! It's too bad. An English peer, and a horserider of Franconi's!-It won't do; by Jove, it won't do. I ain't proud; but it will not do!"
"What a droll of a little man is that little Fokare, my lor," Mademoiselle Coralie said, in her own language, and with the rich twang of that sunny Gascony in which her swarthy cheeks and bright black eyes had got their fire. "What a droll of a man! He does not look to have twenty years."
"I wish I were of his age," said the venerable Colchicum, with a sigh, as he inclined his purple face towards a large goblet of claret.
"C'te Jeunesse. Peuh! je m'en fiche," said Madame Brack, Coralie's mamma, taking a great pinch out of Lord Colchicum's delicate gold snuffbox. "Je n'aime que les hommes faits, moi. Comme milor. Coralie! n'est ce pas que tu n'aimes que les hommes faits, ma bichette?"
My lord said, with a grin, "You flatter me, Madame Brack."
"Taisez vous, Maman, vous n'etes qu'une bete," Coralie cried, with a shrug of her robust shoulders; upon which, my lord said that she did not flatter at any rate; and pocketed his snuff-box, not desirious that Madame Brack's dubious fingers should plunge too frequently into his Mackabaw.
There is no need to give a prolonged detail of the animated conversation which ensued during the rest of the banquet; a conversation which would not much edify the reader. And it is scarcely necessary to say, that all ladies of the
corps de danse are not like Miss Pinckney, any more than that all peers resemble that illustrious member of their order, the late lamented Viscount Colchi
Mr. Foker drove his lovely guests home to Brompton in the drag that night; but he was quite thoughtful and gloomy during the whole of the little journey from Richmond; neither listening to the jokes of the friends behind. him and on the box by his side, nor enlivening them, as was his wont, by his own facetious sallies. And when the ladies whom he had conveyed alighted at the door of their house, and asked their accomplished coachman whether he would not step in and take something to drink, he declined with so melancholy an air, that they supposed that the Governor and he had had a difference, or that some calamity had befallen him; and he did not tell these people what the cause of his grief was, but left Mesdames Rougemont and Pinckney, unheeding the cries of the latter, who hung over her balcony like Jezebel, and called out to him to ask him to give another party
He sent the drag home under the guidance of one of the grooms, and went on foot himself; his hands in his pockets, plunged in thought. The stars and moon shining tranquilly overhead, looked down upon Mr. Foker that night, as he in his turn sentimentally regarded them. And he went and gazed upwards at the house in Grosvenor Place, and at the windows which he supposed to be those of the beloved object; and he moaned and he sighed in a way piteous and surprising to witness, which Policeman X. did, who informed Sir Francis Clavering's people, as they took the refreshment of beer on the coach-box at the neighbouring public-house, after_bringing home their lady from the French play, that there had been another chap hanging about the premises that evening-a little chap dressed like a swell.
And now with that perspicuity and ingenuity and enterprise which only belongs to a certain passion, Mr. Foker began to dodge Miss Amory through London, and to appear wherever he could meet her. If Lady Clavering
went to the French play, where her ladyship had a box, Mr. Foker, whose knowledge of the language, as we have heard, was not conspicuous, appeared in a stall. He found out where her engagements were (it is possible that Anatole, his man, was acquainted with Sir Francis Clavering's gentleman, and so got a sight of her ladyship's engagementbook), and at many of these evening parties Mr. Foker made his appearance
to the surprise of the world, and of his mother especially, whom he ordered to apply for cards to these parties, for which until now he had shown a supreme contempt. He told the pleased and unsuspicious lady that he went to parties because it was right for him to see the world he told her he went to the French play because he wanted to perfect himself in the language, and there was no such good lesson as a comedy or a vaudeville, -and when one night the astonished Lady Agnes saw him stand up and dance, and complimented him upon his elegance and activity, the mendacious little rogue asserted that he had learned to dance in Paris, where as Anatole knew that his young master used to go off privily to an academy in Brewer Street, and study there for some hours in the morning. The casino of our modern days was not invented, or was in its infancy as yet; and gentlemen of Mr. Foker's time had not the facilities of acquiring the science of dancing which are enjoyed by our present youth.
Old Pendennis seldom missed going to church. He considered it to be his duty as a gentleman to patronise the institution of public worship, and that it was quite a correct thing to be seen at church of a Sunday. One day it chanced that he and Arthur went thither together: the latter, who was now in high favour, had been to breakfast with his uncle, from whose lodging they walked across the park to a church not far from Belgrave Square. There was a charity sermon at Saint James's, as the Major knew by the bills posted on the pillars of his parish church, which probably caused him, for he was a thrifty man, to forsake it for that day: besides he had other views for himself and Pen. will go to church, sir, across the Park;
and then, begad, we will go to the Clayerings' house, and ask them for lunch in a friendly way. Lady Clavering likes to be asked for lunch, and is uncommonly kind, and monstrous hospitable."
"I met them at dinner last week, at Lady Agnes Foker's, sir," Pen said, "and the Begum was very kind indeed. So she was in the country: so she is everywhere. But I share your opinion about Miss Amory; one of your opinions, that is, uncle, for you were changing, the last time we spoke about her.' "And what do you think of her now?" the elder said.
"I think her the most confounded little flirt in London," Pen answered, laughing. "She made a tremendous assault upon Harry Foker, who sat next to her; and to whom she gave all the talk, though I took her down."
"Bah! Henry Foker is engaged to his cousin, all the world knows it: not a bad coup of Lady Rosherville's, that. I should say, that the young man at his father's death, and old Mr. Foker's life's devilish bad: you know he had a fit, at Arthur's, last year; I should say, that young Foker won't have less than fourteen thousand a year from the brewery, besides Logwood and the Norfolk property. I've no pride about me, Pen. I like a man of birth certainly, but dammy, I like a brewery which brings in a man fourteen thousand a year; hey, Pen? Ha, ha, that's the sort of man for me. And I recommend you now that you are lanced in the world, to stick to fellows of that sort; to fellows who have a stake in the country, begad."
"Foker sticks to me, sir," Arthur answered. "He has been at our chamb ers several times lately. He has asked me to dinner. We are almost as great friends as we used to be in our youth: and his talk is about Blanche Amory from morning till night. I'm sure he's sweet upon her."
"I'm sure he is engaged to his cousin, and that they will keep the young man to his bargain," said the Major. The marriages in these families are affairs of state. Lady Agnes was made to marry old Foker by the late Lord, although she was notoriously partial to her cousin who was killed at Albuera afterwards,
and who saved her life out of the lake at Drummington. I remember Lady Agnes, sir, an exceedingly fine woman. But what did she do?-of course she married her father's man. Why, Mr. Foker sate for Drummington till the Reform Bill, and paid dev'lish well for his seat, too. And you may depend upon this, sir, that Foker senior, who is a parvenu, and loves a great man, as all parvenus do, has ambitious views for his son as well as himself, and that your friend Harry must do as his father bids him. Lord bless you! I've known a hundred cases of love in young men and women: hey, Master Arthur, do you take me? They kick, sir, they resist, they make a deuce of a riot and that sort of thing, but they end by listening to reason, begad."
"Blanche is a dangerous girl, sir," Pen said. "I was smitten with her myself once, and very far gone, too," he added; "but that is years ago.
"Were you? How far did it go? Did she return it?" asked the Major, looking hard at Pen.
Pen, with a laugh, said "that at one time he did think he was pretty well in Miss Amory's good graces. But my mother did not like her, and the affair went off." Pen did not think it fit to tell his uncle all the particulars of that courtship which had passed between himself and the young lady.
"A man might go farther and fare worse, Arthur,' the Major said, still looking queerly at his nephew.
"Her birth, sir; her father was the mate of a ship, they say: and she has not money enough," objected Pen, in a dandyfied manner. "What's ten thousand pound and a girl bred up like her?"
seem to have information about everybody, and to know about all the town."
"I do know a few things, sir, and I don't tell all I know. Mark that," the uncle replied. "And as for that charming Miss Amory,-for charming, begad! she is, if I saw her Mrs. Arthur Pendennis, I should neither be sorry nor surprised, begad! and if you object to ten thousand pound, what would you say, sir, to thirty, or forty, or fifty?" and the Major looked still more knowingly, and still harder at Pen.
"Well, sir," he said to his godfather and namesake, "make her Mrs. Arthur Pendennis. You can do it as well as I."
"Psha! you are laughing at me, sir," the other replied rather peevishly, "and you ought not to laugh so near a church gate. Here we are at St. Benedict's. They say, Mr. Oriel is a beautiful preacher." Indeed, the bells were tolling, the people were trooping into the handsome church, the carriages of the inhabitants of the lordly quarter, poured forth their pretty loads of devotees, in whose company Pen and his uncle, ending their edifying conversation, entered the fane. I do not know whether other people carry their worldly affairs to the church door. Arthur, who, from habitual reverence and feeling was always more than respectful in a place of worship, thought of the incongruity of their talk, perhaps ; whilst the old gentleman at his side was utterly unconscious of any such contrast. His hat was brushed: his wig was trim: his neckcloth was perfectly tied. He looked at every soul in the congregation, it is true: the bald heads and the bonnets, the flowers and the feathers: but so demurely that he hardly lifted up his eyes from his book-from his book which he could not read without glasses. As for Pen's gravity it was sorely put to the test when, upon looking by chance towards the seats where the servants were collected, he spied out, by the side of a demure gentleman in plush, Henry Foker, Esquire, who had discovered this place of devotion. Following the direction of Harry's eye, which strayed a good deal from his book, Pen found that it alighted upon a yellow bonnet and a pink one: and that these bonnets
Blanche was, too, particularly gracious. "O! do come," she said to Arthur. "If you are not too great a man. I want so to talk to you about-but we mustn't say what, here, you know. What would Mr. Oriel say?" And the young devotee jumped into the carriage after her mamma." I've read every word of it. It's adorable," she added, still addressing herself to Pen.
"I know who is," said Mr. Arthur, making rather a pert bow.
"What's the row about?" asked Mr. Foker, rather puzzled.
"I suppose Miss Clavering means 'Walter Lorraine,' "" said the Major, looking knowing, and nodding at Pen.
"I suppose so, sir. There was a famous review in the 'Pall Mall' this morning. It was Warrington's doing though, and I must not be too proud.'
"A review in Pall Mall?-Walter Lorraine? What the doose do you mean?" Foker asked. "Walter Lorraine died of the measles, poor little beggar, when we were at Grey Friars. I remember his mother coming up.'
"You are not a literary man, Foker," Pen said, laughing, and hooking his arm into his friend's. "You must know I have been writing a novel, and some