The History of Pendennis, Volume 2

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER II.

  CARRIES THE READER BOTH TO RICHMOND AND GREENWICH.

  Poor Foker found the dinner at Richmond to be the most drearyentertainment upon which ever mortal man wasted his guineas. "I wonderhow the deuce I could ever have liked these people," he thought in hisown mind. "Why, I can see the crow's-feet under Rougemont's eyes, andthe paint on her cheeks is laid on as thick as clown's in a pantomime!The way in which that Calverley talks slang, is quite disgusting. Ihate chaff in a woman. And old Colchicum! that old Col, coming downhere in his brougham, with his coronet on it, and sitting bodkinbetween Mademoiselle Coralie and her mother! It's too bad. An Englishpeer, and a horse-rider of Franconi's! It won't do; by Jove, it won'tdo. I ain't proud; but it will _not_ do!"

  "Twopence-halfpenny for your thoughts, Fokey!" cried out MissRougemont, taking her cigar from her truly vermilion lips, as shebeheld the young fellow lost in thought, seated at the head of histable, amidst melting ices, and cut pine-apples, and bottles full andempty, and cigar-ashes scattered on fruit, and the ruins of a dessertwhich had no pleasure for him.

  "_Does_ Foker ever think?" drawled out Mr. Poyntz. "Foker, here is aconsiderable sum of money offered by a fair capitalist at this end ofthe table for the present emanations of your valuable and acuteintellect, old boy!"

  "What the deuce is that Poyntz a talking about?" Mrs. Calverley askedof her neighbor. "I hate him. He's a drawlin', sneerin' beast."

  "What a droll of a little man is that little Fokare, my lor,"Mademoiselle Coralie said, in her own language, and with the richtwang of that sunny Gascony in which her swarthy cheeks and brightblack eyes had got their fire. "What a droll of a man! He does notlook to have twenty years."

  "I wish I were of his age," said the venerable Colchicum, with a sigh,as he inclined his purple face toward a large goblet of claret.

  "_C'te Jeunesse. Peuh! je m'en fiche_," said Madame Brack, Coralie'smamma, taking a great pinch out of Lord Colchicum's delicate goldsnuff-box. "_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 ashrug of her robust shoulders; upon which, my lord said that _she_ didnot flatter at any rate; and pocketed his snuff-box, not desirous thatMadame Brack's dubious fingers should plunge too frequently intohis Mackabaw.

  There is no need to give a prolonged detail of the animatedconversation which ensued during the rest of the banquet; aconversation which would not much edify the reader. And it is scarcelynecessary to say, that all ladies of the _corps de danse_ are not likeMiss Calverley, any more than that all peers resemble that illustriousmember of their order, the late lamented Viscount Colchicum. But therehave been such in our memories who have loved the society of riotousyouth better than the company of men of their own age and rank, andhave given the young ones the precious benefit of their experience andexample; and there have been very respectable men too who have notobjected so much to the kind of entertainment as to the publicity ofit. I am sure, for instance, that our friend Major Pendennis wouldhave made no sort of objection to join a party of pleasure, providedthat it were _en petit comite_, and that such men as my Lord Steyneand my Lord Colchicum were of the society. "Give the young men theirpleasures," this worthy guardian said to Pen more than once. "I'm notone of your straight-laced moralists, but an old man of the world,begad; and I know that as long as it lasts, young men will be youngmen." And there were some young men to whom this estimable philosopheraccorded about seventy years as the proper period for sowing theirwild oats: but they were men of fashion.

  Mr. Foker drove his lovely guests home to Brompton in the drag thatnight; but he was quite thoughtful and gloomy during the whole of thelittle journey from Richmond; neither listening to the jokes of thefriends behind him and on the box by his side, nor enlivening them, aswas his wont, by his own facetious sallies. And when the ladies whomhe had conveyed alighted at the door of their house, and asked thenaccomplished coachman whether he would not step in and take some thingto drink, he declined with so melancholy an air, that they supposedthat the governor and he had had a difference, or that some calamityhad befallen him: and he did not tell these people what the cause ofhis grief was, but left Mesdames Rougemont and Calverley, unheedingthe cries of the latter, who hung over her balcony like Jezebel, andcalled out to him to ask him to give another party soon.

  He sent the drag home under the guidance of one of the grooms, andwent on foot himself; his hands in his pockets, plunged in thought.The stars and moon shining tranquilly over head, looked down upon Mr.Foker that night, as he, in his turn, sentimentally regarded them. Andhe went and gazed upward at the house in Grosvenor-place, and at thewindows which he supposed to be those of the beloved object; and hemoaned and he sighed in a way piteous and surprising to witness, whichPoliceman X. did, who informed Sir Francis Clavering's people, as theytook the refreshment of beer on the coach-box at the neighboringpublic-house, after bringing home their lady from the French play,that there had been another chap hanging about the premises thatevening--a little chap, dressed like a swell.

  And now with that perspicuity and ingenuity and enterprise which onlybelongs to a certain passion, Mr. Foker began to dodge Miss Amorythrough London, and to appear wherever he could meet her. If LadyClavering went to the French play, where her ladyship had a box, Mr.Foker, whose knowledge of the language, as we have heard, was notconspicuous, appeared in a stall. He found out where her engagementswere (it is possible that Anatole, his man, was acquainted with SirFrancis Clavering's gentleman, and so got a sight of her ladyship'sengagement-book), and at many of these evening parties Mr. Foker madehis appearance, to the surprise of the world, and of his motherespecially, whom he ordered to apply for cards to these parties, forwhich until now he had shown a supreme contempt. He told the pleasedand unsuspicious lady that he went to parties because it was right forhim to see the world: he told her that he went to the French playbecause he wanted to perfect himself in the language, and there was nosuch good lesson as a comedy or vaudeville--and when one night theastonished Lady Agnes saw him stand up and dance, and complimented himupon his elegance and activity, the mendacious little rogue assertedthat he had learned to dance in Paris, whereas Anatole knew that hisyoung master used to go off privily to an academy in Brewer-street,and study there for some hours in the morning. The casino of ourmodern days was not invented, or was in its infancy as yet; andgentlemen of Mr. Foker's time had not the facilities of acquiring thescience of dancing which are enjoyed by our present youth.

  Old Pendennis seldom missed going to church. He considered it to behis duty as a gentleman to patronize the institution of publicworship, and that it was quite a correct thing to be seen in church ofa Sunday. One day it chanced that he and Arthur went thither together:the latter, who was now in high favor, had been to breakfast with hisuncle, from whose lodging they walked across the Park to a church notfar 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 parishchurch, which probably caused him, for he was a thrifty man, toforsake it for that day: besides he had other views for himself andPen. "We will go to church, sir, across the Park; and then, begad,we will go to the Claverings' house, and ask them for lunch in afriendly way. Lady Clavering likes to be asked for lunch, and isuncommonly kind, and monstrous hospitable."

  "I met them at dinner last week, at Lady Agnes Foker's, sir," Pensaid, "and the Begum was very kind indeed. So she was in the country:so she is every where. But I share your opinion about Miss Amory; oneof your opinions, that is, uncle, for you were changing, the last timewe spoke about her."

  "And what do you think of her now?" the elder said.

  "I think her the most confounded little flirt in London," Penanswered, laughing. "She made a tremendous assault upon Harry Foker,who sat next to her; and to whom she gave all the talk, though I tookher dow
n."

  "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 theyoung man at his father's death, and old Mr. Foker's life's devilishbad: you know he had a fit, at Arthur's, last year: I should say, thatyoung Foker won't have less than fourteen thousand a year from thebrewery, besides Logwood and the Norfolk property. I've no pride about_me_, Pen. I like a man of birth certainly, but dammy, I like abrewery 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 youare _lanced_ in the world, to stick to fellows of that sort; tofellows who have a stake in the country, begad."

  "Foker sticks to me, sir," Arthur answered. "He has been at ourchambers several times lately. He has asked me to dinner. We arealmost as great friends, as we used to be in our youth: and his talkis about Blanche Amory from morning till night. I'm sure he's sweetupon her."

  "I'm sure he is engaged to his cousin, and that they will keep theyoung man to his bargain," said the major. "The marriages in thesefamilies are affairs of state. Lady Agnes was made to marry old Fokerby the late Lord, although she was notoriously partial to her cousinwho was killed at Albuera afterward, and who saved her life out of thelake at Drummington. I remember Lady Agnes, sir, an exceedingly finewoman. But what did she do? of course she married her father's man.Why, Mr. Foker sate for Drummington till the Reform Bill, and paiddev'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 allparvenus do, has ambitious views for his son as well as himself, andthat 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, MasterArthur, do you take me? They kick, sir, they resist, they make a deuceof a riot and that sort of thing, but they end by listening toreason, begad."

  "Blanche is a dangerous girl, sir," Pen said. "I was smitten withher myself once, and very far gone, too," he added; "but that isyears 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 prettywell in Miss Amory's good graces. But my mother did not like her, andthe affair went off." Pen did not think it fit to tell his uncle allthe particulars of that courtship which had passed between himself andthe young lady.

  "A man might go farther and fare worse, Arthur," the major said, stilllooking queerly at his nephew.

  "Her birth, sir; her father was the mate of a ship, they say; and shehas not money enough," objected Pen, in a dandyfied manner. "What'sten thousand pound and a girl bred up like her?"

  "You use my own words, and it is all very well. But, I tell you inconfidence, Pen--in strict honor, mind--that it's my belief she has adevilish deal more than ten thousand pound: and from what I saw of herthe other day, and--and have heard of her--I should say she was adevilish accomplished, clever girl: and would make a good wife with asensible husband."

  "How do you know about her money?" Pen asked, smiling. "You seem tohave information about every body, 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--forcharming, begad! she is--if I saw her Mrs. Arthur Pendennis, I shouldneither be sorry nor surprised, begad! and if you object to tenthousand pound, what would you say, sir, to thirty, or forty, orfifty?" and the major looked still more knowingly, and still harderat 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, ratherpeevishly, and you ought not to laugh so near a church gate. "Here weare at St. Benedict's. They say Mr. Oriel is a beautiful preacher."

  Indeed, the bells were tolling, the people were trooping into thehandsome church, the carriages of the inhabitants of the lordlyquarter poured forth their pretty loads of devotees, in whose companyPen and his uncle, ending their edifying conversation, entered thefane. I do not know whether other people carry their worldly affairsto the church door. Arthur, who, from habitual reverence and feeling,was always more than respectful in a place of worship, thought of theincongruity of their talk, perhaps; while the old gentleman at hisside was utterly unconscious of any such contrast. His hat wasbrushed: his wig was trim: his neckcloth was perfectly tied. He lookedat every soul in the congregation, it is true: the bald heads and thebonnets, the flowers and the feathers: but so demurely that he hardlylifted up his eyes from his book--from his book which he could notread without glasses. As for Pen's gravity, it was sorely put to thetest when, upon looking by chance toward the seats where the servantswere collected, he spied out, by the side of a demure gentleman inplush, Henry Foker, Esquire, who had discovered this place ofdevotion. Following the direction of Harry's eye, which strayed a gooddeal from his book, Pen found that it alighted upon a yellow bonnetand a pink one: and that these bonnets were on the heads of LadyClavering and Blanche Amory. If Pen's uncle is not the only man whohas talked about his worldly affairs up to the church door, is poorHarry Foker the only one who has brought his worldly love intothe aisle?

  When the congregation issued forth at the conclusion of the service,Foker was out among the first, but Pen came up with him presently, ashe was hankering about the entrance which he was unwilling to leave,until my lady's barouche, with the bewigged coachman, had borne awayits mistress and her daughter from their devotions.

  When the two ladies came out, they found together the Pendennises,uncle and nephew, and Harry Foker, Esquire, sucking the crook of hisstick, standing there in the sunshine. To see and to ask to eat weresimultaneous with the good-natured Begum, and she invited the threegentlemen to luncheon straightway.

  Blanche was, too, particularly gracious. "O! do come," she said toArthur, "if you are not too great a man. I want so to talk to youabout--but we mustn't say what, _here_, you know. What would Mr.Oriel say?" And the young devotee jumped into the carriage after hermamma. "I've read every word of it. It's _adorable_," she added, stilladdressing 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 Amory 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 thismorning. It was Warrington's doing, though, and I must not betoo proud."

  "A review in Pall Mall?--Walter Lorraine? What the doose do you mean?"Foker asked. "Walter Lorraine died of the measles, poor littlebeggar, when we were at Gray Friars. I remember his mother coming up."

  "You are not a literary man, Foker," Pen said, laughing, and hookinghis arm into his friend's. "You must know I have been writing a novel,and some of the papers have spoken very well of it. Perhaps you don'tread the Sunday papers?"

  "I read Bell's Life regular, old boy," Mr. Foker answered: at whichPen laughed again, and the three gentlemen proceeded in great good-humorto Lady Clavering's house.

  The subject of the novel was resumed after luncheon by Miss Amory, whoindeed loved poets and men of letters if she loved any thing, and wassincerely an artist in feeling. "Some of the passages in the book mademe cry, positively they did," she said.

  Pen said, with some fatuity, "I am happy to think I have a part of_vos larmes_, Miss Blanche"--And the major (who had not read more thansix pages of Pen's book) put on his sanctified look, saying, "Yes,there are some passages quite affecting, mons'ous affecting:and,"--"O, if it makes you cry,"--Lady Amory declared she would notread it, "that she wouldn't."

  "Don't, mamma," Blanche said, with a French shrug of her shoulders;and then she fell into a rhapsody about the book, about the snatchesof poetry interspersed in it, about the two heroines, Leonora andNeaera; about the two heroes, Walter Lorraine and his rival the youngduke--"and what good company you introduce us to," said the younglady, archly, "_qu
el ton!_ How much of your life have you passed atcourt, and are you a prime minister's son, Mr. Arthur?"

  Pen began to laugh--"It is as cheap for a novelist to create a duke asto make a baronet," he said. "Shall I tell you a secret, Miss Amory? Ipromoted all my characters at the request of the publisher. The youngduke was only a young baron when the novel was first written; hisfalse friend the viscount, was a simple commoner, and so on with allthe characters of the story."

  "What a wicked, satirical, pert young man you have become! _Comme vousvoila forme!_" said the young lady, "How different from ArthurPendennis of the country! Ah! I think I like Arthur Pendennis of thecountry best, though!" and she gave him the full benefit of hereyes--both of the fond, appealing glance into his own, and of themodest look downward toward the carpet, which showed off her darkeyelids and long fringed lashes.

  Pen of course protested that he had not changed in the least, to whichthe young lady replied by a tender sigh; and thinking that she haddone quite enough to make Arthur happy or miserable (as the case mightbe), she proceeded to cajole his companion, Mr. Harry Foker, whoduring the literary conversation had sate silently imbibing the headof his cane, and wishing that he was a clever chap, like that Pen.

  If the major thought that by telling Miss Amory of Mr. Foker'sengagement to his cousin, Lady Ann Milton (which information the oldgentleman neatly conveyed to the girl as he sate by her side atluncheon below stairs)--if, we say, the major thought that theknowledge of this fact would prevent Blanche from paying any furtherattention to the young heir of Foker's Entire, he was entirelymistaken. She became only the more gracious to Foker: she praised him,and every thing belonging to him; she praised his mamma; she praisedthe pony which he rode in the Park; she praised the lovely breloquesor gimcracks which the young gentleman wore at his watch-chain, andthat dear little darling of a cane, and those dear little deliciousmonkeys' heads with ruby eyes, which ornamented Harry's shirt, andformed the buttons of his waistcoat. And then, having praised andcoaxed the weak youth until he blushed and tingled with pleasure, anduntil Pen thought she really had gone quite far enough, she tookanother theme.

  "I am afraid Mr. Foker is a very sad young man," she said, turninground to Pen.

  "He does not look so," Pen answered with a sneer.

  "I mean we have heard sad stories about him. Haven't we, mamma? Whatwas Mr. Poyntz saying here, the other day, about that party atRichmond? O you naughty creature!" But here, seeing that Harry'scountenance assumed a great expression of alarm, while Pen's wore alook of amusement, she turned to the latter and said, "I believe youare just as bad: I believe you would have liked to have beenthere--wouldn't you? I know you would: yes--and so should I."

  "Lor, Blanche!" mamma cried.

  "Well, I would. I never saw an actress in my life. I would give anything to know one; for I adore talent. And I adore Richmond, that Ido; and I adore Greenwich, and I say I _should_ like to go there."

  "Why should not we three bachelors," the major here broke out,gallantly, and to his nephew's special surprise, "beg these ladies tohonor us with their company at Greenwich? Is Lady Clavering to go onforever being hospitable to us, and may we make no return? Speak foryourselves young men--eh, begad! Here is my nephew, with his pocketsfull of money--his pockets full, begad! and Mr. Henry Foker, who as Ihave heard say is pretty well to do in the world, how is your lovelycousin, Lady Ann, Mr. Foker?--here are these two young ones--and theyallow an old fellow like me to speak. Lady Clavering will you do methe favor to be my guest? and Miss Blanche shall be Arthur's, if shewill be so good."

  "O delightful," cried Blanche.

  "I like a bit of fun, too," said Lady Clavering; "and we will takesome day when Sir Francis--"

  "When Sir Francis dines out--yes mamma," the daughter said, "it willbe charming."

  And a charming day it was. The dinner was ordered at Greenwich, andFoker, though he did not invite Miss Amory, had some deliciousopportunities of conversation with her during the repast, andafterward on the balcony of their room at the hotel, and again duringthe drive home in her ladyship's barouche. Pen came down with hisuncle, in Sir Hugh Trumpington's brougham, which the major borrowedfor the occasion.

  "I am an old soldier, begad," he said, "and I learned in early life tomake myself comfortable."

  And, being an old soldier, he allowed the two young men to pay for thedinner between them, and all the way home in the brougham he ralliedPen about Miss Amory's evident partiality for him: praised her goodlooks, spirits, and wit: and again told Pen in the strictestconfidence, that she would be a devilish deal richer than peoplethought.