Part 51 (1/2)

”Her birth, sir; her father was the mate of a s.h.i.+p, they say: and she has not money enough,” objected Pen, in a dandified manner. ”What's ten thousand pound and a girl bred up like her?”

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

”How do you know about her money?” Pen asked, smiling. ”You 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 G.o.dfather 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 wors.h.i.+p, 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 gla.s.ses. 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 were on the heads of Lady Clavering and Blanche Amory. If Pen's uncle is not the only man who has talked about his worldly affairs up to the church door, is poor Harry Foker the only one who has brought his worldly love into the aisle?

When the congregation issued forth at the conclusion of the service, Foker was out amongst the first, but Pen came up with him presently, as he was hankering about the entrance, which he was unwilling to leave, until my lady's barouche, with the bewigged coachman, had borne away its 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 his stick, standing there in the suns.h.i.+ne. To see and to ask to eat were simultaneous with the good-natured Begum, and she invited the three gentlemen to luncheon straightway.

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 of the papers have spoken very well of it. Perhaps you don't read the Sunday Papers?”

”I read Bell's Life regular, old boy,” Mr Foker answered: at which Pen laughed again, and the three gentlemen proceeded in great good-humour to Lady Clavering's house.

The subject of the novel was resumed after luncheon by Miss Amory, who indeed loved poets and men of letters if she loved anything, and was sincerely an artist in feeling. ”Some of the pa.s.sages in the book made me 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 than six pages of Pen's book) put on his sanctified look, saying, ”Yes, there are some pa.s.sages quite affecting, mons'ous affecting:” and,--”Oh, if it makes you cry,”--Lady Amory declared she would not read 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 s.n.a.t.c.hes of poetry interspersed in it about the two heroines, Leonora and Neaera; about the two heroes, Walter Lorraine and his rival the young Duke--”and what good company you introduce us to,” said the young lady archly ”quel ton! How much of your life have you pa.s.sed at court, 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 as to make a Baronet,” he said. ”Shall I tell you a secret, Miss Amory? I promoted all my characters at the request of the publisher. The young Duke was only a young Baron when the novel was first written; his false friend, the Viscount, was a simple commoner and so on with all the characters of the story.”

”What a wicked, satirical, pert young man you have become! Comme vous voila forme!” said the young lady. ”How different from Arthur Pendennis of the country! Ah! I think I like Arthur Pendennis of the country best, though!” and she gave him the full benefit of her eyes,--both of the fond appealing glance into his own, and of the modest look downwards towards the carpet, which showed off her dark eyelids and long fringed lashes.