Part 71 (1/2)
Warrington was so tall, he almost broke his 'ead up against their lodge door. You recollect Mr. Warrington a-knocking' of his head--don't you, f.a.n.n.y?
Whilst Mrs. Bolton was so discoursing, I wonder how many thousands of thoughts pa.s.sed through f.a.n.n.y's mind, and what dear times, sad struggles, lonely griefs, and subsequent shamefaced consolations were recalled to her? What pangs had the poor little thing, as she thought how much she had loved him, and that she loved him no more? There he stood, about whom she was going to die ten months since, dandified, supercilious, with a black c.r.a.pe to his white hat, and jet b.u.t.tons in his s.h.i.+rt-front and a pink in his coat, that some one else had probably given him: with the tightest lavender-coloured gloves sewn with black and the smallest of canes. And Mr. Huxter wore no gloves, and great Blucher boots, and smelt very much of tobacco certainly; and looked, oh, it must be owned, he looked as if a bucket of water would do him a great deal of good! All these thoughts, and a myriad of others, rushed through f.a.n.n.y's mind as her mamma was delivering herself of her speech, and as the girl, from under her eyes, surveyed Pendennis--surveyed him entirely from head to foot, the circle on his white forehead that his hat left when he lifted it (his beautiful, beautiful hair had grown again), the trinkets at his watch-chain, the ring on his hand under his glove, the neat s.h.i.+ning boot, so, so unlike Sam's high-low!--and after her hand had given a little twittering pressure to the lavender-coloured kid grasp which was held out to it, and after her mother had delivered herself of her speech, all f.a.n.n.y could find to say was, ”This is Mr. Samuel Huxter whom you knew formerly, I believe, sir; Mr. Samuel, you know you knew Mr. Pendennis formerly--and--and, will you take a little refreshment?”
These little words, tremulous and uncoloured as they were, yet were understood by Pendennis in such a manner as to take a great load of suspicion from off his mind--of remorse, perhaps, from his heart. The frown on the countenance of the Prince of Fairoaks disappeared, and a good-natured smile and a knowing twinkle of the eyes illuminated his highness's countenance. ”I am very thirsty,” he said, ”and I will be glad to drink your health, f.a.n.n.y; and I hope Mr. Huxter will pardon me for having been very rude to him the last time we met, and when I was so ill and out of spirits, that indeed I scarcely knew what I said.” And herewith the lavender-coloured Dexter kid-glove was handed out, in token of amity, to Huxter.
The dirty fist in the young surgeon's pocket was obliged to undoable itself, and come out of its ambush disarmed. The poor fellow himself felt, as he laid it in Pen's hand, how hot his own was, and how black--it left black marks on Pen's gloves; he saw them,--he would have liked to have clenched it again and dashed it into the other's good-humoured face; and have seen, there upon that round, with f.a.n.n.y, with all England looking on, which was the best man--he Sam Huxter of Bartholomew's, or that grinning dandy.
Pen with ineffable good-humour took a gla.s.s--he didn't mind what it was--he was content to drink after the ladies; and he filled it with frothing lukewarm beer, which he p.r.o.nounced to be delicious, and which he drank cordially to the health of the party.
As he was drinking and talking on in an engaging manner, a young lady in a shot dove-coloured dress, with a white parasol lined with pink, and the prettiest dove-coloured boots that ever stepped, pa.s.sed by Pen, leaning on the arm of a stalwart gentleman with a military moustache.
The young lady clenched her little fist, and gave a mischievous side-look as she pa.s.sed Pen. He of the mustachios burst out into a jolly laugh. He had taken off his hat to the ladies of cab No. 2002. You should have seen f.a.n.n.y Bolton's eyes watching after the dove-coloured young lady. Immediately Huxter perceived the direction which they took, they ceased looking after the dove-coloured nymph, and they turned and looked into Sam Huxter's...o...b.. with the most artless good-humoured expression.
”What a beautiful creature!” f.a.n.n.y said. ”What a lovely dress! Did you remark, Mr. Sam, such little, little hands?”
”It was Capting Strong,” said Mrs. Bolton: ”and who was the young woman, I wonder?”
”A neighbour of mine in the country--Miss 'Amory,'” Arthur said,--”Lady Clavering's daughter. You've seen Sir Francis often in Shepherd's Inn, Mrs. Bolton.”
As he spoke, f.a.n.n.y built up a perfect romance in three volumes love--faithlessness--splendid marriage at St. George's, Hanover Square--broken-hearted maid--and Sam Huxter was not the hero of that story--poor Sam, who by this time had got out an exceedingly rank Cuba cigar, and was smoking it under f.a.n.n.y's little nose.
After that confounded prig Pendennis joined and left the party, the sun was less bright to Sam Huxter, the sky less blue--the Sticks had no attraction for him--the bitter beer hot and undrinkable--the world was changed. He had a quant.i.ty of peas and a tin pea-shooter in the pocket of the cab for amus.e.m.e.nt on the homeward route. He didn't take them out, and forgot their existence until some other wag, on their return from the races, fired a volley into Sam's sad face; upon which salute, after a few oaths indicative of surprise, he burst into a savage and sardonic laugh.
But f.a.n.n.y was charming all the way home. She coaxed, and snuggled, and smiled. She laughed pretty laughs; she admired everything; she took out the darling little Jack-in-the-boxes, and was so obliged to Sam.
And when they got home, and Mr. Huxter, still with darkness on his countenance, was taking a frigid leave of her--she burst into tears, and said he was a naughty unkind thing.
Upon which, with a burst of emotion almost as emphatic as hers, the young surgeon held the girl in his arms--swore that she was an angel, and that he was a jealous brute; owned that he was unworthy of her, and that he had no right to hate Pendennis; and asked her, implored her, to say once more that she----
That she what?--The end of the question and f.a.n.n.y's answer were p.r.o.nounced by lips that were so near each other, that no bystander could hear the words. Mrs. Bolton only said, ”Come, come, Mr. H.--no nonsense, if you please; and I think you've acted like a wicked wretch, and been most uncommon cruel to f.a.n.n.y, that I do.”
When Arthur left No. 2002, he went to pay his respects to the carriage to which, and to the side of her mamma, the dove-coloured author of Mes Larmes had by this time returned. Indefatigable old Major Pendennis was in waiting upon Lady Clavering, and had occupied the back seat in her carriage; the box being in possession of young Hopeful, under the care of Captain Strong.
A number of dandies, and men of a certain fas.h.i.+on--of military bucks, of young rakes of the public offices, of those who may be styled men's men rather than ladies'--had come about the carriage during its station on the hill--and had exchanged a word or two with Lady Clavering, and a little talk (a little ”chaff,” some of the most elegant of the men styled their conversation) with Miss Amory. They had offered her sportive bets, and exchanged with her all sorts of free-talk and knowing innuendoes. They pointed out to her who was on the course: and the ”who”
was not always the person a young lady should know.
When Pen came up to Lady Clavering's carriage, he had to push his way through a crowd of these young bucks who were paying their court to Miss Amory, in order to arrive as near that young lady, who beckoned him by many pretty signals to her side.
”Je lay vue,” she said; ”Elle a de bien beaux yeux; vous etes un monster!”
”Why monster?” said Pen, with a laugh; ”Hone suit qui mal y peens.
My young friend, yonder, is as well protected as any young lady in Christendom. She has her mamma on one side, her pretend on the other.
Could any harm happen to a girl between those two?”
”One does not know what may or may not arrive,” said Miss Blanche, in French, ”when a girl has the mind, and when she is pursued by a wicked monster like you. Figure to yourself, Major, that I come to find Monsieur, your nephew, near to a cab, by two ladies, and a man, oh, such a man! and who ate lobsters, and who laughed, who laughed!”
”It did not strike me that the man laughed,” Pen said, ”And as for lobsters, I thought he would have liked to eat me after the lobsters.
He shook hands with me, and gripped me so, that he bruised my glove black-and-blue. He is a young surgeon. He comes from Clavering. Don't you remember the gilt pestle and mortar in High Street?”