Part 79 (1/2)
”Again, I don't say no,” said Pen, looking very gloomily at Blanche, and not offering by any means to repeat the attempt at consolation, which had elicited that sweet monosyllable ”don't” from the young lady. ”I don't think I have much of what people call heart; but I don't profess it. I made my venture when I was eighteen, and lighted my lamp and went in search of Cupid. And what was my discovery of love?--a vulgar dancing-woman! I failed, as everybody does, almost everybody; only it is luckier to fail before marriage than after.”
”Merci du choix, Monsieur,” said the Sylphide, making a curtsey.
”Look, my little Blanche,” said Pen, taking her hand, and with his voice of sad good-humour; ”at least I stoop to no flatteries.”
”Quite the contrary,” said Miss Blanche.
”And tell you no foolish lies, as vulgar men do. Why should you and I, with our experience, ape romance and dissemble pa.s.sion? I do not believe Miss Blanche Amory to be peerless among the beautiful, nor the greatest poetess, nor the most surpa.s.sing musician, any more than I believe you to be the tallest woman in the whole world--like the giantess whose picture we saw as we rode through the fair yesterday. But if I don't set you up as a heroine, neither do I offer you your very humble servant as a hero. But I think you are--well, there, I think you are very sufficiently good-looking.”
”Merci,” Miss Blanche said, with another curtsey.
”I think you sing charmingly. I'm sure you're clever. I hope and believe that you are good-natured, and that you will be companionable.”
”And so, provided I bring you a certain sum of money and a seat in Parliament, you condescend to fling to me your royal pocket-handkerchief,” said Blanche. ”Que d'honneur! We used to call your Highness the Prince of Fairoaks. What an honour to think that I am to be elevated to the throne, and to bring the seat in Parliament as backsheesh to the sultan! I am glad I am clever, and that I can play and sing to your liking; my songs will amuse my lord's leisure.”
”And if thieves are about the house,” said Pen, grimly pursuing the simile, ”forty besetting thieves in the shape of lurking cares and enemies in ambush and pa.s.sions in arms, my Morgiana will dance round me with a tambourine, and kill all my rogues and thieves with a smile.
Won't she?” But Pen looked as if he did not believe that she would. ”Ah, Blanche,” he continued after a pause, ”don't be angry; don't be hurt at my truth-telling.--Don't you see that I always take you at your word?
You say you will be a slave and dance--I say, dance. You say, 'I take you with what you bring:' I say, 'I take you with what you bring.' To the necessary deceits and hypocrisies of our life, why add any that are useless and unnecessary? If I offer myself to you because I think we have a fair chance of being happy together, and because by your help I may get for both of us a good place and a not undistinguished name, why ask me to feign raptures and counterfeit romance, in which neither of us believe? Do you want me to come wooing in a Prince Prettyman's dress from the masquerade warehouse, and to pay you compliments like Sir Charles Grandison? Do you want me to make you verses as in the days when we were--when we were children? I will if you like, and sell them to Bacon and Bungay afterwards. Shall I feed my pretty princess with bonbons?”
”Mais j'adore les bonbons, moi,” said the little Sylphide, with a queer piteous look.
”I can buy a hatful at Fortnum and Mason's for a guinea. And it shall have its bonbons, its pooty little sugar-plums, that it shall,” Pen said with a bitter smile. ”Nay, my dear, nay, my dearest little Blanche, don't cry. Dry the pretty eyes, I can't bear that;” and he proceeded to offer that consolation which the circ.u.mstance required, and which the tears, the genuine tears of vexation, which now sprang from the angry eyes of the author of 'Mes Larmes' demanded.
The scornful and sarcastic tone of Pendennis quite frightened and overcame the girl. ”I--I don't want your consolation. I--I never was--so--spoken to before--by any of my--my--by anybody”--she sobbed out, with much simplicity.
”Anybody!” shouted out Pen, with a savage burst of laughter, and Blanche blushed one of the most genuine blushes which her cheek had ever exhibited, and she cried out, ”O Arthur, vous etes un homme terrible!”
She felt bewildered, frightened, oppressed, the worldly little flirt who had been playing at love for the last dozen years of her life, and yet not displeased at meeting a master.
”Tell me, Arthur,” she said, after a pause in this strange love-making.
”Why does Sir Francis Clavering give up his seat in Parliament?”
”Au fait, why does he give it to me?” asked Arthur, now blus.h.i.+ng in his turn.
”You always mock me, sir,” she said. ”If it is good to be in Parliament, why does Sir Francis go out?”
”My uncle has talked him over. He always said that you were not sufficiently provided for. In the--the family disputes, when your mamma paid his debts so liberally, it was stipulated, I suppose, that you--that is, that I--that is, upon my word, I don't know why he goes out of Parliament,” Pen said, with rather a forced laugh. ”You see, Blanche, that you and I are two good little children, and that this marriage has been arranged for us by our mammas and uncles, and that we must be obedient, like a good little boy and girl.”
So, when Pen went to London, he sent Blanche a box of bonbons, each sugar-plum of which was wrapped up in ready-made French verses, of the most tender kind; and, besides, despatched to her some poems of his own manufacture, quite as artless and authentic; and it was no wonder that he did not tell Warrington what his conversations with Miss Amory had been, of so delicate a sentiment were they, and of a nature so necessarily private.
And if, like many a worse and better man, Arthur Pendennis, the widow's son, was meditating an apostasy, and going to sell himself to--we all know whom,--at least the renegade did not pretend to be a believer in the creed to which he was ready to swear. And if every woman and man in this kingdom, who has sold her or himself for money or position, as Mr.
Pendennis was about to do, would but purchase a copy of his memoirs, what tons of volumes Messrs. Bradbury and Evans would sell!
CHAPTER LXVI. In which Pen begins his Canva.s.s
Melancholy as the great house at Clavering Park had been in the days before his marriage, when its bankrupt proprietor was a refugee in foreign lands, it was not much more cheerful now when Sir Francis Clavering came to inhabit it. The greater part of the mansion was shut up, and the Baronet only occupied a few of the rooms on the ground floor, where his housekeeper and her a.s.sistant from the lodge-gate waited upon the luckless gentleman in his forced retreat, and cooked a part of the game which he spent the dreary mornings in shooting.
Lightfoot, his man, had pa.s.sed over to my Lady's service; and, as Pen was informed in a letter from Mr. Smirke, who performed the ceremony, had executed his prudent intention of marrying Mrs. Bonner, my Lady's woman, who, in her mature years, was stricken with the charms of the youth, and endowed him with her savings and her mature person.
To be landlord and landlady of the Clavering Arms was the ambition of both of them; and it was agreed that they were to remain in Lady Clavering's service until quarter-day arrived, when they were to take possession of their hotel. Pen graciously promised that he would give his election dinner there, when the Baronet should vacate his seat in the young man's favour; and, as it had been agreed by his uncle, to whom Clavering seemed to be able to refuse nothing, Arthur came down in September on a visit to Clavering Park, the owner of which was very glad to have a companion who would relieve his loneliness, and perhaps would lend him a little ready money.