The noble Henry Foker, of whom we have lost sight for a few pages, has been in the meanwhile occupied, as we might suppose a man of his constancy would be, in the pursuit and indulgence of his all-absorbing passion of love.
I wish that a few of my youthful readers who are inclined to that amusement would take the trouble to calculate the time which is spent in the pursuit, when they would find it to be one of the most costly1 occupations in which a man can possibly indulge. What don’t you sacrifice to it, indeed, young gentlemen and young ladies of ill-regulated minds? Many hours of your precious sleep in the first place, in which you lie tossing and thinking about the adored object, whence you come down late to breakfast, when noon is advancing and all the family is long since away to its daily occupations. Then when you at length get to these occupations you pay no attention to them, and engage in them with no ardour — all your thoughts and powers of mind being fixed2 elsewhere. Then the day’s work being slurred3 over, you neglect your friends and relatives, your natural companions and usual associates in life, that you may go and have a glance at the dear personage, or a look up at her windows, or a peep at her carriage in the Park. Then at night the artless blandishments of home bore you; mamma’s conversation palls5 upon you; the dishes which that good soul prepares for the dinner of her favourite are sent away untasted,— the whole meal of life, indeed, except one particular plat, has no relish6. Life, business, family ties, home, all things useful and dear once, become intolerable, and you are never easy except when you are in pursuit of your flame.
Such I believe to be not unfrequently the state of mind amongst ill-regulated young gentlemen, and such indeed was Mr. H. Foker’s condition, who, having been bred up to indulge in every propensity7 towards which he was inclined, abandoned himself to this one with his usual selfish enthusiasm. Nor because he had given his friend Arthur Pendennis a great deal of good advice on a former occasion, need men of the world wonder that Mr. Foker became passion’s slave in his turn. Who among us has not given a plenty of the very best advice to his friends? Who has not preached, and who has practised? To be sure, you, madam, are perhaps a perfect being, and never had a wrong thought in the whole course of your frigid8 and irreproachable9 existence: or sir, you are a great deal too strong-minded to allow any foolish passion to interfere10 with your equanimity11 in chambers13 or your attendance on ‘Change; you are so strong that you don’t want any sympathy. We don’t give you any, then; we keep ours for the humble15 and weak, that struggle and stumble and get up again, and so march with the rest of mortals. What need have you of a hand who never fall? Your serene16 virtue17 is never shaded by passion, or ruffled18 by temptation, or darkened by remorse20; compassion21 would be impertinence for such an angel: but then with such a one companionship becomes intolerable; you are, from the elevation22 of your very virtue and high attributes, of necessity lonely; we can’t reach up and talk familiarly with such potentatess good-bye, then; our way lies with humble folks, and not with serene highnesses like you; and we give notice that there are no perfect characters in this history, except, perhaps, one little one, and that one is not perfect either, for she never knows to this day that she is perfect, and with a deplorable misapprehension and perverseness24 of humility25, believes herself to be as great a sinner as need be.
This young person does not happen to be in London at the present period of our story, and it is by no means for the like of her that Mr. Henry Foker’s mind is agitated26. But what matters a few failings? Need we be angels, male or female, in order to be worshipped as such? Let us admire the diversity of the tastes of mankind; and the oldest, the ugliest, the stupidest and most pompous27, the silliest and most vapid28, the greatest criminal, tyrant29 booby, Bluebeard, Catherine Hayes, George Barnwell, amongst us, we need never despair. I have read of the passion of a transported pickpocket30 for a female convict (each of them advanced in age, being repulsive31 in person, ignorant, quarrelsome, and given to drink), that was as magnificent as the loves of Cleopatra and Antony, or Lancelot and Guinever. The passion which Count Borulawski, the Polish dwarf32, inspired in the bosom33 of the most beautiful Baroness34 at the Court of Dresden, is a matter with which we are all of us acquainted: the flame which burned in the heart of young Cornet Tozer but the other day, and caused him to run off and espouse35 Mrs. Battersby, who was old enough to be his mamma,— all these instances are told in the page of history or the newspaper column. Are we to be ashamed or pleased to think that our hearts are formed so that the biggest and highest-placed Ajax among us may some day find himself prostrate37 before the pattens of his kitchen-maid; as that there is no poverty or shame or crime, which will not be supported, hugged even with delight, and cherished more closely than virtue would be, by the perverse23 fidelity38 and admirable constant folly39 of a woman?
So then Henry Foker, Esquire, longed after his love, and cursed the fate which separated him from her. When Lord Gravesend’s family retired40 to the country (his lordship leaving his proxy41 with the venerable Lord Bagwig), Harry43 still remained lingering on in London, certainly not much to the sorrow of Lady Ann, to whom he was affianced, and who did not in the least miss him. Wherever Miss Clavering went, this infatuated young fellow continued to follow her; and being aware that his engagement to his cousin was known in the world, he was forced to make a mystery of his passion, and confine it to his own breast, so that it was so pent in there and pressed down, that it is a wonder he did not explode some day with the stormy secret, and perish collapsed44 after the outburst.
There had been a grand entertainment at Gaunt House on one beautiful evening in June, and the next day’s journals contained almost two columns of the names of the most closely printed nobility and gentry45 who had been honoured with invitations to the ball. Among the guests were Sir Francis and Lady Clavering and Miss Amory, for whom the indefatigable46 Major Pendennis had procured47 an invitation, and our two young friends Arthur and Harry. Each exerted himself, and danced a great deal with Miss Blanche. As for the worthy48 Major, he assumed the charge of Lady Clavering, and took care to introduce her to that department of the mansion49 where her ladyship specially50 distinguished51 herself, namely, the refreshment-room, where, amongst pictures of Titian and Giorgione, and regal portraits of Vandyke and Reynolds, and enormous salvers of gold and silver, and pyramids of large flowers, and constellations52 of wax candles — in a manner perfectly53 regardless of expense, in a word — a supper was going on all night. Of how many creams, jellies, salads, peaches, white soups, grapes, pates54, galantines, cups of tea, champagne55, and so forth56, Lady Clavering partook, it does not become us to say. How much the Major suffered as he followed the honest woman about, calling to the solemn male attendants and lovely servant-maids, and administering to Lady Clavering’s various wants with admirable patience, nobody knows;— he never confessed. He never allowed his agony to appear on his countenance57 in the least; but with a constant kindness brought plate after plate to the Begum.
Mr. Wagg counted up all the dishes of which Lady Clavering partook as long as he could count (but as he partook very freely himself of champagne during the evening, his powers of calculation were not to be trusted at the close of the entertainment), and he recommended Mr. Honeyman, Lady Steyne’s medical man, to look carefully after the Begum, and to call and get news of her ladyship the next day.
Sir Francis Clavering made his appearance, and skulked58 for a while about the magnificent rooms; but the company and the splendour which he met there were not to the Baronet’s taste, and after tossing off a tumbler of wine or two at the buffet59, he quitted Gaunt House for the neighbourhood of Jermyn Street, where his friends Loder, Punter, little Moss61 Abramns, and Captain Skewball were assembled at the familiar green table. In the rattle62 of the box, and of their agreeable conversation, Sir Francis’s spirits rose to their accustomed point of feeble hilarity63.
Mr. Pynsent, who had asked Miss Amory to dance, came up on one occasion to claim her hand, but scowls64 of recognition having already passed between him and Mr. Arthur Pendennis in the dancing-room, Arthur suddenly rose up and claimed Miss Amory as his partner for the present dance, on which Mr. Pynsent, biting his lips and scowling65 yet more savagely66, withdrew with a profound bow, saying that he gave up his claim. There are some men who are always falling in one’s way in life. Pynsent and Pen had this view of each other; and each regarded other accordingly.
“What a confounded conceited67 provincial69 fool that is!” thought the one. “Because he has written a twopenny novel, his absurd head is turned, and a kicking would take his conceit68 out of him.”
“What an impertinent idiot that man is!” remarked the other to his partner. “His soul is in Downing Street; his neckcloth is foolscap; his hair is sand; his legs are rulers; his vitals are tape and sealing-wax; he was a prig in his cradle; and never laughed since he was born, except three times at the same joke of his chief. I have the same liking70 for that man, Miss Amory, I have for that cold boiled veal71.” Upon which Blanche of course remarked, that Mr. Pendennis was wicked, mechant, perfectly abominable72, and wondered what he would say when her back was turned.
“Say!— Say that you have the most beautiful figure, and the slimmest waist in the world, Blanche — Miss Amory, I mean. I beg your pardon. Another turn; this music would make an alderman dance.”
“And you have left off tumbling when you waltz now?” Blanche asked, archly looking up at her partner’s face.
“One falls and one gets up again in life, Blanche; you know I used to call you so in old times, and it is the prettiest name in the world. Besides, I have practised since then.”
“And with a great number of partners, I’m afraid,” Blanche said, with a little sham36 sigh, and a shrug73 of the shoulders. And so in truth Mr. Pen had practised a good deal in this life; and had undoubtedly74 arrived at being able to dance better.
If Pendennis was impertinent in his talk, Foker, on the other hand, so bland4 and communicative on most occasions, was entirely75 mum and melancholy76 when he danced with Miss Amory. To clasp her slender waist was a rapture77, to whirl round the room with her was a delirium78; but to speak to her, what could he say that was worthy of her? What pearl of conversation could he bring that was fit for the acceptance of such a Queen of love and wit as Blanche? It was she who made the talk when she was in the company of this love-stricken partner. It was she who asked him bow that dear little pony79 was, and looked at him and thanked him with such a tender kindness and regret, and refused the dear little pony with such a delicate sigh when he offered it. “I have nobody to ride with in London,” she said. “Mamma is timid, and her figure is not pretty on horseback. Sir Francis never goes out with me. He loves me like — like a stepdaughter. Oh, how delightful80 it must be to have a father — a father, Mr. Foker!”
“Oh, uncommon,” said Mr. Harry, who enjoyed that blessing81 very calmly, upon which, and forgetting the sentimental82 air which she had just before assumed, Blanche’s grey eyes gazed at Foker with such an arch twinkle that both of them burst out laughing, and Harry enraptured83 and at his ease began to entertain her with a variety of innocent prattle84 — good kind simple Foker talk, flavoured with many expressions by no means to be discovered in dictionaries, and relating to the personal history of himself or horses, or other things dear and important to him, or to persons in the ballroom85 then passing before them, and about whose appearance or character Mr. Harry spoke86 with artless freedom, and a considerable dash of humour.
And it was Blanche who, when the conversation flagged, and the youth’s modesty87 came rushing back and overpowering him, knew how to reanimate her companion: asked him questions about Logwood, and whether it was a pretty place? Whether he was a hunting man, and whether he liked women to hunt? (in which case she was prepared to say that she adored hunting)— but Mr. Foker expressing his opinion against sporting females, and pointing out Lady Bullfinch, who happened to pass by, as a horse-godmother, whom he had seen at cover with a cigar in her face, Blanche too expressed her detestation of the sports of the field, and said it would make her shudder88 to think of a dear sweet little fox being killed, on which Foker laughed and waltzed with renewed vigour89 and grace.
And at the end of the waltz,— the last waltz they had on that night,— Blanche asked him about Drummington, and whether it was a fine house. His cousins, she had heard, were very accomplished90: Lord Erith she had met, and which of his cousins was his favourite? Was it not Lady Ann? Yes, she was sure it was she; sure by his looks and his blushes. She was tired of dancing; it was getting very late; she must go to mamma;— and, without another word, she sprang away from Harry Foker’s arm, and seized upon Pen’s, who was swaggering about the dancing-room, and again said, “Mamma, mamma!— take me to mamma, dear, Mr. Pendennis!” transfixing Harry with a Parthian shot, as she fled from him.
My Lord Steyne, with garter and ribbon, with a bald head and shining eyes, and a collar of red whiskers round his face, always looked grand upon an occasion of state; and made a great effect upon Lady Clavering, when he introduced himself to her at the request of the obsequious91 Major Pendennis. With his own white and royal hand, he handed to her ladyship a glass of wine, said he had heard of her charming daughter, and begged to be presented to her; and, at this very juncture92, Mr. Arthur Pendennis came up with the young lady on his arm.
The peer made a profound bow, and Blanche the deepest curtesy that ever was seen. His lordship gave Mr. Arthur Pendennis his hand to shake; said he had read his book, which was very wicked and clever; asked Miss Blanche if she had read it,— at which Pen blushed and winced93. Why, Blanche was one of the heroines of the novel. Blanche, in black ringlets and a little altered, was the Neaera of ‘Walter Lorraine.’
Blanche had read it: the language of the eyes expressed her admiration94 and rapture at the performance. This little play being achieved, the Marquis of Steyne made other two profound bows to Lady Clavering and her daughter, and passed on to some other of his guests at the splendid entertainment.
Mamma and daughter were loud in their expressions of admiration of the noble Marquis so soon as his broad back was turned upon them. “He said they make a very nice couple,” whispered major Pendennis to Lady Clavering. Did he now, really? Mamma thought they would; Mamma was so flustered95 with the honour which had just been shown to her, and with other intoxicating96 events of the evening, that her good-humour knew no bounds. She laughed, she winked97, and nodded knowingly at Pen; she tapped him on the arm with her fan; she tapped Blanche; she tapped the Major;— her contentment was boundless98, and her method of showing her joy equally expansive.
As the party went down the great staircase of Gaunt House, the morning had risen stark99 and clear over the black trees of the square; the skies were tinged100 with pink; and the cheeks of some of the people at the ball, — ah, how ghastly they looked! That admirable and devoted101 Major above all,— who had been for hours by Lady Clavering’s side, ministering to her and feeding her body with everything that was nice, and her ear with everything that was sweet and flattering,— oh! what an object he was! The rings round his eyes were of the colour of bistre; those orbs102 themselves were like the plovers’ eggs whereof Lady Clavering and Blanche had each tasted; the wrinkles in his old face were furrowed103 in deep gashes104; and a silver stubble, like an elderly morning dew was glittering on his chin, and alongside the dyed whiskers now limp and out of curl.
There he stood, with admirable patience, enduring, uncomplainingly, a silent agony; knowing that people could see the state of his face (for could he not himself perceive the condition of others, males and females, of his own age?)— longing105 to go to rest for hours past; aware that suppers disagreed with him, and yet having eaten a little so as to keep his friend, Lady Clavering, in good-humour; with twinges of rheumatism106 in the back and knees; with weary feet burning in his varnished107 boots,— so tired, oh, so tired and longing for bed! If a man, struggling with hardship and bravely overcoming it, is an object of admiration for the gods, that Power in whose chapels108 the old Major was a faithful worshipper must have looked upwards109 approvingly upon the constancy of Pendennis’s martyrdom. There are sufferers in that cause as in the other: the negroes in the service of Mumbo Jumbo tattoo111 and drill themselves with burning skewers112 with great fortitude113; and we read that the priests in the service of Baal gashed114 themselves and bled freely. You who can smash the idols115, do so with a good courage; but do not be too fierce with the idolaters,— they worship the best thing they know.
The Pendennises, the elder and the younger, waited with Lady Clavering and her daughter until her ladyship’s carriage was announced, when the elder’s martyrdom may be said to have come to an end, for the good-natured Begum insisted upon leaving him at his door in Bury Street; so he took the back seat of the carriage after a feeble bow or two, and speech of thanks, polite to the last, and resolute116 in doing his duty. The Begum waved her dumpy little hand by way of farewell to Arthur and Foker, and Blanche smiled languidly out upon the young men, thinking whether she looked very wan14 and green under her rose-coloured hood60, and whether it was the mirrors at Gaunt House, or the fatigue117 and fever of her own eyes, which made her fancy herself so pale.
Arthur, perhaps, saw quite well how yellow Blanche looked, but did not attribute that peculiarity118 of her complexion119 to the effect of the looking-glasses, or to any error in his sight or her own. Our young man of the world could use his eyes very keenly, and could see Blanche’s face pretty much as nature had made it. But for poor Foker it had a radiance which dazzled and blinded him: he could see no more faults in it than in the sun, which was now flaring120 over the house-tops.
Amongst other wicked London habits which Pen had acquired, the moralist will remark that he had got to keep very bad hours; and often was going to bed at the time when sober country-people were thinking of leaving it. Men get used to one hour as to another. Editors of newspapers, Covent Garden market-people, night cabmen and coffee-sellers, chimney-sweeps, and gentlemen and ladies of fashion who frequent balls, are often quite lively at three or four o’clock of a morning, when ordinary mortals are snoring. We have shown in the last chapter how Pen was in a brisk condition of mind at this period, inclined to smoke his cigar at ease, and to speak freely.
Foker and Pen walked away from Gaunt House, then, indulging in both the above amusements: or rather Pen talked, and Foker looked as if he wanted to say something. Pen was sarcastic121 and dandified when he had been in the company of great folks; he could not help imitating some of their airs and tones, and having a most lively imagination, mistook himself for a person of importance very easily. He rattled122 away, and attacked this person and that; sneered124 at Lady John Turnbull’s bad French, which her ladyship will introduce into all conversations in spite of the sneers125 of everybody; at Mrs. Slack Roper’s extraordinary costume and sham jewels; at the old dandies and the young ones;— at whom didn’t he sneer123 and laugh?
“You fire at everybody, Pen — you’re grown awful, that you are,” Foker said. “Now you’ve pulled about Blondel’s yellow wig42, and Colchicum’s black one, why don’t you have a shy at a brown one, hay? you know whose I mean. It got into Lady Clavering’s carriage.”
“Under my uncle’s hat? My uncle is a martyr110, Foker, my boy. My uncle has been doing excruciating duties all night. He likes to go to bed rather early. He has a dreadful headache if he sits up and touches supper. He always has the gout if he walks or stands much at a ball. He has been sitting up, and standing126 up, and supping. He has gone home to the gout and the headache, and for my sake. Shall I make fun of the old boy? no, not for Venice!”
“How do you mean that he has been doing it for your sake?” Foker asked, looking rather alarmed.
“Boy! canst thou keep a secret if I impart it to thee?” Pen cried out, in high spirits. “Art thou of good counsel? Wilt127 thou swear? Wilt thou be mum, or wilt thou preach? Wilt thou be silent and hear, or wilt thou speak and die?” And as he spoke, flinging himself into an absurd theatrical128 attitude, the men in the cabstand in Piccadilly wondered and grinned at the antics of the two young swells129.
“What the doose are you driving at?” Foker asked, looking very much agitated.
Pen, however, did not remark this agitation130 much, but continued in the same bantering131 and excited vein132. “Henry, friend of my youth,” he said, “and witness of my early follies133, though dull at thy books, yet thou art not altogether deprived of sense,— nay134, blush not, Henrico, thou hast a good portion of that, and of courage and kindness too, at the service of thy friends. Were I in a strait of poverty, I would come to my Foker’s purse. Were I in grief, I would discharge my grief upon his sympathising bosom ——”
“Gammon, Pen — go on,” Foker said.
“I would, Henrico, upon thy studs, and upon thy cambric worked by the hands of beauty, to adorn135 the breast of valour! Know then, friend of my boyhood’s days, that Arthur Pendennis of the Upper Temple, student-at-law, feels that he is growing lonely and old Care is furrowing136 his temples, and Baldness is busy with his crown. Shall we stop and have a drop of coffee at this stall, it looks very hot and nice? Look how that cabman is blowing at his saucer. No, you won’t? Aristocrat137! I resume my tale. I am getting on in life. I have got devilish little money. I want some. I am thinking of getting some, and settling in life. I’m thinking of settling. I’m thinking of marrying, old boy. I’m thinking of becoming a moral man; a steady port and sherry character: with a good reputation in my quartier, and a moderate establishment of two maids and a man — with an occasional brougham to drive out Mrs. Pendennis, and a house near the Parks for the accommodation of the children. Ha! what sayest thou? Answer thy friend, thou worthy child of beer. Speak, I adjure138 thee by all thy vats139.
“But you ain’t got any money, Pen,” said the other, still looking alarmed.
“I ain’t? No, but she ave. I tell thee there is gold in store for me — not what you call money, nursed in the lap of luxury, and cradled on grains, and drinking in wealth from a thousand mash-tubs. What do you know about money? What is poverty to you, is splendour to the hardy140 son of the humble apothecary141. You can’t live without an establishment, and your houses in town and country. A snug142 little house somewhere off Belgravia, a brougham for my wife, a decent cook, and a fair bottle of wine for my friends at home sometimes; these simple necessaries suffice for me, my Foker.” And here Pendennis began to look more serious. Without bantering further, Pen continued, “I’ve rather serious thoughts of settling and marrying. No man can get on in the world without some money at his back. You must have a certain stake to begin with, before you can go in and play the great game. Who knows that I’m not going to try, old fellow? Worse men than I have won at it. And as I have not got enough capital from my fathers, I must get some by my wife — that’s all.”
They were walking down Grosvenor Street, as they talked, or rather as Pen talked, in the selfish fulness of his heart; and Mr. Pen must have been too much occupied with his own affairs to remark the concern and agitation of his neighbour, for he continued: “We are no longer children, you know, you and I, Harry. Bah! the time of our romance has passed away. We don’t marry for passion, but for prudence143 and for establishment. What do you take your cousin for? Because she is a nice girl, and an Earl’s daughter, and the old folks wish it, and that sort of thing.”
“And you, Pendennis,” asked Foker, “you ain’t very fond of the girl — you’re going to marry?”
Pen shrugged144 his shoulders. “Comme ca,” said he; “I like her well enough. She’s pretty enough; she’s clever enough. I think she’ll do very well. And she has got money enough — that’s the great point. Psha! you know who she is, don’t you? I thought you were sweet on her yourself one night when we dined with her mamma. It’s little Amory.”
“I— I thought so,” Foker said; “and has she accepted you!”
“Not quite,” Arthur replied, with a confident smile, which seemed to say, I have but to ask, and she comes to me that instant.
“Oh, not quite,” said Foker; and he broke out with such a dreadful laugh, that Pen, for the first time, turned his thoughts from himself towards his companion, and was struck by the other’s ghastly pale face.
“My dear fellow, Fo! what’s the matter? You’re ill,” Pen said, in a tone of real concern.
“You think it was the champagne at Gaunt House, don’t you? It ain’t that. Come in; let me talk to you for a minute. I’ll tell you what it is. D—— it, let me tell somebody,” Foker said.
They were at Mr. Foker’s door by this time, and, opening it, Harry walked with his friend into his apartments, which were situated145 in the back part of the house, and behind the family dining-room where the elder Foker received his guests, surrounded by pictures of himself, his wife, his infant son on a donkey, and the late Earl of Gravesend in his robes as a Peer. Foker and Pen passed by this chamber12, now closed with death-like shutters146, and entered into the young man’s own quarters. Dusky streams of sunbeams were playing into that room, and lighting147 up poor Harry’s gallery of dancing-girls and opera nymphs with flickering148 illuminations.
“Look here! I can’t help telling you, Pen,” he said. Ever since the night we dined there, I’m so fond of that girl, that I think I shall die if I don’t get her. I feel as if I should go mad sometimes. I can’t stand it, Pen. I couldn’t bear to hear you talking about her, just now, about marrying her only because she’s money. Ah, Pen! that ain’t the question in marrying. I’d bet anything it ain’t. Talking about money and such a girl as that, it’s — it’s — what-d’ye-call-’em — you know what I mean — I ain’t good at talking — sacrilege, then. If she’d have me, I’d take and sweep a crossing, that I would!”
“Poor Fo! I don’t think that would tempt19 her,” Pen said, eyeing his friend with a great deal of real good-nature and pity. “She is not a girl for love and a cottage.”
“She ought to be a duchess, I know that very well, and I know she wouldn’t take me unless I could make her a great place in the world — for I ain’t good for anything myself much — I ain’t clever and that sort of thing,” Foker said sadly. “If I had all the diamonds that all the duchesses and marchionesses had on to-night, wouldn’t I put ’em in her lap? But what’s the use of talking? I’m booked for another race. It’s that kills me, Pen. I can’t get out of it; though I die, I can’t get out of it. And though my cousin’s a nice girl, and I like her very well, and that, yet I hadn’t seen this one when our Governors settled that matter between us. And when you talked, just now, about her doing very well, and about her having money enough for both of you, I thought to myself it isn’t money or mere149 liking a girl, that ought to be enough to make a fellow marry. He may marry, and find he likes somebody else better. All the money in the world won’t make you happy then. Look at me; I’ve plenty of money, or shall have out of the mash-tubs, as you call ’em. My Governor thought he’d made it all right for me in settling my marriage with my cousin. I tell you it won’t do; and when Lady Ann has got her husband, it won’t be happy for either of us, and she’ll have the most miserable150 beggar in town.”
“Poor old fellow!” Pen said, with rather a cheap magnanimity, “I wish I could help you. I had no idea of this, and that you were so wild about the girl. Do you think she would have you without your money? No. Do you think your father would agree to break off your engagement with your cousin? You know him very well, and that he would cast you off rather than do so.”
The unhappy Foker only groaned151 a reply, flinging himself prostrate on a sofa, face forwards, his head in his hands.
“As for my affair,” Pen went on, “my dear fellow, if I had thought matters were so critical with you, at least I would not have pained you by choosing you as my confidant. And my business is not serious, at least not as yet. I have not spoken a word about it to Miss Amory. Very likely she would not have me if I asked her. Only I have had a great deal of talk about it with my uncle, who says that the match might be an eligible152 one for me. I’m ambitious and I’m poor. And it appears Lady Clavering will give her a good deal of money, and Sir Francis might be got to never mind the rest. Nothing is settled, Harry. They are going out of town directly. I promise you I won’t ask her before she goes. There’s no hurry: there’s time for everybody. But, suppose you got her, Foker. Remember what you said about marriages just now, and the misery153 of a man who doesn’t care for his wife; and what sort of a wife would you have who didn’t care for her husband?”
“But she would care for me,” said Foker, from his sofa —“that is, I think she would. Last night only, as we were dancing, she said ——”
“What did she say?” Pen cried, starting up in great wrath154. But he saw his own meaning more clearly than Foker, and broke off with a laugh —“Well, never mind what she said, Harry. Miss Amory is a clever girl, and says numbers of civil things — to you — to me, perhaps — and who the deuce knows to whom besides? Nothing’s settled, old boy. At least, my heart won’t break if I don’t get her. Win her if you can, and I wish you joy of her. Good-bye! Don’t think about what I said to you. I was excited, and confoundedly thirsty in those hot rooms, and didn’t, I suppose, put enough Seltzer-water into the champagne. Good night! I’ll keep your counsel too. ‘Mum’ is the word between us; and ‘let there be a fair fight, and let the best man win,’ as Peter Crawley says.”
So saying, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, giving a very queer and rather dangerous look at his companion, shook him by the hand, with something of that sort of cordiality which befitted his just repeated simile155 of the boxing-match, and which Mr. Bendigo displays when he shakes hands with Mr. Gaunt before they fight each other for the champion’s belt and two hundred pounds a side. Foker returned his friend’s salute156 with an imploring157 look, and a piteous squeeze of the hand, sank back on his cushions again, and Pen, putting on his hat, strode forth into the air, and almost over the body of the matutinal housemaid, who was rubbing the steps at the door.
“And so he wants her too, does be?” thought Pen as he marched along — and noted158 within himself with a fatal keenness of perception and almost an infernal mischief159, that the very pains and tortures which that honest heart of Foker’s was suffering gave a zest160 and an impetus161 to his own pursuit of Blanche: if pursuit might be called which had been no pursuit as yet, but mere sport and idle dallying162. “She said something to him, did she? perhaps she gave him the fellow flower to this;” and he took out of his coat and twiddled in his thumb and finger a poor little shrivelled crumpled163 bud that had faded and blackened with the heat and flare164 of the night —“I wonder to how many more she has given her artless tokens of affection — the little flirt”— and he flung his into the gutter165, where the water may have refreshed it, and where any amateur of rosebuds166 may have picked it up. And then bethinking him that the day was quite bright, and that the passers-by by might be staring at his beard and white neckcloth, our modest young gentleman took a cab and drove to the Temple.
Ah! is this the boy that prayed at his mother’s knee but a few years since, and for whom very likely at this hour of morning she is praying? Is this jaded168 and selfish worldling the lad who, a short while back, was ready to fling away his worldly all, his hope, his ambition, his chance of life, for his love? This is the man you are proud of, old Pendennis. You boast of having formed him: and of having reasoned him out of his absurd romance and folly — and groaning169 in your bed over your pains and rheumatisms, satisfy yourself still by thinking, that, at last, that lad will do something to better himself in life, and that the Pendennises will take a good place in the world. And is he the only one, who in his progress through this dark life goes wilfully170 or fatally astray, whilst the natural truth and love which should illumine him grow dim in the poisoned air, and suffice to light him no more?
When Pen was gone away, poor Harry Foker got up from the sofa, and taking out from his waistcoat — the splendidly buttoned, but the gorgeously embroidered171, the work of his mamma — a little white rosebud167, he drew from his dressing-case, also the maternal172 present, a pair of scissors, with which he nipped carefully the stalk of the flower, and placing it in a glass of water opposite his bed, he sought refuge there from care and bitter remembrances.
It is to be presumed that Miss Blanche Amory had more than one rose in her bouquet173, and why should not the kind young creature give out of her superfluity, and make as many partners as possible happy?
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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slurred
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| 含糊地说出( slur的过去式和过去分词 )； 含糊地发…的声； 侮辱； 连唱 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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palls
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| n.柩衣( pall的名词复数 )；墓衣；棺罩；深色或厚重的覆盖物v.（因过多或过久而）生厌，感到乏味，厌烦( pall的第三人称单数 ) | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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perverseness
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| n. 乖张, 倔强, 顽固 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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espouse
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| v.支持，赞成，嫁娶 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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43
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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44
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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46
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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47
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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48
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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50
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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51
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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52
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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53
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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54
pates
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| n.头顶，（尤指）秃顶，光顶( pate的名词复数 ) | |
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55
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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56
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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57
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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58
skulked
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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60
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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61
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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62
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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63
hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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64
scowls
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| 不悦之色，怒容( scowl的名词复数 ) | |
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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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66
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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67
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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68
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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70
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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71
veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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72
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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73
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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74
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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81
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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86
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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97
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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101
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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orbs
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| abbr.off-reservation boarding school 在校寄宿学校n.球，天体，圆形物( orb的名词复数 ) | |
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103
furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
gashes
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| n.深长的切口（或伤口）( gash的名词复数 )v.划伤，割破( gash的第三人称单数 ) | |
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105
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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106
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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varnished
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| 浸渍过的，涂漆的 | |
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108
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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111
tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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112
skewers
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| n.串肉扦( skewer的名词复数 )；烤肉扦；棒v.（用串肉扦或类似物）串起，刺穿( skewer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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113
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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114
gashed
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| v.划伤，割破( gash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
idols
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| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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116
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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117
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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118
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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119
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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120
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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121
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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122
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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123
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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124
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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126
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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127
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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128
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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129
swells
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| 增强( swell的第三人称单数 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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130
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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131
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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132
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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133
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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134
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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135
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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136
furrowing
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的现在分词 ) | |
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137
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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138
adjure
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| v.郑重敦促(恳请) | |
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139
vats
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| varieties 变化，多样性，种类 | |
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140
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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141
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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142
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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143
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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144
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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145
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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146
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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147
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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148
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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149
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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150
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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151
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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152
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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153
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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154
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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155
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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156
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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157
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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158
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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159
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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160
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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161
impetus
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| n.推动，促进，刺激；推动力 | |
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162
dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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163
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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164
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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165
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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166
rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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167
rosebud
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| n.蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女 | |
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168
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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169
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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170
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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171
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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172
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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173
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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